

Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies

By Craig Davis

Published by St. Celibart Press at Smashwords

23 Castlerock Cv. Jackson TN 38305

Copyright © 2005 Harry Craig Davis

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ISBN: 978-0-9829567-1-7

Davis, Craig, **Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies**

StCelibartPress@yahoo.com

www.StCelibart.com

"I have read all three of Davis' works ... I must say, though, that Feallengod seems a step above the others to me. In my opinion it is his best work and may be one of the major reasons Craig Davis was put on this earth. ... I would highly recommend this book to anyone. Read it, and reread it."

– Stephen Kennedy, Indigenous Outreach International

"Feallengod struck me differently because, in a way, it is hard to forget about our reality when this book is about the greater reality that is occurring in the Heavenly realm. That is something I love about allegory and what really makes this book worth reading. ... Two enthusiastic thumbs WAY up! ... because of the nature of the book, the quality of the writing, the character development and the nature of the plot."

– Nick Brown

"If you're a fan of Screwtape, Dante, or Milton, you'll love this one. Few writers are able to weave so profound a tapestry like the one Mr. Davis has done here. It is profound in the sense that whatever you wish to get out of it you are sure to get. On the surface level the characters and plot flows along nicely to make for a wonderful fantasy tale, but if one has ears to hear, the deeper (and slower) you go you'll be sure to increase your understanding of the Scriptures and become a better Christian inevitably."

– Jonathan Jones

BONUS STORY!

At the end of this book, after the appendix and map, you will find "You Can't Count What Isn't There," the first story from the Southern Gothic collection _A Time for Poncey – And other Stories out of Skullbone_ , available only at the Kindle Store.

Craig Davis Amazon author page

Feallengod

The Conflict in the Heavenlies

By Craig Davis
Prologue

The moon stares at me through the rough window; its bluish light shines across my table. A clear night, with stars scattered across the pitch-black sky, appears to me like great handfuls of seed strewn across rich soil. I can only wonder what he sees now.

I take the name Aberan Eft; it is to cover my guilt.

Not the name of my birth, when I broke out upon the island, yet it will remain always the only name I care to claim. The label attached to me by my parents — the man and woman whose passions burned hot for a moment but chilled their bones as I came of age — those years and years ago swallowed up by mists and trickery, never could it truly name me. No, like words thrown together to paint the plumage of some arbitrary bird, some rufous-sided yellow-crested warbler, a name should honestly hint at a man's heart. Only the king knew my name, and only he knew when it would become a likely tag, able to truly know me.

Confession must make my beginning, for surely the things I have seen I have not always understood. Many before me have undertaken to write of what came to pass, but did they see? Have they comprehended? My pen leaves its dotted prints across the parchment now, vain attempt to record the truth passed before me, and what I have learned also from those witnesses from the beginning. But from the beginning, I confess I did not understand. Not until these final moments have my dark eyes finally lit, washed at last by honest tears of grief and joy. And yet still not completely so; but he grants me peace.

These events I have known — Lord, they haunt me, some of them haunt me still. Yet the blessedness of their burning would I offer no other man, out of avarice I admit and yet still pity. Who am I, the scribe of such crucial workings? To see through the shadows thrown by the past; to know that the minds and muscles of men only pour into the mold of the future; to realize the present is held in hand, though it tease grasping fingertips: These sweet Sirens could drive the most determinedly anguished man into utter peace. To know the suffering of the day is not without reason ...

"Begone! I cast you to the battleground!"

What else am I to do? His messenger has so commanded me. Deep in my chambers he visited: "The king requires it of thee." He reveals the forbidden scrolls, even those from the inner sanctuary, and allows my eyes to see. "But only one is worthy to read," I say. "The king requires it, and so all generations will know it of thee, that thy work bears the seal of the king." The scrolls lay like shackles upon my wrists, and the candles and incense and words burn hot; they sting my eyes and nose. Like a general in disgrace, I acquiesce to fate, I fall upon my pen.

So I take up the quill. The black of the ink lends the scribe his only boldness; my enclave, stones so heavy from the ancient quarry, makes my comfort and safety. And what fear is left to still lurk, at least until the time? So I must transcribe, a troubadour — though what trust should lie to me to write of such things? My king, have mercy upon me; help me speak rightly of you. Much have I seen, and much have I learned through the wretchedness born of this little kingdom, and the caress of grace. And for what reason walk we here, but to reveal your wonder? To what purpose was torment ours, but to demonstrate your kindness? Magister, though we are fallen into wonder and doubt, still your praises rise among the mountains. But how can I bless you, so arrogant to presume upon the king's abundance? What I can offer would be only insult to you. My king, if only I could bless you! The scratching of the quill speaks comfort in the warm loneness; my pen bleeds truth.

My poor, tired eyes, they peer blankly like the great stones of this cleric's cell — ancient and hard, a random glistening of moisture, a hint of green. I am a man, and that is all. A noble creation, perhaps, but cursed by the frailties of my kind. Frail, but with a whisper of power, to endure the conflict of our appointment, too often abused, too often neglected. Powerful, but proud as well, proud of that power in such a way as to destine failure. The humility of our mundane lives, sacrificed to brutish pursuits and tragic ends, we suffer no greater affliction, and therein opens the door also to our greatest victory won. And surely I stand foremost of all who have abandoned themselves to those first things, if not the second. But perhaps I fulfilled his designs all along, for "where offense is greatest, there mercy proves finest." Regrets make for poor company, anyway.

Never did a figure come less important into a tale, never a chronicler more the villain. The boy I was passed through the community like every other. Ages ago all seemed pure; how shades of the past fail us, to remember well, to remember rightly. Was not all deceit, even then? Lies spin upon themselves in demon rage. During the days of the stone law, in the shadow of the high mountains, I existed blissfully ignorant of both, but surely I lived always under the baleful eye of Domen. The day I learned my debt to the stone, so also I knew to fear the mountain. The strength of my limbs as I had run through the meadows and raced past the orchards, the beating of heart and bursting lungs my only concern — ah, all cast that day into the prison of memory, and my spirit limped feebly within. One heart stops, and many die. On that day I wept more for myself than for my homeland; how the times would change such impudence.

As a man I thoughtlessly bent many labors at the behest of my countrymen and received benevolence from many others. The quarries required their share of my sweat, and the docks allowed me to taste the sea spray. Maidens well hidden in the still night and bedcovers drew me into their own adventure, feeding my flesh and yet leaving it always hungering. Never did a man feast more on pastries yet desire dense, rough bread. And then too my companion, that old man, following me like a dog to a meat cart. Everywhere I saw him, in my most secret moments I could see him peering, smirking. How I hated him, yet always I clung, embraced him to my breast. Laugh he would as I cursed the feet that brought him near, and I wept and grieved, and threw my arm around his shoulder. And his eyes did peer at me, his face smirked.

Blinding lies, and yet the truth more so. And always the stone. Always that rock hung over me like a great granite foundation stone suspended, waiting, longing for some great structure to take up and support. Slowly it frayed its ropes, never bending at my failure, always menacing me with the mountain, beckoning that damned mountain spirit, the cold spectre of doom. Oh, how I longed for that shadow to retreat from my head, to allow the brightness of the sun — and then it did. But mine is not the story I must tell, though it is, and is not.

No, I must sing of my homeland, the tale of a bloody battleground. Having seen as a child the blessing of the island, I reaped unto myself only more grievous mourning at its curse. But have you not established us for this very calling? The long feather quill tickles at my chin, it entangles my beard, long and gray in these latter days. The events that now flow in ink first flowed in your mind, my lord. Did you not place your people upon this solitary, secluded land for your purpose, long before you placed this pen in my hand? May the telling of your story, Magister, bring fruit from these desiccated, sinewed branches, these limbs dried by age and cares. Oh my king, take this little pearl, take this charred wasteland, and redeem it for the destiny you have decreed.

I call my name Aberan Eft. I dwell upon Feallengod.

Chapter I

The shadows creep late already. One might think that I would begin such an account with myself, and so I have, after a fashion, but in truth the story begins with another. Thoughts of him rampage and make me to shudder, mostly for the cause that I am so much like him as he himself.

In the days of his purgatory, the progression of days, Domen raged in his head and screamed into the empty air, indestructible drape for his inhospitable rock. Never seen, his screeching often tore at the late hours; at times I swear I heard him in my nightmares. His wretched, bony frame stood defiantly before the sky as he shook his fist against all creation. Bounded on every side by twinkling waters, Domen ruled over the island Feallengod. He possessed our island, and he hated the island.

"Curse him! Curse him! Damn my hide, who can curse him?" Domen recited under his breath as he picked his way over the shards of his realm.

The sharp edges of the black crags scraped at Domen's shins, but they raised neither blood nor complaint. Brown, leathery skin, not likely once the tender flesh of a babe, had long since grown indifferent to such injury. And equally so the stone that lay in Domen's chest steeled itself against any tenderness that might coax blood from a real heart.

"Curse him!" Domen's grumbling grew into a howl, and he bent his brow to the thought under the accusing finger of this day's sun.

Absent-mindedly he brushed a stinging wasp from his arm and squinted into the brightness. How he longed for darkness; yet the unmerciful star's heat beat down also upon the people he saw below, their suffering his only comfort now in the glaring afternoon. Walked I among them? Often I have wondered. But my presence that day or any other mattered not to Domen; his anger pushed him precariously to the edge of sanity, into ever deeper and more scattered hatred for all, against him or no.

Driven from memory, remote even as the island, the years or eons ago, the days he passed in the king's presence. Domen could recall only faint shadows of the king's courtiers, regaling him as most favored. Forgotten too was the name once his, and his wisdom and beauty – tanned now brown as a coconut husk – at that time the envy of all. But the envy itself, no, the jealous longing lived on. Domen dwelt upon faint images of worshipping eyes all the day as he paced to and fro upon his mountain: How all others had coveted his position! How they had wished to put on his garment! Just to wrap around Domen's cloak for a moment, a brief moment, and that would satisfy them. How often he would bait his underlings, and make them grovel for his attentions! Their praise and flattery revealed their fondest and most elusive desire, yet he himself felt their unsatiated hunger even more so.

Domen looked about him at the forbidding, desolate blackness of the rock. "Upon my life, I swear I will bring you down!" he cried out, pounding his fists against his head.

Once so highly exalted, as pleasing as his station had been so long ago, all had fallen to ruin now. An appetite to gain that not his own had undone Domen, and his courts now were reduced to we hard scrabble folk making our living from the soil, our existence vexing him from below just as the birds pestered from above. Ambition for what he could never attain now appointed to him the fate he had plotted for others.

Domen stood up against the light of the midday sun and twisted the creaks out of his back. His thin frame appeared frail, but a wiry strength surged through him, and he cared not a whit for the pitiful naggery of aches and pains. He did as he wished, he did whatever he willed, not out of joy of the doing, but simply because he willed it. Domen had not a thought for what might be left in his wake; even what destruction that might result he considered only a happy accident. He was his own law, his own master, and nobody could force him to yield.

Nobody but Ecealdor.

"Ecealdor! Hear me! I will defeat you yet! You will come under my thumb!"

King Ecealdor's decree long ago had given Domen rule of the island and its pitiable population. Even then Ecealdor had made sure the island resided under his sovereignty, and the people remained his subjects first. So Domen took title to the little realm, but gained no means to take possession: He had the kingdom, but not the keys. With no way to steal the island away from Ecealdor, Domen had yet discovered no use for it.

He crept along the precipice using both hands and feet, clutching the unrelenting rock with his bony fingers as he tested each foothold. Years of navigating the terrain had taught him every shard that would hold his weight and every new step that his taut limbs could reach. Climbing down, climbing upwards, crossing sideways between spires, he made his way to a small opening near the top of his mountain hermitage.

The little stoop that awaited him at the opening seemed out of place on the treacherous mountainside. Squatting low as he walked, Domen slinked along the level area and into the narrow cave he used for sleeping and scheming. He shot a glance of distrust and disdain over his shoulder as he slipped into its depths, away from the hated light.

Close to one wall glowed the tired embers of a long-ago fire. Never did it burn any more bright nor dim than this, for Domen could not stand more. The flickering heat and despised light seemed strangely too knowing, reading his heart. Wagging tongues of flame accused him as if to say "You belong to us," so instead of stoking their mockery, Domen kept them whispering.

Near the coals, scattered bones of half-cooked birds littered the floor. Never patient with the low burning, to let the flames work their trade on his unfortunate prey, Domen often roasted the fowls only long enough to singe their feathers. Many a bloody meal he partook in his shadows. If indeed sufficient light had existed to view Domen at his eating, the sight would have quickly disabused the appetites of fellow diners, had any been welcome.

By the opposite wall lay a matted skin, Domen's rancid pallet. The fur more resembled the dirt on the floor than the animal it had once belonged to; by faith, it surely had smelled better as an animal. Domen didn't notice. He slept on the mat only out of habit, not because of any comfort it added to the rocky ground, and even then only sporadically. Rough cups and broken pots lay strewn about the floor, among the gnawed bones, jumbled and neglected.

Domen knew of only one thing in the back of his cave, the lovely, blessed darkness. Darkness so thick as to conceal anything lurking within its folds, and Domen never would have known. A wonderful cloak of blackness, pouring into the depths of Domen's den, blackness after his own heart. Occasionally he would sink into that deathly womb thinking he would never emerge again. Such would not be the case, though: The one mistress more powerful than his love for the dark — his hatred for everything that lay outside it — always drew him out again.

This day the hatred boiled particularly hot.

"Curse him, curse him for an arrogant butcher! You great king, you despot over a servile people! You'll never see my knees upon the ground, you grand toad! Expects my homage, does he, when I could be just as he is! Who is he to demand submission! Who is he to demand tribute! He'll be just as I am, or I'll be dead in the doing!"

Dizzy confusion swirled within Domen's head, his thoughts twisting about. Again and again he repeated his charges, punctuated by obscenity, spittle flying, driven by his explosive breath and anger. He could hardly sort his rantings as his mind ran through a litany of grievances.

Both hands pulled at his hair, clenched in rage, pleased to abuse himself in the absence of more likely victims. "I reigned as the one! Chosen! The favored one! How they all envied my beauty! My beauty! My ... beauty!" Domen fairly croaked. "He couldn't stand to have me in his sight, that was all of it. He could not tolerate beauty that surpassed his! I could have been just as he is! Yet here I stand, this vile island cages me, my prison! This rock, this ... this puny isolated pebble! He put me here, he put me here! Curse him, curse him!" Domen paced as if addressing a court, a prosecutor accusing the defendant, driving his points with a knotted fist pounding his open palm.

"Oh, who can ruin him, who can undermine his ways?" lamentation overtook him, his rasping voice breaking into a wail, the anguish of an animal in a trap. "The armies, the armies! He took my armies, in chains I know not where. He has all the foolish people! Those fools, fools, putrid maggots, they always do his bidding. Who can avenge me? Who can bring him down to become as I am?" The fear that fed his hatred overcame Domen. He again looked over his shoulder, involuntarily, this time not with disdain but panicked at who might be observing. He knew nobody could have crept up the side of his mountain without him seeing, and still, still he looked. The humiliation lay heavily upon Domen, to fear him even here! Domen sat on the floor of his filthy cave, his legs sticking out straight, his back slumped into an uncomfortable hunch. He held his head in his hands as it rocked side to side.

Suddenly he realized — Ecealdor inhabited his thoughts as his neck bowed. What makes submission? He quickly caught himself, looking up over his still-cupped hands, and upon his face grew a sneer. No, he thought, no longer would he surrender to despair, no longer give his mind over to such weakness as this. No, no indeed. Instead, he would have his revenge ... he would have his revenge, and never in the foothills below did we see the storm arising.

He peered through the opening of his cave, his bitterness twisting grotesquely across his face.

The sun now set behind a bank of brackish clouds. Domen drew to the opening, then closer to the brink of the outside ledge. In the gloaming he could see, far below, the people going about the business of their lives in the community, sitting under the mountain's shadow. Each carried a long staff, according to custom, and some token of a trade — carpenters, bakers, shopkeepers, bankers, musicians, goodwives, children. Oblivious, we followed our vain busy-ness, completely blind to the tortured figure looming above us, ready to pour out his vile incantation upon us. We puttered along the busy streets, passing each other with nods of greeting and words of warmth and encouragement.

We lived proudly as Ecealdor's people, so we believed; but our feet treading upon Feallengod made us Domen's people as well. So had he said.

Feallengod – your name speaks of wonder and mourning, a great venture groaning under the weight of your time and place. The legends claim that the king himself, in times more ancient than history, one day called upon a great eagle to fly directly into the sun, taking fire upon its wings. Trailing flames through the heavens, the bird returned to plunge into the heart of the Ocean Heofon. Left nothing but ashes, the wind caressed the eagle's remains, and the rain wetted it with tears, and the island Feallengod arose from its grave. So the king had baptized the birth of the nation with sacrifice, and planted a people to live according to its witness.

So thus did King Ecealdor place my people upon the island and provide us everything we might need. Lush, tall forests, green meadows and bountiful gardens covered the island. Gentle waves lapped at the sandy beaches, which in turn rose up into rich, fertile soils, which themselves boiled and soared into hills and magnificent mountains. Four Rivers crossed the land, four separate rivers indeed but always called as one by the islanders, pouring over falls and into deep pools until joining into a single stream to flow out again into the ocean. The burbling joy and oneness of the rivers seemed reflected as well in the people, in those generations before the cursing.

Life flourished on the island then. Fruit weighed heavily upon the trees, bending branches mercilessly. Fish stretched and leapt out of the warm waters, so much so that fishermen gave up their hooks, instead leaning dangerously over the sides of their boats, ready to scoop their catch out of the air with nets. Placid animals roamed the land; great flocks of birds filled the air with flight and song.

Ecealdor himself dwelt on the island for a time, walking among his people, taking note of their ways. Each man, woman and child knew to go to him with any dispute or desire, or, better yet, simply to sit in his presence, welcome to all. He entertained them in his courts, he hosted great feasts, he rejoiced in their harvests and grieved in their heartaches.

A time came, eventually, when his thoughts drew Ecealdor away from the island. Other parts of the greater kingdom called him away from time to time, always to return. But in the passage of days his absences grew longer and longer, until one day he did not return at all. Instead, he sent his court messenger Mægen-El to deliver a great document, a law to direct and remind the people:

"I, thy servant Mægen-El, am messenger of the great King Ecealdor, thy sovereign lord and benefactor. King Ecealdor sends his greetings, his love and his blessings. O people, thy servant comes to give thee skill and understanding, for thou art greatly beloved. Therefore, understand this matter.

"King Ecealdor, the most high, dost not return to the island of thy habitation. He withdraws elsewhere in the greater kingdom according to the counsel of his will. By his own name he doth swear that he doth not abandon thee. He promises to appear again at a time of his knowing. Until that day, he leaves unto thee the responsibility to carry out his desires and to wait upon him.

"King Ecealdor, the just, bids thee give ear unto his ordinances. This great law he leaves thee: Obey and prosper. This great commandment he requires of thee: Do not fail to follow. This great word he leaves unto thee: Do not step to one side or the other, but walk faithfully, and thou wilt not be forsaken.

"King Ecealdor, the powerful, leaves this law to guide thy ways and bring thee blessing and wonder. In this one thing he bids thee obey him: 'Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, and pour out thy blessing upon his people as richly as thee take.' For he has made thee an inheritance for his prince, and he comes to claim thee, even as he claims his throne. He bids thee to be just as he is, and he will make a way for thee. Follow this word, and great King Ecealdor will never be far from thee.

"I, thy servant Mægen-El, messenger of great King Ecealdor, leave thee now. May his benevolence forever be upon thy head, across the wide greater kingdom."

And the island had not seen Ecealdor since. But the king loved it still.

My people received the law gladly, engraving it upon a great stone, set in the middle of our community in the foothills. The stone drew men and women, a warm beacon to their hearts, and they often paused to read the words of the law aloud, and bore the words upon their tongues as they went their way. But faithfulness is a constant pursuit. A custom arose that a man would run his fingers over the words as he read, and then we began only to touch the engraving without casting even a glance. Years came and went, and our sightless fingers so wore away the words that they defied reading, even for anyone so disposed. Oh, Feallengod, how you left yourself starving! With no understanding, the stone had turned into a grinding mill.

Still, the island people went about their lives, passing each other with nods of greeting and words of warmth, each with a vague feeling that, though silent, Ecealdor still saw them somewhere out in the expanse of the greater kingdom. Sometimes we would gather and discuss the law, remembered from our cradles, in the sweet voices of young mothers; sometimes we would debate the depths of its meaning, without knowing even its surface; sometimes we would boldly imagine the day we'd touch Ecealdor again. This beautiful landscape, this wonderful psalm, proclaimed the Feallengod of my childhood, merely one of many thousands.

No, Ecealdor had not been seen on the island Feallengod for generations, the people said. But still he loved it, so we believed.

A skulking goblin upon the dizzying heights of his mountain peak, Domen grew ill at the sight of us, the people of Feallengod, so far below, and his mind turned to the time Ecealdor had banished him from Gægnian.

Slitted eyes surveyed his kingdom, wretched form perched upon his pinnacle. "So I cannot curse him," he muttered beneath his fetid breath. "I will curse those whom he loves."

Chapter II

My mind dwells much too often on the former days, and I wonder, why did I escape notice? I fancy myself a truer target, puffed up now with grand illusions of insight and self-sacrifice, if not for the craven heart that would have in truth suggested me. I doubt not that I would have fallen just as fast if not more willingly, given the same opportunity, but a man already bereft of loyalties can not be a turncoat. Even now, I admit I have no confidence. "Save my own skin:" I'm sure my creed has not changed; surely too my old enemy would have had me. So why wasn't I singled out? For evil to destroy a nation, it must first destroy a man. So I have to find peace believing my degraded past saved my future from becoming a true target. But the baleful eye of Domen instead fell upon a man much my better, a man for whom the consequences stabbed more deeply, Beorn Feohtan.

Every day the sun dutifully ran its course over Feallengod, revealing its morning light over the eastern horizon of the great body of water, the Ocean Heofon. And just as predictably, every day Beorn Feohtan appeared over the hillocks of the island as he walked the path from his hovel to the terraced orchards he tended. His steps always proud and joyful, often he went his way unshod, allowing that it was good for his soles to enjoy the smooth stones with which he had paved his path, and his toes the cool grass that grew in between.

Ecealdor himself had given the orchards to Beorn's family in generations past. The soil, like cake in its rich moistness, gave rise to every pleasant tree and plant known to the island, and the harvest returned bountifully from year to year, each tree in its own season. As a boy, I received much more than food from those lush trees, for their branches gave sanctuary to hours of play and adventure, a theater to my fantasies. From these acres alone Beorn could feed the entire population of the community in the foothills, so the esteem of the people blossomed about his feet as well. Throughout Feallengod in those days, the blessings of Ecealdor seemed to double themselves back upon the ones who shared the abundance.

To Beorn's ancestors also had been laid a charge, however, a responsibility to work the orchards. Though the good land's bounty seemed to have no end, Beorn followed well his father's instruction to see to his work faithfully, as his grandfather's instruction had been before him. So every morning he made his way westward down his path.

Each day he passed the rock of the law, and out of habit he ran his fingers gently over the worn letters. He didn't stop to try to read; instead, he imagined the law as best he could within his mind, juggling it with the muddle of his daily cares.

Back in the Feohtan hovel, Beorn's bride Cwen stood at her window and watched him disappear into the tangle of neighboring houses. Every morning she toiled in the kitchen, quietly put her family in order and kept the house, for so she made Beorn to prosper. Ecealdor had given her to Beorn just as he had given the orchards, though Beorn claimed but six years of age at the time and she not even one, in the tradition of the day. Not that theirs was not a match of love; even more so, as Beorn and Cwen considered themselves each a royal gift to the other. So she made her responsibility to care for him, and he her. Ecealdor didn't arrange such things himself very often, so Cwen took special care to see to her duties.

She carried on in a solid, stout frame, having invested her girlish figure in bearing three sons. Her brown hair often falling across her forehead in the course of her work, Cwen's arms and shoulders had grown strong under her burdens, yet her hands remained soft and gentle to the touch. Rich green eyes peered from under her delicate brow, a lamp into her firm but sympathetic heart. She made a habit of wearing a single medallion, hung about her neck by a leather string, the form of a fawn upon a small gold disk.

"Here, Cwen, love," Beorn had said, the shining trinket dangling from his hand. "I have smelted and worked it as best I can. I fear I am no artist."

Cwen cradled the little medallion. "It is most beautiful, Beorn, and still not beautiful enough. Nothing can replace what I've lost, but it will help me remember. A thing to hold on to."

"Yes, we must always remember. Whatever comes our way, no matter the joys or griefs, nothing can fully heal this tragedy, nor loose our grasp on the memories. We must take hold of the joys of his life, and let go the mourning of his end, like a dove flying into the sky. Like a fawn leaping into the meadow."

Tenderly he took her into her arms as she quietly sobbed, half to comfort her and half to hide his own tears. Her shoulder was soft to his brow, but stronger than any stone brace. The days that followed were quiet and long, but indeed they followed, as they always do.

Cwen filled those days with industry and her nights with generosity. The townsfolk well knew her spinning and the wonderful fabrics she produced by her loom. Berries and roots from her husband's orchards she worked into colorful dyes, until only the rainbows themselves might challenge her flax and woolens. She distributed her wares, and the bounty of the orchards, throughout the community, and those who could pay in kind did, and those who couldn't, didn't, and never a word was spoken. These greedy hands before me exploited that very charity, me and my old friend, more often than once. More than ink stains these fingers.

In this way honor became Beorn, by his work and by his wife. And so he sat in the high place of honor at the gate of the community.

And so there Domen found him.

"Good day, man of Feallengod," said Domen. His body twisted into contradiction as he withdrew his shoulders but extended a gnarled hand. The gate of the community faced away from the mountain peak of Domen's lair, and he had appeared unnoticed from the shadows of the city walls.

"Good day, sir," Beorn replied and returned his greeting. Domen's leathery skin, stretched over boney fingers, left Beorn with the impression of grasping a handful of twigs. Domen withdrew his hand and, unthinking, rubbed his palm against his cloak.

"Fine day on Feallengod, wouldn't you say, man?"

"Indeed." Beorn looked about him at the chill overcast. Autumn fast would turn to winter, but Beorn had no mind to argue.

"You are Beorn Feohtan, isn't that so?"

"That would be me, sir."

"You tend the orchards? You have done well here on Feallengod, have you not?"

"Yes." Beorn felt uneasy at the fawning of this unfamiliar figure who seemed to know him. "The gift of the soil sustains us fully. And of Ecealdor."

"Ecealdor, you say?" Domen's countenance darkened drastically at the name. "What has Ecealdor done? Have you seen him? Where is he? Ecealdor – pish!"

Beorn was not given to fly into anger, but still his back grew stiff at this sudden indignity. He frowned and drew deep breath before making measured reply.

"The king does not answer to me, nor does he report his moving about to me."

"Pardon, sir," Domen drew a hand roughly over his eyes and forehead, looking about at nothing in the sky overhead. With a deferential gesture, he again put on his humble demeanor. "No offense intended. I only meant that surely you do well by the works of your hands. No doubt you have made your livelihood prosperous, sir? And for your wife and sons ... you have three sons, I think?"

"Two. One died."

"My condolences. For all your family, too, you work hard to provide well for them. How pride must swell in you, man."

"Perhaps," replied Beorn, more and more suspicious yet preferring to show no rudeness. Certainly this conversation would end soon. "By the grace of Ecealdor."

Domen gritted his stained teeth, grinding his jaws to fend off another rant, his hatred boiling. Clearly his pleasantries made him no progress. Again his demeanor turned dark.

"You have great faith in Ecealdor, man of Feallengod."

"Perhaps."

"You depend on the grace of Ecealdor?"

"Perhaps."

"Do you consider your life the way of a man? Do you not trust in your own strength?"

"A man is nothing more than a servant to many, stranger." Beorn again felt the indignation at his back. His fingers searched about in his vest pockets for a bit of dried venison. "Should he not also serve his king?"

"You may wish to serve yourself," Domen believed in his vanity to have opened an advantage, and so he pursued. "Will you forever lean upon this crutch, this trust in an absentee lord? Should you not take what rightfully belongs to you, and give up this myth that your king will return? Does he even remember this tiny speck in the greater kingdom?"

"A crutch makes for quite a clever device, when one is crippled. Your own words betray a belief that Ecealdor lives still in the greater kingdom. I imagine he will be good as his word."

"This land needs its own king. The people are forced to give up the good things of the world in exchange for some misty hope of a perfect future. Now is now! What counts is now. This land needs to throw off Ecealdor and choose a king for the present."

"What words do I hear? You talk treason! Who are you to suggest such things?"

"I am called Domen."

"Domen?" Beorn gasped, and his hand hung limp from the pocket it had been exploring. "Domen – from the mountain peak? We counted you dead ... or gone. That Domen is no more than a legend, surely."

"Oh, I am real enough, man of Feallengod. More real than you could ever realize."

"You have been invisible so long ... yet you are governor of the island?"

"Not governor — prince, by edict of Ecealdor. The king fails to come back. I have determined to take over rule of Feallengod. So has he said. If you think yourself a man, you will join me. You will do what your heart dictates and follow me."

"He has called you prince," Beorn conceded, trying to think but feeling confused, and his confidence wavered. "But he has also said he will return."

"No, idiot!" Domen seethed at Beorn's insistence on this point. "Your life is a breath. Do you not measure it in days? What lies in wait for your old age, when all your future has become the past, and Ecealdor still hasn't returned? Can you reclaim your life then? Look into your heart – your heart would have you serve yourself. I see it! You say the orchards come to you by royal gift. Then take hold of them! Claim them for your own use! Desert your foolish love for Ecealdor! Follow me! Follow me, and claim for yourself now what this forsaken rock owes you!"

Anger boiled over into steaming words, and Beorn's head cleared. "No. He made his only claim upon us, to love him. I will not disobey that one request."

"Curse him!" roared Domen, letting loose the thought that had plagued him all morning, and he began to pace about restlessly where he stood. "And curse you, you pitiful, ignorant fool! Your mocking will come back upon you! My will is not so easily turned aside!" Domen stormed through the gate and took his railing into the community.

Beorn sat stunned, silent at the gate, sorting through the vile words and aftermath of emotion. Domen's claims left him sick, yet with a taste for fruits he had never desired before. Years passed in hard labor, yet not once did he ever cease to consider the orchards a gift. Now he felt a change, a desire to claim for himself what was always his. Still, he felt sure he had guarded the letter of the law, and stood on the strength of his convictions. But in all his proud musing, he had not a single thought about Cwen.

Domen raged in the streets as he made his way through the community. "Cursed puny cockroach! He'll soon turn, he'll soon turn! I know the way!" His agitated hands rubbed together tensely and clinched into fists.

Did I cross paths with Domen that day? Likely not; my fate more probably placed me in the grip of a bottle or some faceless lassie, the old man and me. Strange how some graces erupt from festering boils. Regardless, no memory of such a meeting remains with me, and mercifully what I dread has not been revealed to me. The confluence of events that conspires to bring about what we know as history hides cleverly from human probing. But for one runaway cart, or haplessly timed swing of a staff, much that followed that day might never have been. What invisible hand drives events, what countenance smiles upon the desires of men? Or does that hand indeed direct man's will? It vexes me even now.

The winding streets of the community follow no pattern; they simply go where they are going. Twisting around the tightly packed houses, one might lead directly into a tree, and others might loop back upon themselves. They make for great games for the island children, and sport at the expense of strangers asking directions. But Domen, though new to town, walked his route, head down, muttering angrily, without looking. Years of glowering at the community from his overhead perch had deeply etched even the smallest alleys into his memory.

He took no notice of the smooth paving stones under his feet.

Out of the jumble of buildings Domen soon found himself at the mud-brick hovel of Beorn Feohtan. He stopped just a moment to quench his fury, then set his face and approached an open window.

Inside he spied Cwen, her back to him and prettily framed by the blowing curtains. She stood at her kitchen table, double-checking a recipe scribbled upon a scrap of parchment, vigorously stirring a confection in a large bowl at rest in the crook of her arm. Her work sealed her mind and her hand.

"Woman, can you spare a drink of cool water?" he simpered.

"Oh! Goodness, sir, you've taken me by surprise!" squeaked Cwen with a jump.

"Goodness would cause surprise indeed," he replied, but not so she could hear. "The dust of the path has dried my throat."

"Yes, a drink for you, of course," Cwen continued, and she fetched a cup from the cabinet. Going to the rain barrel at the back of the house, she ladled out a long drink and offered her tender care to Domen.

"Many thanks," he muttered as he sniffed the contents. He sipped it daintily, the clearness not quite to his taste, and threw the better part of it to the ground. "You acquit your home well, Cwen Feohtan."

"You know me, sir?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Feallengod knows you well, woman. Often the people speak of you and your generosity, your selfless giving and service."

"Do they?" Cwen smiled slightly. Sometimes our pride shows in feigning humility.

"Yes, I hear their voices now, as they speak of you sacrificing your family's well being. How they can rely upon taking the fruit of your labors right out of your hand. Yes, but do not concern yourself with their scorn."

"Scorn, sir?" The brightness fell from her face.

"As I stand here, madam. The ingrates! They can't appreciate your self-denial, the clods. They only care to take, take as you give, then jest and nudge each other over the trick they've played."

"Trick, sir?"

"Why, certainly. You have every right to the profit of your work. The townsfolk say they lift it from your purse like pickpockets at a fair. Shameful! Indeed, I say, they treat you so badly. Why do you continue to play into their hands? Why should you make a gift of any of your belongings? What charity ever profited you?"

"My own charity profits me."

"Yes, yes, of course. And tell them that when you are starving," said Domen with a crude jerking gesture over his shoulder in the direction of the neighboring houses. "They see you only as a basket of plenty, soon to empty. For what possible reason do you insist on feeding their fat bellies and — at the same time, mind you — and their disdain for you?"

Oh, my friend, how these words stare blankly back at me from this page! They accuse in their numbing silence. My confession takes up a dagger to skewer my heart. Domen wrenched Cwen's blessing to me into a curse upon her, wringing out the sweet and leaving only the bitter; I renounce the day I ever took from her gentle hand upon her stoop, or looked into her gracious eyes. What despicable coil in human minds takes innocent kindness and twists it into vile avarice, a sauce to baste the burning martyr? Yet the accusation stands; so charged, and so I plead. Benevolence too often begets hedonism, and even the poorest of all can grow to despise the life that charity sustains. To live is to give opportunity to deceit, and like all the most innocent, Cwen fell victim most easily. I disavow my putrid stomach; better that it should have starved those many days ago.

"My reason is love," said Cwen. "The law of Ecealdor tells us to bless him and bless my fellows upon Feallengod."

Again Domen felt the rage inside him rise, roiling his entrails as he braced himself; only with the greatest effort did he prevent his expression to even flinch at the name. "Ah, but remember the whole law: 'Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, as you richly take.' You must love yourself, for nobody else will. As you serve the king, you must serve yourself. Nobody cares about your charity, Matron Feohtan, only about their full stomachs and jolly satire." A snake slid over his foot, but Domen took no notice.

"They don't?"

"And what a fool they make of your husband."

"My husband?"

"Certainly. What did you think? Consider the greatness of his labors, wasted for filling the bloated bowels of lazy slugs. I hardly blame them, though, that you don't protect his best interests. Didn't Ecealdor say the fruit of the orchards belongs to you?"

"He said we have possession of the fruits."

"And didn't Ecealdor say to be just as he is?" a sickly smile spread.

"Yes."

"Then follow his command and claim your rights to the orchards. Do you think anybody takes from Ecealdor's hand what is his? Didn't he promise you prosperity? Don't let some pitiful parasites keep you from the riches that belong to you. You can't wait forever for your reward; take it now!"

"They make a fool of Beorn?"

"As I stand here, woman. But do forgive yourself – you didn't mean to betray your family. Well, good day ... pardon, I believe this cup belongs to you, no? I would not think of taking what is rightfully yours, madam." The old fox slipped away, leaving Cwen standing, worrying her thoughts, there on the porch. His back turned to her as he retreated to the path; a cruel grin bared his yellow teeth.

Slowly Cwen returned to her recipe, distracted as she stirred and baked, rolling over in her mind what the strange messenger had said. She hadn't even asked his name, but the more she thought upon these things, the more she took his arguments to heart. So, the community ridiculed Beorn? And the fault did fall to her, the fault of giving away from their abundance. Ecealdor had said to be just as he is. What did that mean, if not to rule over her possessions? Surely not to give her family over to fraud. We must love ourselves, she thought. Tears dropped into her batter, for the sake of shaming her husband's name.

A wise man would have scoffed at the whole argument. A scoundrel such as I — I would have sought excuses. But the upright always add unto their own account.

Again her hands, which had worked so often to bless so many, slowed into idleness as she stood and mulled her exchange with Domen. A noise came at the door, and Beorn entered his home.

"Cwen, love!"

"Beorn."

"And how have you fared this day, my dear?"

Her voice trembled with emotion. "Beorn, we must protect ourselves against the community. You, me, our sons — we must think of ourselves first."

A chill filled the air as the autumn sun set. A genial fire soon would warm the Feohtans' hovel, and just so also the embers lit in their hearts flame into roaring tongues of rebellion.

Chapter III

More a laborious burden than ever in the generations of his family, Beorn's work weighed heavily on him come morning. His back ached at his tilling as he dug around the entwining roots of his orchards. Tree branches seemed to reach out with crooked, plaintive twigs to grasp his coat, a silent plea to return to older days, to join them again in fellowship of the earth. Sullenly he shook off their touch. Without sleep through the night watch, his head rolled like a millstone upon his neck. Late into the moon's passage had Cwen pressed her point, and in the end he could do no more than simply put off his judgment. He still could not wring sense from her words: Never before had he known her to have a selfish thought, but never had she been so forceful as now. What stranger had so influenced her desire for the fruits of the orchard? His heart hung low in his chest, more sobbing than beating, for there he knew.

His grown sons, Begietan his firstborn and Hatan the third, joined in his daily toil. Raised in the Feohtan tradition, both learned to tend the orchards from an early age. First with their grandfather, then only their father, they grew into men working the black soil in the trees' lush shade, taking their lunch on the soft grass, going their separate ways for the evening. Every plant, every tree became their passion; they knew when each did well, when each required pruning, how to cajole them into bringing forth fruit. The orchard grounds became a second home, sleep sometimes beckoning under the leafy canopy instead of the sons' own roof. Yet Begietan's heart had always wandered elsewhere.

Fire blazed within Begietan, standing taller than his father, with arms strong for pulling the bow and an eye sure for letting the arrow fly. He shared his father's towhead, gold like the sunrise on a wheat field, but little else; a multitude of scars marked him and his life. Begietan learned the building of things, and his designs ranged from instruments of music to implements of iron, and he made them work. Indeed, with nothing but his hands and back he had built a room onto the rear of the Feohtan hovel, which he used for his lone counsels. Begietan tilled the ground of the orchards, but with no vigor except that born of discontent.

I never had much use for Begietan; perhaps some things I did understand, without understanding that I understood. Regardless, though one might think the days would draw us into friendship, in our youth I maintained a goodly distance. He largely roamed alone. Perhaps I simply did not give myself over to my appetites quite as eagerly as he. Perhaps something in his eye showed his intent flowed from places unknown to me. Regardless, even as I fell in with companions who would join in my gluttony from the world's trough, I did not number Begietan among them. I'm not sure I ever spoke a word to him, until the very moment that I had to.

First-fruits of an infant marriage, his parents did marvel at Begietan, as what new parents do not? Cwen especially could make no end of her doting, with ecstatic endearments of unreserved love and grand expectation. The praises that fell upon his ears must have grown up only thistles in his heart, as he took them for truth and soon believed himself the best Feallengod could produce.

He first found his interest in the hunt as a child, not even as tall as the bow, I am told; Beorn happily trained him at the target. Begietan immediately showed his skill, and took to always wearing a loaded quiver, even to his bed. But soon shooting the bull's eye eventually, predictably, grew wearisome for him, and so he sought moving targets; then Beorn forbade him to shoot at wildlife.

"Wait," he said, "and at your thirteenth birthday we will go out together and seek game."

But the child showed the impatience that often lies at the root of anger, and one morning he left the hovel before his parents and brother awoke. Bow in hand and quiver full, he ran along the edge of the foothills — away from the community — alone with his ambitions, settling behind some fallen rocks at the bottom of the high mountains, near a pool of still water. As the sun rose, activity rustled awake in the rushes at the water's edge, and quiet quacking floated gently from the bramble. Before long the waterfowl began to emerge. One arrow, and then a second, missed its mark and slid with a glup into the water. Then a third found its target, and a bird lay dead in the shallows.

The young Begietan exulted over his kill for a moment before pulling the prey from its watery grave. Skillfully he dressed the bird with his knife, and soon an open fire was turning the flesh brown and crisp. By himself, squatting and gnawing, he enjoyed the morsel — away from the demands of his family's hunger, away from their begging plates — witnessed by only a single pair of searing eyes from high above.

Back at the hovel that morning, Beorn set out for the orchards, wondering about the cold pillow where young Begietan had laid his head the night before.

Hatan, the third son, I never really knew, a matter to still grieve over, but probably one that gave him much benefit. His birth came fully a generation after Begietan. In fact, even as the fates fell hard upon Feallengod, he had not aged much beyond boyhood. However, the number of his years belied his head and heart, those of a man — I see well now. He helped tend the orchards, not out of duty nor as of being compelled, but out of love: Love for his father, love for the king's generosity, love for the soil and bark and leaves themselves. After completing a day's work, he often would tarry and walk among the trees, wondering at the intricate designs of each leaf or at the depth of the roots hidden in the ground. He would marvel at the wisdom of Ecealdor for the order of the garden in the midst of its diversity.

Often Hatan and Beorn spoke of the king as they bent to their labors, until the work surprised both by abandoning them to a leisurely afternoon. Many a morning the air filled with their voices, joined in songs of Feallengod:

"Beautiful in the midst of Heofon,

"The joy of the greater kingdom,

"Lies elegant Feallengod,

"Chosen land of Ecealdor.

"Appointed to her greatness

"To the glory of the king,

"Prepare for your glorious service,

"O chosen land of Ecealdor."

Young Hatan shared as well his father's weakness for the Lady Cwen. He came from her womb in mourning, the son born third but to be counted as second, and as such his birthing pains became healing salve to her. As a babe he wriggled in the cradle of her arms, basking in the warmth of her smile even as tears fell upon his face. His chubby fingers found the curls of her hair for play, and the gold disk as well, and he cooed and gurgled in the security of her embrace. Even now she asked very little of him, but what desires she made known he fulfilled gladly. He hoped for nothing from her but a deep glance and glad smile.

Second son Astigan bore the shadow of tragedy, entering the world after Begietan's birth and leaving before Hatan's, and too good for it in between. I count it the greatest blessedness of my youth to have called him friend. Unlike his brothers and even my own, Astigan made pact with me as kindred spirit, a lover of the land and the animals that fed from it. Many times I joined him in the meadowlands, simply to lounge in the tall grass and allow the gentle wildlife to nibble our clothing. He could talk endlessly about anything, high or low; he'd tweak my brain with wordplay until I couldn't follow anymore; he dreamed about what lay beyond the island. He brokered goodwill among the people, showing the same spirit of generosity as his mother, often helping her distribute the harvest of the orchards. His voice sang with laughter; oh, how well I remember the warm evenings, spent laying rollicking scorn upon each other as fools in competition.

"Shall I bring down the doe that stands beyond that thicket?" I pointed into the distance.

"Using what? The great multitude of words echoing about in your brain?" he asked.

"With my sling."

"Oh, so you will use the stones within your head."

"Come on," I persisted. "I wager I bring her down with one throw, and leave some buck a widower."

"And never would his sorrow come so 'deer.' " And he tootled upon a reed whistle.

"What?"

"That doe belongs to the king, you know." Astigan's joking retreated, or so I guessed.

"Surely," I replied.

"Why would you steal from the king, sneaking about in the tall grasses, when you have but to ask and his managers would grant you a hart?"

"But the sport of it —"

"Of the kill? Or the craft?"

"Both, I suppose."

"Then let us sneak instead into the orchards tonight and swipe a couple of pears, 'ay? Pair of pears?" His voice crackled with hoarse intrigue.

"But those just belong to your family."

"Then I grant them to you."

Astigan saw to his duties faithfully, and gave his devotion to his parents and his friends and to Ecealdor without restraint. Like a school boy's first, innocent love, I in turn devoted myself to Astigan's friendship. Over long hours we shared our hopes and plans, always full of great bravado and adventure, never considering that hardship and disaster might loom over the horizon. So lost I became that I began to think of Ecealdor even less often than his law, and I forgot the foundation of all things good that I had come to rely upon. My king! Your mercies flow so tender, to overlook such foolishness, and in your grace you allow the hard lessons that teach against such ill-begotten devices. For surely the crashing waves of time knocked away my sandy foothold and swept me away in their unforgiving strength.

I believe then too came the time I first caught sight of that old man, that old beggar who attached himself so grimly to my life. Like a tick he sucked the blood from my heart. On one of those days, from across a crowd his face bobbed over the others, grasping that knotted staff of his, a grizzled glow staring me down from afar. I could not tear away my gaze. He looked pleased for no reason. Gray and white speckled whiskers, a jolly grin baring ragged teeth, he said not a word. In fact, he drew no closer that first day, as best I remember, but never after that did he seem far from me. Time and again, I caught sight of him peering at me like a hungry man at a leg of lamb.

Not with sorrow so much as utter disbelief did Beorn and Cwen face Astigan's loss. The day began as all others but ended as none ever before nor since as he disappeared and was not seen again. After work in the orchards that afternoon he took leave of his father and brother and went into the community. The basket maker remembered Astigan's visit to his shop, and the miller recalled his small purchase of oats and corn. Two of the townsfolk related their crossing his path as he walked briskly toward the meadows, where flocks of sheep and herds of goats and deer abide. I myself raised my staff in greeting to him on the street, all smiles and warm words, too busy for more than a handshake, the last time ever I saw him. What happened afterwards drifted into mystery. Though Beorn, Cwen and Begietan searched the island for weeks, never a trace of Astigan revealed itself, never a merciful hint, at least to hear those who talked of such things. I tried to search as well, but I could not bear to enter again, alone, into the waving, lying peace of the meadowlands, afraid of what I might find, afraid of finding nothing. So he remained in the rolling meadows, perhaps in body and perhaps only in spirit.

Astigan, my friend — how my arms did ache for you.

The moment I heard seared my brain, and I grieve even yet over the memory. The heartache burned and bled like nothing I'd ever known: A crushing, grinding butcher of that unthinking happiness I'd grown to love more than love itself and thought would never desert me. Without my truest friend, I felt abandoned and alone, a jagged half-soul let loose to wander barren lands. That day began my decline, as I grew to disbelieve any good thing, to see no pure nor noble essence in the eyes of any man. The fault lay with someone, someone should have to pay; if the guilty remained unpunished, then I would have to bear the penalty in my grief. What we accuse of each other, we likely are guilty of ourselves. And so I lay upon my fellows the untrusting anger and betrayal I felt within myself. In this as well I slew Astigan, by not choosing instead to honor his memory by imitating his character.

From that time I sold my youth cheaply, for years working the quarries and docks, then the docks and quarries, as the opportunity arose, kissing my coins farewell quickly on pleasures and vice. Other times I simply wandered the streets, accepting equally the offerings of the generous and the scorn of the judgmental. Ever closer drew that old man, wizened geezer, friend and enemy, his staff more stout than most, closer and ever nearer. At whatever opportunity arose I gaily spent my labors, and always he seemed to stand witness to my hedonist bankruptcy. Then at last he spoke, from behind me I heard his voice for the first time, knowing full well it was his own. A copper had fallen into my hand from a man well able to give more. In the same breath he pointedly suggested for me a shave and a bath, and turned away quickly. His bag dangled lightly from the side of his belt.

"Take it," said the voice.

Instead, I turned to face the speaker. A filthier man I've never seen, nor surely will I ever, his coat and trousers stiff with dried mud and sweat. His hair stuck out in all directions, so dusty that I could not tell its true color. Two blue eyes gazed directly into mine, but they seemed dim and glazed. Several days' growth framed his pasty grin.

"You were wise to let him go," he said. "You did the right thing."

"I never thought of taking his purse," I protested.

"Of course not," he clapped his hand upon my shoulder. "You did well. You should feel proud."

"Have you been following me about?" I asked.

"Me? No! I have seen you though. You look like you need a friend."

"My best friend is gone, and I fear I'll never see him again. I have no heart to invest again."

"Well, I will be your friend. You have nothing left to lose – you see I have nothing," he held out his arms and smiled, so illustrating his sincere poverty. "Together we must make our way upon the island, comrades in arms, counseling each other, each guarding the other's back. What say?"

"I wish no trouble. I cannot stop you." He had stuck so close to me already, I thought I might as well know him.

"What do you with that copper?" he enthusiastically indicated my hand.

"I'm hungry."

"Food is easy," he confided, sidling close to me. "Better to give that over to drink. What good is food when it clogs the throat, when you can't wash it down? Bottle first, then I shall show you the end of your hunger."

Too easily I gave in, and quickly we had a small flask. For his brain power he claimed his share as he led us out of the community. The way was familiar to me, and so we arrived at the Feohtan orchards. Climbing upon the stone wall to reach the low branches, by stealth we filled the fronts of our shirts like baskets. These were the fruits Astigan had once granted me, and now I took them shamelessly. Like weasels from a henhouse we climbed into the near forest lands to eat.

Struck with horror at the insult to my old friend, but also excited by the bare insolence of the crime, and then again horrified by my duplicitous delight, I cradled my treasures. Fully I baptized myself in the sweetness of taste, to forget the bitterness of all else the fruit stood for. I tried to imagine Astigan's lanky frame casually tossing a grape high into the air, but all I saw across from me was that old man, smirking and smacking with his livery lips. Apples and pears, fruits of every nature, their juice smeared our faces. Our outward stickiness was matched by the hard fullness of our stomachs as we each gnawed the remains of a core, reclining under grand foliage.

"Fine, fine," the old man said. "A fine appetizer, but much more awaits us this blessed night."

"What more?" I belched out. "I'm stuffed."

"Don't let your stomach fool you, boy. You may feel full, but it's a cold full. You can't ever be satisfied until your belly is warm."

"I do feel cold," I observed, squirming upon the ground.

"Then we must warm you. I take it as my duty to see to your pleasure, sire." He arose and bowed with mocking deepness. "And I know just where to serve your satisfaction."

Again we entered upon the highway, the same way that we had come, and soon arrived at the familiar path. After thieving the work of their hands, I came to the Feohtan's hovel to beg their indulgence. Which is worse, forthright theft or the knavery of swindling charity? Yet there I stood and was hardly going to walk away. The food offered indeed steamed hot, and the comforts warm, that fed my flesh but stabbed pure death to my spirit. At the Feohtan door I hung my head low, never sure if Cwen identified the face she had so often seen across her own table, so low did I hold it. But my new friend held his high, wide, simpering grin punctuating his grand enjoyment of it all.

Often we visited the hovel after that night, and not once went I away from that house empty, neither with blows of harsh words struck at my heart. Yet harder did my depression bear down upon me, and I boasted no use for anyone, not my new companion, not even myself. From job to job I went, from store front to sheepfold to tavern, sometimes for a day, sometimes for an hour, sometimes only to have a table upon which to sleep, and my life had no reason nor purpose. Nobody grieves innocence more than the guilty.

Keeping Astigan's memory alive, calling to mind his servant's heart and honoring his legacy of gentle obedience, had grown ever more difficult for Beorn and Cwen in all the passing years. For his sake the medallion of the fawn was struck, to continually lay upon Cwen's breast.

"Mother speaks the truth," Begietan said sharply to his father. "These orchards belong to Feohtan, and the harvest should remain ours." Little did even he know.

Beorn's head snapped up as his blurry attention jerked back into the conversation. His mind had fallen awash into a dream of billowing images and meaningless words. Shoulders hunched over his hoe, eyelids weary with distress and exhaustion after his sleepless night, his heart tried to find the middle between pleasing Cwen and pleasing Ecealdor. The day's work itself could not keep his mind alert.

"Let us not speak more of this matter, Begietan. These words break my bones. I cannot think any longer."

"Father, go sit in the gate," Hatan said. "You need to take some rest. Begietan and I can finish up the work, and we'll come meet you there later."

"No, I will stay. I'll be all right." Beorn leaned on his hoe and rested his forehead upon the back of his hand.

"No, you go. You're no good to us in this condition," said Begietan, and he winked at Hatan. "After a nap you'll feel good as new. Just don't let the town elders see you asleep at the gate!"

"So you're both against me, are you?" Beorn said with mock indignation, then acquiesced with a nod. He stood straight to the point of bending backward, and rubbed his eyes clear with the clean back of his glove. "All right, then, but you two do a good job this time. No — too tired for jesting. I'm sorry — this old head — I'll make it up tomorrow. Just don't forget to put up the tools," he said over his shoulder as he ambled off toward the community.

The sons worked side by side in silence for a time. The sun's light dappled gently in the leaves of the trees, spinning away in the lazy breeze. Eventually Begietan paused to plant his fists on his hips. "I say we're finished."

"Well enough, then," Hatan replied.

"Hatan, you know what Mother wants, don't you?"

"Yes, but never have I known her to think this way. Something has happened. You know me, hating to ever deny her heart's desire, but neither have I ever seen Father so troubled."

"Well, I say we long ago should have protected our crops. You people have been giving away what's ours for years."

"Yes, and we have never lacked for it."

"Look, I say we don't wait for Father to come around. Let's just do as we wish, and as Mother wishes." His laughter sneered but was hearty with arrogance.

"How can you say that? Father deserves better than ridicule."

"He's a farting old man. Mother can beg him all she wants, but in truth we don't need him to agree. Even your puny frame makes you a match for him. Trust me. I can make him behave by myself if it comes to that."

"Begietan! Your words, they shame our family! How can you dishonor Father? He's still head under our roof."

"He's an old man," Begietan repeated, his eyes hot. "I've had enough of living under his authority. I will have my way! I don't care if he can't sort out his feeble mind." He threw a handful of tools into the wooden shed, crashing against the back wall, with much disdain.

"Begietan, what you say! What you say!" Hatan's voice shook as he struggled to find some meaning in his own words.

"Oh, snap out of it! If he gets in my way, I can fix him quick enough. I know what I want. And the same goes for you — you can join me, or join Astigan, if you like." Begietan shouldered his quiver and snatched up his bow. His expression bore down, grimly stern, but he didn't show it openly to Hatan.

"Astigan?! Brother, what do you know of Astigan?"

"His precious fawns, he would not allow me one. He wouldn't shed a fawn's blood for me, so I took his instead. You pup, 'Astigan!' you cry, but you didn't know him! I did! You're no different from him, the same simpering nursemaid. Well, my time has come, and I intend to claim it. I say the orchards are mine, and I'll hold back its produce to myself if I like."

"I thought you searched. You gave days to looking for him — so I was told. Mother has always said so."

"Ah, I searched. I searched well. When I searched his grave, I found only what I wanted to find." And only then did Begietan's eyes find his brother.

Hatan stumbled, and a knot caught in his throat as he struggled to react. Could he even say the words? Everything before him but Begietan's red gaze faded to blackness as he croaked his reply. "You killed him, then? And you have kept this cruel secret? Haven't you seen how Mother has suffered all these years?"

"Do I owe my parents an explanation? Did I ask for birth? Let them wonder!"

"Why do you tell me this? Why now must I become part of your crime? I can't bear the burden. This will destroy Mother!" Hatan staggered and sat heavily upon the orchards' low wall, one trembling hand gripping his head.

"By your own word, then, would you destroy Mother? No — she isn't going to find out, is she? Or will she lose another son? Better to give Mother what she wants, no? Consider it, Hatan. She has suffered enough all these years, as you say. I want her to be happy, don't you, and let her have her way? I think my way is best."

Hatan had no reply. He suddenly saw Begietan as the giant man he had worshipped as a small boy. Again flashed days of sunny frolic, when Hatan had run after him in the fields, his short, pudgy legs never able to keep up. Clambering upon the safety of Begietan's strong shoulders, sturdy as a god's. The transparent tricks he had loved to play on his older brother. Memories multiplied beyond counting. But now, and even then, Begietan stood before him no more than a murderer.

"I — I don't know. I feel sick. You disgust me."

Begietan stood over his brother, looming like a vulture with plans, and shoved Hatan's head roughly with the heel of his hand. "To each his own, nursemaid. You'll decide something, I'm sure. Let me know — I'll be nearby. Remember, twice before I have been an only son. Good day to you, Hatan," Begietan laughed and threw an obscene salute as he strode off toward the mountain.

No, I never did have much use for Begietan.

The gray November sky built upon itself on the horizon. Hatan sat on the walls of the orchards and hung his head. Many had been the day he sought solitude there, in the joyful contemplation of the gentle life that flourished. Today he considered death, and betrayal, and deceit. More than all else, however, he considered hatred: Begietan's, and what it begot, and his own now raging within him, and where it might sweep him.

Youth played lightly indeed with Hatan, setting him at the mercy of the passions common to men and escalated in boys. A multitude of angry reasons to destroy Begietan swirled about in his head. Easily could he stalk him from the back, to cave in his skull with a stone. Then Cwen would have two dead sons, and two sons murderers — whatever evil his heart gave rise to, he could not exact it upon Cwen. But he knew Begietan held no such reservations; Hatan feared him enough to do exactly what he said: Against both his sons and his wife, Beorn would give in and keep in hoard the orchards' produce. His honor at home and in the community might survive intact. Even in his innocence Hatan knew if he opposed Begietan — even while protecting the horrid secret of Astigan's killing — he and Beorn both might soon lie in a hidden gully.

Only one way lay before him to save Beorn, and especially Cwen, from their hearts being crushed yet again. He determined to persuade his father to follow Cwen's desires, that he might not be overthrown in his own home, that he might one day reclaim his authority.

The great billows gathered overhead, blotting out the sun and bringing dusk early to the land. His chest heaving, Hatan abandoned his sanctuary and headed for the community gate.

"Good evening, Hatan." Beorn's mind revived, rested not so much from ceasing labor, but rather from the healing fellowship he shared with the townsfolk, each man and woman passing through the gate.

"It is a dark day, Father."

Beorn looked overhead. "Yes, the sky grows dark early these days. Winter comes upon us quickly. Where is Begietan?"

"It is a dark day, indeed, Father."

Chapter IV

Boulder to boulder, Begietan's feet chose their path skillfully beneath the mountains. The place glowed with familiar satisfaction for him, pulsing still with his first kill years ago. Bow in hand, he reflected upon his brother Hatan's face, pasted over with dumb-founded shock, and chuckled in thoughts known only to himself, and that only a little.

"The best attack begins in surprise," he congratulated himself.

He sat like a Barbary despot upon his dirt patch, like a proud babuin, lounging with his back to one of the great rocks.

"I've got Hatan. It doesn't really matter what Father thinks now; he can't withstand the three of us. Finally, I control the orchards — as I was born to, after these years working that wretched dirt. To think dear old Mother opened the door to my ambition. This couldn't be working out better, and soon I'll have as much as I want to take."

Begietan whistled between his teeth and surveyed the landscape, one leg propped up on a small stone. The faraway blue sky slowly faded ashen. To the left in the distance he could see the island's thick forests, the Ocean Heofon peeking through gaps in the tree line. To his right the sheer face of the mountain range erupted, domineering, into the open heavens, stark shadows cast within deep crevasses. In the corner of his eye a slight movement on the escarpment crept into notice.

A lean figure zigzagged slowly along the dangerous descent. Begietan's quiet amusement rose into suspicion as he watched the man make struggling progress toward him.

"Begietan Feohtan, I believe?" it said finally, once close enough for talk, perched upon a shard some twelve feet above.

"You've come a long way to tell me what I have long known, stranger," Begietan replied with a frown, wondering how the man knew him.

"Yes, indeed obvious, to me," came the retort. "I've seen you here before."

Begietan's frown dropped, and he uneasily shifted his position. The stranger's claim stung his bold heart with misgiving. He had always considered this spot his, separated to him from the rest of Feallengod by virtue of hubris.

"Your family tends the orchards for the community, does it not?"

Begietan settled fully on his suspicions now: This gaunt vagrant wanted a handout. "Oh, we have the orchards, all right, but not long for the community. Today we take it for ourselves, so don't come around begging anymore."

"You all agree?" He bounced, agitated, upon the balls of his bare feet.

"We'll agree, certainly we'll agree."

"Cunning finds comfort in its own conniving deliberations."

Begietan, unsure what the man meant, tried to brace his confidence, spinning a fallen leaf deftly between finger and thumb. "I made sure we'll agree, even my father and brother."

"And where did you leave your brother?"

"In the orchards."

"Not the brother I speak of."

At once terror shook Begietan to his core, and he dropped his leaf. Did this man know about Astigan? In his heart Begietan hoped the question merely attempted a trap, not realizing that would be all the same. Just a moment, and he replied, "Forget about my brother — I don't know what you talk about! What concern is it of yours? What kind of trickery do you attempt?"

"Do you think you hide from me, man of Feallengod? I am Domen of the mountain."

"Domen?" Begietan tilted his head to the side and considered the man carefully. "No!" Years carefully scanning the upper reaches of the mountain had never borne him the reward of seeing Domen. Along with most all of us upon Feallengod, Begietan thought of Domen as only a bogeyman invented by parents for recalcitrant toddlers, but then again a fear had always remained that perhaps he wasn't. "Are you really? What do you want with me?"

"I want you."

"What do you have to do with me?"

"More than you suppose, son of Feohtan. The orchards make a wonderful possession, now that you cover them within your cloak?"

"Yes, the orchards and the terraced fields. All belong only to us. The garden spot of the entire island." Begietan repeated a family joke, so old and tired it no longer aroused any reaction; this moment proved no exception.

Domen leapt to Begietan's level with one sudden bound. "Would you believe you can lay claim not just to the orchards, but the entire island?" He took on a more amiable tone as his words ratcheted on, and made so bold as to sit on the rock that had been Begietan's footrest.

"You mean — me?"

"I mean — me. As prince of this island, I intend to take possession of it. I already claim it, and I must enforce my rule. I need men, men like you, not afraid to think, not hesitant to obey. I need an army again, one to follow my orders. The island bows to its prince — so has he said. I will take it, I will!" At this point Domen spoke more to himself than to Begietan.

"You should take it. Anything would be better than clambering upon that mountain in hiding."

"Hiding?" Domen hissed like a snake with a sore throat. "You think I hide upon the mountain? Only by my good graces have I not already rid this rancid land of you vermin. I know all upon my high places! I own all, all the mountains, and the forests, and your little garden plot, son of Feohtan! I own all, and I will claim it as my kingdom!"

"What about the king, Ecealdor? The old fables say he will return."

"Piss and spittle! Damn old foolishness! Has he come back? No, and he won't. The excrement of old wives' heads means nothing. What lays before your eyes, Begietan Feohtan, only that matters. I stand here, taking power. I claim Ecealdor's authority. So what say you? Will you take hold of Feallengod with me, or will you sleep satisfied with that tiny weed patch your family holds so dear?"

"It's the finest land on the island," Begietan's parochial vanity rose in protest.

"Why settle for one teat when the rest of the cow comes attached? Why barter the orchards' produce, too timid to take the peoples' goods for nothing? Don't you see, you blind man, food upon tables makes only a means to an end. Food can feed the body, or stoke the might of the will. Sell it, withhold it; either way the transaction is power, the right to do as you wish. Lay up dominion for yourself, and you'll never lack for anything."

Begietan knew well the exhilaration of imposing his will, born of cruelty, fulfilled in excess. He felt it the first time he hid away in this very spot, partaking of his defiant kill; he visited it again avenging his desires upon Astigan. It smiled over his shoulder just hours ago, looming over Hatan. He hesitated.

"Why should I serve you? I could make myself lord of the island."

"Perhaps. Perhaps you think you can. But do the men of Feallengod still wonder what lies in the meadowlands? Whose blood calls out from the ground? So you see, son of Feohtan, you should never have spoken to me."

Begietan again flinched at the accusation. His warm recollection of terrorizing his brothers now stopped his heart with fear. The clever schemes of man and nature often have their own ideas. I once observed a spider toiling about in her web. Deftly she spun her silk about her victims, sucking dry the life of some and leaving others to dangle and contemplate their end. Then a greater spider appeared, larger and blacker, who enveloped the first in loving threads to smother out her being. She too dangled upon the fates before her life was required. How often, I wondered, do pits dug only ensnare their designer? I wonder no longer. The card Begietan had played to intimidate Hatan had now turned against him.

So even Begietan could see Domen had the upper hand – he had to throw in with the only appetite on the island bigger than his own. "Very well then. If you will deliver a share of your kingdom to me, then I am your servant. What would you have me do?"

"You already have done so, fool. Keep the yield of the orchards to yourself, and you will serve rightly. Think of yourself only, and you will serve me well."

"Many will resist you. Many still claim loyalty to Ecealdor," Begietan said. "I see why you need men prepared to fight – that will feel good. How will you build your army? Will you seek out others and persuade them as well?"

Domen sneered. "The followers of Ecealdor cling to him only by their fingertips. Once the wheels grind and turn, I must needs seek no one — they will come to me."

In his mind the people of Feallengod groveled upon their knees before Domen, begging his favor, and his thoughts turned to a time past when many desired his attentions. He had been the most beautiful to behold, the most noble of the whole host. The court in its entirety acknowledged his exalted position, longed for his company, hungered after a gracious word from him. Dearly they held such a word, and dearly it came.

His tortured brain could not bear thoughts of that time, and yet neither could it prevent them. Night upon night anger wracked his hours; bitterness and venom poured out from his soul as his memory thumbed through events of the last days in the courts of Gægnian. His head throbbed under the recollection until even the light of the slowly glowing stars seared his eyes.

The pinpoints of light blurred, then sharpened, and blurred again. Shining reflections danced, faeries upon pools and fountains of living water. Jewels shone upon fields of precious metal bright as stars, black as onyx. Light floated through the firmament upon the golden dust of Gægnian, the courts of Ecealdor.

Tall spires of white marble tickled the clouds, and ferocious sculptures of exotic beasts adorned every building. Windows shone platinum. On a clear day, the sky put on crystalline blue; when the rain fell, she draped herself in silver sheets, the drops hanging luminescent and playfully jumping upon the glistening paving stones. Without fail, without affectation, visitors from across the greater kingdom adopted a stately demeanor of pride and grace as they walked the streets of Gægnian.

In the center of the city, in the circle of the square, stood the most striking building of the courts, the castle of Ecealdor. Towering columns without number lined the outer walls, supporting huge cedar beams and rafters, intricately carved and inlaid. A large, semicircular foyer received guests under a 30-foot ceiling, breaking off into hallways like spokes from a wheel. A maze of twisting hallways joined the palace's many rooms. The stoic, glinting armor of great warriors past stood silent guard along every wall, their silver and gold set against glistening cut stone and windows of richly stained glass. Only the inner chamber remained always closed to visitors, Ecealdor limiting entry to this most sequestered room to himself alone, and indeed his time passed there more often, more quickly, than any other place. Far from withdrawing from his subjects, when Ecealdor sat within the inner chamber, all of Gægnian rejoiced to know of his hallowed solitude.

Like rolling a boulder uphill, Dægræd-El and Gelic-El pushed open the castle's massive doors, a gaping maw into the foyer. A whispering voice blew through the halls, like wind in leaves, "This day a son comes into travail."

"The inner chamber has again swallowed Ecealdor," Gelic-El said, and he grasped his companion by the arm and shook him teasingly. "We'd best inquire of him from one of the servants."

Gelic-El, tall and broad in the shoulders, rested his other hand upon the hilt of his sword. White robes flowed from the bottom of his golden breastplate — a crest of six wings finely hammered and etched upon its front — and rested lightly upon his sandaled feet. He gazed with a serious brow tempered by a disarming smile. One of Ecealdor's most steadfast and valiant knights, still his grandeur could not match that of Dægræd-El.

"No matter. What I must tell him, requires I see his face," replied Dægræd-El, turning unexpectedly sullen, and he went for one of the hallways brash as a sailor on bawdstrot.

"My friend, you must not joke. You know we must not violate the inner chamber. The king seeks solitude for his counsels. You must not seek him out. You can not even know where the inner chamber lies."

"You, perhaps. I have made it my business to know," said Dægræd-El. "Now silence yourself and follow."

The jocular Gelic-El dropped all, now suddenly deadly serious. "Dægræd-El, we must not. Ecealdor has so forbidden."

"Gelic-El, I bring you here for a reason," said Dægræd-El, still walking. "If you want audience with Ecealdor, who better to acquire entrance for you than me? He has endowed me with all greatness."

"We must not, Dægræd-El, I will not."

Dægræd-El stopped walking and with naught but his gaze pierced his companion. "Gelic-El, who do you all say is most glorious? Is it not I? By your own words you confess it. Now the time arrives. You call me most wise, most beautiful, and so also I. I am just as he is. I will take his place in Gægnian. Are you with me?" His words raped and shamed the echoes within the passageway.

Gelic-El took hold of him by the forearms. "Dægræd-El, I beg you, turn from this. You desire rebellion against the king. I will go no further."

"Don't get caught in the heart of rebellion, then, my friend, for the halls soon will flow thick with the current of it. Fully one-third of Gægnian conspires with me, those most loyal subjects of Ecealdor whom you so love, and they await outside the palace. As you entered with me, they received their signal, friend. In minutes they will storm the castle, and we will strike down the old man. This hour Gægnian sees its day of freedom! Will you choose to stand with me, or will you lie down with death?"

Gelic-El remained still, only his voice, only his gripping hand moving, as Dægræd-El tore away and continued down the hall. "Never, Dægræd-El!" the voice rang. "Never! Ecealdor will never fall!"

Deeper and deeper, invading the interior of the castle, Dægræd-El thrust into the confused labyrinth of turns and corners. Stopping to consider his bearings, he stepped into an unexpected, dimly lit niche and found a well-hidden door. Well he had plotted his coup, but beyond this door he knew not what lay. He squared his shoulders and tested the latch as Gelic-El's voice still called him back from hallways distant in place and mind.

Cautiously he pushed open the door.

Inside the room only pitch black beckoned. Dægræd-El carefully stepped, slowly, keeping his right hand upon his sword and reaching forward blindly with his left, a beggar pleading for even the slightest hint of what lay hidden in the dark. He heard only the soles of his sandals scraping along the stone floor as he gingerly made his way. The time passed, certainly, but Dægræd-El knew no comprehension of it; regardless of how the sands did move, his vision could not adjust to the deep blackness. Finally his fingertips touched a rough surface: Dægræd-El had reached another door. He felt about the wood and eventually found a large metal ring. He pulled his sword, lifted the ring, and leaned at the door.

With a great motion of surprising ease, almost at the door's own pleasure did it open, and a devastating flood of light stabbed at Dægræd-El's eyes. Sunlight filled the inner chamber from a large overhead portal open to the sky, then poured through the open doorway like a rushing torrent. Light blared off the walls, gilt like mirrors. Directly beneath the blinding, holy stream sat Ecealdor on a low golden bench, upholstered in plush, scarlet velvet. Clothed in crystalline white, surrounded by long banquet tables and large scrolls of holy writ, he did not move.

Dægræd-El grimaced as he turned the back of his head into the light, shielding his eyes with both hands and arms. His sword clattered from his grip, and the shock and agony drove his knees to the smooth stone floor. Never had he endured such light; its hellish burning haunted him even still. His teeth and eyelids clinched at the blazing onslaught.

"I have expected you, Dægræd-El," said Ecealdor. Dægræd-El detected a sweetly bitter fragrance hanging ghostlike in the air. "I have seen this day within you since your ascendancy. Your arrogance surpasses all things but your vanity."

"Stand down, Ecealdor!" said Dægræd-El, still bowed and unable to see. "My time has come to take the throne. I will be just as you."

"You, whose wisdom drapes him like the moss of ancient trees; have you shaved your beard? What then brings forth this insanity, Dægræd-El? The ways of a man seem right to him, but in the end lies destruction."

"Silence your prattling, old man! Stand down, I say!"

"I grieve for you, Dægræd-El."

"You misplace your pity, old fool!" Dægræd-El opened his eyes slightly now, but only to blink, for to see clearly would be to lay down his appetites. He determined to complete his mission, believing one in that room would leave dead. "Stand up from that blasted stool, Ecealdor! You mock me with your platitudes from on high. Come down and meet me in battle, if you insist! Let your sword stir my blood, if you desire to pity me!" His fingers explored the floor gingerly for his blade, but its silvery steel melted into the gleaming marble.

"You are defeated, Dægræd-El. So have I said."

Outside the room a disturbance arose, as thousands upon thousands of running footsteps echoed in the corridor: Perhaps Dægræd-El might still claim the day. He turned to rally his insurgents, but in the outer doorway he glimpsed only Gelic-El, standing with his back to the inner chamber, dutiful not to peer in even as battle loomed. His right hand grasped his sword, his left a morning star, both which he swung like a mad windmill, growling and grunting at their weight. Before him the mob surged; behind him lay the mystery of the inner chamber — no one could pass. Dægræd-El made out a few faces of his jostling troops, all of them panicked and afraid, squinting into the brilliant light.

"Take him! Strike him down!" Dægræd-El ordered, but though some of his soldiers tried to move, the narrow hallway and the men behind so packed them all together that they could brandish neither weapon nor shield, as Gelic-El wildly flailed his slaughter.

"The purposes of a righteous man avail much," said Ecealdor. "See yourself, Dægræd-El, and consider Gelic-El. Will your army listen to the singing of steel, or to your nattering? Whom would you fear, were you in the hallway? You have brought so many to their doom."

Dægræd-El indeed could see now, his eyes finally taking narrow measure of the light. Through his squinting he saw Ecealdor, blurred as if behind gauze. His sight caught Gelic-El, back still turned, blocking the entrance stalwartly, a single man against thousands. With no regard for himself, Gelic-El wielded his weapons with crunching, bloody abandon. The conspirators in turn saw their leader, the man who would be king, doubled down upon the floor before Ecealdor. In the far distance Dægræd-El heard the sound of running, voices raised in anger and desperation, then the metallic clashing of a great armored conflict.

"You have turned thousands against me, Dægræd-El," said Ecealdor, his voice level. "But you have left me many thousands more, their might born of loyalty, while like a bed of squirming maggots envy eats away your strength. Even now your forces die or flee into darkness. You have spoken well, Dægræd-El: Your time has come, but not for the purpose you have imagined.

"Your probation is over. You have chosen rebellion, and into the darkest depths of your choice I cast you."

Dægræd-El's knees ached, firmly grounded before his king. He saw his utter weakness, his humiliation and foolishness. Spittle flew from his teeth as he seethed. Drawing to his feet, he caught a reflection in the gilt walls: his face? His face? He froze: No longer beautiful but twisted with hatred it was; he had never seen a being so grotesque. He took a halting, crawling step toward the image, lost in his revulsion. Only the eyes, the eyes alone he recognized — the same as his soldiers', filled with fear. The eyes open into the soul, and Dægræd-El's revealed a writhing coil of hopeless, scathing malice.

The clashes within the halls already turned quiet. Gelic-El still withstood all those at the door — those most bold souls who longed to join Dægræd-El's side in triumph now drank most deeply of his defeat. Forces loyal to Ecealdor folded onto the rear flank in the far end of the hall. No escape offered itself to those who survived; only the most wise cowards had slinked away into the depths of black exile.

"My justice kindles against you, and my anger boils within me," Ecealdor said serenely. "The struggle ceases, to wait upon another time and place. How you have fallen, Dægræd-El! Honored above all others you were, and you have cast away all. Those of your followers in custody, the dungeons will hold. You, Dægræd-El, I cast out of Gægnian, to wander the greater kingdom. You also forfeit your court name. No longer will my kingdom know you as Dægræd-El, dawn of morning, but rather you will carry a twisted name to match your twisted ambitions. You will call yourself Domen."

"I cannot suffer this," said Dægræd-El, his seething face forlornly gazing into the mirrored wall, no longer so brave about dying, but still weighing what future might yet be his. "To leave the courts of Gægnian for the vast wilderness, I will not survive. I beg you, gracious King, allow me a place to lay my head."

"You seek mercy? That I do not offer, but I will allow you time. I grant you delay. You desired dominion; you will have it. For a season, you will walk the dust of your own realm. I banish you to my island Feallengod."

"Am I cast down alone?"

"No, I will establish a people there also, a generation wise but frail. I will call them my people, to fulfill the purposes of my will. You will vex them, but they will vex you greater."

Domen saw before him the thick-headed presence of Begietan. He saw beneath his feet the jagged grit and gravel of Feallengod.

"Curse him," he said.
Chapter V

Winter fully grasped her wasted fingers about Feallengod, cold tendrils creeping across the land and taking hold of hearts. Families withdrew into smoky, isolated parlors to endure long nights, speaking volumes about the workings within the community. Are the waxing and waning of days, the coming and going of dates and hours, indeed so entirely capricious? Why does January lead the year, the beginning of newness held in its frigid grip? To what end do twenty-four hours divide the day? Lives might better be separated simply into day and night, light and dark. The candle implores us to learn, its flickering indecision turning then to determined burning, and then is not. The island indeed endured long nights, three candles' worth. Time makes for an arbitrary hostess.

Not so Gægnian, worlds away. Said to pass each season in all its splendor but with no harshness, the days are warm and cool, the nights soothing ointment to the soul. Even the darkness is light. Never have I seen Gægnian, but so I am told; powers and authorities rightfully deny lofty things to such men as I. The buildings there rise into the heavens and spread out over the land like nothing upon Feallengod, the legends say, and I believe. The sky and waters, even the soil underfoot lies about in its mean state, richer and purer than anything we might suppose to compare.

Surrounding the domain grounds sit great white formations, stone pure as snow and sparkling like ice, billowing upwards to take a seat with the clouds. Just as suddenly their outer rim dives steeply, cliffs crashing into the sea. Waving grasses and flowers fill the valley within, delicate petals playing upon the breeze like an underwater ballet, genuflecting to grand stands of trees, some tall and straight like rain, others squat with twisting branches reaching and turning in every direction as if stretching to reach itching backs. Limbs heavy with leaves extend over the ground, rest and shade to creatures great and small, feathered and furred.

Long colonnades fill the high city, each building supported as well by a gallery of pillars apparently thrown in place by some brilliant, distracted god, like a cavern of cathedrals. Each column glistens with luminescent color from deep within its core, streaked with golden reds and blue grays, turning every edifice into a petrified forest of sculpture beautiful in its simplicity. Gold domes rise out of the skyline, dominating the innumerable flags and banners ripping in the winds. Broad boulevards, smooth and beautiful, cut slices of the vast acreage, radiating from the central structure, Ecealdor's palace, radiant with light, blazing with untold splendor, rising through the celestial blue to challenge the sun. But I have never seen.

I think we islanders have a distant memory of the wonderful stuff, even so distant that we can never truly lay hold of it. Without the memory, how else would we know what we miss, that we long for something better than only the clear pearls of our own fountains? And doesn't every other heartache pale in comparison? The legends, those stories I stake my life upon now, they say one day the courts of the king will open to the island's faithful, and I want to believe, how my heart trembles to believe, for I have seen people who abide there. Tales not much better than a child's excuses abound in my homeland, telling of the citizens of Gægnian, of incredible powers and fantastic happenings, and that I have seen. In the days of my disgrace did I first meet Mægen-El, emissary from the distant king's presence, and even then I believed. How dark a heart, to see such things and still turn away.

Reports of Domen's activity had crossed the Ocean Heofon, a miserable flea hopping from realm to realm and finally to Mægen-El's ear, sending him urgently through the streets of Gægnian, his armor and weapons clattering with his body in motion. The messenger to the king tenderly carried a tightly rolled scroll in his gloved left hand, and steadied the hilt of his sword with his right. He leapt up the long, staired approach to Ecealdor's castle three at a time; once at the top he had to brace himself against the heavy mahogany doors for a moment to regain his breath, still protecting the scroll in a gentle grasp of chain metal.

Inside he paused yet again, prevented by Secanbearn, handmaiden to the king.

"I have urgent news for thy king, Ecealdor," Mægen-El said. "It waits not."

"Ecealdor resides in the inner chamber," said Secanbearn. She delicately gestured with her hands as she spoke, in the fashion typical of her people.

"Then wait it must."

"He will soon know of your arrival," continued Secanbearn. "Come and refresh yourself, Mægen-El. You must have traveled a far distance." She gestured upon her brow and before her sympathetic lips.

"I carry the report from Feallengod." The mask he set upon his countenance declared he had much to tell. "But the message must be revealed to none but Ecealdor."

"Yes." Secanbearn had found great favor in the sight of the king, winning trust from every member of his courts for her gracious purity. Mægen-El knew her word would prove true: Ecealdor must not be disturbed, but he would soon appear. Secanbearn's thick, raven hair flirted about her knees, and her eyes danced bright and clever against olive skin; her physical beauty had no rival but that of her spirit. She protected her trust carefully, guiding the king's audiences with no desire to increase her influence. No great spring of love flowed to any woman of Gægnian more than her, yet she remained the virgin servant of her lord.

Mægen-El himself had called her into the service of the king. In an earlier day — upon Ecealdor's journeys to distant parts of the greater kingdom — in one of his lands he most noted a young maiden who delighted at sitting before him, in rapt attention to his meditations. When time came to depart, he directed Mægen-El to fetch the maid, to continue the voyage with him. This had been Secanbearn.

"Maiden, thou hast found high esteem in the eyes of King Ecealdor," Mægen-El had told her then. "These many days he has seen thee at his feet, and he desires that thou join him in his courts."

"How can this be, seeing I have never left my father and mother, and all my many families and peoples? How can I bear to depart from them?" asked Secanbearn, and she made the sign of a fist over her heart.

"Though within thy darkest day even thy father and mother might deny thee, Ecealdor will shelter thee in his palaces always. He will stand before thee as protector and benefactor, and thou wilt live out thy days in the love and service of thy king."

"Then I trust, your word be done as he wills, for I am but his servant."

And indeed his word remained so with Secanbearn, and she loyally served Ecealdor, and loved Mægen-El for the day he opened the doors of the high courts to her.

"Mægen-El," she continued now, as they walked together into one of the king's receiving rooms. "Do the people suffer as badly as the rumors claim?"

"I cannot tell thee except in the presence of thy king," he replied, and he looked deeply into her eyes.

"Truth, then?" she said, placing a finger and thumb to her ear.

"I see I tell thee too much."

A door opened wide and dark, and Ecealdor strode in, a handful of servants trailing dutifully distant. A purple robe intricately embroidered with gold draped his shoulders and lightly skirted the floor.

"My lord," said Mægen-El, and he fell to one knee. Secanbearn moved as if to leave, but the king stayed her with a gesture.

"Remain, Secanbearn. Arise, and greetings, Mægen-El, my gratitude for your faithful service yet again. Servants, you may bring us bread and wine, and then leave us to ourselves." As he spoke, a familiar fragrance filled the air, pungent and sweet like incense and ambrosia embracing. Whether his words, or the breath of his lungs, or just his presence, no one could tell; but neither did one ever forget the lingering savor, dream-like sensation of good tiding, the floating presence of splendid regency attending an audience with Ecealdor.

The granite walls of the room glistened in the light of a multitude of candles. Statuary surrounded by flowing greenery stood at attention in the corners. Gay tapestries hung from the tiled ceiling, along with heraldic banners; playfully hiding in-between, delicate bas-reliefs carved into the walls depicted important events from the history of the greater kingdom. Layer upon layer, the warm colors of rugs crafted in distant lands covered the floor.

Ecealdor sat upon a heavy, richly stained chair, ornately hewn, inlaid with gold and ivory, upholstered in purple. Secanbearn took her place at his side, seated on a low bench, more pillow than furniture. Mægen-El stood before the two, scroll still in hand.

"Very well, Mægen-El, let's have your report."

Mægen-El handed the scroll to Ecealdor, who did not open it. "My lord, with great regret I must bring this matter to thy attention ..."

"My dear courier, I appreciate your regard for protocol, but you may speak plainly."

Mægen-El took a breath and began again, but as mightily as he struggled, the official high language of the courts would not set free his tongue. "Yea, Lord, it is this: Feallengod rouses into rebellion; they have turned away from thy law. Each man thinks of himself first, and turns his face from the need of the other. They do not give of their wares out of love as they once did, seeking more for them than a reasonable price. Some refuse to sell for any price, others neither to purchase out of mistrust. Some go hungry, others shiver with cold because they find neither clothing nor coal, others suffer sickness for the lack of curing. Yet even these out of pride will not give of their goods to acquire what they need. They cling to their lack with unrelenting, irrational lust, thinking themselves rich. Also they starve for grace for as the people have turned against themselves, so they have turned against thee."

"Do they then forget the one who established them in prosperity?"

"They have not forgotten altogether; many speak of thee, but refuse to believe. Others know not nor can tell if they believe. They have corrupted thy law and fallen upon their own wisdom and desires. Much talk pollutes their ears that thou hast abandoned the island and its people."

"The issues and events of the greater kingdom are without number, but still I will not ignore what transpires upon Feallengod, where they all fall together. My work there rises to its importance; and the situation cries out, more anguished than I feared."

"Lord, I fain even touch upon the depths of the suffering. In each man's devotion to his spot of land, he has hated his country. In his love for his own life, he has despised life itself. In his desire for liberty, he has put on shackles that bind his hands and his mind. In his desire for intimacy, he makes a mockery of love as he lies with any warm creature. A great cataclysm has befallen the people, making of them a desperate, sick nation, and they do not even know. They starve, starve for thee, and do not even know."

"What do you say of this matter, Secanbearn?" Ecealdor gently digressed.

Secanbearn heaved slightly as she wept; "My heart breaks," she could only say. One hand lifted and drew down her cheek.

"Again your wisdom strikes like the archer's arrow, maiden, for this matter dwells not upon hunger nor necessity nor survival. No, indeed – these people do err in their hearts, and they do not remember my ways."

Ecealdor's face hardened, and he stood from his seat. "I have heard enough, Mægen-El. Time carries about an inconvenient insistence — at last it has arrived. We know whose work has ravaged the garden, do we not?"

"Yea, Lord."

"I must call him back to Gægnian."

"Yea, Lord."

"The unpleasant task falls upon you, Mægen-El, to order him back to my courts, though I dare say Dægræd-El will not disdain an opportunity to return. Do you need Gelic-El with you?"

"Nay, Lord."

Ecealdor smiled slightly. "I know you don't. Off with you then, Mægen-El, and a henge go round about you."

"Thank thee, Lord." Mægen-El bowed deeply to the king — a gesture sweeping and grand in its humility — kissed the moist hand of Secanbearn, and walked backwards and bent from their presence.

"Peace be unto you, child. Your heart bleeds easily," and Ecealdor knelt to comfort Secanbearn.

"A sword has pierced my soul, I do believe, from the hurt," she said quietly. "I see the suffering to come, the blood of many spilled as the chosen land of Ecealdor destroys itself. Many whom we love will die. I don't understand, my lord, I can not understand. When obedience is so blessed, from whence comes rebellion?"

"Who can know the heart of man, child? But all these things must be, for so have I planted Feallengod. We will see the conclusion as it settles."

"How can your patience run so still, Lord? Certainly a treacherous people have risen against you, led by the father of treason. Feallengod occupies but a tiny speck in the greater kingdom — why do you not send your armies and crush your enemies?"

"Secanbearn, you surprise me."

"I beg mercy, Lord."

"Yes, I could bring down all the might of my force upon them; then how many would perish? Would rather I should die myself. For a mighty man, no great glory abides in crushing the weak. Many upon Feallengod bristle against me, I know, and also I know many remain faithful. Some will sell their loyalties to the upper hand, then perhaps again. Not just for their sakes will I remain patient, though, but for the sake of my own honor. I will know those who stand loyal and those who do not, and recompense will come upon both. In that day I will glorify the king and all the host of Gægnian, for by my patience I open to all the gate, an invitation to choose. Whether in forgiveness or justice, each man and woman of Feallengod will be witness to my long-suffering, and that I do judge them rightly. Then will they know me as I am, for better or worse.

"I did not establish this people upon Feallengod in vain. I do not make them my enemy. Every conflict bears a price; the wise king weighs that price beforehand and waits as it shows its result. Where offense is greatest, child, there fire refines hearts and mercy proves finest. Come, let us retreat into the cool pastures. Perhaps we will find comfort there." Ecealdor enwrapped her shoulders with his mantle till only her face beamed from its folds, and led her out in silence.

The clouds floated about as the wind wished, uncaring in the blue sky. Trees stood stoically, unmoved, but flowers waved ever so slightly as the gentle breezes carried dandelion seeds to their destinations. Sea birds balanced high in the air, in search of calm waters.

Under the same heavenly canopy, Mægen-El proceeded quickly to the naval docks. Fast ships of the royal fleet stood ready, as Ecealdor often had need to inquire of the far reaches of the greater kingdom. All Gægnian well knew Mægen-El, so quickly did he secure a vessel for Feallengod. They would set sail that evening.

Once aboard, Mægen-El sought out the ship's hold and the supplies within. As an emissary for the king, he could command from the ship's mate anything he needed. To face Domen alone, he must prepare carefully: a stout rope, daggers to conceal within his leggings, a coat of mail he could fasten about with his belt. Mægen-El had not seen Domen since his days in the court; surely now he was capable of worse crimes than already laid upon his head. He anticipated hatred no less bitter now than then.

Satisfactorily outfitted, Mægen-El returned topside until anchors aweigh. He paced the decks of the elegant longboat and watched foodstuffs and other necessities lowered into the hold with block and tackle, levers and strength. Majestic masts pointed skyward like the proud trees they had once been, giving their lives in service to the kingdom. A multitude of stout ropes dangled and swayed like thread from the dizzying heights. The crew scampered up and down the lines, eager to hoist the sails at the order. A fierce figurehead towered over the waters from the ship's bow, complete with Gægnian's battle crest.

At last the ship's captain gave the command to get underway, and the ship moved sleekly out of port. The sun hung low in the west; the winds played roughly with the vessel as the crew set full sail to the east. The three main masts arrogantly caught the skies, their sets of three sails apiece drinking deeply of the wind's power. A full complement of flags snapped briskly from each. The graceful craft glided swiftly across the surface of the Ocean Heofon, disdainfully putting miles behind her every hour. Mægen-El, on deck that night until the black fell so thick he could not see his own blinking, braced himself against the whipping winds. The ocean's spray stung his face, turned like a flint toward Feallengod.

As the days of the voyage passed, Mægen-El's thoughts insistently, disconsolately turned to the people of the island. He had not seen the land since the day he announced King Ecealdor's withdrawal, standing on deck of a ship not unlike this present one, watching the island sink into the horizon. That day, so filled with greatness of sorrow, yet also had given rise to an odd feeling of anticipation among the people, like children ready to leave their parents. As the years came and went, he often marveled at the trust the king had put in these people.

Nights Mægen-El lay in his hammock, gently swinging as mighty waves toyed mischievously with the longboat. Over and over he played out in his mind his looming encounter with Domen. Would the rebel show himself at all? Would he have to force Domen back, or would he return freely? And what might lay ahead for Mægen-El? Doubts crept into his mind whether he would return to Gægnian alive.

And what of the people — how many would remain from those many years ago? Would he have to fight them, as well as Domen? Perhaps they would rally to the king's side, and reject Domen's insurgency. But to gain followers to himself would betray his mission, and he must do nothing to lead the people to exalt him. Still, he would arrive as emissary of the king – would they honor his position? He could not tell, a detail neither here nor there — more to the point, could he discern their purposes once ashore on Feallengod?

Mægen-El searched his heart. Did his fears show forth cowardice, or wise discretion? What difference was there? As Ecealdor's representative, he must stand firm — did his faith in the king's sovereignty fail him? His doubts twisted about until his head pounded.

Weeks and miles slipped beneath the ship, and Gægnian's memory gleamed more and more remote. Feallengod drew closer, though still as invisible as the future. Mægen-El paced the decks, turning his thoughts over until they groaned with tedium; and then a cry from on high broke his preoccupation.

"Land!" Mægen-El peered into the high reaches of the mainmast, eyes weaving through the maze of lines and sails, to see the lookout point off the port bow. Striding to the rail, he could make out a tall mountain range, surrounded by greenery, arising from the bluish haze upon the horizon.

From that moment he did not leave the ship's bow, and soon the vessel drew close to the far coast of Feallengod, sailing under the lee of the island, dotted with bays and inlets. A few crew members took Mægen-El to shore in a skiff, as he strapped on armor and weaponry. He drew a deep breath, laid his hand upon his sword, and, as indifferent waves lapped at the exposed land, stepped upon the precarious ground of the weary island.

***

Ecealdor addressed a shadow tinged red within the dark corners. "Choose out your warriors – at last we pitch the battle upon Feallengod."

Chapter VI

Domen sat perched upon his precipice, gritting his teeth as thoughts fermented. Perhaps no other ever took in his view, I know not, but often I imagined it: Seeing all at one time the island's beaches to the west, the moors to the east, the vast expanses of northern timber and the waving grasses of the meadows, and Four Rivers as well winding through the breadth of the panorama. To behold the buildings to one hand and the quarries of their birth on the other — how could hatred grow from such a sight? And yet Domen's foul eye drank in only objects of his wrath. Now his plan proceeded just as he had hoped: Divisions continued to grow among the people of the community below; conflicts emerging from petty greed roiled more deeply personal, pitting spouses against in-laws, parents against children, straining the ties that had once bound together the diverse families of townspeople.

The lack of charity among the people had driven me out of the streets. Hunger compelled me to enter my period of new esteem – cursed faith that depends upon self – and blend into the working folk. And well did my willing friend encourage me; whatever I did, he readily offered the praise or excuse I reckoned was owed me. I had lived hand-to-mouth, that is, from the hand of strangers, but quite firmly their averted eyes and turned backs forced me into servitude. Not only did the harsh world impel me to earn a living of sorts, but also the shelter of the stone buildings beckoned me out of the cold. Thus did respectability try its hand at me. And though I never crossed the line of law — much — though the world about me would not have bothered to frown upon my habits, I slid ever further into a pit of hopelessness. My search for belonging found me only more homeless at heart. I came to see the law of the stone as less a threat and more a mere mockery, barely recognizable to me in my hedonism. When one takes upon the finger a wedding ring to the world, she will return as much misery as she can. And so it was with me.

Indeed, my finger hung laden with rings, for in my attempt to fade into the culture, I took a wife. Certainly, I thought, thus can I refill the devotion lost with Astigan, and as well tame my lusts for the flying skirts. Pretty enough, her hair soft and golden, her eyes bright with prospect. However, the lovely lass of the hopeful engagement quickly came to demand those things a woman might expect from a spouse; why do these things surprise husbands? Yet the pressure applied upon me to seek out industry and income, then abandon it to devote myself to home, then to become spontaneously wealthy, drove me into dire anxiety. So did my household become a prison to me, and I returned to the skirts, seeking love where none exists except for the coin. And also did I in return make my home a bawd-house, filling it with the most paltry guests I could find, foisted upon my lovely bride without warning, many never leaving until the dawn. Not the least of these was my grizzled leech, Gastgedal as I called him after the ancient-speak, grinning and leering at my poor girl.

"Heigh!" I might say, loudly stamping at the doorframe. "Company for supper!"

"Again?" She would say, "and us with not enough for even one?"

"Not to mind. We'll just have drink, if I know my lads," I would cut a clever joke, my arm around old Gastgedal.

"That's all you truly want," he said. "Let it have its way. Bread only dampens the effect."

"We'll just take our bottle here by the hearth," said I. "No need to dirty your pretty table," and burst into childish fits of laughter.

"You've already had your bottle, I wager," she sniffed. "You'll not leave me alone at table, after all day here in the house by myself. You can at least give me a bit of your time before you're laid unconscious."

"But what about old Gastgedal here?"

"He can roll his fat rump into some other hovel, if he can find one with a master daft enough!"

"Oooo!" said I.

"Hardly are you one to speak of a heavy wagonload behind, good woman," Gastgedal said, "though I often fancied a dip into that tart arse."

Poor wife dropped her dishes, stunned at me more so than the words. "How dare you! In my own house! Before my own husband! And why do you just sit there?"

I sat there, and did not answer, having no answer.

"Oh, but miss, 'twas only a joke," Gastgedal said soothingly. "I most surely do beg your pardon," he smiled like he had a stomachache.

"Never should you be allowed in this house!" And she waved her spoon at me. "And the guilt you bear be a shame upon you! Let all your ancestors see, a man unwilling to cover his wife! If you will not defend my honor, let my shame be upon your head!" Her cries followed her as she ran out the back door.

"Really, should she talk to you in such a way?" Gastgedal asked discreetly. "The day comes when you will need to slap some manners into that woman. Listen to me."

Yet even then did Ecealdor call out to me, gracious sovereign, to return my heart to him, to the satin jewelry case from which I stole, but deaf did I remain. So did the cares of life multiply upon me, until my attentions became totally divorced from my king, and then I was totally divorced.

But fortunes allowed some redemption even for this time, as I made weak attempt at job after job. For in these months I met Liesan, of whom I soon have much to tell, and a man named Cirice, jacksnape of the quarries, laborer of the distal winds who shared my own toiling, as much like me on the outside as different within. I knew him well, or better said I well knew of him, even before my final return to the quarries. His reputation went before him — that kind of man — and once a meeting was made, one still left wondering how much fiction had filled the air. A comrade to all, still he maintained a shroud of silence concealing his deepest desires and fears. Men do not pant at the lap like dogs, and not easily to be known; sometimes, though, they behave no better than a mongrel pack, and Cirice would offset his reticence with the rambunctious good humor of male fellowship.

One grand day at the quarries I slipped off a ledge as we hauled a load of slag up the side of the mountain. Cirice instinctively snatched a hand for me and caught my belt as I went over the edge. I faced a drop of only eight feet or so, and he could have lowered me gently to my hands and knees, but instead he gleefully shook and yanked me as my breeches slowly slipped off. I hung upside down, standing upon my hands, my feet twisted into my leggings, as all my good friends had a hearty laugh. Once my legs slid free, Cirice waved those pants over his head like a captured flag, as I sat in my smallclothes cursing him in every way I could think of, preparing to run in case he took me at my word and jumped down to my ledge. Instead he offered to piss a part in my hair.

Yet as well, I remember another evening, when work had passed into idleness and a group of quarrymen gathered unto drinking, Cirice among us. An unwary girl allowed her attention snared, and we drew her to our table. Mug upon mug passed her way, until surely she knew not who nor where she was. Cirice only gazed into his own cup, contemplating its contents and that of much else. Soon she slumped in her chair; then we promised each other to pass her around like a flagon as well, to quench our appetites. But Cirice had gone, without a word of judgment, without a word of farewell.

Thus did solid Andsæc Cirice stand, underneath his bluster and occasional baseness, a shrewd insight past pretensions of both the perverse and the cultured. Not that he would decline a glass of wine with his pheasant, but he knew a simple stein of mead washing down a leg of mutton to be equally worthy. A scrap of dried meat over a tiny fire sputtering in a persistent drizzle, shared with young comrades in the belly of battle — that had been the finest dining he ever enjoyed. He made as steadfast and stalwart a friend as one could want at the worst moment of one's life.

So he left the debauched table, and I did not; gratefully now I remember little of what followed. Old Gastgedal attempted many a time to remind me, and I tried to remember and tried to forget. He remained encouraged at least in my solace within the bottle. Indeed, my love for drink soaked into my bones, shortly thereafter making me unable to work a steady job, so I took what I could find, sweeping floors and moving garbage. And what better employer for me than the Boar's Brew Tavern? I would take mead for pay, for all I cared; it would just save time.

A wreck being made of my homeland, not to mention of me as well, Domen knew Ecealdor would inevitably respond, but he knew not how.

A small voice only a few yards from the mountain's foot caught his attention, and he squinted to make out the figure in the dusky light and scrabbly rocks: Begietan. As skillfully as he could traverse the island's width and breadth, not even brash Begietan would try to scale the height of Domen's treacherous mountain. Domen bridled at the inconvenience, certain to exact penance, climbing down to meet him.

"Have you stirred the pot? How cooks the stew?" he asked.

"Spicy hot," replied Begietan. "The coopers now will not supply new casks to the cidermills, and old casks burst in the streets, the new cider running like Four Rivers. Bricklayers demand home builders supply their own quicklime. Husbandmen do not allow their masters' flocks to mate; this season you will see no new lambs."

"And what of your father?"

"The old fool — my father will bend his ways, or I will," Begietan said scowling. "Still he talks of giving to the hungry, but we stop him, whether by force or ridicule, Mother and me. Hatan can only listen stupidly, afraid to speak, so sooner than later father will cease resisting as well."

"Good enough, for now. Turn the screws."

"And a stranger asks for you in the community." Begietan braced himself in so saying, afraid of what might erupt from Domen.

"What bastard dares —?" Some man had slipped onto the island under Domen's notice; never did he curse himself more.

"He calls himself Mægen-El — claims to know you. His speech sounds like that of a foreign land."

"Mægen-El!" The storm in Domen's face cleared suddenly, and he took a moment to think. "Just as I desired — excellent! Came he alone?"

"Yes."

"Even better. Ecealdor sends his warning! Even now he falls into my will! I will see Mægen-El, and he will have much to report upon his scrolls!"

Domen clambered to the bottom of the mountain, crazed beetle scuttling into the community's rolling, winding streets. Begietan followed like a pup on a rope. Stone buildings built tall and close together lined every path, steeply pitched roofs pointing like spikes into the sky. Stone benches and iron tables nestled beneath colorful awnings, and solitary trees sprouted here and there out of the pavement. Elevated granite sluices, grandly carved with ornate arches and spitting gargoyles, spanned the town in every direction. The two men brushed by many townsfolk, walking about with their staffs some three or four feet taller than they, and cast scorn upon their hesitant greetings.

Mægen-El sat waiting inside the Boar's Brew, alone at table. All Feallengod, long bereft of any such intimidating visitor — for surely memories more sharp than mine so test themselves — left those who saw him hardly knowing whether to offer welcome or run home and hide. In wise concession, most gave him wide berth. Already, among those witnesses within the community walls, rumors flew about the shining man. "Did he come from Gægnian? Is he the king?" young children whispered to their mothers before being hurried away, strictly ordered to hush and keep their distance.

Thus did I first lay eyes on Mægen-El. What a magnificent sight, enough to wetten under-trestling — the very look of his face put the place quiet. He took no notice of me nor my broom, his eyes set upon the determination to fulfill his mission or die trying. Royalty bears about an air of superiority and privilege; Mægen-El's character far surpassed simple lords and queens. His demeanor suggested that only by leaving his eminence unspoken could it be known: Words could only degrade it. What wicked humor of fate placed me in that same room, a filthy vagrant in and out, sharing the same air as the king's knight? I stood in the corner, unconsciously so, hiding in the shadows alone except for Gastgedal.

Mægen-El quietly tarried, one foot propped upon the chair beside him, studying the simple metal goblet of his hand and considering what might come. A roaring fire popped merrily on the hearth, sparks skittling across the wooden floor, and sweet pipe smoke floated dreamily through the room and to the ceiling.

With bravado Domen and Begietan put their feet into the community together, but Domen still paled at intruding upon the king's messenger. He took much care to peer into each building's window, each doorway, before entering as he sought Mægen-El. Before long they found him, slowly unwinding from his chair as they approached his table. The other poor patrons, already keeping a foul odor's distance, scattered at the appearance of Domen; my back rooted out deeper hiding.

"Mægen-El, the king's squire," Domen began with delicious rancor. "Returned to admire the polish of your stone? You haven't changed. I trust you would say the same of me."

"Good evening, sir," Mægen-El said to Begietan, and I heard young Feohtan's heavy step backward. Turning his attention solely to Domen, Mægen-El continued, "Domen, I come on the business of thy king, Ecealdor."

"No doubt. So good of the king to communicate after these many years. I trust the time has done no harm to our affinity."

"The king cares not about thy timepieces, nor do the reports out of the island Feallengod please him."

"The king might have considered that when he placed this accursed land under my heel."

"King Ecealdor has sent me as his messenger unto thee."

"Well, blurt out, then, what does the king have to say?" Domen growled.

"What the king says to thee, ye will hear. The king would see thee in Gægnian."

"In Gægnian?" Domen scarcely trusted his ears, so dried by the sun into crinkled leather. From the far corner, I watched him squirm with delight, forever the sneer frozen upon his face, all attempts to veil his putrid blisses failing badly. Suddenly he took an attitude of disbelief. "He banished me from Gægnian."

"Ecealdor remains sovereign, and he would see thee in Gægnian. My transport awaits; we will cast off immediately." Not waiting for sign of accord, Mægen-El briskly turned for the door.

For years Domen had schemed of his return to Gægnian, though never to a satisfactory end. An opportunity to leave this piece of dirt, home of his exile, even for only a moment, he would by no means let slip through his claws.

"Immediately? Ecealdor should not plot so eagerly — then let's be off."

I suppose Domen followed out the inn, but my eyes saw only Mægen-El. The door frame made way for his shoulders, and the ground reached to aid his step. I maintained my corner until the air, wafting smoke and redolence, stilled behind him. Begietan stood alone in the middle of the room, hips hitched like an oxcart with one wheel, not knowing what to do. I do not know how he finally left, as I bravely peered out from the edge of the front window frame at the royal visitor. For long moments I watched the two striding purposefully toward the back of the island, as long as they still appeared over the horizon. Mægen-El's presence in the inn left a ghostly imprint upon me, and though what followed was my ruination, I forever remember those few minutes. Even the chuckling ribaldry of Gastgedal found no home in my ears until Mægen-El was far out of sight.

"Fop!" he mocked. "So the king sends his lackey!"

"I've never seen such a man," I wondered aloud.

"Neither me, and perhaps not as yet. I suppose there's paps under that armor."

"No," I said, not really listening, not yet.

"There's bound to be a way to profit from this," Gastgedal's eyes shifted as he stroked his whiskers.

And indeed, no scoundrel such as I could leave the moment in sanctity. A glance about the room quickly revealed a way to cheapen it, and I took Mægen-El's goblet from the table and slipped it under my waistcoat. A worthless thing of metal in the end, the stealing of it meant nothing. Later I decided the act signified only this: I thought I'd never get as close again to Ecealdor.

But not Domen. Go, go he would, stand near would he in the rarified company of blessedness itself, he hated it so. Mægen-El's spirits improved greatly upon this return trip to Gægnian, but for Domen the voyage grew more grim by each eternal second, upon a ship manned by citizens of Gægnian, people who lived in the eye of Ecealdor. Their conversation never turned from the king and the majesty of his courts. Crew members joined as one in their work, throwing their weight into hoisting sails or scrubbing decks or climbing lines, their voices blended in joyful song, anticipating the return home.

"Oh, to serve Ecealdor,

"To see the shores of Gægnian once more,

"Let this one desire of my heart be granted

" 'Ere I walk through death's open door."

"For only the great king is worthy,

"And only is he to be praised.

"And only are Gægnian's halls to be sought

"By those who hope to be raised,

"By those who hope to be raised."

This sort of carrying on soon grew into a grievous burden for Domen. No longer enthralled at his return to Gægnian, this taste of simpering subjects loyal to Ecealdor soured his stomach. He quickly took the habit of coming on deck only in the night, best to avoid a noisome crew but also to soak in the gloom: The blackness of an overcast night at sea knows no equal; the darkness hung so thick that he fairly felt it. He suddenly realized an unwilling longing for Feallengod, never had he known before. Neither the land nor people called him, though — no noble thing might be considered in his heart. Only his growing control over the island drew his desire, a work yet unfinished. Still, his mind hewed at a plan to send the grip of infection still deeper into the greater kingdom, and the price to pay came at this insufferable rejoicing.

The crew itself planted the seed in his brain — if only they knew the injustice that Domen suffered, to be denied what Ecealdor freely gave to them. He would show Ecealdor to be fickle and cruel, and turn all of Feallengod against him. What praise then for a king who gives his men over to ruinous suffering, just as Domen suffered. And right his scheming may have been, then and now, but one must know the man whom one deals with.

After the interminable voyage, Domen's legs weak with the sea and kicking at festivity, the longboat slid smoothly into port at Gægnian. As glad sailors embraced families, he slipped off board and skulked through the greeting mass. Immediately a chorus of voices magnifying Ecealdor hit his ear, coming from everywhere and yet nowhere, filling the air with angelic harmony, tinged with melancholy. "Must this nonsense vex me everywhere I tread?" he said aloud and looked about in the sky, hoping to find the music's source, to know what to curse.

"Come with us," he heard, and turning his head saw courtiers carrying the heraldry of the king.

"I need no help finding the palace," he returned spitefully.

"You misunderstand," the guard said. "We are not sent as escorts. You are under arrest."

Domen sneered. "If I must walk under that banner, then, let it be by force." Shuffling along the streets, he recalled the shining countenance of the structures and people, and a time when he tried to make this kingdom his. He hated it now for the sake of long miles and long years.

Inside the palace his guard made a quick halt, and he paced the semicircular foyer, one eye on each hallway in turn, impatient for someone to appear. At times he nearly dared enter one of the passages, flinching and drawing back, and the guards stood stoic. Soon Secanbearn emerged.

"The king beckons you now," she said, indicating the passageway they would take. She nodded to the courtiers, and they disappeared.

"If he's ready. And what about you, my dear?" Secanbearn was unknown to Domen, and he turned the energy of his impatience toward tempting her resolve as their steps echoed off the long walls.

"Sir?"

"How does the king see you?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Does he satisfy your desires, girl? Does he slake your affections?"

"The king is my desire, and he provides for my needs," and she drew her hand from her heart to her stomach.

"So he provides a remedy for your rightful passions. You are married, then?"

"No."

"A pity, a pretty girl like you. You're young yet, for now, but the apple's tasty flesh does not forever shelter its seed —"

"Perhaps I will marry. Perhaps not. Either way, the king will provide for me. So has he said." And Secanbearn bowed her eyes and quickly backed out of the room that proved their destination.

Seeing his assault fail for the moment, but not really caring, Domen looked to the floor of the parlor, his feet left alone, and focused his putrid mind. The walls enveloped him with paintings by skilful artists from throughout the greater kingdom. A single chair rested upon the tiled floor, a tall throne ablaze with peacock feathers, situated directly beneath a central chandelier of wrought iron and polished brass. Behind the throne another entrance offered, double doors that presently swung open wide as Ecealdor, Gelic-El and well-ordered hand servants entered. The king silently took his seat, Gelic-El positioned a few feet to the left and back of the throne. His right hand rested upon his sheathed sword, and his left fist gripped firmly a familiar morning star. He said nothing, but with his eyes stilled Domen's tongue.

"Domen," the king spoke at last, "I regret having to call you before me under such condition."

"You regret calling me here under any condition," retorted Domen.

"Truly spoken, for a change. But hold your insolence."

Domen stood in silence; his mind raced like a flooding current.

"You attempt to turn the people of Feallengod to rebellion. They have lost interest now in the law I left them. The people no longer serve each other, but instead seek only their own profit. They no longer wait upon me. You conspire against me, yet my destruction you desire not, but rather theirs. You will fail."

Domen looked about him, beheld the grand appointments of the room, Ecealdor's unyielding expression, and particularly the spoiling Gelic-El. "Come back to Feallengod — I will fight you there."

"I will stand upon Feallengod soil again, but at my choosing. Neither will you know how I will return nor when. My concern lies only with the people, and the deadly persuasion you have wrought in their hearts."

"If you would permit me to speak at length, oh King, perhaps I could rightly direct your attention."

"Speak then."

"I have traveled the borders of all Feallengod, I have walked up and down in it, and to a man the people want no king. Not I, but their own hearts guide them: They think they want their gentle monarch to return, and they overflow with sentimental pish. But in your absence they have learned life without you and don't believe your return. They have had their fill of your laws and will live in the way that seems right to them."

Ecealdor interrupted. "The ceiling drips deceit, but proceed."

"The men will choose their own way as long as no one makes them obey. Rebellion stews in this people at their own fancy, and only a harsh law and harsh judgment will make them align to your will. Make me their leader, with power to bend them, and I could force obedience. Have you not given the island to me? Do you not remember? So you have said."

"I remember well what I have decreed, and still too I choose Feallengod for my own. I grant you dominion over the island for a time, but never has it left the greater kingdom. You remain free to exact what you are appointed. Do your best."

"Your chosen people do not want a king, nor any authority. I only try to keep the peace. They curse you even to my face now, though it pains me to hear. Let me discipline them, oh Regent! Grant me power to measure out punishment! They need guidance, like the counsel of a good father; they want to follow, but require leadership. They want me for their king."

The room took on a lightly reddish tint, and Gelic-El sensed an acid odor. Ecealdor's face hardened even more grim. "Domen, your lies scatter about so, they confuse you more than me. The people don't want a king, but they want you as king. They curse me, but long for me as kindly father. I see your ways change not since your departure from Gægnian."

"You do not see from your exalted courts what the people do, nor do you hear. Every day I witness to their corruption, their stench right under my nose, and how greatly they pollute your law. I will tell you of their works!"

"I care less for their actions than desires, for some men persist to battle themselves. Surely I will deal with all who flout my patience, for they reveal their hearts. But those who set themselves upon my promise, should penalty descend? Who would endure the king's wrath, in days of faithfulness? The day approaches when my law will flow from them, and no longer show itself as worn carvings upon a stone."

"I tell you, all of Feallengod curses you and rejects you," Domen croaked angrily.

"All of Feallengod?"

"All."

"This you doubt not?" asked Ecealdor, his voice touched with bittersweet.

"All."

"You venture even to judge my servant Liesan?"

Oh, my king! Your words do tear from my memory to my heart! The wound bleeds again!

"Liesan!" Domen thought. But does the fish bait the hook? He had hoped to goad Ecealdor into singling out some simple, innocent man of Feallengod, then to apply such pain and injury upon the unfortunate, to make a pitiable example before all the people. He made vile design to drive some victim into renouncing the king, a martyr to his rebellion. But Ecealdor had named Liesan, among his greatest friends, a cornerstone that broken might bring all the island down into rubble.

"Upon all Feallengod, you will find none like him — upright and shunning your evil, his devotion he gives gladly," Ecealdor went on.

"Liesan? Why not? And why shouldn't he lick at your boots? You anoint him with riches beyond Feallengod dreams. Why wouldn't he bless the king?" said Domen.

"Do you say then, his fealty is rooted only in wealth?"

"I say more. I say rid him of his prosperity, and he will call down a treasure of revilings upon you."

"What would you have me do, then?"

"Take away his riches, his lands, his holdings. Put him fully under my rule, and see his devotion wither."

"Very well."

Gelic-El's eyes flickered toward the king.

"Awriten-El!" Ecealdor dictated to one of the servants, whose pen loudly complained against the parchment scroll: "King Ecealdor hereby grants direct ownership of all lands and property of Liesan of Feallengod to Domen, prince of Feallengod, so to command as he pleases. Witness the date and insignia of the king, to so enforce this order immediately."

Wax dripped onto the parchment, and received the royal seal. "I make you free to do what you are appointed to, no more, no less. You will fail," said the king. The servant held the cursed scrap before Ecealdor for approval, then to Domen. Domen snatched it away, clutching it like a twisting viper in his clinched fist.

"Mine! You barter your subjects easily! You give me victory, and easily! Liesan will curse you and the very air you breathe! Feallengod will see you now, how you betray those loyal to you! I will leave him destitute, then dead." Domen's words spewed from his throat, the maw of a snarling dog.

"I do not give you his life," said Ecealdor firmly.

"A man will offer all else for his life," protested Domen. "With fullness of breath, he may yet keep his trust in you."

"Harm him, then, but not unto death."

"Why not death? Is that not the end of every man?" Domen persisted.

"Can the grave curse me? If you kill him, will he speak against me?"

Domen saw the reason, his foul hope alone saving Liesan, but still conceded only reluctantly. "Very well, he will live. All the better — he will desire death and it will not come. He will curse you and the day of his birth, and find no comfort."

"You take a disturbing glee in the suffering of men," said Ecealdor. "Begone from my sight!" Domen needed no further urging, and exited the room like a prowling wolf.

"But, sire? We held him under arrest," said Gelic-El.

"Yes, and so I sentence him."

Domen scurried down the long hallway, laughing in his shrill cackle, lifting high the little scroll. Upon that fleeting moment, the clash of righteous scandal, I sold my life, and I did not know a moment of its passing.

Chapter VII

Moreso than any other man of Feallengod, fortune had smiled upon Liesan. In long times past he had been the faithful servant of Ecealdor, in return earning title to vast lands. His property lay far from the community in the foothills, and his family flourished. Skilled servants, numbering in scores, and well rewarded, toiled with ease and facility at the tasks of his grounds. His properties returned so abundantly, he had no needs, not even the produce of Beorn Feohtan's orchards. A modest fleet of sailing vessels rested at his docks, and herds of cattle, sheep and feisty horses roamed his pastures. Blessed with this great affluence, still he never failed to acknowledge the king's goodness, each month setting sail to Gægnian a gift from his prosperity.

Every year a grand celebration marked the day the king had released Liesan from his indenture. Fatted calves, flowing wine and exotic fruits filled his tables at these feasts as all, master and servant, indulged equally of the bounty. Then, late at night, under glorious explosions of fireworks, a wonderful tribute — a jewel-encrusted sculpture, a magnificent animal, or perhaps a rare historic artifact — parted the sea's waters for the king's courts at Gægnian.

Wealth earns interest, and the interest of the common folk generally emerges in idle gossip. Whisperings of greed hidden away or clandestine generosity, extremes from either perspective, swirl about the reputations of such men, never finding their balance. Concerning Liesan, I attest that no such rumors swelled. From Liesan flowed only sincere, true giving, with no agenda but charity, with no hope of return; his arrival always inspired a smile, teeth or no. For too short a time, before trying the quarries, I worked his docks, and many a time did I load those ships that sailed for Gægnian. I swear that the treasures were no mean counterfeits, and fully worthy of my coveting. Always did Liesan oversee the work, encouraging much care especially with the annual gift, joyfully pointing out the delicate details of each.

"I have nothing to offer of value to him," he told me once. "So I offer him everything."

"Yes, sir," I stammered in return. "You fear not that your gifts might rather offend in their smallness before the king?"

"He could take all I possess, if he so desired, or he could double. Either way, he would see no gain nor loss. Out of his abundance he shows generosity, and so also I the same, though surely I can not claim to profit him. What he has shown me, I must show to my kindred." And he laid his hand upon my shoulder.

I know it true that a handsome bag of coin fell to the palm of each worker as the ships skimmed away upon the dappled water. And I know as well that exuberant thumping upon our backs and words of praise always followed, yet more precious to the hard-knock folk of the docks, for corruption could not squander those words.

Not that any man's influence might have hindered me, any good man, at least. My desires for things of Feallengod, however noble in intent, rose before my knees an idol. Devotion deferred, and my thoughts strayed ever further from Ecealdor, gladly making faint the memory of the pendent stone. Already my grand efforts as solid citizen and family man proved themselves vain pursuits.

The companion of my nights showed me her back, and I took the invitation to swim strange pools. The power of the bed reigns. Do wives not realize temptation so often lives and dies by their touch? For all women surely share the essential part, and one's the same as another in the dark. But was no woman's fault, neither hers nor theirs. Such emptiness poured from my heart at my own behest. Love once again failed me, or I failed it.

So also fealty to Liesan suffered at my hands. None of his beautiful wonders could I pass off as my own. What good might a golden chalice do for the vagrant found with it? But the matter of denying another's claim and possessing alone took hold of my thoughts. Should Ecealdor consider closely Liesan's gift of that year, a magnificent gem-studded equestrian, if indeed he looks at such things at all, surely he would notice the empty setting for a single sapphire. A few twists of a knife blade, and I made again for the quarries, to dig more honest stone.

Yet even for having made of him a fool, Liesan prevailed over my conceit — the finest man ever I knew, a strikingly handsome man even in his age, the man I wished my father to be. A subject loyal to the end, more an adopted son than a servant, the name of Ecealdor never lagged far from Liesan's lips. So did my petty crimes vex me more for simply giving them birth than any pain they returned upon him. Much I would learn about pain.

Liesan's habit each morning found him sitting at his gate, reading the ancient writings by the rays of the rising sun. Though he lived not within the community, all the townspeople regarded him well. Not just toward kings and servants, but also for the plain folk of Feallengod, Liesan's generosity never failed. Often one or two islanders might journey to his home with some news, or to seek counsel, or just to partake of his hospitality, as he always welcomed visitors gladly. I myself attempted the pilgrimage once, but by this time, and this time of day, so sodden with wine, I could never have found the way. Catching sight of two figures and their rough wooden cart, drawn by an ass, working up his path as dawn broke came as no surprise to him. The travelers approached slowly up the way, the rickety wagon lurching from side to side upon every bump and rut, threatening to fall apart at each step.

Domen and Begietan approached.

"What a grand morning — and only the arrival of guests could better it! And so brave to make the trying journey, in spite of your difficult transportation, do you think? A most beautiful day today, is it not? The early sun braces the attentions just as the crisp air, I dare say, wouldn't you agree?" his usual effusiveness gave no ground. "What brings you gentlemen into the embrace of my lands today?"

Domen heard not a word, nor did he return more than a grimace. "Do you recognize this seal, man?" his voice and arm snapped before Liesan's face, the scroll roughly flung open in his hand.

"You have the seal of the king, good fellow. Very prestigious. Years upon years have passed since I last lay eyes upon it. What good fortune to see it again, don't you think?" replied Liesan. Startled by Domen's rude manner, still he would not respond in kind.

"My words exactly. You will read here an edict from the king."

"Please, let us not do business under open skies. You have been long on your journey, no doubt since the very early hours, no? A fire and sharing hot mead would better serve our comfort and conversation, would they not?"

Begietan looked hopeful, but Domen only barked a single word: "Read."

Liesan sighed and looked to the parchment. "Who are you?" he asked as he read.

"I am Domen of the mountain. You will remove yourself from my property immediately."

"Domen! So the word I hear speaks truly, does it not? You have been stalking about Feallengod, like a lion skulking. How comes this paper to you, hmm?" The caustic words of the scroll scraped at his eyes and astounded Liesan.

"You trespass. Get him off my property," he said to Begietan, who promptly grabbed Liesan by his cloak, manhandling him out of his seat and heavily to the ground.

The wind knocked from his chest, Liesan lay stunned and silent upon the dirt, still grasping the curling scroll, trying to catch his breath and thoughts, looking to his attackers in confusion. "Now, look here! Stop! Stop this! I know my rights!" he protested in gasps.

"Your rights!" Domen spat in spirit and truth. "By rights you should be mine to chew your head off if I please. My rights would have you dead."

Liesan struggled to regain his feet, calling out as if moaning in a dream, but two kicks to the head ended the attempt to rouse his sleeping household. His anger won no opportunity to rise, snuffed out quickly in the dust. Heaving coughs, cheek again to the ground, raised clouds off the path, and his lurching breaths only drew the dryness deeper into his throat and lungs.

Domen snatched the paper away from Liesan's failing grip. "Do you honor your king? Then submit to him." Begietan secured the old man's hands tightly behind his back.

"I don't believe!" Liesan wheezed. "You lie!"

"You'll learn better what's worthy to believe. Until then, you'd best believe this – I am prince of Feallengod. He's said so."

"What of — my family? My servants?" he croaked, as Begietan dragged him toward the cart, limp legs trailing winding designs in the dirt.

"I'll take care of them — turn them out of here as well," said Domen. "Let's go," he commanded Begietan.

The thug grinned as he punched Liesan once more. They quickly fled those lands, beating speed from their poor, braying animal with an unmerciful stick. Arriving at a wooded area just outside the borders of what had been Liesan's property, a dump where refuse burned constantly, they again threw him violently to the ground.

Liesan couldn't focus his mind or eyes, and before he knew it Begietan had him trussed in strong cords like a sheaf. They propped him up, sitting against a tree, and Domen cut a stout cane of oak.

"So does Ecealdor repay devotion – obedience returns its fruit at last. Thus does your dear king reward your friendship. He has sold you to his worst enemy." The wood cut a broad swath in the air.

Liesan coughed again, tried to swallow, and then again. "I received my lands from the hand of Ecealdor. Why should I not so lose them as well? Sovereign in all his lands, is he not? I will serve the king who reigns in Gægnian."

Domen struck him a stinging blow with the rod. Liesan fell to the ground with a grunt, held tight by his bonds, blood oozing from the blow to his neck. "The king has deserted you. All the bribes and deals you've made with him mean nothing! He is your enemy now. He curses you – return the curse upon him! Curse the one who brought you to this!" Domen demanded.

"I began this life with nothing, and gained all I had from the king. I suppose now I shall leave with nothing, no?" Liesan groaned. He struggled against the embrace of the bonds, but the course rope held too strong, too tight.

Domen squatted low, pushing his face into Liesan's. "Does your integrity run so costly? Count you so-called honor more precious than life? Do you not know you can save yourself, just in cursing Ecealdor, just making yourself loyal to me?"

"My grief pours out from me," Liesan's voice struggled against his torment, "because he who once called me friend now rises up an enemy. The lord I sought to serve now finds fault in me. The very things I dreaded have fallen upon me, that Ecealdor has hidden himself from me. What fate could descend more grave? He levels his judgments in rightness, but, oh, to suffer these things at your hands!" A tear tinged red fell upon the ashes.

"You have much to suffer at my hands!" Domen flailed with the rod until the blows fell fruitless, lost in his rage. He gathered himself to deliver several kicks to Liesan's ribs, making each new breath a knife to his chest.

"I weary of this," Domen said, and he thrust the cane into Begietan's gut. As he drifted deeper into the wooded gloom, the sound of blows grew fainter into the background. Eventually Liesan would break, Domen thought, in time he would call down curses upon the great king. Once the people of the island saw Ecealdor's treachery, once Liesan had turned against him, all of Feallengod would quickly follow.

For days, for weeks a rain of bludgeoning fell like divine verdict. The pounding of the rods opened up Liesan's body with welts and wounds, running with ooze and pus. Dried blood caked his face, mixed with dirt, washed with tears, his robes rent into rags. His only grace a shallow dish of gruel, placed by his head, compelled him to lap his subsistence like a wounded dog. Just nourishment enough allowed him to stay alive; beatings just restrained enough kept him from death.

Liesan came to dread the rising sun. He preferred the nightmares of his feverish sleep to those of his reality. Yet still, through the unholy abuse, he did not accuse the king. He was the finest man ever I had known.

"Whatever did I to deserve this? The injury is one thing, the injustice something quite else," he murmured. "This only I know – my actions of my blessing rang no different from the actions of my downfall."

"You have hated the king! Admit it! He wouldn't allow this upon you if you hadn't offended him!" Begietan growled as he applied the rod.

"I know not so, but still he would be right in his judgments, would he not? I protest —never did I play the knave before him, my devotion to him never false. I want to speak before the king. I must know my offense."

"You've made him turn his back on you! What have you done? Confess it! Wouldn't he rescue you if his anger did not burn? Wouldn't he save an innocent man from this torture? You're guilty! Guilty — you might as well admit it!"

"Better to have never breached my mother, isn't it so?" said Liesan weakly. "Though even then never my own choice. All my years of favor in Ecealdor's eyes repay not even a moment of his wrath. But redemption falls silent."

"You suffer alone, you see? The king does not punish me. He doesn't even know. You writhe under the heat of ordeal like a worm. How dare you demand the king's motive? Domen is your master now, the only one to demand answer! You claim to serve the king, yet you expect him to answer to you like a circus fool."

"He knows my heart, he knows my suffering. He will answer my cries. He will return and stand upon Feallengod one day," Liesan sounded like he was trying to persuade himself.

"Traitor, I tell you, he sees your treason!" Begietan sneered, and down came the rod again. "You people will learn to listen to me. And now you cause my shoulder to ache."

"False witnesses attack me, never the king, and they treat me cruelly. I know I am accused; so will I be absolved."

"Your family rots in the ground, all of them," Begietan told him, shaking the fist that held the rod. "He has ripped out their throats with his teeth! Your servants as well. They die upon your account."

"False witness ... lies ... is it ... is it ..." and Liesan's voice trailed off.

His eyes swollen shut, his teeth loose and bloody, and his chest ached with each breath. The cords that still bound him rubbed his wrists and ankles raw. A purplish black spread over his shoulders from long weeks of hailish blows, in turn discolored by dried blood. As time dragged on, the battered man could no longer offer any defense, and he took the brutality without flinching, exhaustion adding the facade of bravery to his ruin.

I hate my hand for writing such things. I hate my feet, for choosing the path of stumbling. I hate my head for the drunken stupor that prevented me knowing, from stopping the injustice. But surely did I not know, until the time turned much too late for Liesan, and for myself. The revelry of my companion, the desire to merely experience and then forget, the thirst to forget and forget, all twisted my mind to the service of escape. Only through twirling clouds of stupefaction did I at last see. And then even more so did I not understand.

Liesan fell deeper into torpor, unaware of the beatings, no more so than he once had been of the blood coursing his veins, or the breathing of his sleep. Indeed, his existence seemed to him somewhere outside his body, and at times in his mind he again walked the floors of his home. The physical pain mattered less and less to him, but his soul groaned under the accusations of his tormentors. The heartbreak of his abandonment, the injustice of the sea swept down upon him, bore heavily upon his perseverance.

Domen strode through the undergrowth, seeing Liesan upon the ash heap, the dusk of the fortieth day. Begietan awoke, caught in a nap of dereliction, and rubbed his eyes witlessly.

"You will turn today," Domen said, and through slits of blurred vision Liesan could make out a heavy, spiked cudgel in the brute's hand. "Today will you curse the king."

"I have done nothing to deserve your abuse," Liesan began.

"You do suffer for what you have done, for you have followed after Ecealdor," Domen growled.

"Who can know the mind of Ecealdor," Liesan said in barely a whisper. "Mystery shrouds his ways. Terrible are his judgments. I transgress to seek explanation from him."

"Don't entreat confessional from me, son of treason. You'll gain no absolution from me. Damn Ecealdor and die!" The club, cocked over Domen's shoulders, and then again, came down upon the back of Liesan's head, and jagged, rusty spikes carved a smiling gash. The sickening crack of wood against Liesan's skull made even Begietan wince as he looked on grimly, half-supine still where he had slept.

"You do this not to me, but only the king, for you have no power outside his will. The days make me only wish to die. Surely you so wish as well. But the king does not grant it me," Liesan said, his words gurgling through blood. "Bless the king in his sovereignty. Bless him in his mercy."

Domen snarled at the thought of his servitude. "You double your crimes in lying, for your thoughts curse him."

Liesan fell silent.

"Your faking piety conceals not what fills your heart, nor will it protect what fills your skull. Curse him! Curse Ecealdor!" Domen raised the cudgel a second time.

Liesan cringed. "At his mercy. Mercy —"

At that moment a metallic song rang in the air, an exclamation point upon the sound too of footsteps breaking through the bracken. A flashing blade sliced Domen's club cleanly in two – the terrible spiked end tumbled impotent at Begietan's feet. Liesan turned his head stiffly to see: A dark figure loomed over him, accompanied by a dozen armed aides, arrived from the courts of Gægnian. Mægen-El considered Liesan's wounds, and turned ferociously upon Domen.

"Though I might wish to have arrived under mine own authority, to fulfill mine own desires in this matter, oh ye Domen, instead I have come to thee again as messenger of thy king, Ecealdor," he said, spewing outrage. "It is finished. The king declares Liesan vindicated." Then to his aides: "Bind his wounds, and give him water."

"No!" protested Domen. "You heard him – he dared to question Ecealdor! He will curse him! You cannot have him back!"

"Never was he thine, Domen," said Mægen-El.

"He shall remain mine as long as he fouls this island! Surely all who tread Feallengod fall under the curse of my eye!"

"Rightly ye may say, Domen, but just as ye have been given right to the island by the king, so do ye suffer control at his hand. Ye shall have no more dominion over this man. So has he said."

"You cannot!" Domen raged. "He is my witness against Ecealdor! His broken corpse will lead all of Feallengod against the king!"

Liesan, half-conscious, faced down in the dirt, croaked, "The king have mercy."

"Ye have dug a trap, and fallen in thyself, Domen. Dost thou not hear the man speak? Hear ye me not? Ecealdor declares him vindicated. Now hold thy tongue, in the name of thy lord."

Begietan, trying to go unnoticed in the background, now turned tail and slunk from the ash heap.

"Curse you! Curse you for a fool!" Domen wailed.

Liesan struggled to sit upright, but unable to gather any strength, instead lay upon the mercies of the aides. "You come from King Ec – ?" He could not finish.

"Yea."

Liesan strained at his words, ribs heaving in attempt to sustain his pleas. Broken breaths crippled his speech. "Never did I seek to harm Ecealdor. Neither in Feallengod nor anywhere. The king spares my life, yet besets me with life. For years he saw no fault in me, only now to repent of his blessing. Please, I beg your forgiveness, why this flow of wrath?"

"Feallengod lies alone and separated from Ecealdor," said Mægen-El. "Thy land hast lost the glory that once dwelt upon its shores, and the island itself, the very ground, weeps for its tragic condition. The suffering swells much greater than thou dost realize, Liesan, and soon it will come to rise even more."

"But so many dwell upon Feallengod – why does the king see only me? Why fall my lands and friends from my embrace? My family, even my body broken? I never changed my ways toward the king. Why have I lost his favor?" Liesan struggled to lean upon his elbows, though Mægen-El's aides supported him. Tears long run dry again trickled down his ravaged face.

"King Ecealdor shows himself sovereign, and for his own purposes he allows some to prosper and some to struggle. All serve who see the will of the king done. All who rejoice in his judgments will see their reward. Ecealdor has not averted his eyes from thy suffering for his sake. Feallengod gives birth to suffering, and so he will choose it as well. Thou art weak now, weak from the yoke thou hast borne, but thou hast shown the king to be strong in the love ye, his faithful subject, have for him. Whenceforth have ye won this his battle."

"I still my voice, then," said Liesan, too weak for more talk anyway. "The king be praised. May I find grace on the day I stand before him."

"Thou hast suffered much for the king. The struggle will continue for Ecealdor, but for thee, Liesan, for thee the time passes, the affliction ends," Mægen-El continued. "Most favored Liesan, in thy steadfastness thou hast won a dear victory for thy king, Ecealdor. In thy humility thou hast not transgressed against him. What thou hast lost returns again to thee, doubled. Rise and receive thy great reward."

With that, he grandly gestured toward his aides. Liesan made no attempt to rise, so Mægen-El knelt. A scroll passed from hand to hand, and he read: "All powerful King Ecealdor, sovereign lord of all the greater kingdom, hereby rescinds his order and returns to Liesan of Feallengod all previous lands and properties. Further, he awards to Liesan the towering high mountains of Feallengod that rise out of the foothills of the community, specifically including the realm of Domen, prince of Feallengod. Witness the date and insignia of the king, to so enforce this order immediately."

Domen's fury, miserable in abject quiet, jaws and fists clinched, blew through his teeth at hearing the proclamation. His anger boiled into utter despair — Liesan had slipped his grasp, and now even his mountain was cast away from him. "No, no, no! You must curse him! Ecealdor mocks me in my own dominion! He has humiliated me!" Domen lunged toward Liesan.

A corps of guards from Gægnian, their swords suddenly flashing and leveled at Domen's gullet, prevented him from reaching the stricken man. Domen arched himself backward and discharged an anguished stream of profanity.

"Not Ecealdor, but Liesan. Thou hast chosen thy battle, Domen, and thou hast lost. Thou hast been bested by a man of Feallengod. Thou hast been bested by the spirit of the king."

One man's triumph well often leaves another man inhaling the dust of destruction. Oh, my king, have mercy upon my neck! I know myself an arrogant and stupid man! It is said that Liesan harbored never a single bitter thought toward the king, but I more than took his part. Thousands of hateful, angry blasphemies, all put to words.

In the middle of town, lying in the street, conquered by intoxicating love, I spied movement in the haze, a silvery serpent winding through blades of grass. In muddled mind, still I could see a multitude of heads, shoulders bobbing against the baleful sky long past dusk. Yes, I saw the assembly of men from Gægnian under the waning moon's glow, led by Mægen-El. Through the haze of my stupor I even recognized, I little know how, the battered body of Liesan, limp upon a litter, carted about like a load of lumber.

Yes, I remember now, the words of Gastgedal made sure I knew. Lying with me there in the gutter, my boon companion, he lifted a sodden arm and noted, "Is that not your beloved patron, Liesan, beaten and wounded, the favorite of the king?"

Carefully did I rub the liquored ooze from my eyes, indeed to consider well the cursed sight.

Perhaps a demon's gift, to lie in that spot and see at that moment, cuddled with my accuser, and make out the marred face of a man — I know not even yet. The curse of that vision, as I drifted into nightmare upon the cold cobbles of the street, turned upon my heart to paint it with poison, to run venom through my putrid veins. The island had turned cruel — a senseless, hopeless cruelty for the mere sake of spilling blood — and who better to accuse than its royal patron? In my mind, upon the passing of that minute, I saw what the favor of Ecealdor brought about.

"Well does the king treat his friends," Gastgedal droned into my ear. "Better to see to oneself only, to follow one willpower only, and will to do so mightily. But I shall never leave thee, my lovely."

I did not know, my king, I had no knowledge of your courts! I knew nothing of Domen's evil design! But what counsels could Liesan throw his strength upon, and still he clung faithful, while I turned to the service of your enemy. Though, truly, how much turned I? Or did I only come to realize my utter estrangement? Domen's boot print glanced off Liesan but landed squarely upon my head; Liesan's devotion shames me even now. I saw so much, and yet so little did I understand, as my thoughts imagined Mægen-El and his men themselves torturing Liesan. The outrage of atrocities against those I most loved, they became too much for me! Then also, the tears I wept fell more for myself than any other. So from that night, though long indifferent toward the king, I became his adversary outright. From then on, I determined to take up only my own cause; at that moment, I considered myself just as he is. I took the cutting burr I lay upon, a metal goblet still hidden away in my waistcoat, and cast it into the gutter.

Chapter VIII

The dawn of my ruin slipped unnoticed by any in Gægnian or Feallengod, so little did I realize. But never turned Ecealdor his eyes from Liesan. A fortnight or more earlier he had sent Mægen-El orders to return to the island. First, though, the royal messenger hastened to appear before the king. Mægen-El hurriedly adjusted his tunic even as he approached the king's throne, bowing deeply to him, and Secanbearn at his side.

"Liesan arrives at the brink of his victory. I will not again permit Domen to make example of a man of Feallengod. But the people, they will crawl to Domen and invite his influence. They will give their lives over to him," Ecealdor told Mægen-El.

"What wouldst thou have me do?" he asked.

"Domen will not accept the loss of Liesan, another goad added, but he will learn a dreadful lesson. From henceforth he will focus on the proud and weak, the self-reliant and faithless. I number these among the ones who have forgotten me, but I defer judgment upon them now. We remain patient, Mægen-El. You will not return to Feallengod alone: With you I send my watchman, my warning to the people. Perhaps some will listen; most will not. Eventually their mediator will stand upon the land, and the people will see just as Liesan – so have we always known. But for now I rest patiently. Perhaps the people will resist Domen. I will tell them what it means to follow their king. I will speak through my emissary, and they will either hear or close their ears against me."

"And who do ye call to be thy watchman, Lord? Is it I?"

"Gladly would I appoint you, Mægen-El, but you are too strong. Instead, I choose weakness – I send Bregdan," said Ecealdor.

"The shepherd?"

"Who better than a shepherd to lead my people back into their fold?"

"Very well, my king. I will fetch him out of the pastures, and then we set sail immediately," said Mægen-El, and he turned to leave, his armor and weapons clattering.

"With due haste, Mægen-El," said Ecealdor. "For Liesan's sake."

"Will they listen, my lord?" asked Secanbearn.

"Their riches lie, and they have come to believe they need nothing, neither from me, nor from each other. Within they waste away, poor and wretched. Will they recognize love in rebuke, or the greater battle? We shall see. Send for Gelic-El, child."

At the outskirts of the city Mægen-El mounted his horse, spurring the steed into the wilds surrounding Gægnian at full gallop. Many considered the meadows a rough backwoods, though the waving grasses, cool trees and mirrored pools would appear like heaven itself to one who had not seen and could not compare the king's courtyards and gardens. I yet remember the elders of Feallengod, long years ago, calling the island just a shadow of the glories of Gægnian, though as a child, enamored of the bugs and flowers, I never truly imagined how they could speak truth in the matter. To hear them talk, the pastures of the royal land stretched far beyond the horizon, where they kissed the deep blue sky, and the black soil yielded abundantly. A smattering of great spreading trees arose from the blanketing wildflowers, giving shelter to man and beast and bird alike. But never have I seen. The king's herds of domestic and wild animals prosper there, the yield of new lambs and calves increasing with each passing year. Among these gentle creatures did Mægen-El find Bregdan, and so impressed upon him the king's desires.

"Who will listen? For novelty tolerates age little, and words come slowly to my mind. Surely my failures make me no longer of any use to the king?" replied Bregdan.

"Thou wilt speak only what the king has commanded thee, and concern ye not how the people hear thee. Thou hast only to fulfill thy duty. Thy king hast commanded it. Hurry, now, we must depart for Feallengod."

Bregdan had grown old indeed, more than a hundred years by his best count, even more so with the burden of vain youth and misdirected loyalty. Long hair and whiskers, looking like bleached wool, framed his face, tan and wrinkled. Under the thatch of white, though, his blue eyes flashed with fiery humor, and a bright smile always brewed. His face fairly glowed at times, so much so that fellow shepherds turned away their eyes, or else broke into laughter. For a truth halting, his throaty voice took the habit of lilting upward to end every phrase. Once Bregdan was called a prince, not unlike Domen, but the power of office made a harsh show of his weakness, and he laid aside those duties gladly to spend his days at a pastoral vocation. Still, as a situation called, Ecealdor never hesitated to draw him out for an important mission, and he obliged.

"So I embark upon my last undertaking for the king," he told Mægen-El, standing at the very bow of the king's longboat.

"How so?"

"As my years increase, Mægen-El, do not the number of my days shrink? I feel it. I am sure of it — I will not see Gægnian again. I will not feed my little lambs again."

"Thou hast new lambs now, upon Feallengod."

"Yes, new lambs to tend. Still Ecealdor's lambs, too, yes? Peaceful to my heart, knowing so. And if I never leave Feallengod, even if I fall and die in a hidden place, Ecealdor will know where I lie, and that I stood for him, and stood in the gap for the people."

"Thou hast often yoked thyself unto his service these many years, Bregdan."

"One last opportunity, eh, old friend?" Bregdan's jabbing elbow made Mægen-El's ribs to understand. "Maybe this time I'll get it right." And laughing, he unexpectedly caught a mouthful of sea spray that set him bending over the rail.

Reaching landfall upon the far side of Feallengod, Mægen-El and his company hurried to Liesan's aid. Bregdan breathed deep the salt air and set out for the community in the foothills. Elderly, perhaps, but his pace faltered not as he traveled the land; even Four Rivers proved no obstacle for Bregdan, as he nimbly picked his way along stones, ages ago set within the current as a path to opposite banks.

"Good day, sir," he greeted a man sitting at the community gate, toying without muse at a knife and scrap of wood, whiling away the afternoon. His hands betrayed him a man accustomed to labor. "How do you fare today?"

"One day more or less won't kill me, sir," he maundered. "And you?"

"I must beg your direction, my friend. I arrive upon the island only just, but I bear a message vital for Feallengod. Can you direct me to a place so to address the people?"

"What message do you bring?"

"A message from King Ecealdor."

"Ecealdor?" The man brightened. "Then you must bring hope with you, friend. Whether praise or correction, this forsaken island hungers for a word, any word, from the king; Feallengod gnashes its teeth, tearing its families apart for want of hope. Follow me into the town square. I am Beorn Feohtan."

"But do you not already possess a word from the king?" Bregdan wondered aloud as they briskly walked.

Beorn led Bregdan into the community. The stranger's odd vestments of colorful robes, along with his white hair and beard flowing behind, attracted perhaps a dozen curious followers along the path. The mild interest transformed into a stirring within, however, when words began to spill from his mouth; then all the townsfolk seemed to gather, and not an eye could tear away from him. We fell in as well, clutching a fresh new bottle, Gastgedal and I, like a vagabond at a freak show.

"Men and women of Feallengod, I come to you from Gægnian, Bregdan, just a shepherd and yet still a watchman of King Ecealdor. The gracious king brings you greetings from the halls of his palaces. The noble king wishes to soothe your troubled hearts with good tidings of his faithfulness and patience. The almighty king bids you to return to his side, return to obey his law.

"I am Bregdan, naught but a herder to the king's flocks in Gægnian. Once I claimed the name of great prince, but in his mercy Ecealdor delivered me from my pride. Once I made myself a killer of men, but Ecealdor redeemed me from the blood upon my hands. Then again I became a hermit, removed from the people of my ancestors, but Ecealdor restored me. I once lived in rebellion and disbelief, but Ecealdor made the works of my hands righteous and wonderful. This same grace he longs to pour upon you, oh people of Feallengod! Turn from your disobedience, and return to Ecealdor!

"He has spoken to you a law, a law invested with eternity. A law carved upon the stone, but so also to set upon your heads and hands, to guide your thoughts and works in the days of his absence. Remember this law: 'Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, and pour out your blessing upon his people as richly as you receive.' Return to the selflessness of the king's law, come back into obedience to him, and he will remember you in love and mercy when he returns."

At these words the people murmured, men and women looking about at each other and uncomfortably shifting foot to foot. For so long they had heard the law twisted, for so long did Domen deny Ecealdor's return, they had come to accept his word as truth, deep within their hardened hearts. As for me, I had considered Domen as no different from anyone else, not with my time nor concern. My conceit rose as arrogant as it was empty. Throughout Bregdan's message, Gastgedal and I had wrestled over our flask and snuck giggling snorts like teen-age boys on a spree. Now a crack emerged in my façade, and I looked from face to face around me, lost in confusion, and I realized that though I had heard the man speak, I had not listened. But I thought of the stone, and felt it looming over me.

"Why should we believe you, old man?" A familiar voice came from almost right at my elbow. As it hit Beorn's ear, I saw him wheel about to locate its owner. "We don't need you people giving us orders! Go back to wherever you came from! If you're from Gægnian, where's your boat? We didn't see it come in! We don't believe you." The crowd's muttering grew.

"You judge rightly, I am an old man. And you are a hot head," said Bregdan. He easily picked the young man out of the crowd, and as chuckles rose and fell, Begietan began to drift slowly towards the back so to slip away. "You people listen like idiots to this stranger! Silly sheep!" he yelled as he left. "He's a fool! Only Domen has the truth!"

"He's right!" others, not so amused, took up Begietan's cause. "How do we know you come from Ecealdor? Prove it! Give us a sign!"

"Why do you demand a new sign when you do not accept the sign given you before?" replied Bregdan. "You will be offered only the sign of three."

"We don't need riddles from you! If you're from the king, show us a sign. If you have come from the king, don't be too afraid to prove it! We demand a sign!" The crowd grew increasingly restive, and I admit even then the passions of those nearby led me to agree, almost to care. But still not yet did my foot slip entirely.

"From the beginning King Ecealdor did bless his people with all the fatness of Feallengod. Nothing from the island did he withhold from you, no? He asked only that you not withhold your devotion from him, nor from one another. 'Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, and pour out your blessing upon his people as richly as you receive.' Simply the standard by which he holds himself, by which he loves you, does he ask of you. Surely this burden you find not too heavy? But you have made yourselves a thick people with unbending necks.

"Ecealdor has made rich vows toward your behalf. But as well he promises not to restrain his justice always, people of Feallengod. He remains able, and so too willing. Make no mistake, he sends me. He sends me upon this errand of mercy. I beg you, fear his justice, for he offers mercy and therefore you have hope. How long will he withhold? Surely I cannot tell nor willingly say. Weigh my words carefully, people of Feallengod. I leave you tonight, but I return again to this spot on the morrow. My words will echo here again."

With that Bregdan pushed his way through the crowd, none of the people attempting to stop him. I fell back against a tree, cradling my bottle, and watched him stride resolutely away and disappear between the tightly bunched houses, and Gastgedal hid behind. Beorn started after Bregdan at first, but soon lost sight of him in the failing light. He halted forlornly, looking after him like an abandoned dog; his hands hung useless at his sides. Begietan, far in the distance now, broke into a run.

"Let us relieve that flagon of its burden," whispered Gastgedal.

All those who had stopped to hear Bregdan twisted a path away from the square, and we milled about until the crowd had cleared. At last we nestled into the worst possible spot, the place of my accusation: Together we drained the contents of our vessel while leaning upon the rock of the law.

An ill wind flew down my nostrils that day, for an unfamiliar squall settled in my belly along with my drink. Never before did my comfort betray me so – perhaps it came as a curse or perhaps simply a bad day's work by the shiner. Either way, soon I was depositing everything I could upon, behind and beside the rock.

Terribly did my head reel, and I had no power to stand or want as much. No more could I do than collapse in the pool of my sick. I have little sense of how long I lay there, but in that time I witnessed the worst sight ever to come before my eyes, Mægen-El in his mercy. In misery I lay there, entrails torn to pieces by spirits, and spirit slain by the inhuman torment of my friend, and did not stir until I felt the impatient tapping upon my head.

"What is this new shame, then?" the voice of the crier said, and I opened my eyes to see a blurred man swinging his staff like a pendulum, in time with the tapping.

"Not that I'm surprised to find you again passed out, but by the stone? And see what you've done to it! Have you no more regard for the king's memory than that?"

I surely said something in defense, but I have no idea of it now nor probably even then.

"You'll have to go in for this," said the crier, producing a pair of manacles. "You'll spend the rest of the night in the cells for this, you can bet."

With that he hauled me to my feet and drove me back across the square, stumbling toward the stockade. I'm not sure whose eyes fell upon me on that journey, but the one pair I could see plain as day in my mind were my old mum's.

Gastgedal was nowhere to be seen, leaving me to face the consequences of foolishness alone.

Never had the drink laid me low in such a way, and within my addled thoughts I with certainty judged that some new effect had turned me ill. Suppose Bregdan did speak for the king – reciting the law, conspiring with that cursed stone, had by a truth worked some witchery upon my innards. He had singled me out and brought this sentence upon me – and apparently spared all others – the drunken heaving as well as my incarceration. And then too Liesan's nightmare, parading before my memory like a funeral procession, drenched me in sweat and shivering. Tucked away behind the stone, left basically inert in the embrace of sickness, I had borne silent witness to the betrayal of innocence (or so I thought — little did I know). Beaten and bloodied, his body covered with white linen, and my stomach even now heaved sick once again at the image of the man whom I admired above all others. Of all things I ever saw or did, this more than any flowed like bile over my soul. In my ignorant pride, in my inebriated insolence, I came fully to aim my hatred toward Bregdan, thinking that safe, though he be merely a brittle man standing between me and Ecealdor. As my thoughts slowly cleared of their haze, as I sat with the lice upon my straw pallet, I made myself an equal judge to my king, and of my king. My scorn prepared I to spew forth like more vomit, and I left the jail with a clear head and blackened heart.

Domen, still seething at his disgrace against Liesan, accused spitefully upon hearing of Bregdan's arrival. Begietan tried to impress him, mightily embellishing his claim of shouting down the king's watchman, but Domen cared nothing for it. He refused to forget how Begietan had run away from giving up his life to oppose Mægen-El and his ranks of men just hours earlier.

"The doubt we plant may not survive Bregdan's weeding. The roots run deep, and entangle what truth remains in their hearts. We must choke it out completely. We must strangle it until the last breath fails. You worthless toad, trying to still his voice! Fool! Bregdan's own words must fall back upon the people a curse. I must turn the threads of his covering into a hanging noose. We will convert the people's doubt into hatred – that alone will turn them wholly against Ecealdor and into their own ruin. So he returns tomorrow – we will let the people hear, and we will bind their hearts to a false hope."

Did Domen know? How could he know, or understand, when all called so silently to me? How too could he understand but not know? Yet at just that moment, I have no doubt, I had fallen very neatly into his hand.

As the morning sun broke over the eastern shores of Feallengod, Beorn left his hovel as usual and tramped through the community. Another nightmare endured, just one more of many sleepless nights passed, still tearing him between the word from Gægnian and the desires of his family. He had no resistance against Cwen as she continued to press his hoarding of the fruit of the orchards; even more so, Begietan had spent the evening at home, goading him to help force Bregdan from the island. Only Hatan had spoken for hearing Bregdan out, but mostly even he just sat sullenly, resigned to obeying a decision he detested.

"The king has sent this man. We must hear him, the people must listen to him, if we can be saved!" Hatan had blurted out.

"Saved from what?" broke in Begietan. "What, do I need be saved from you? You people need saving, not me! I'm better off without the king!"

"Is it not enough for you to berate me into the penury of hunger?" weary agitation pointed Beorn's voice. "Must I now listen to you revile the sovereign?"

Beorn's mind wandered now to what the day might bring in the town square, as he contemplated his feet, one before the other, then the next, and another, and the paving bricks passed beneath him out of sight, left behind to fall into the depths of forgetfulness.

One night specter passed, another only beginning. Beorn had mercifully missed the spectacle that so came to afflict my eyes, Mægen-El bearing the crippled body of Liesan through the square.

Now he emerged suddenly from his thoughts and found himself in the square, startled at the odd figure next to a looming stone building. There stood Bregdan. With him he had brought a long walking stick of the Feallengod style. And I, at the opposite side of the courtyard, stared with sullen disgust, just departing my quarters at the jailhouse. The square bore within its basin the most grand and important buildings of the community, muscular structures extending high above homes and shops; its courtyard served as forum for the honorable and knavish alike.

"A good morning to you, Beorn Feohtan. Do I not look like I belong among the islanders now?" Bregdan smiled, admiring the staff.

"You have taken up the staff of Feallengod."

"Yes, a worthy saying. A worthy tradition. We all must find a strength to lean upon."

"You soon may not want to look like you belong here," returned Beorn glumly.

"Really, friend, why your distress? Do you not know what Ecealdor has set in motion? Do you not believe that Feallengod will harvest his desires? Whatever comes about, does so only under his notice, and he will make it right! So rejoice! Don't you long to see your king's judgments come to pass?"

Beorn little knew how to respond, but had hardly the chance before a great noise swallowed them from behind. A large crowd appeared from a dozen points, streaming through the narrow streets. At the front marched Begietan.

"Watch," said Bregdan with a wink.

"Why do you still tread Domen's island?" demanded Begietan.

"Do you wish to hear more, young man? I am sent as an emissary of King Ecealdor."

"We don't need you or your king here. We don't even believe Ecealdor lives anymore. The king is dead! Then how do you make yourself leader over us?"

Bregdan sat erect on a tabouret, worn smooth by generations of buttocks upon the stone slab, set against the building. "I lead only back to the king. I lead only back to his promises. I lead only back to his commandment: 'Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, and pour out your blessing upon his people as richly as you receive.'"

Curse my tongue for a snake, and curse my ears for hearing only what they wish! That law, that stone – through the morning hours I had resolved if I couldn't escape its shadow, I would at least rail against it. How quickly can guilt grow into rebellion. And so I entered into revolt not against its words but rather against its spirit. Without knowing, I cloaked myself in the banner of Domen and bartered my soul for no more than the satisfaction of a fleeting vanity.

"You falsely interpret the law," I joined in the crowd's jeering, hooting the sly words in an excited, high-pitched voice; sodden intellect often works well to ridicule trust.

At that moment I felt a grasping of my elbow and snapped my head to see. There stood Gastgedal with a smirk, back again as though he'd never left me. "Choose well your sides, for the ease of your desires lies in the here and now. And now – " he finished his thought by passing me a jug he had already mostly drained. Only then did I remember his words through the night, again remembered Liesan, and remembered only too well the last bottle Gastgedal had given me. I snatched away my elbow, turning my foolish attention and wrath again toward Bregdan.

"A man cannot love another until he loves himself. He cannot truly love the king second unless he loves himself first." I lifted the bottle to prove devotion to my philosophy. The crowd snickered and stirred, ever increasing in size and unrest as townsfolk appeared out of homes and shops to hear. Soon surrounded, I had to extend my frame to see the object of my contempt, the man whom overnight I had learned to hate.

"People of Feallengod," began Bregdan, trying to address all. "Seek the king's mercy! Will you not repent of your disobedience, and consider your latter end? He will not despise your confessions! Turn from your rebellion, turn away from your stubbornness, and run to his tender mercies! For none can deliver out of Ecealdor's hand, whether in mercy or judgment."

"Empty threats! Wind beneath the covers!" I called like a jester. "I don't believe Ecealdor's law. Are we not all men here? Are we not able to make our own choices? Certainly our values aspire as worthily as Ecealdor's? Oh, great shepherd, mow the field for our feeding, for we forget how to nibble! I say, let us select among ourselves a captain, a leader of our own choosing. Stop your bleating, oh chief sheep, and we will allow you to board your boat and escape in your woolen raiment."

Many would say truth resides only in what one believes. Thereby men devise a way to believe lies even when they know them to be lies. The crowd was ripe, ready to listen to anything; and I primed to say it, so the people threw their regard to a hungover fool. Begietan fell silent at my diatribe, only rousing the gathering into more raucous laughter at my mockery. If this man Bregdan had come from Ecealdor, then I knew I wanted nothing in him. If he spoke for the king, I knew I did not want to hear, for what kind of treachery might dwell in his words? The same that left Liesan mere broken remains of a man? Fully did I echo Domen's words, and cheer with my listeners, I cheered like a madman, for so I was. Already had I given myself over, more like him than myself. I even threw my empty bottle at the old watchman, but to no greater effect than anything else I had ever done.

I tremble, my lord. Is it the cold?

"You whited fowl! Crazed rooster! Stretch your neck elsewhere, you croaking bird!" I still stood within the crowd, an anonymous voice to my victim. "Deliver your law back to your king, shepherd, grind your stone into sand and sprinkle it into his beard! Let it become grit between his teeth! For we are done, Feallengod ends its servitude under his empty promise and bloody threat! Be gone with you! Or we expel your carcass, beaten like Liesan!"

The crowd stood by unknowing; Bregdan would not stand down. "Oh, people! Who stands with Ecealdor? Who among you takes the king's side? King Ecealdor remains great in his patience, but he will not tolerate faithlessness forever. Is this my life that you now threaten of any consequence? Would you not trade one life for many? People of Feallengod, a warning I offer you, that I leave your presence now! The sun sets upon your fate!"

"He finishes!" Gastgedal urgently whispered. "He will show his greatest strength to take hold of the people! Cut his knees from under him, before it's too late!"

"What? How?" I rasped back at him.

"Look into your heart. Say something!"

A moment flew by.

"Cock-a-doodle-do!" I crowed.

Bregdan persisted. "True, my mission recalls Ecealdor's law to your minds, but my words speak not about the law — I proclaim the promise, the fount of the law. My words speak not of me — they announce to you another. Take heed, for though that conciliation will come, Ecealdor's long suffering endures not without end."

Not ten feet from Bregdan sat the stone of the law, polished gleaming by a million fingers. He lifted his staff high over his head and bellowed, "Now leave this servant depart from you in peace. The kingdom of Ecealdor lies before your eyes; take hold of it!"

With that, he reached out the staff and tapped the stone twice. Quietly leaning upon the wall, he closed his eyes, and, as the people looked on, he died. The staff slipped from his fingers and clattered to the stony pavement.

I stood silent for a moment. So easily Bregdan did finish with my cursings, washing his hands of the baleful stone. My rabid spewing cheated, suddenly my fury raged at the old man; I shouldered through the stunned mob and seized his staff from the ground. With lunatic abandon I brought it down upon the stone, again, then again, so severely my hands rattled with the blows. Repeatedly did the rod vent my wrath against the law, until it broke and splintered across the ground, scattering near witnesses. I leaned over the uncaring rock, breath heaving, stubby wand still in hand, seething at the stoic taunting of my futile rant. Then I spoke, words from some unknown source, I heard in my own voice.

"A sign!" I brayed, my speech growing into a scream as my frayed stick pointed toward Bregdan's slumping body. "You sought a sign, and he gives one! Ecealdor's promises fall dead as he is! We have our sign!"

Chapter IX

The sun glared. Domen's thoughts burned with wickedness.

Denied his mountain, he crouched hidden in the dim light of a copse deep in the woods in the northwest parts of the island. His ideas slowly fermented as he sought to make gain of Bregdan's death.

"Ecealdor learns bitterly the price of relying upon these weak people! Weak! How I would take their weakness and rub his nose in its stench! But these feeble minds will soon forget what they witnessed today. They require constant watching. I must drive Bregdan's ruin into their brains. So Ecealdor sent him here as a witness — he will witness indeed."

He slunk into the wild fringes of the mountains, where he knew Begietan lurked about in solitude. Like the twisting of Four Rivers, their paths crossed as Begietan stalked one of the wild hogs that rooted about in the forests.

"I make a demand of you. Go into the community," Domen said in a low growl.

"Hush!" scolded Begietan, without lowering his loaded bow nor taking his hedonist gaze from the pig at the end of his aim. "I am hunting."

Domen grabbed the point of Begietan's arrow and snapped the shaft in two like a stick of chalk. The pig started at the loud crack, glancing only briefly before darting into the underbrush. "The time of worshipping your appetites has run out. Now you live only to satisfy mine. Depart from here," Domen ordered. "Raise up what men you have and deliver them to the square. We have business yet there."

"I will do as I please," said Begietan, but his voice betrayed wavering defiance.

"You do well to shut up, then, as you pleased in the square," Domen glowered at him. "Do you think of mutiny? Do you suppose you can retreat from me now? No, you can go neither forward nor back. You've burned your bridges to the community, fool — you hoard the orchards' goods as does your family! The people hate you from the pits of their empty stomachs. And the disciples you've made — they belong to me! Dare you so boldly as to turn against me? If you have hopes of seeing tomorrow, for today you will do as I say."

"But I want to eat."

"Perhaps, but at least you breathe as well. Gather your men in the square."

Though Begietan, tall and broad, could easily have overpowered Domen, threats had whipped his heart. He allowed his fear to overrule hunger, and ran grumbling towards the community. Domen started out behind him, but slowly; as the men gathered to their task, he would consider well his strategy.

"He must stay. He must stay," he muttered. "He must remain the sign."

These scrolls before me curl into grim smiles. How could I have known Domen would take up my own cry? Somehow he may have planted the seed himself in my mind, compost to evil thought. The king's scribes must know, for so they recorded Domen's words upon these parchments – do they now accuse me, then? No, say not so, for only Domen does accuse, and greatly does the king's mercy endure for those who seek and remain still. But still the words mock, the writing stabs deeply, and sorrow bleeds onto my own pages.

Domen wound along the trodden paths and through the streets of the community, toward the town square. He knew Bregdan's body would lie there still, even hours after his death, for no man nor woman upon Feallengod would dare move it:

In ancient legends of the island, told since the days of Ecealdor's visitation, when he stopped upon the island's shores, even the days when he had only just established his people upon Feallengod, another man of Gægnian walked with him. This man, the seventh son of Feallengod, spoke judgment on behalf of the king. But he himself lived uprightly in the cool of his evening, never straying from the king's counsels. Then the man walked no longer — into the sea he went, perhaps, or the grave, or back to Gægnian, nobody knew to say — and Ecealdor spoke of him no more, and never asked after him, and neither so anyone else. Since that time a mythology spread the land concerning the natives of Gægnian, fantastic stories about mystical properties of their flesh and bone told unruly children, not the least I. Some said denizens of Gægnian produced miracles by the mere force of their will; others claimed fire might sweep down from the sky to take them up. Long generations came and went without failing to believe these mysteries. Even I had not yet grown to ridicule such notions, but as long as no visitor from Gægnian ever appeared, what did it matter? Now after Bregdan's death, I gave him no more respect than when he breathed, but not so most of the other islanders.

Still many paid tribute to superstition – any death inflicts a seductive atrocity, an insult to the creation. We are not made for it. At death a man leaves, and yet he lies there still. The living are left agape, like gazing upon a particularly bad painting of someone known intimately. A cadaver draws a morbid fascination to itself, as though it bears some unnatural beauty in its abrupt change — a horrific beauty. We humans desire matters come to an end to a point, but death brings more closure than comfort allows. For the Feallengod folk, Gægnian defied even this closing of the door. Life springs ever new there, according to those same legends – who knew what truth lay there. The citizens of that most mystical land are said to sleep only, deeply and darkly, then awaken at their pleasure. Bregdan hailed from that veiled nation, sent from Gægnian, and the wetly credulous men of Feallengod would tremble to approach his body.

Like a vulture Domen rehearsed his strategy, circling his mind: With brash confidence he entered the square, prepared for any event as he would sink his claws into Bregdan's corpse, so he thought, but his eyes double-crossed that notion. There against the building, cradling his fallen friend, knelt Mægen-El, grieving over his body in soothing eulogy.

"Thou spoke truly," Mægen-El crooned, his voice silken. "And make thy end well upon Feallengod." Having secured Liesan upon his ship, Mægen-El had re-embarked onto the island to check on Bregdan. Expecting to transport him back to Gægnian, he instead found him prostrate to the dust of the grave.

"Shallow sentiment clogs the heart of Gægnian these days," said Domen at the sight of him, surprised and churlish, shouldering his way through the sizeable assembly that had come to gawk. In his head he cursed the presence of Ecealdor's aide but stilled his tongue, rantings of no service to him now. "I claim the body of Bregdan! Let the living bury their dead, I say."

"Begone, Domen, thou hast no business here."

"Oh, quite the opposite, Mægen-El, I have much work here. You withstood me against Liesan, but you cannot deny me Bregdan. A funeral remains to plan, a grand memorial, a monument to design. I think this place would suit him best for a burial plot, don't you? The ground where he fell, the very soil of his death, the center of the city. I want that body."

"Nay, nay, thou wilt not take it. Not while I have yet an ounce of marrow in my bones, or breath in my lungs." Mægen-El grimaced and gritted his molars at the thought: Some ghoulish device for the body of Bregdan steeped in Domen's odious brain.

"You may find you need your last breath. Do you not hear? My men approach — their steps even now sound from the horizon. Strong men of Feallengod, and many. They follow my orders, not yours, not the king's. We will take that body for our own purposes."

"Then thou wilt have two corpses for thy choosing, if think thou thy company hast the wherewithal for the undertaking."

A group of some two dozen young men tramped around a corner, led by Begietan. Many bore arms, though not much more than clubs and pitchforks, but many also carried no weapon. These were not mere rabble, happy simply to contradict edicts from Ecealdor, but rather volunteers to Domen's desires, sharing his same putrid ambitions. All stopped short upon seeing Mægen-El, holding Bregdan's limp form, in argument with Domen. Older, wiser, wasted, I sat in still waters of the gutter, staring with Gastgedal and a fresh bottle.

"I claim the body of Bregdan. I am prince of Feallengod — so has he said. I claim my right to the body of this man."

"Why would thou abuse the body of the king's watchman? What can he mean to thee?"

"He means victory to me, my great victory, that's what," Domen hissed, and his scowl turned hard. "That body proves Ecealdor grows weary and feeble. Bregdan came to turn the island away from me, only to drop dead. What better face for futility? What is more weak and worthless than a dead man? He cleaves to Ecealdor's defeat like a brother. The people of Feallengod rejected Bregdan, and death made his only escape – so also for Ecealdor. I will make a great monument to this failure, a memorial to stand forever. That body will remind the people that I rule over them. One way or another, I rule over them."

"Then thou wilt not have him."

"You forget you stand alone. Many gather here who would disagree with you. They obey my orders only." Slowly he turned to his men. "Go take that body!" he croaked.

The men edged forward. They numbered certainly enough to overwhelm Mægen-El, but their hearts first faltered at the legends of Ecealdor's courts. Floods of stories, the tales of Gægnian learned as children, filled their heads. The sheen of Mægen-El's armor and his robust build offered no soothing for their anxiety. Still too his sword, now sharply out of its scabbard, made its own point: The men awaited inspiration as to how to go about their work, but received none. I had to laugh, to myself to attract no attention, not just at their milling reticence but for the sake of scorn itself. I cared no more for them than the carcass they fought over. But their challenge I envied not: The imposing building where Bregdan had died protected Mægen-El's back, and large stone benches stood to either side for cover. Domen's men would have to make a frontal assault or none at all.

Mægen-El drew to his full height and tested his right arm with a brace of broad swipes of his blade. "Yea, come. What is this body worth to thee? An arm? A life? Come, let us barter together."

The men drew back from the sword, not just its shining peril but also Mægen-El's looming menace, and his teeth clinched at his words. As the king's messenger, he spent not his days in battle, but he willed now to lock eyes with death defending whatever was left of Bregdan. Ecealdor had not sent the shepherd to Feallengod in vain, Mægen-El resolved; he now must protect that mission. Domen's men, ill prepared and not sure what they were asked to fight for, keenly beheld the look of Mægen-El's face. Nervous voices, too quiet to understand except in their trickling fear, tested the air as did feet upon the cobblestones.

Begietan pulled a single arrow and quickly shot at Mægen-El. Sure of flight, it found its mark, but glinted lightly off his polished breastplate. He did not blink. As it skittered upon the pavement Mægen-El made forward, and some half the men, those in the back, turned and fled. With a flick of his wrist, Mægen-El pulled one of his daggers from a boot, letting fly to deftly pop Begietan's bowstring, and then so too did Begietan run.

"Useless!" muttered Domen. "But time remains at my side. You can not scare away the hours, Mægen-El. You can not fend off exhaustion feigning bravado. We will see what comes of the clock."

Dusk was turning to dark upon the day, and indeed the voyage to Feallengod, the saving of Liesan and the loss of his friend all served to exhaust Mægen-El. Roused in the wee hours, he had left the ship the moment it landed, before dawn. Yet he determined not to leave the body, neither in fact nor in sleep. So did the vigil begin. Twenty one hours it continued, as the moon climbed up one end of the sky and descended the other. Stars blinked with disinterest, much too distant to make out the events of that long night. Twenty one hours it persisted, as the cock crowed and the sun reappeared. Mægen-El's mind wandering with the breeze of his thoughts, no more than waking dreams. Clouds too rolled slowly past, sometimes hiding the bright orb's face, sometimes revealing its cheerful ambivalence. Twenty one hours, as the townsfolk emerged from their houses and walked past, glancing at Mægen-El and Domen with worried curiosity but avoiding any accidental involvement. Birds sang, dogs trotted by with only a glance, fallen leaves danced to the piping of the wind, and still Mægen-El obstinately knelt at his post. I slept, and awoke, but arose not. Twenty one hours passed, filled with Domen's continued railing.

It came to be nearly the setting of the second day. A smattering of townsfolk had gathered, at a safe distance. Some of Domen's men returned, and others drifted away, but Mægen-El held them at bay, unrelenting. Domen passed the hours in a squat, alternating between yammering at Mægen-El and falling silent. He seemed to nap with his eyes open, rolling into his head, taking on the appearance of the undead, repulsive even to his own men. Mægen-El's head hung heavily, his eyelids wrestling with his will. Several moments he caught his attention slumping, and forced himself to brace again against attack. His armor weighed upon his shoulders, and all the effort he could muster went to gripping his sword. "No longer can I endure this," he said under his breath. "I need Gelic-El."

Domen looked like a famished dog at the hunt. "Perhaps Ecealdor should have thought ..." he began.

As if a miracle, at that moment the rhythmic sound of clanging armor came from among the buildings. Even my wobbling head turned toward the clatter, and necks strained through open windows to see what would come. There, trudging through the narrow streets, appeared Gelic-El in brassy regalia and armed to the teeth. Those many weeks ago Bregdan and Mægen-El had set sail from Gægnian, but not before Ecealdor had sent Secanbearn to fetch Gelic-El. For this purpose the king made his designs.

Gelic-El grabbed Mægen-El by the shoulder and shook him playfully. "Hey, bobble head, wake up there. A fine companion you've turned out — I haven't seen you once since landfall. Ship's captain said I'd find you here. Your aides have Liesan safe and comfortable, back on the longboat. Need some help?"

"Take over here. Prevent Domen," Mægen-El said grimly. "I will return to the ship and send men to claim Bregdan's body." As simply as that, he slipped out of the square.

"For a messenger, he is a man of few words," commented Gelic-El to nobody in particular. He considered the body at his feet. "A good man has fallen here."

Domen, still squatting, scowled and cast a handful of dirt to the air with a curse.

"So you again pester me. Long do you and I go back, Gelic-El. A time long past could have seen us strong allies. Now I have my own mission, and I will not again share. I will have the body of Bregdan. Do not try to stop me."

"Never have I set foot upon Feallengod, nor do I come now for pleasant conversation. This vast gulf have I set behind me for this one purpose, to withstand your desire for Bregdan. Those very words of Ecealdor yet abide in my ears." Gelic-El drew his long sword, propped before him like a mace, its tip sinking slightly into the ground, his open palm resting upon the grip.

As intimidating to see as was Mægen-El, Gelic-El struck a truly alarming figure. I shrank deeper into the shallow gutter, the pitiful extent of the best I could do. His breastplate appeared ready to pop its joints at the mass of his shoulders; the long, flowing garment beneath failed to cloak his physique. Bristling with armor and weaponry, with unkempt hair and grizzled beard, his seven-foot frame towered over the people of Feallengod. One by one, what remained of Domen's men discreetly slipped away.

My first sight of Gelic-El put me in mind of lunacy. My bottle now empty keeping my company offered no further reassurance; I had yet to prepare for the next. Gelic-El loomed monstrous over the people, tall and broad. I gladly remained back from the crowd, and certainly away from Domen, though a pang of sympathy for him sunk its talons into me, for facing this foe. My heart accuses me! But fear did nothing to change the hateful temper lodged in my craw. This giant man from the king could force his way upon us, if that pleased the royal prerogative. My will to resist Ecealdor only hardened. I wallowed in my squalor, angry that the king had remained distant for so long, angry that he now visited his dominion upon Feallengod.

"This promises to show itself good," Gastgedal said like he sat before a banquet. "Some use for soberness still, 'ey, my lovely – for clear eyes as two dogs fight."

"I will keep this body on the island," Domen declared. "It belongs to the people of Feallengod! It belongs with them, to decay in their midst. They loved Bregdan here. Shouldn't they get the chance to show him suitable respect? Should he remain here, they will visit his grave and honor his memory every day. They will come to adore him above all others. His name inscribed on a great, granite marker, it will be read and remembered by every generation. The people will pass their fingers over the tombstone, feel the very presence of Bregdan, to recall him in a sacred way. You know how Mægen-El loved him. Don't you agree he must receive this honor? Over time, he will take hold the people's hearts as much as Ecealdor himself, perhaps more."

Gelic-El stood over the body of Bregdan. "May Ecealdor's justice fall upon you," he said.

"You have no grasp how important Bregdan is to my islanders. He is the mediator with Ecealdor – too bad he is dead. His ways could have led the people back to the king. Now the importance lies in his body. While his monument stands upon the land, his words will never fade from men's minds. What is it he said? 'That conciliation has come, and Ecealdor's long suffering endures without end.' Surely you will not deny this poor people their last connection to the king?"

"May Ecealdor's justice fall upon you."

Domen grimaced at the saying and thought back to the Gelic-El of Gægnian, gentle of spirit but not given to sentiment, and changed his approach. He fell upon an argument dear to a man disciplined and under authority, a demand for justice striking directly at Gelic-El's sense of duty.

"Bregdan belongs to me. By his own testimony, he has murder upon his head. Men commit no greater crime than murder in all of the greater kingdom. Even in the service of Ecealdor he struck down the man of Tweard. He remains a criminal in the letter of the law. His shame maligns the king himself! Give him to me! He does not warrant grace from the king now, nor even pity. This body does not deserve entry into Gægnian. His crime, his crime far surpasses my own — he spilled the blood of another man! The king can't turn a blind eye! The king cannot forgive! I am banished from Gægnian; so then should Bregdan be. Ecealdor would deny his own decree to allow Bregdan back into Gægnian. No, let Bregdan's body stay here with such a great culprit as I."

"May Ecealdor's justice fall upon you," Gelic-El said.

"Can you say no more?!" Domen exploded.

Gelic-El stood silent.

Domen wrought an excess of words to rebut Gelic-El's simple assertion. A nervous urgency overtook him, knowing Mægen-El's aides approached, knowing the clock now ticked against him. Mind sputtering, Domen's tongue flowed with unbridled abandon. "Ecealdor sent Bregdan to Feallengod. He sent him to this putrid, barren island. He sent him into my domain. I am prince here — so has he said. So Bregdan belongs to me. He is here, he is here, he is on Feallengod soil, and so he must stay. He comes under my authority. Does Ecealdor regather any other man from Feallengod? No. They all find graves here. Here, here, he is here. Here he must stay. Born on Feallengod, lived on Feallengod, buried on Feallengod. They all belong to me. Dirt to dirt. Bregdan is here, you must leave him here. You see the natural order of things so run, the order Ecealdor has established, dear King Ecealdor, we must not upset the order. Not even Ecealdor should overrule royal mandate. He cannot do so. The good citizens of Feallengod won't allow it."

With this Domen appealed, one arm outstretched to the partisans behind him. Upon looking, though, he found the people, excepting only a handful, had scattered to their homes, and the gesture proved empty as my flask. My eyes gazed empty as well from the distant sewer; I pitied him.

"May Ecealdor's justice fall upon you," remained all Gelic-El would say.

At last, as the clock tower chimed the hour, Mægen-El's aides arrived with a cushioned litter. Domen swore and threw rocks as they placed Bregdan's body upon the bed. He kicked at the dust, both hands pulling at his hair, as they washed the face, arms and feet. Domen squatted and beat the ground with his grimy fists, wailing deep in his throat, as the men draped royal robes over Bregdan's remains. The anger churned in Domen's stomach, driving him to his knees in agony. Afraid to approach too closely, unable to force himself away, he twitched and reached out with his crooked fingers as if to take hold the body.

His arm held low, Gelic-El extended his sword toward Domen, its point menacing his nose. "May Ecealdor's justice fall upon you," he said.

Gelic-El led a hushed procession through the community; Domen clawed in fury at the harsh stone pavement. His anguished howling drew the townsfolk to peer out their windows, and a few even came to doorways to see off the old man. Bregdan had lived among them all of one day. He had spoken the old words of King Ecealdor, putting the people in mind of a more perfect time. But what can one man do in so brief a span? Is a single life of any consequence? Who can say what a man leaves behind him?

I cared not for such things. I only sucked upon the fumes of my spirits. I wagged my head in arrogant judgment that the king cared so much for his servants, but only after they were dead. I scoffed that words might make things right. Words, empty words, they spun about and disappeared into the air, meaning nothing. Bregdan's words, Domen's words, what difference lay between them? Soon everything they both had said would fade into forgetfulness, and the island would go on as ever. So destitute I, for a moment I wished Bregdan lived again, so I could spit in his eye. Take that message to the king, shepherd! No tidings from Ecealdor could make any difference now. New pronouncements meant no more than the ancient words carved generations ago upon the stone. Oh, that horrid stone! The thought pounded my brain. How that stone hung over my head and tormented me!

At the gate, the procession passed Beorn like a wake, but he did not see, holding his head in his hands. The hope he had put in Bregdan, the hope he had celebrated just some two days before, now forsook Feallengod upon the same litter as the old man's body.

Down to the shore, to the docks on the eastern side, the ritual march proceeded silently. The royal longboat received Bregdan's body and set sail for Gægnian with Gelic-El, Mægen-El and his aides aboard. As the stars and moon stood vigil, slowly and gently the vessel slipped across the island's lee and out of sight over the western horizon.

Chapter X

Time passed, and time again, after the death of Bregdan. The island of Feallengod sat unchanging, bounded about by the Ocean Heofon, the deep blue sky watching from above, not knowing, not caring, not believing as events revealed their gathering tragedy. The king sent more watchmen, each in the steps of the last, and more and more the people disdained them. Some came as priests, some scholars, some reapers or artisans. All delivered the same message: Return to the ancient law, "Wait upon Ecealdor to the end, and pour out your blessing upon his people as richly as you receive."

With shamefully little delay the mystery of Gægnian, the sense of awe the people had long held for men of the king's courts, vanished to nothing. The magical elan islanders had ascribed to these men, based on myth and falsehood, was breached; once done, truth much more easily fell as well. Many of the emissaries endured beatings, then to be cast out; many more gave their last breath. One was thrown into a cistern to rot; another rent in two. Each man in turn withstood abuse and scorn. The reasoning of the people, blowing about like feathers on the wind, robbed them of verity, leaving only vain ideas of vacillating fairness. The power of the lie grew as each day more of the families of Feallengod believed in self-reliance, self-gratification and self-absorption. Though the people spoke much of love with their mouths, covetousness beset their hearts. As the community fractured and the people fell further and further apart, there grew a desire for something, anything, to make them seem as one again. Domen's willing leadership offered a simple resolution, putrid though it seemed to all, and a steady stream of islanders sought him out, first by the score, then by the thousands.

A dwindling few still stubbornly held their patience with Ecealdor. I numbered myself not among them, but neither did I declare allegiance to Domen. I trusted only in myself, or so I thought; Gastgedal truly did me no favors. I had accepted him as just a part of life upon Feallengod, and so he was. With him I began a private struggle as a broad struggle blossomed all across the island, as Domen hoped to pull all of mankind up by the roots.

In the end blindness snared me, and to look at me bore witness to the futility of my confidence. No longer welcome at the Boar's Brew to beg or booze, I found scattered work tending the roads and fields. To my great dismay and benefit, the pay fell short of the ale I desired, so I embarked upon a long duration of drying out between binges. I wailed for the wine cut off from my mouth, and from my hopelessness and frustration I sought release in the streets, accosting my fellows with violence for coin, and – when pockets turned empty – then simply for the brawling to lift my numbness. If not for pain, I wasn't sure I lived at all. Many a night I passed unconsciously bleeding, and many an unjust injury did I inflict upon innocent men. Much I have to answer for, a poor powerless soul such as I, yet still the culprit in so many crimes brewed within a squalid heart. Still, by some jest of fate, mayhem turned my head clearer for what was to come. Always there stood Gastgedal, complaining too for drink, egging me into conflict. And rampaging better suited me then than lying in the sewage to think. I believe most others concurred: Indeed, the times spread raucous argument and festivity throughout the population of Feallengod, and great grieving throughout Gægnian.

Despondent, Beorn leaned upon his table. His thick fingers idly caressed the soft tablecloth. The breezes blew pleasantly through an open window, belying the desperate nothingness that weighed upon him. Long ago he had conceded to hoard the orchard's produce. For a time the Feohtan wealth abounded, but soon the spoilage of the stored crops matched the rotten void in the pit of Beorn's belly. Too, the orchards each morning showed forth less crop to harvest: The overabundance of Beorn's pantry led to sloth, the plants and trees fell to waste, the work required to husband fruits grew more onerous and begat more sloth. As well, hunger felt throughout the community had given rise to raiding and theft, in which I took chief place, I have no doubt. And so both abundance and lack destroyed the character of men. Begietan had taken to spending nights in the orchards, but he'd had no apparent effect on the amount pilfered. I found his casual watches no more difficult to violate than a passing strumpet.

"Hopeless, simply hopeless," Beorn, his head down, said to Cwen, sitting opposite him. "The community has burst asunder under the pressure of each man. When we sought the law we lived as one body; now, every man just does what appears right in his own eyes. I fear for our future."

"We have always prospered upon Feallengod," said Cwen. "Do you not believe it also will remain so in days to come?"

Beorn lifted his eyes from the table and to his wife. "What do you call prosperity? Riches? Gluttony? At one time, a lifetime ago, we measured prosperity in peace. Peace with our neighbors, and within ourselves. At one time I would gladly have wagered everything we had on my belief in our future. Now I stand guard over the present like a mad dog, afraid someone might desire it, or even merely see. The abundance of what we hoard shames me in the face of the starving, and I wish to hide it even further away. I once boasted in the future, I rested in Ecealdor's promises. I believed certainly he would return."

"You always said that," came Cwen's reassurance.

"Look at what's happened, Cwen. All these messengers, all claiming to speak for the king, each one insisting that Ecealdor will come again, all shamefully treated. And then yesterday, this man Fulwiht beheaded. Tell me, what should I believe now?"

This man Fulwiht. Ecealdor indeed had sent many an odd fellow to the island, but this man Fulwiht was a pip. Rejecting the clothing and staff of Feallengod, he simply draped an animal skin about him, secured by a scrap of rope. He went about carrying an axe, sometimes used as a cane and other times shaken like a horrifying weapon. His hair hung with a life of its own from his ragged head, never cut nor combed. He came not to the community, but instead roamed the banks of Four Rivers, beckoning the community come to him. And some did, a few clinging to the distant king, but most out of idle curiosity. Oof, did he rail at us all; his type is easy to ridicule but hard to cast off for sleep's sake.

In time Domen grew weary of his charges, and so sent Begietan to secure his arrest. The shabby crew who stood no chance against Gelic-El easily brought this eccentric castaway under control, and threw him into a makeshift prison at the abandoned quarries, rough timbers lashed together as a simple but strong gate. He wasted away there for a time as Domen tried to devise a way to use him, but Fulwiht's raving began to grate on Begietan, appointed to guard him through the day.

Thus it was at night when my ears captured his desires as he approached the Boar's Brew with a gaggle of miscreants.

"I hate that crazy man. All day long he rides my back. You people have no idea what I have to put up with."

No, I never had any use for Begietan; I tried to never speak a word to him until the moment I had to. With my thirst long having gone unslaked, and the tavern looming near, this seemed like the moment.

"You never worked the quarries, did you?" I mentioned casually as he passed by.

"Indeed not," his lip curled as he took measure of my general disarray. "Common labor does not come from the keeper of Feallengod's orchards."

"Yet you work them now."

"Are you making light of me, drunken fool?" Begietan took a threatening step toward me, and I felt Gastgedal slip around behind.

"Of course not. Drunk I may be, soon if not now, but I be no fool. I know Domen's henchman."

"And best you remember it," he rejoined, making sure to spray spittle upon my face.

I took a moment to wipe my nose thoughtfully. "Know I well the power of Domen's henchman," I pressed my insult. "But know I too the restraint Domen requires of him."

"What do you mean?"

Gastgedal chuckled, and I sensed his fear subsiding.

"You hate the man, yet you guard his safety. As Domen sorts his thoughts, you cannot do away with your tormentor. Domen's seal upon the door cannot be broken, or you forfeit your life. There's no other way for you to get at Fulwiht."

"Yes, and so what? What's it to you?"

"You can do nothing, but someone else might."

"Nobody can get through when I'm guarding him!" He drew himself up to me again in a threatening manner. "Same with the night guard. I chose the man myself."

"But an accident might befall Fulwiht," said I.

"Yes, an accident," Gastgedal echoed, rising in excitement.

"An unfortunate accident."

"Unfortunate!"

"What are you saying?" Begietan blustered, not understanding at all. "Of course an accident might happen. What of it?"

"Those of us who have worked the quarries know their secrets," I pushed my chips into the pot. "The inner chambers, the passageways cut to reach veins of crystal. They twist and turn, breach ceilings and floors, and lead out to places one might not expect." I stared knowingly at him.

"One might not expect," Gastgedal echoed.

"What are you saying?" Begietan demanded, not brash now but in the manner of demanding a confidence.

I glanced at the crew following Begietan about. "They have no part in this."

Begietan sneered at one of them and barked, "Get away." The men looked only too happy to obey.

"I could make my way to Fulwiht's cell, not through the front where the guard stands, but from the rear," I continued.

"And then what?" Begietan refused to explore his head.

"An accident might befall him. And you'd escape blame."

"I get it. You people have a bit of brain after all. Do it tonight! I'll not have another day of his braying at me!" And he made as if to leave.

"Not so fast, not so fast!" I protested, knowing full well I completely controlled him now. "I'm no murderer," and indeed at that moment I thought not, "but I will lead your men to Fulwiht. Give me your two most vicious bastards."

"I can't get them now," he complained, glancing at the Boar's Brew.

"There's no rush. We'll need your indifference at the cell door anyway, to say nothing of the daylight. Torches would suffocate us in the tunnels. Just have the men here in the morning."

"Will you be here?" he asked.

"I'll be right there," I cashed my ticket and pointed to the street.

"What do you mean?"

"What is it worth to you to be rid of Fulwiht? To escape your onerous guarding of him, to quiet his railing?"

"I see. What is your price?" he replied, businesslike. "Gold? Fruits of the garden? What?"

"I require a bottle. Now."

"A bottle," Gastgedal agreed.

"And one for my friend here," I continued.

Begietan roared with laughter, and indeed was I a joke. "Very well," he cackled, "A bargain well struck. Bottles you will have, my good gentlemen, and I'll deliver the men to you in the morning."

"I'll be right here," I said, indicating again the gutter, and so I was.

Begietan arrived early with his two ruffians, made more welcome by my fuzzy perception. They were men I'd never met before but knew by reputation, as surly and low as I could imagine. Begietan ran ahead to take up his post at the jail's gate, while the rest of us followed leisurely. Gastgedal kept close behind me, talking all the way to the quarries.

"You are a man after my own heart," he beamed. "Never did I truly believe you would turn to such things. Always did I have to cajole you, but now you lead me! What a triumph, to see you taking up your own cause, taking such great lengths for even the most simple fleshly pleasure! Casting the highest price upon a fleeting sensation! You surprise me, I must say, in the most pleasant way."

"Stay with me, and you may see more," I said grimly.

"A man's man! Take nothing from anyone, take everything from everyone! Begietan can't tell you what to do, my son, nor either Domen! You follow your own ways. I have taught you well, I see – all the more praise for myself. When this business is done, we must wrangle a wench and bottle to celebrate. For only more hedonism can satisfy the hunger of past indulgence. The emptiness must be filled again!"

And so it went all the way to my old workplace. I know of a number of little tunnels that joined one chamber of dug rock to another at the quarries. All I needed was to see what section Begietan guarded to know which secret passage would lead to Fulwiht's cell.

Being of slight frame, I had no trouble squeezing through the tight and twisting shafts, nor either Gastgedal, but the more burly thugs of Begietan's choosing had quite a more difficult time, and let me know so. The cool rock, made clammy by seeping water, scraped at our chins and elbows as we crept along. Before long we could hear the watchman's railing voice resonate in our tunnel.

"Shut up!" Begietan bellowed at him.

Slowly I emerged from the tunnel's opening, like being birthed from the stone ceiling. Though well back in the shadows, the scuffling noise we made drew Fulwiht's attention, quieting his diatribe. He said nothing to us; Begietan stood with his back to the door as if he were fascinated by something on the horizon.

I kept back, shrouded by darkness, glaring under a bowed brow; Gastgedal stayed with me, giddy. The two assassins picked up loose rocks, hefty and sharp, and menacingly approached Fulwiht. In his eyes I saw understanding, but no fear. He cast his gaze upon me.

"Give in now. You cannot prevail," he said, the words sounding like footsteps upon a gravel road.

Considering a man's violent end, even planning it, takes no candle to seeing it done before one's own face. The next noise I heard was the dull thud, and sharp crack, of a heavy object caving in a skull. Sounds of blows struck and human groaning hung in the air, the smell of fresh meat filling my nostrils. For one second I flinched as if to intervene for the man, but stopped – thus I would only share in his fate. My designs turned back upon me. My stomach knotted upon itself as blood oozed upon the stone. The stone, the stone. Lord, the king's watchman! The king's watchman! Why did I? Gastgedal lurked against the back wall with me as life drained out upon the floor.

Our deed complete, we retreated without a word the same way we'd come. Exiting the tunnels, each went his own way, except my shadow, the leech sucking at my veins. "The greatest power a man has over another is to take his life," Gastgedal counseled me. "The greatest over his own to save it. This one doesn't matter – his king is dead. Take the new ways of the island to yourself. Cling to them, for there lies happiness. You are a man of the new Feallengod now. You are a man of the new regime."

Begietan told Domen that a fault in the ceiling gave way and had fallen in upon Fulwiht, crushing him under the bloody stones, and pointed to Domen's unbroken seal upon the gate. I don't know if Domen so believed, but he seemed pleased either way. The battered head was removed from Fulwiht's body and mounted upon a pole at Domen's lair, a sign of things to come.

"Tell me, what should I believe now?" Beorn asked. "Would Ecealdor send these men just for butchering? Would he not defend them, or avenge them? If his designs lead to his return, wouldn't he best come now? Perhaps he has given up notice of Feallengod now. Perhaps he doesn't sit in Gægnian."

"Beorn, you have never uttered such things. You have always believed."

"My belief stinks of vanity, and now it lies dead, Cwen. I have seen too much of human nature, the failure of basic decency. Worse still, I see it in myself. How could a good king allow what has happened? How could he disregard me, after I sought him so? By stone, my faith has just died."

"Husband," Cwen grasped his hand, her eyes moist and troubled. The comforts of her heart had wavered many times before, but she always instead could fall upon Beorn's hope. This sudden doubt shook her badly. All this time she truly had thought the family had done the best thing; her surprise came from finally hearing Beorn. Now she could see her family's division over the orchards had opened a gulf between husband and wife, son among son. Without thinking, she reached for the gold medallion that hung about her neck. "If you cannot believe, how can I?"

"I don't ask you to, Cwen. Not anymore. But I do know this: Feallengod needs a law. The law of Ecealdor has left us forever, lost to olden history. If Ecealdor will not lead us, we'd better find someone who will. We need a king upon the land." And he pulled himself up from his chair.

"What will you do?" asked Cwen.

"I will go to Domen."

Outside the hovel, under the open window, the man-child Hatan sat and silently wept. The breeze played lightly with his hair and dried his tears.

Beorn left for the forests where the islanders thought Domen dwelt. He had often spied Begietan, the first-born he had raised from a babe but had never truly known, hiking with his bow and long staff toward that part of the island. He wondered now if he shared not more with his spawn than ever before, and that thought did not cheer him. Beorn let his suspicions guide him.

As he tramped along the paths and the bracken, he marveled at how the island stayed constant even as human events changed so drastically. The lay of the land, inspiring in its beauty, still matched the years of his boyhood, streams gurgling around mossy rocks, gently rolling hillocks playing hide-and-seek with the ocean waves in the distance. The plants and animals remained as they had for generations of memory; some died each year, but others came forth and grew to be just like those that went before. Even the people, these people now busily tearing at each other's hearts, even they appeared the same as when they had been given Feallengod. Beorn longed for a time, past or future, when he could enjoy the good things of the land without the constant conflict of right and wrong, leading him only to the conclusion to consider nothing good. And yet one day slipped by the same as the next to the midday sun. Its burning face, harsh in its disclosures, never failing in its same track from morning to night, from horizon to high in the heavens and descending again, seeing all but saying nothing.

Golden fruit hung among silver leaves.

The sun's beams filtered through the skylight and into the inner chamber.

King Ecealdor took up one of the great scrolls: "Upon this day do your eyes rejoice in the fullness of truth."

The door echoed a quiet tapping, and then silence.

Ecealdor arose from his studies and exited the inner chamber. At the door he opened to Secanbearn.

"He arrives," she said, shielding her eyes.

"Yes, as well the time. He needs not hesitate to enter."

Together they walked the deep hallways and into an antechamber off a huge library, walls lined with ornate carvings, shelves upon shelves of musty, ancient books, rows of deep pillows upon the floor. In the midst stood a young man, magnificent in bearing, dressed softly, his hair shining as if radiating light.

"Coren, joy can not flow so great, to embrace you again." Ecealdor wrapped the young man in long, robed arms.

"Honor and glory to you, King Ecealdor," he replied. "And may you rise most blessed among all women," he added with a nod to Secanbearn. She smiled warmly and touched her chest, but said nothing.

"Coren, the people of Feallengod rebel against Gægnian. Iron grows into their sinews, and they no longer follow the law. They claim the island as their own, to fight over and possess unto themselves. Many watchmen have I sent to Feallengod, to warn them from their fallen ways, but to no avail. They will not join us. Domen withstood Bregdan, he withstood all the others, and my people gladly cause them abuse and slaughter. Add now Fulwiht. The people have become altogether corrupt and defiant, and I have shown them their error. I have demonstrated their rebellion; they have not revered my servants. The time arrives to pour it out completely."

"I go at your bidding, Father."

"Come, Coren, come and sit at my right hand."

The king and his son reclined into matching chairs, richly polished and lushly upholstered. A huge, dark figure, perhaps no more than a shadow tinged red, loomed silently behind. Secanbearn knelt before them upon a pillow. Coren draped his cloak over her legs for her warmth and comfort, as a servant stirred angry, glowing coals in the massive fireplace, sparks flying upward within the library.

"This appointed day you depart for Feallengod, Coren," began Ecealdor. "The time comes to defeat Domen, but sweet sacrifice must claim its price. You are my son, the royal seed of Gægnian. You endure my beloved son, the apple of my eye. All of Feallengod knows, for so we spoke to establish them, and yet many will not listen."

"Yes, when I arrive, I know they will receive me as a stranger, even these people I love as one loves his brothers," said Coren.

"I could send you with legions of soldiers, with a fleet of ships, and in great royal splendor, but not so. Force and majesty may turn their cheeks, but not their hearts; they must return through love."

"Yes, we must remain patient with them. They wander like a flock ranging in a field, with no tender guidance."

"You cannot go in your royal office. You must appear as one of them, so they will know you by the truth of your words rather than the glory of your raiment. You must go as one of them, so you can represent them to me, to plead their favor. They must know that you have come to uplift them, not beat them down."

"Yes, I will lay humility upon my head for a time for their sakes. I will be servant to them, proving to them the heart of their king."

"Many of them follow Domen, some willingly, many blindly. They will take counsel to set themselves against you and me. Many will hate you for the same reason that some will love you. Even those whom I have blessed greatly, those who sit in the gate, will speak against you. You must draw them back to me by their love, but love to come from you. It will arise from no other source."

"Yes, I know many will lift their fists against me, but with the king's hand upon me, what man of Feallengod can do me harm? I will declare your message to my brothers and sisters in the land. Let the people judge whether they hear," said Coren.

"Danger will bear down upon you from the moment you arrive," said Ecealdor.

"Yes, I have known these many days that trouble draws near upon Feallengod, with none to help. All your watchmen you have sent, and not one escaped unscathed. I expect nothing less."

"Some would require your life of you."

"Yes. We will see if they succeed. I will lay down my life before them, but perhaps they can take it up, and perhaps they can't. Regardless, I must undertake this mission to Feallengod. It bears the promise of the king's purposes, wonderful in their wisdom."

"I must inflict this upon you."

"At your pleasure, my lord."

Secanbearn's tears welled upon the desperation of the matter. Ecealdor and his son spoke words lightly dancing at the likelihood of death, as though arranging details of an obligation long settled, but in Secanbearn's heart a tempest of fear and anguish raged. Cruelty had shot roots deep into the hearts of Feallengod, and she knew the fate of the king's watchmen only winked at the malice that might await his son. The license declared in rebellion would crystallize with the end of the sovereign's seed. As she sat at their feet, her mind fell upon days long past, spent watching Coren's ways as a small boy. At last she buried her face in his cloak and sobbed.

"Secanbearn, take comfort. My enemies can not triumph over me," said Coren.

"I trust in your word, my lord. But I can not see the future. I am afraid, still I am afraid," Secanbearn replied, clasping her fingers together, one hand behind the other, palms facing her chest. "I fear for the people of Feallengod; how they have gone astray! I fear for you, and the suffering that surely awaits should you fall into Domen's hands." Her breasts heaved with each convulsing breath.

"Future is past is present. Domen will do his best. He may wound me, but his blows will amount to nothing. When he thinks he has won, I will deliver a dreadful gash upon the dominion he so desires," said Coren.

"Child, submit your heart to peace," Ecealdor comforted Secanbearn, and he knelt beside her, laying his hands upon her shoulders. "Come, lift up your head. Kiss Coren, my son — so he will know the assurance of your love."

Ecealdor pulled her to her feet, and she embraced Coren, wetting his neck with her tears and kisses. She rested her head upon his shoulder as the three left the library. Down the long hall, lit with flickering candlelight, they walked together, speaking softly of what lay ahead and behind, until they strolled through the doors, out of the palace and into the brilliant, streaming sunlight of Gægnian.

In the darkness drawn over Feallengod, Beorn strained to see into the dense forest. I strained to not see, to forget what I had witnessed. The heavy cover of the leaves overhead allowed entry to almost no light, and there I hid, only Gastgedal and my drunkenness knowing. I stubbornly maintained I had not asked to take part in these events; some being thrust them upon my nightmares. The woods stood deathly quiet, no sound of animals, nor birds, nor insects, nor even babbling water. Only Beorn's approaching footsteps on the dried leaves and branches could I hear as he stumbled near. Soon his mind and eyes, disoriented and lost, swirled in confusion.

Branches battered at Beorn's head and shoulders from above, as he vainly struck back against their taunting. He stumbled over limbs, fallen long ago, lunging at him like striking snakes. Every knoll and hollow lay in wait, concealed by the carpet of leaves and undergrowth, a trap for his faltering steps. Eyes peering at his frightened countenance and into his mind — more than once he turned about in a panic, seeking the presence he surely felt at his back. The trees' pointing fingers overhead accused him. He tried to recall the passing events that had brought him to this place, but he no longer could sort out his churning judgments and the reasons behind them. "Feallengod has died," Beorn thought, "No longer do I live in the homeland I loved. Feallengod becomes some nightmarish land of exile for me."

At length he staggered near to me, half buried under debris, and tripped over my inert feet, without knowing, and so there I was to become guardian of his secret. Upon the ground he heard the muted gurgle of a small stream, and his hands felt for the wetness, resigned that mere survival was all the land left to him, the best he could hope for. He pushed aside some rotting leaves, knees sinking in muck, and scooped a little of the water with his hand to drink. As he genuflected by the flow, Beorn remembered a Feallengod of long ago, and a tear gave itself to the stream.

There in the gloom stood Domen.

"Do you tire of sitting in the gate, Beorn Feohtan? Do you prefer the mud now, man of Feallengod, or do you seek me out?" His face glowed with derision, his voice crowing, proving well enough that Domen no longer pursued Beorn, but rather took final hold of him.

"I do," replied Beorn forlornly.

"Will you follow me then?"

"I will."

"Do you swear?"

"I do."

"Now sing your adoration to Ecealdor, fool of Feallengod!"

Chapter XI

The dark silence reigned, save the crickets' well-rehearsed chorus, so blanketing the night that it hardly existed at all. The days had seemed to merge into sameness, even the calendars of nature only adding to the tedium. One breath draws no differently than the next. As each of the king's watchmen had come and gone, their words sank into a meaningless tide, sometimes in, sometimes out, always identical. I tried to trudge on as ever, turning each vain morning into vain evening, and think not of that day in the quarries. At times I saw the scene as if in a dream, overlooking the horror as if someone distant, but always awaking as myself still. I had seen it, caused it to happen, I couldn't escape it. I found consolation in some sort of unreality, and therefore I took yet more aid from my drink as often as finances allowed, which also would serve to shut up Gastgedal for a time. I felt like I was rotting from inside.

Finally this day I fully reaped the harvest of my sodden therapy. I rested fitfully in the grasp of clammy perspiration, too engrossed with shaking to move from my cobblestone sickbed. My eyes hazily stared into the sky, not really seeing any more distant than the end of my nose, or perhaps the dark side of my eyelids. My goal was either survive the night or curse the morning. So weary I grew of this glove I wear; surely I came forth for more than this mortal frailty. Certainly there dwells something better in me than the appetites that insist upon my eyes and hands. In delirium my mind grew more clear: I despaired that I would never know, until the day I cast off the fleshy shackles. That day appeared to creep ever closer. The demons made sport of me, regularly racking my body with some new spasm.

Beyond the reaches of my distraction, directly overhead, a speck of light I had never before noticed burned bright, brighter than the twinkling points of the constellations of old. It grew and ebbed in my sight, disappearing into blur, then returning to pinpoint sharpness, until finally stabbing my brain right through. Or did the wretchedness of my body simply take liberties with my mind, showing me visions of no existence? I did not wonder then, nor now. All the elements conspired to lay me low.

That night found Domen sitting upon the walls bordering the orchards. "Master Domen," a voice cackled behind him.

Domen turned to see a fawning smile upon a shriveled man. He struck a withdrawn pose, his hands together in prayerful attitude, and his body shook more nervously than even my own feverish cadaver. Layers upon layers of tattered clothing hung upon his drawn frame, as though just one more piece would at last warm the cold or cover his nakedness. His tiny eyes, whiskered jowls and odd nose strangely recalled the bristling expression of a pig. Vaguely familiar in face, Domen did not know him as a man of Feallengod. "What do you claim to be?" his foul mood wasted no time.

"Fela I am called. Remember? Master Domen?"

"No – nor either do I care. Had I ever known you, I regret it now. Go crawl back under your rock, you sorry bug." The figure hunched and simpered, vile to look at, yet drawing a morbid fascination. The man rubbed his hands together, looked about warily and shifted his weight uneasily from foot to foot. His voice and manner teetered on the verge of panic.

"Fela, call me. With you that day. Fled away."

"What day?"

"That day. Gægnian. Day of freedom, you say."

"You — come from Gægnian?" said Domen, beginning to recall; but surely this creature could never have belonged in the king's courts. "We did not know you as Fela."

"No. Forget name, king's name," he said, with a look of alarm. "Have forgotten much. Remember that day."

The day of freedom – when fully one-third of Gægnian's citizenry had been cast into one prison or another. That day grated upon Domen's memory as well. So many times he had relived those events, but never giving any thought to the pawns sucked into his frustrated plot. Always he had dwelt only upon his own fate and Ecealdor's cursed, cursed calm.

"I stood with you. In the halls. King's guard! Oh, terror, terror. Some ran away. Pretend to be of them! Then escape."

"You ran away?" Domen frowned.

"I escape."

"The king sent you into banishment?"

"Got away. Those caught now deep in dungeons. Many in dungeons. Some got away. The king knows! The king knows! I ran, had to run. Follow you, Master Domen. Wait upon you." Wisps of hair floated upon the wind with no direction, words gurgling between gapped teeth.

"Waited for what purpose? I have no use for you, except to grind you under my heel."

"Waited for you, lord. Always knew. Knew you'd rise up. Need me. Needed Fela then, need Fela now. So wait." He shifted from one foot to the other, and back again.

"You're mistaken. I don't need you. You made yourself a curse to me then, even more so now. Get out of my sight," Domen spewed anger. He had lost no vindictive for Fela nor any of the others who had failed him in Gægnian, tools broken in his hand. For their failure he languished upon Feallengod.

"Still with you. What have you for me, Master Domen?"

"Nothing! Begone!" Domen growled at him.

"What have you for me? Have for us to do? What work should I? What reward for me? What place for us in kingdom? What place in Feallengod?" Fela's excitement became increasingly aroused as he ran through his pleadings, not waiting for answers.

Thoroughly incensed now, Domen's temper exploded. "Begone, before I cast you into Heofon!"

He slung a fist-sized rock, catching Fela squarely on the chest. The blow felled him, racking his body with yet greater tremors, but Fela did not relent.

"With you, Master Domen," he croaked. "What part me kingdom? What power me?"

"I'll share no greatness with you nor anyone! Out of my presence, you cowering, disgusting tick!" Dawn began to break, and Domen left the wall to strike out in the direction of the deep forests, trying to leave Fela behind. But Fela would not give, following a wise distance behind Domen, continuing in a sing-song manner, "Master Domen, what have you? For me, for me? What for us?"

Domen's fingers clawed the ground for more stones. He made a few more throws at Fela, but his aim failed him against the dancing troll. Fela continued, singing and shaking, singing and shaking, "With you, Master Domen. What for me? What for us?"

This monologue endured the entire way to the forest lands, until Domen could stand no more. He would say anything to rid himself of this nattering shadow. "Go then, go into the town, curse your soul, and rot there! Go find another to torment! Stir trouble elsewhere — I care not where, nor what, just get away from me — now — or I'll beat you into the ground!" He lunged toward Fela, who jigged nimbly out of his way.

"Yes, Master Domen, I do as you wish. Do as I wish. Do as we wish ..." said Fela, and his voice faded from Domen's hearing as he scurried back toward the orchards and the community, a plume of dust and pebbles left in his wake.

Did the spirits again turn traitor upon me? Did my sickness fall upon me first, or Fela? Yet do I not know. Surely he among many stepped over me in the street, his ragged breeches touching my waning body with putrid caress. What injurious favor did he infect into my flesh? With what mastery could he have anointed me, to follow my own ends so doggishly, and fall blind to the king at this moment? I can blame no one, not even the mosquito of Ecealdor's enemies, this Fela; I alone carry the burden of my defiance. But even still there passed another.

As Domen approached the forest, in a little hollow where the landscape bowed to the woods' edge and offered a glimpse of the Ocean Heofon, he noticed a sailing ship at anchor some distance off the western coast. A lone banner fluttered from its rigging. Sandy beaches dressed the coastline, and no inlet would allow a large vessel to put in; the island's docks lay far away on the eastern side. Domen paused to peer sharply at the curious activity: A small skiff took off from the ship and made for shore, two men rowing and a third sitting in front, grasping a long staff. A solitary pelican flew across the bow. "He comes for one purpose," Domen grimaced as he escaped into his dusky glade.

Coren stepped off the boat, and the beach gave witness to his presence upon Feallengod. A cloak draped his shoulders and simple peasant's garb, a belt winding around the waist, a heavily laden sack slung over his shoulder. In his hand he bore the simple wooden staff of the island. His sandals left deep, soft scars in the white sand, healed by the warm touch of the waters.

One of the men manning the oars wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm, further shading his eyes as he looked up to Coren. "My Lord, would you have us come with you?" he asked. "Grave danger lies in wait here."

"No, you must return to the ship and set out for Gægnian," replied Coren. "You need not be troubled. I must enter into the work of my father."

Though he had never set foot upon Feallengod before, the expanse of land seemed familiar to Coren. A sudden shower had broken the early heat and left a musky fragrance hanging in the air, filling his senses as he stepped to his mission. As he trekked toward the community, he remembered his father's tales of the tall forests and rising mountains, and his staff gave aid to his gait. Wading through Four Rivers, he recalled stories of the pure waters and the life they endowed upon the lush greenery. Such a bountiful gift had Feallengod been to this people.

I had no thought of the island's inhabitants in those hours, nor knowledge of events soon to transpire at the outskirts of the community. I lay in the street groaning against the dawn, as was my plan. With thoughts of pilfering an apple or pear, I lurched to my elbows, but then fell back into hazy darkness. Barely did I see Gastgedal puking upon his hands and knees. My brain wafted into a dream or vision, something only on the verge of reality. I saw a figure, a shadow hard against the sun. Slight trails of water streamed around my shoulders, my shirt saturated by drainage and sweat. A hand upon my forehead, first cool, then quickly warm, and then strong under my neck. I felt my head drop suddenly back; as I struggled to lift and see, my mind only rolled about feebly and left me. My legs wagged from the knees as if I myself walked. What time passed, I can only guess. Some minutes or days later I awoke lying deep in soft mattresses and warm coverlets. "You are paid through the week," the woman gruffly declared as she banged about the room. "Then you are out."

From that day I foreswore the bottle, never again to crawl into its comforts. No gaining of wisdom inspired this decision, no wonderful reasoning borne of the advancing years, but merely the aging of my entrails – I couldn't do it anymore. The memory of my body's suffering served to make me long for sobriety, in liver if not mind. Greatly did Gastgedal complain against me for this rehabilitation in days to come, and I confess, at times I would surrender, only to swear off again. It mattered not either way – my will to stand upright was no match for its sister, the spirit of rebellion. Throwing off numbness, instead I put on false bravado to cover the conviction of my guilt. Violence doubled up upon violence. Yes, even in the face of his protests, I found ways to bind ever closer to Gastgedal.

As Coren crossed over into the orchards, he knew to look for their succulent fruits. In this one thing did the island disappoint him, for his eye met only an ill-kept field of weeds choking out crops, and vines with twisted branches of dead wood. Within the walls a single young man, dressed only in linen trousers, slowly worked a small patch of ground.

"Good fellow," Coren addressed him. "Why do you toil alone this morning?"

"My father and brother have abandoned their labor," he did not look up. "To tend the orchards requires too much work for me alone. I cannot produce a crop because birds and blight attack the trees, thorns and thistles tear at my hands and feet, and the fruit that does come I cannot save from thieves. The orchards carry a curse." Though the youth detected a hauntingly aromatic fragrance in the air, still he did not lift his head from his tilling.

Coren pulled a handful of seed from his sack and cast them to the ground. "Plow them deep, dig around the roots, and this patch will again bear fruit unto you. I have come to set things right, Hatan. I am Coren."

Hatan dropped his hands. Looking up at last, squinting into the sun, his face at first betrayed disbelief but suddenly sprang into genuine delight. "I know that name. It is no name of Feallengod — you are son of the king." He threw down the hoe and snatched up his shirt, to cover his naked torso.

"Just as you say."

"But where lie your royal courtiers? Where have you left the power of your office?"

"Today I arrive as one of you, a simple walker of Feallengod. A day comes when I will ride a war horse."

Hatan threw up his hands. "At last, at last! Why have you waited so distant for so long? Feallengod saved at last! The people must listen to you! Feallengod must return its heart to the king now! He sends his son!" After months lying in ruins, Hatan's spirit exulted.

Coren smiled. "Well you wonder, son of the soil; one day your questions will find satisfaction. Even now you see much and understand more; but tell no one of this for now," he said. "First I must face Domen. Then we will bring our message to the people of Feallengod; lay aside your tools, and join me."

"You will find Domen in the wilds, the darkest part of the forests." Hatan struggled with his shirt as he hastened at the buttons. "I will follow you, but not there."

"Well spoken. Your tender age has not cheated you of wisdom. Indeed, where I go, you can not follow; and yet you must in your own time. My task I face alone, but later I will need you, and require of you."

"I will wait for you here."

"Good day to you then, Hatan Feohtan. I will come to you again."

Coren continued his way, turning off Beorn's lorn path and toward the forests. This land was like a jewel to his father's eye, like a delicate diorama set within a golden box. Coren fully understood now why the king so deeply loved the people, even in their fallen ways.

In the forests he declared himself. The very woods that had closed in on Beorn in his despair appeared to open wide a way for Coren. "Domen!" he called loudly. "I am Prince Coren, come for you. Show yourself."

"I have seen you," Domen's voice crawled from the shadows.

"I will reclaim the people of Feallengod for the king." Coren did not turn toward the voice, and Domen circled about from a thicket to face him. In his hand he bore a battered sword. Coren's staff cut the air with a flash, swift and sudden as Domen's flinching, and the blade flew from his hand. Coren stood before him placidly. "Your desire will lead you not to kill me, but only to serve."

"I serve nobody," said Domen, shaken.

"Make straight your path, Domen. Dare you challenge the king? Dare you truly, to challenge the heir?"

"I am prince of the island — so has he said."

"That one thing you believe from the king's mouth, but nothing else. A lord has many lords beneath him, and they answer to him, and serve at his beckoning."

"I serve nobody," Domen's clinched teeth repeated.

"No?"

Domen fell to silent rage.

"Indeed Ecealdor makes you prince of the island, but not slave master to the people. They belong not to you, and as many as will come I will reclaim for Ecealdor."

"As many as won't, I will destroy," retorted Domen. "And they won't. They descend into their last chance; otherwise, Ecealdor wouldn't send his precious son."

"You will not appoint a last chance to these people. I come for neither end nor beginning, but only according to my father's time. His judgment remains his deciding. You will not displace my father."

"I will be just as he is."

"You will be neither just as he is, nor just, as he is."

Domen snarled at the proverb. "Perhaps I failed to understand; perhaps this will be your last chance. The people follow only me now, they serve me and nobody else. Join me, and I will give you part of their loyalty, you long for it so. I will give you reign over Feallengod, a more tempting offer than death, you must agree."

"I will serve the king only. Best you also, and his heir."

"I will rule as king of Feallengod," insisted Domen. "But I can give you dominion over the people, and all the glory of the land. Certainly you saw the beauty of the island as you came from the sea. Your feet trod the soil — make it your own! Claim your right as firstborn! I can give authority to whomever I will, if you will follow me."

"I abide in the high palaces of Gægnian," replied Coren. "Do I covet Feallengod? Does this island not already lay within the greater kingdom? I will follow the king only. You too must obey."

"The king! How can you remain faithful after he sends you to this miserable lump of clay? Look about you, as you are utterly alone! No regal appointments here for your fine, royal head! No home, no fire, no comforts of any kind! Not even a simple servant to see to you here. The king has abandoned you, exiled you! He has even removed your princely robes. You're no better off here than I."

"Yes, consider yourself, Domen: Cast upon Feallengod, stripped of your greatness as penalty for your crimes. But I have chosen to take on my humility. I willingly make myself as common as my subjects, in order to win their love. My glory remains for me to take up again."

"Prattle!" spat Domen. "Your humble grace will do no good upon Feallengod. My island chews up the humble and spits them out. Your humility will gain you only exhaustion and hunger among a selfish people. And yet you sojourn with nothing, not so much as a crust of bread! The king certainly takes good care of his one beloved son."

"I will suffer weariness and hunger, indeed, but life flows over from more than food and rest. If the people of Feallengod had remembered that truth, they would not have fallen away from Ecealdor. They would have remembered to give in every way just as they have received. The truth of life abounds in his law."

"Your law means nothing to me."

"Nor did Ecealdor grant it you."

"The king's law lies as dead as its own stone carvings," said Domen. "Even a rotten loaf can at least sustain maggots. Unless you can change a stone into bread, the law will not keep even a starving roach alive."

"You have forgotten much, Domen," said Coren. "I need not change a stone to bread; the law needs change stone into hearts, beating with kindness. Clinched fists must open up into caressing hands, and gnashing teeth soften into warm smiles. Your cursings have hardened many here upon Feallengod. My work will declare Ecealdor's law, to show that these stones can bleed tenderly again."

"You wax eloquent, Coren, but talk doesn't fill an empty stomach. Do as I say, and I'll present you a banquet that will leave you fat with merriment."

"I will obey the king only," Coren again said. "See to your own duty."

Domen tried a third time. "Do I waste my breath? I just want you to see! Your misguided loyalty to Ecealdor endangers all of Gægnian. Do you not know what lies at stake? Can you not see how you break the king's heart? You're his only son – Coren – he loves you above all else in his kingdom. What if something happened to you? Peril stalks behind every tree upon Feallengod — what horrid fate might befall you here? You're the last of the royal bloodline."

"Ecealdor's love extends beyond me, a love woven as one piece, as a covering for many. The king's love reaches even to the depths of sacrifice."

"If my men were to lay hold of you here upon Feallengod, the king would send legions for your rescue," Domen said.

"You fill up with deceit, and you spawn nothing but lies. My father sends me not to bring judgment upon the people, though you may tremble. I have come to offer them covenant with the king. Do not think you can test the king nor know his designs, for in seeing you do not know, and in knowing you do not believe," said Coren.

"Do you say then that were your life to come into danger, Ecealdor would not move to save you?" asked Domen. He knew the fullness of his future lay in the answer.

"You see me alone. You see me as a simple man. You see me unarmed. If you desire my life, with what can I defend it?"

"Then you make the challenge," grinned Domen. "The love of your king against the power of my multitudes. Who do you say will claim the prize?"

"The fool surely turns back upon the pit he has dug," replied Coren. "As for me, I will obey the king only."

Coren looked to the skies. Through the dense foliage overhead winked brilliant points of light glowing from an orange sun — soon the brightness of the afternoon would fade. He turned his face toward Domen and addressed him a final time.

"I must work while light reveals the way, for darkness soon falls throughout Feallengod."

Chapter XII

The poets of my homeland say the chill winds of autumn drive the color from a man's soul and into his cheeks. No longer so enslaved to the bottle, suddenly able to apply reason to the way I had long lived, I solved all mysteries. I saw the truth plainly now, and as well the hearts of the community. As time passed, the hazy act of kindness rescuing me would quickly fall into a well of forgetfulness, no clearer to me than my deliverer's face. Had I not rescued myself from the grip of the fermented fruit? Had I not reclaimed my own seasons? True, I might drink the dregs could I find them, but spirits no longer reigned over me. Even the pleadings of Gastgedal could not move me. I would rule myself, and leave the foolishness of the island's control to others. Ecealdor or Domen mattered not to me – neither could mete any effect upon me, my own lord. Fool! Such stupidity reserves itself only for the most arrogantly enlightened.

Not as discerning as I, Hatan, impetuous, immediately forgot his promise to remain watching for Coren in the orchards. Giving up on his day's work as hopeless anyway, he cast aside his implements and ran to the community. Even to his young eyes, darkness and misery had swallowed up the recent weeks upon Feallengod, robbing from him as well any desire to run anywhere. At this moment, however, he found he could not sprint fast enough. He leapt like a deer and whooped at the top of his voice, his legs churning beneath him. His arms reached high, palms open to the heavens, the wind slipping exuberantly through his fingers.

His father! He must know! An urgent desire ignited to set his father's doubts to rest. Beorn's words heard outside the open window nights before had burned in Hatan's ears, but now they washed away with cooling water. He had seen the son of the king! Who could now reckon Ecealdor distant and uncaring? He sent his own son!

The breeze in Hatan's face blew clear the dejection that had hung upon his mind like shackles. His heart raced speedily, as did his feet; his spirit fairly flew over the ground. Laughing and singing he ran along, hair flowing and his half-unbuttoned shirt flapping behind him. He must find his father!

Beorn sat in his place at the great stone gate of the community, protected by high wrought-iron fencing. The cold, black paling high overhead long appeared like a giant hand to me, ordering a halt to all who would enter in the city walls; now I believed it prevented those who would escape. For months the people had cast their glances sideways at Beorn, biting their tongues as they passed through the gate. Though wavering like a flame in the wind, his professed faithfulness to Ecealdor, even while withholding food from the orchards, had stirred the community against him. The people did not gladly turn their eyes from hypocrisy; most spoke to him only to curse and spit. Now, however, since his meeting with Domen – though he did not speak openly of it – almost as if by sorcery he had found favor with the community again. The people reconciled with him, made as one — at least to his face — though the produce of the orchards still did not reach their tables. A scoundrel even yet, at least he was their scoundrel.

In that verdict we took our places together. His new alliance with Domen was no better than the putrid service I had given, though I continued to tell myself I had not sold my soul. The price I settled for had turned bitter indeed, and as keepsafe of his secret, I stood ready to return that same bitterness upon him. As Beorn and I each slid further into decline, we came to understand one another, each eager to stab the other in the back as quickly as say hello. I don't believe Beorn ever did recognize me as one who once begged at his door, making easier the browning of my nose. But he knew as well as I, when the opportunity required, our expedient friendliness would be the first sacrifice, and the second whoever didn't keep the sharpest eye upon the other. Still, he suited my purposes to befriend: The consulate had gone so far as to name Beorn an elder of the community. The camaraderie among his fellows remained tarnished, but he fully enjoyed the people's good graces returned to him. Beorn had bought a place in a fellowship of thieves.

"Father, I have seen the prince! Coren has come!" Hatan called as he ran to Beorn. His lungs heaved, struggling to drink in breath as the air battled back. His wrenching could not stanch his enthusiasm, though, and he laughed despite no air to laugh with.

"Coren comes to Feallengod?" Beorn's pipe slipped within his grip. "Ecealdor's son?"

"I have seen him, Father. In the orchards, he came and talked to me."

"Ecealdor said he would return himself," Beorn said, creeping skepticism in his eye and voice.

"But Coren is the prince, the next to take up judgment! Surely he speaks for the king!"

"Where? Where can I see him?"

"He said he would seek out Domen. Then he was to return to — uh-oh." Hatan realized what he had done, and cast a glance toward the direction of the orchards. What if Coren returned to not find him waiting?

Hatan had not long to worry, for at that moment a low murmur from just outside the high walls of the community rose into clamor. Beorn and Hatan glanced at each other, and Hatan broke into a wide grin; they hurried around the bend of the stone structure to behold a large gathering of townsfolk. There in the midst stood Coren, speaking from atop a knoll. His voice rang rich and resonant, but without pretension, and spoke no judgment against Hatan's broken promise as he caught his gaze.

"I saw you beneath the trees, Hatan! Come and join me here on the cool grass! Come, draw your father near!"

"There he is! Coren!" said Hatan happily, pulling Beorn by the arm.

"This claims to be son of the king?" Beorn squinted at Hatan. "He dresses as a peasant! Do no servants and guards wait upon him?" Hatan knew nothing to say, and so simply directed Beorn's attention back to Coren.

Though he had walked the island only a few short hours, already Coren's listeners pressed in on him to hear. The ones closest sat upon the ground; the furthermost strained on their toes to catch a glimpse and attend to his voice. Turning about and lifting his arms, a graceful arabesque as he spoke, he appealed to the people with hands and feet, as with his words.

I think I hear the voice now. Did it float through my window as I slept in delirium that day, mixed with my moaning? Or does Mægen-El now whisper into my ear? Oh, blessed ink! You pour your life onto paper in gracious words, never to spill out again! You are spent on more than you could buy.

"Again I say to you, people of Feallengod, you separate yourselves from the glories of Ecealdor. All Gægnian weeps for you, and the greater kingdom longs for the day of reunion. Ecealdor sends his watchmen to you, not for discipline but to regather each one who straggles outside these walls. Every wayfarer remains dear to him, and every beast of burden fallen into a pit cries out worthy of saving. Ecealdor bears witness of his love for you, oh Feallengod, that he has sent me to you.

"Feallengod, Feallengod! You wither like a vine, twisting upon yourself and choking out your own blossoms. How prospers a vine no longer green? Of what use the wood as it dies? The twisted timber fails, unworthy for building or beauty — it becomes suitable only for kindling, to burn in an inferno."

Coren's eyes found Beorn, and he pulled a great handful of seed from his sack. High above his head he held the grain, letting it trickle from between his fingers to find a home in the beaten soil. "If the gardener labors over his trees, digging around the roots, fertilizing the ground, will it then bear bitter fruit? Can a pear tree decide to produce thistles? If the gardener sees deadwood among the branches, will he let death creep into the roots, or cut it off? Therefore the blight is pruned away. When the tree prospers again, it bears an abundance of fruit. But he casts the deadwood into the fire; it burns brightly for a moment, then dies again. The cutting claims some green wood, but saves the roots; the tree suffers for a season, but then soon returns to fertility. Return, Feallengod, I call for you to return."

Beorn stared at Coren as he listened, then dropped his head as though his neck had been broken. His pipe's stem stuck high into the air as he scratched under the back of his collar. Looking to Hatan, he complained, "He makes no sense. If he's a prince, why cares he for farming — that just makes me doubt him more. Why make such a journey to talk about trees? Why take on a mission to orchards? If he really carries the king's bloodline, he doesn't look, or sound, like what I was expecting."

As Coren pled on before the crowd, Beorn felt a slight tug at his belt. As he turned toward its pull, a small figure nervously snatched its hands away from his purse. Beorn yelled and struck out with the back of his hand at the man, obliging him to scurry a safe distance away. There he stood for a moment, shifting his weight, one foot to the other, holding his shaking hands together at his chest. His head made short, jerking movements as he looked about, as if to duck out of the sight of the people. I watched as he awkwardly searched about for someone or something. Chanting indistinctly, the strange creature stumbled back toward the crowd and kicked apart a wooden frame on his way; a young man of the crowd leaning upon it was sent headlong into a muddy pool. The shriveled figure disappeared into the milling mass of people.

Beorn turned his back to the crowd, and to the words bathing its ears, returning to his hovel and wife. In the days that followed Coren walked from one end of Feallengod to the other and back. Thus did the prince cast his seed, but only debate took root and grew: Had Coren come from Gægnian, or made he bold as merely grand pretender? Only I knew the truth: Not one thing relied upon the matter. My own allegiance lay to my self interest. If the company in my presence carried a particularly rough look and argued the cause of Domen, then I grew into the greatest partisan in the room. If the discussion favored Coren, so did I — though this seldom occurred. If a brawl ensued, all the better. Gladly would I release my frustrations on the heads of other men, knuckles proudly sore and bleeding. No other pursuit made my thick heart move. This at least too satisfied the pleading of Gastgedal, happy in any sort of hedonism. As I would make my exit, swinging and spitting, I would pledge anew loyalty to myself alone. I heard no persuasion to follow anyone else, or so I thought; very soon I would learn otherwise.

Once arisen restored from my rented bed, I had resumed my sickened existence within the alleys. My life no longer under their threat, I cared little for the streets' cruel hazard, the elements' mean tinkering, proudly again striking upon my own ingenuity and provision. Let these other fools watch for signs of change, and prick their ears at every word; I made myself deaf, and blind, dead to the defense of right and wrong. Often I crossed paths with the itinerate prince; often I cast eyes upon Hatan, surprised as well at the sight of his father. Surprised, I say, knowing what I did about Beorn, but then, there I stood among the listeners as well, perhaps leaning against a wall, perhaps munching the remnants of a pastry found cooling upon a windowsill. No telling what other kind of villains also fell into attendance. For the moment, I could contentedly lick my fingers and smirk knowingly at my fellows. Hatan, lost forever to foolish idealism, spent more and more time away from home, away from the orchards, and near to Coren.

"What will you do to stop Domen?" he asked. "He has seduced my brother and my father, and most all of Feallengod. All power on the island rests upon him now, and his followers refuse to hear you."

"Domen indeed makes himself strong, and he has taken advantage of his place upon Feallengod for now. But a time comes when Domen will fall like a bird stricken in the sky. Suddenly upon him, violently, his doom approaches. He knows it looms, but his face now turns only toward his own desires, and he will not believe. Much remains for us before that time, young friend, for you and I."

In those same days odd occurrences began to plague Feallengod. Items disappeared from their places, fires sprang up in homes and barns, attackers fell upon unsuspecting people in the dark. Whole households, each man and woman, mysteriously became ill, and noises and fears in the night so troubled others that they declined into madness from lack of sleep. Families entered into their homes to find the furnishings moved about. Some claimed to see shadowy figures skittering away from the corners of their eyes, slinking into the darkness; others swore imaginations were just running wild, fed by rumor. After some weeks of such happenings, suspicions grew into conflict within the community — well did they choose me as one of the accused. My habits had not gone unnoticed, and before I knew to run, tolerance ran dry.

"What are you doing there?" one man yelled, startling me as I helped myself to his well.

"Keeping myself alive, old man," I retorted.

"Stay away from my well! My entire family is down with fever! Are you the one tainting my water?"

"No," I said.

"What if he is?" offered Gastgedal.

"You are that scrawny villain, aren't you?" the man bellowed. "You have nearly killed my family, and my livestock!"

"I've done nothing to you," I said, draining off the ladle.

"Stand back, or we may leave you more water than we take," Gastgedal added, offering his pizzle.

"Get off my property!" the man failed to understand our good-naturedness. "Get off or I'll kill you!"

"Don't make promises you have no intention of keeping," I said, half-threatening and half-sorrowful. Gastgedal circled around toward the man's back.

"I will kill you, I swear, by stone, I'll kill you," he seethed, and before Gastgedal could move, he grabbed up a shovel and caught him across the head with it. Gastgedal spent the next several minutes smelling the dirt of his homeland. I lurched at the man, eager now to vent my memory on empty rampaging. But before I could lay my talons upon him, the man introduced his shovel upon me and turned my day into night. When I awoke I lay draped across a garbage dump, Gastgedal's grin flashing gaping holes at me.

Yes, many a beating did Gastgedal bait me into, and many did I enter eagerly. Earnestly did the people disabuse me of my bloody-knuckle way of settling of issues and making impressions. The pressure mounted so greatly that I abandoned the streets and drifted closer to Domen's men, seeking protection where power was found. Alas — convenience led me more so into the alliance, but though I might believe myself still master of my fate, in reality Domen had paid his earnest money, and would soon demand his goods.

So the months passed, strife and bitter envy entering into the hearts of Feallengod. The trees traded their green for bright shades of gold and russet, and then finally nakedness. Coren faithfully pressed his campaign, and where he sowed from his sack grains and fruits arose for the hungry to glean, but his summons to reconciliation increasingly found stone ears. Only a handful of followers remained faithful to their "Magister" — their master.

"Serenity do I desire for you, people of Feallengod. Not for my sake do I seek quiet for the island, for I will return to Gægnian and my father. For your sakes do I wish still hearts, for when I depart, your spirits will flutter with hatred, turmoil arising from one you can no longer provoke. If you so hate me, then also you hate my father. What you wish upon me, you will visit upon those who follow. And so for them, I desire serenity, though I can promise only injustice and suffering. Into that affliction I must go before them."

Beorn didn't know what to make of this talk. "Who hates him?" he asked Hatan. "I don't understand him, and I confess I don't follow him, but who among us hates him?"

"All of Feallengod, it seems," he returned. "I give my love not to this dirt, just the dust of my ashes. Coren has said we march either with him or against him, Father; no place lies in-between. For those of us who listen to him, Magister is the only man worthy to follow."

"I know, I see that in you, Hatan," Beorn put two fingers and a thumb together and thumped upon his breastbone sternly. "I also have made my choice, and I must remain faithful. I took a vow, which I cannot break. While your 'Magister' speaks a multitude of words, Domen has restored me in the eyes of men. But I see I have lost your loyalty. You have left our home, just like Begietan, and your mother grieves for your absence. You have separated yourself from us."

"Not like Begietan," said Hatan curtly. "Not one bit."

"Look, Domen approaches!" Beorn's tone turned to relief, happy to change the subject. "Now maybe plain talk will deliver the peace Coren prattles on about."

From the east indeed appeared Domen, circling the crowd that milled about Coren, Begietan swaggering behind. Domen had remained absent from the community for a time; now he silently stalked the periphery of the people, shoulders hunched low, as Coren continued his appeal. A handful of men straggled in his wake, I among them, like vagrants following a slops cart.

"He would rob the orchards of their power," I heard Domen mutter. "This seed he casts — he would grant even the life from the tree hidden within the island soil."

"Many of you agree not that I descend from the king," said Coren. "Just as you refused to believe Bregdan, nor any of my father's watchmen, even to Fulwiht, you deny that I emerge from Gægnian. I tell you, I will fulfill the testimonies of Bregdan, I will mediate for my people, and I will exchange these dusty garments for the robes of the king. Secretly your hearts seek a sign from me — you will receive a sign: The sign of the seamrog."

A small disturbance arose at the edge of the crowd. "Stop it! Stop that fellow!" a man cried out, and he swung his elbow at a small, ragged person who only barely ducked away from the blow.

"Fela!" Coren's voice boomed over the crowd's undercurrent.

Fela stopped short, his heels kicking up bits of rock, then nervously approaching Coren. His eyes begged mercy from every puzzled face as he wound through the tight maze of bodies, holding his hands to his chest, finally blurting out, "The prince! The true prince!"

"Fela, first you burden Gægnian with treachery, then this tortured island. You have vexed this land long enough."

"I know you be ..." Fela began.

"Enough," broke in Coren. "Begone."

"Not the dungeons. Please, worthy prince. Not yet the dungeons." Fela kept his head low, his crazed, confused expression visible only as he glanced side to side. I saw the terror in his eyes, for the sake of merely hearing this man.

"I said, begone," Coren repeated with firm emphasis.

"Yes, sire." Fela scurried away into the far woods, and never did I see him again, nor either was accused of any further deviltry.

Domen studied this scene for a moment, and a small notion took root in the manure of his brain. A burr in his hide had suddenly offered opportunity.

"You and Fela work in alliance!" he screamed over the top of the crowd, standing as tall as he could, his finger accusing Coren over the people's heads. His gamboling spine, now jerked straight, shot an arrow of pain through his back. "You conspire with that little knave!"

"Domen, I thought perhaps some strong man had tied you up. I have expected you."

Domen ignored the remark and continued his diatribe before the crowd. "This faker joins in league with Fela, that putrid gremlin who vexes you these many days. How many of your households has he attacked? Did not these two appear upon Feallengod at the same time? With your own eyes you see Fela obey his master. Believe your eyes! They must conspire together! You can't trust him!" He shook the crookedness of his finger angrily at Coren.

"Clever, Domen. Would you fool even these I have winnowed? I warn you, allies who turn upon each other choose the doom of their destruction." Stunned by this unconcerned response, I nudged and made some offensive joke to the man next to me, my old acquaintance Cirice, quarry dust likely still caked under his nails after these many years. I kicked at a patch of seed Coren had sown, sending some from the soil and into barren rocks.

Domen did not pause in his rant. "If you want to rid your sufferings, dispose of Coren as well as Fela. You know to trust me, you see me move about you. I have dwelt upon Feallengod for the best of any man's memory. I offer you leadership and possessions and riches for your lives. I offer you power and flesh to slake your lusts! Coren arrives out of the blue Heofon, and what does he grant you? Drop everything you desire and obey his demands! He promises only suffering — he said so himself, and it begins with Fela! He delivered Fela upon you! Would Ecealdor so send to his beloved people? No! Feallengod has known only trouble and striving since Coren's coming! I say begone with him!"

Restless murmuring arose above the shuffling of feet. My little group gave greatest voice — though I could not lure Cirice into speaking — prodding the passions of those nearby. Some looked to Coren for his answer, and some cast their eyes to the ground. Others shifted toward Domen.

"What did you come out to see?" Coren's voice sounded like a trumpet. "A man in soft clothes and glinting jewels? Perhaps a man laden with heavy armor and perilous weapons? Do you wish power, or strength? Many will find my words sweet to the senses, but to most they taste sour indeed, and you choke upon your swallowing. Those of you who will believe I come from Ecealdor will know; those who will not believe, will know as well."

At that, many broke from the crowd and went their way. Beorn again shook his head, faced filled with disdain, running his fingers through his hair. Again he looked to Hatan, "What answer is that? What defense before the nation? Domen demands Coren be cast into the sea, and he responds with riddles. Is he insane, or simply a liar?"

"Certainly you see, father? Surely you understand?" Hatan followed, pleading as his father walked away, casting his hands behind in disgust. In the background the fading voice of Domen bleated repeatedly his charges against Coren. I remained as long as Coren spoke, turning aside his appeal to reason with shrewd ridicule — my cutting remarks frayed yet further the rope as the stone dangled over my head, and I strained to heave it aside.

Beorn answered Hatan, "This I understand: For years I waited upon Ecealdor. All my life I believed his law and his promises, and I believed he would return. I believed that Feallengod would provide everything ever we could want and I would live out my days in peace and security. I dreamed that one day I might see Gægnian. A fool's pretense! This life I did not imagine, I do not want, but I have to believe only what I can see. This man you love claims the king's authority, but he does no more than talk and talk. He plants seeds like a common laborer, for stone's sake! If he's from Ecealdor, why fear to take charge? Why will he not take his kingdom?" Beorn's voice rose, and the end of his walking staff punished the earth with each phrase.

"You have waited, Father. Ecealdor graciously awaits in his patience as well. How better to show his love than to send his son to walk among us? He has work he will do, Father, I'm sure he will."

"My patience is done, Hatan. I'm finished waiting. I learned all about the promises, from my father and grandfather before him, longer than you I have known them. The king is great in his glory and might, not puny and weak. In my judgment Coren is no more than a fraud, and he should be rebuked for saying he's from the king, because in truth he is not."

"I believe him, Father. You will see, he speaks for Ecealdor."

"If he is the son of the king, still he is not what I expected," said Beorn. "By stone, he is not what I want!"

Chapter XIII

The fire crackled with desire for the dusk; its flickering light fought a dancing battle against the shadows on the faces gathered about. In low voices a few intoned ancient words of Gægnian:

"Lift high your shoulders, take the red seal,

"Establish the mighty king's strength.

"The distant shadow of deep despair's hope

"Knows not height, neither breadth, neither length.

"Bend hard under blows, lift high ev'ry head,

"One day Gægnian's door 'ere life's losing.

"Thorns pierce the flesh on the road's compelled walk,

"But for one, and that of his choosing."

"Though beauty abounds upon Feallengod, it compares not to Gægnian," Coren said with a smile, leaning toward Hatan and the small following with him. "All the stories you've heard from long ago bear witness to truth. The waters rush and leap as though alive themselves; the sky reaches higher than your imagination; even the dirt fills with wonder, like a rich cake — mud frosting. Even that sounds good to my hunger. Always will I long to return. Imagine my homeland as Feallengod buffed to a high polish. And to enter into the presence of the king lifts the valiant heart beyond anything the eyes can see or mind perceive."

"Magister, your exhaustion must weigh upon you," said Hatan to his leader. "You've walked all the day, and have only sprouting grass to lay upon. We don't even have scraps enough for a decent supper. Won't you come to my home, to eat tonight with my family?"

"Will your brother sup as well?" asked Coren.

"I do not keep track of my brother."

"His anger swallows him up — he has rejected the king, and the king knows. Do not become like him. Does your father reside at home tonight?"

"Likely, Magister, though I know not for certain."

"Then let's be off, Son of Feohtan, the table awaits set already," said Coren, dusting off his trousers as he arose. The weather had turned brighter as winter waned, but still a sharp chill hung in the air. The green of the annuals yet still hid away, and the smell of dust and smoke mingled with the pungent hubris of early spring's boasting all across creation.

"You will know our house," said Hatan happily as they walked, "by the scarlet frame about our door."

Beorn and Cwen sat together before the Feohtan hearth, and Hatan's heart fell to see Begietan as well had chosen to spend a rare evening with his family. Apologetic eyes found reassurance in Coren's smile; he set his sack outside the door. Beorn received both graciously, but Begietan's sardonic smile revealed what he wished to cloak. Knowing Hatan's attachment to Coren, Domen had set Begietan about to watch for opportunity.

"Of course, I make you welcome, for the sake of my son, if nothing else," said Beorn.

"Truly a father honors his son, and the son honors the father," Coren replied, draping his arm upon Hatan's shoulders.

Cwen set the meal to table as Hatan assisted. Soon all sat before modest portions of venison, steaming vegetables and bread piping hot. Coren tore from the loaf, passing it on as he reached to dip in the dish of spiced oil. Across the table, Begietan did likewise, knuckles rudely raking Coren's hand.

"Was that me?" he said with mock regret.

"After you. Crossroads invite perilous turning," said Coren, withdrawing his hand. Begietan sneered, pushing his bread deep into the oil, and the opposing forces tipped the dish. The spilled oil dripped off the edge of the table, dropping spots of newness upon haggard leather of Coren's shoes.

"Look, now you've wasted it," groused Begietan.

Beorn struggled to say something. His voice surprised him by asking, "What does your father want?"

"The king wants a people to believe his promises, not results; a people obedient even unto their own loss," Coren replied.

"But who could make himself do such a thing?"

"I cannot set a table like those you know in Gægnian," Cwen interrupted, looking hesitantly, tinged with shame, toward Beorn, who fell silent. "My husband makes it difficult for me to serve. I pray this fare arises to your liking, sir."

"Sitting under a roof, milady, offers its own blessing, and a fire, and friendly faces," said Coren. "Your food may appear humble, yet still it fuels fellowship more even so than the body. Surely we will all hunger again soon; but the memory of our communion here will remain forever. Bread feeds the belly, the family and community — yet see how it crumbles in the hand? Still, a great blessing of abundance emerges from the soil of Feallengod, a gift to you from Ecealdor."

"Yes, from Ecealdor," said Beorn quietly, and he thought again of his grandfather, and his father, and sat wondering. His fingers idly studied the tines of his fork, whether they be straight or bent.

"Everything on this table belongs to us," Begietan broke in brusquely. "We raised it in our orchards, by our own sweat. You people like to talk about Ecealdor, but he had no part in it." His eyes rested with a smirk upon Hatan, who felt his ears burning.

"Begietan ..." Beorn began, but cut himself off weakly. He turned his head to look toward the window.

"Your blessing issues from Ecealdor, a blessing not to be despised," Coren answered. "One among you has turned it into a curse, for you can neither eat all of the orchards' abundance, nor will you give even a portion to those who perish without. You shut the orchards off to the rest of your community and to yourself also; you groan under the burden of wealth. The king bequeaths authority over the orchards to you, but while you jealously guard the fruits, the authority has fallen to thieves."

"You insult my father!" Begietan grandly rose to his feet. So suddenly did he stand, his chair clattered to the floor beneath him. "You lay a curse upon us, a curse upon Feallengod. I say curse you!"

"Begietan ..." Beorn repeated, looking back toward him, and as well repeating his cowed silence.

"Begietan, I bring him as a guest!" protested Hatan. "You speak against the prince! This is my house too!"

"I know my prince upon Feallengod. You people should know by now, too," growled Begietan.

"Did not Liesan suffer unjustly?" asked Coren.

"What?!" sputtered Begietan.

"For this reason I come, not for a curse."

"Oh!" said Cwen, nervous and flustered. "Did you not want supper?"

"The house belongs not to you, nor you," Coren continued, giving no attention to the confusion. "Your possessions upon Feallengod pass through a tissue reality. When you sink into death, will a spade or shirt follow you? Neither can you claim the orchards' possession. They come to you a blessing from Ecealdor, and they abide. But you turn them into a curse, for you set aside precious fruits and spices for yourselves, but ignore the more important duties of the steward: justice and mercy for your brothers and sisters. With these things should you concern yourselves, not the altar of selfish interests. Did you buy your life at your birth? It slips away even as you grasp after it. Living under the power of Ecealdor is like a full cup, but you have poured it out. Like bread, it fuels life, life given freely to all, life lived one to another," he said, contemplating the morsel he had torn from the loaf.

"That's all I will stand! We've had enough of your palaver," Begietan stepped heavily toward Coren. Hatan tried to intercede, then sent sprawling to the floor by a vicious fist. Begietan grabbed Coren by the neck to throw him from his chair. The table jarred violently, cups spilling and lit candles dangerously splattering wax and fire upon the cloth. A cut opened upon Coren's lip, a trickle of blood encroaching his chin.

Beorn remained, sullen, in his chair. Cwen went to Hatan's aid as he lay bleary upon the ground, and she cried out in her anguish at the conflict of her home. Begietan upended furniture, and shelves emptied their contents to the floor as he dragged Coren from the house and down the steps. The blood flowed in earnest as Begietan kicked him into the street. Coren did not struggle, but neither did he keep silent.

"You have turned the gift into a curse, for you covet it to yourselves. The land is but a shadow! You strive to withhold life from those who would live. I say to you, drink of the cup! The draught of fullness flows upon the waters of Heofon. You desire more than food and drink to fill your bellies, yet you realize not! You may hoard the fruits of Ecealdor's blessing, but you cannot hide away his draught of fullness."

Down the streets and alleys Begietan profaned Coren, jerking him roughly off his feet, dragging him upon the paving stones, batting at his head with his free hand. Along the way he called men out from their homes. I loitered at one of the community's irregular corners, Gastgedal with me, he gripping a flagon cast aside too soon by a careless carouser, happily drinking in the fumes. I believe my nose could almost remember my days spent in whirling confusion, by that bottle's odor. It sickened me, but like the other unthinking onlookers, as though invited to feast, I girded my strength and fell in behind the foul procession. The argument again seemed to turn in Domen's favor.

Now I can see the miscarriage of vain wisdom: The more idly fascinated, the more indifferent spectators, the more dispassionately prudent men added to the crowd, all the more powerful Domen appeared to all others. At the time these events seemed only a show, not much more than melodrama acted upon a stage, the people an innocuous addition. I know it now, oh how I believe within my soul, that behind the façade crept a reality vivid in its obscurity, so densely real that I tremble now to think of it, though then it remained ephemeral, like the zephyr itself. More and more and more we oblivious people blithely surrendered our lives over to the one who most wanted to steal them away. I thought of Domen as like me, but not as my leader; I thought of him as compatriot — I didn't see my enemy. He lusted after power; though not sharing that ambition, I could accept it at face; I didn't know the means to his end would be by ruining me. Vengeance is a slithering menace.

This crowd of sordid curiosity fell in behind Begietan as the commotion grew, inciting vile acts, a number helping him manhandle Coren. Many pelted the prince with rotting garbage and curses; stones and staffs appeared out of the dust and spittle to land heavy blows upon him. Hatan followed, struggling to reach Coren but unable to muscle through the violence of the mob.

"You turn your damnations upon yourselves, for even as you killed all my father's watchmen, you now complete the measure of your rebellion. Feallengod! Lower not your eyes, but seek a higher thing! Seek out mercy, to show mercy, to turn away from self! Soon you will long for the soft brooding of the hen, but will find only the eagle's talons." Coren continued his pleas for the people's hearts as often as he could catch his breath.

Shoving and kicking, the growing crowd forced Coren outside the community gate. Bruised and marred, his clothing torn and smeared with blood and filth, and still the staffs reached out their jabbing; his face so battered and wrung in anguish as to offend the eyes, Coren was cast out and carried along by a wave of hatred unleashed. Against the horizon, standing alone, awaited Domen, vile silhouette, observing the action with arms crossed.

Coren's eyes lit upon him, then somehow Hatan; there he walked just behind me, and Coren peered through my body, made of me a ghost, to call to him: "He will cast you to the wind like grain if he can," as they dragged him away. I turned and saw in Hatan's face the horrified knowledge that this atrocity had begun with his simple offer of hospitality; what a perverted thrill rushed with my pulse. Angrily I clutched his coat and demanded, "Throw your lot with him?" I would have spit in his eye, but, suddenly gripped with fear as well as my ragged fingers, Hatan stopped in his tracks and said nothing, not even blinking at me, his self-appointed inquisitor.

"S'matter, boy?!" railed Gastgedal. "Not so quick to judge sitting on the docket yourself! You've been with him!"

Hotly I glared, bluffing for an answer for a delicious moment, luxuriating in the tumult of Hatan's thoughts. Knowing I could do nothing with him, I pushed him off, dismissing him with a sarcastic "smart boy," and left him sulking in the wash of the multitude.

The crowd paused once it approached the feet of Domen, as I yelled slanders, and Coren dropped to the ground. Begietan struck a pose, a gladiator in conquest before his Caesar.

"You could have called legions of men to Feallengod," Domen glared at Coren.

"Then how many would perish? But as I depart, so too will all peace abandon Feallengod, and only strife and slaughter remain," he replied, a mouthful of blood trailing designs in the dust.

"What foolishness!"

"Perhaps this foolishness will open your eyes to wisdom one day, Domen."

Domen leaned in close to whisper. "I know what you seek here. Do not think your father will reclaim this people, not after they destroy his beloved. One man cannot redeem when I have destroyed all men. I take not your life, but rather you choose to cast it away."

"Well you speak, Domen, but little do you believe."

Domen arose and turned toward the west, raised his fist and screamed, "Do you hear? This blood lies not upon my head!" He took a step from Coren as if to leave, and drew away Begietan by the arm.

"One thing remains for you," and he handed Begietan a long parcel wrapped in rough, brown cloth. Though Begietan's right hand was that of strength, Domen placed the bundle in his left. "Get close to him, close enough for a kiss, for in so doing you will stab not only him in the heart but your brother as well. Yes, you will do my bidding; you will do this thing, for you are just as I am."

The madding crowd had picked Coren up again, and Domen led us to a low hill, the very little mount upon which Beorn and Hatan first heard him speak. There we stood him up, reeling from the beatings, and shook our voices like angry squirrels, railing at him.

"People of Feallengod! Please, quiet! Calm – calm, my people," called out Domen, with gestures only limply trying to control the frenzy. "You have grown angry, and rightly so, but, please, let us reason, and be wise." Hands outstretched, he drew closer to Coren, his presence and words applying the effect of a heavy storm hanging over us. We fell into uneasy silence, and I tried to look like I would pay no particular attention.

Domen's chin jutted, his mouth twisting into a revolting frown. "You see before you a criminal, a sick, deluded man who brings nothing but trouble upon you. He and his toadies provoke your thoughts against yourselves, prick your hearts with false conviction, goad you into guilt you cannot bear. Good people, my good, good people, you know you do not deserve his persecution.

"What shall we do with this man? Do we not have a law here upon Feallengod? Did not Ecealdor himself establish this law forever: 'Wait upon yourself, and bless yourself richly.' What has this man done that has shown blessing? Badger us until we weep? Make our hearts heavy over what our nature simply desires? How then can we love ourselves? No, he has broken the law. He has dipped us in fear to draw us away from the law of Ecealdor!"

His words stirred the crowd like coals of fire again, and all the people pressed in on Coren. I swept along with the furor, willingly compelled to join the turmoil; I placed a few fists in guts that presented themselves. Voices arose demanding a defense from Coren. "You! You call yourself seed of the king! You threaten to take power in Feallengod! We have a word for you to hear! We will rule ourselves!" This tirade suited me well; let each man follow his own way, it mattered not.

"You do not realize what you say. My father's decrees will arrive upon Feallengod, even as they abide in Gægnian," Coren panted.

"Your father discards you to the ashes," Domen said to him. Back to the crowd, Domen picked up his refrain, "Yes, he claims to bring message from Gægnian. He claims to represent Ecealdor, but does he follow the king's law? No! Indeed, he openly mocks it! That, my friends, cuts my heart most, as he takes the name of the dear king in vain. If Ecealdor had sent him, would you see this battered condition upon him? No, surely the king would save him; he would wrap his son in might. Hypocrite! Liar! Criminal! We say you deserve to die for your crimes!" he screamed into Coren's face.

Begietan worked his way through the crowd, to the front, his eyes shooting side to side. "He must die for his crimes! He must die for his crimes!" Domen's ghoulish chant gradually caught up the crowd, "He must die! He must die!" My empty soul lifted my empty voice to join. Begietan sidled up to the prince, whose exhausted body drooped but somehow stayed erect. I elbowed through the crowd, better to see.

With what seemed tremendous effort, Coren cast his gaze upon Domen beside him — steel eyes. "Domen, I will fight you to the death."

To my mind all else halted as he slowly lifted his right arm, a single finger extended. How many seconds passed, or days, I know not; my eyes saw only the prince's touch. He reached across his body and lightly placed his finger upon Domen's forehead.

Suddenly the crowd sprang again to life, and Begietan lunged forward, leapt to the defense of his master, to cup the back of Coren's neck. His right hand grasping the prince, drawing him close, Begietan swept back his left, flicking it violently. The brown cloth flew into the air and fluttered to the ground behind him, a flash of light glaring from a short sword. Coren's arms swung out, stretched to each side, palms toward the sky, sleeves flaring like the wings of a dove taking flight. Begietan pressed his cheek close as he plunged the sword into Coren's right side, impaled beneath his ribs. Coren gasped and took two stumbling steps away, the red blade pulling quickly out of his flesh. Blood kicked from his wound and splattered upon me; I stood staring and woozy. Someone jostled my attention and I smiled sickly, as though my stomach was hanging out of my mouth, to show myself unmoved. My eye caught Gastgedal, and struck by his pale surprise. Coren hung upon his feet for a moment, a face filled with wonder and concern, then tipped backwards onto the young grass. His head hit the ground hard, but without word or cry, eyes empty. A cloud of frosty breath escaped like phantasm as his mouth gaped, and he moved no more.

That moment — horrific to my core — I dread the sight ever coming my way again. Fleeting like a rampaging bull, its terror escaped me not even then; I think not a single breath drew in that moment. Like the flash of foreboding that grips a man at an unexpected noise in the dark, or the delirious waking from a nightmare, a sense of terrific anguish and outrage ran through my imagination. A single life lost, that was all – yet still something greater had shrouded the island. In that second I imagined the stone of the law, and the rope slipping a notch; slowly that stone turned, and the rope groaned. I returned my stare; something more than a single man had fallen. Perhaps because we had witnessed the end of the royal line, or the precious blood that soaked Feallengod soil, but that flash of moment testified to more than just what my eyes had seen. My heart did leap like a startled cat, but just as quickly resumed its stultifying beat: It occurs to me now that mine lay more dead that day than Coren's.

The sun dipped out of sight, and an unusually bleak dusk fell over the land Feallengod. Lightning flashed from a distant thunderstorm rolling in over the ocean. Far away from the crowd's back, Hatan's chest emptied purely hollow in his agony, his heart a leaden weight. Behind him stood Beorn, finally roused from his chair, following along slowly, at last catching up to the melee. He silently grieved for the young man, grieved for the violence of Begietan's hand, even grieved for Feallengod. Tragedy multiplied upon the island, and now returned upon the king. Then again, he thought, Coren's time upon Feallengod could have had no other end. Perhaps Domen's ranting now revealed its truth. He turned to walk away, no comfort found nor given.

Domen eyed the scene, gazed at the body, suddenly not sure what had just come to pass. Certainly he had won. But why would Coren go into death so readily? Had Domen been duped by a dead man? He tried to shake off an odd sense of doubt.

The crowd fell silent for a moment, but slowly a glad undercurrent arose. Begietan, standing witlessly with his murder weapon, smeared with Coren's gore, now raised the bloody pike high overhead, his triumph complete, the most worthy son of Feallengod. The mob lifted up a tremendous cheer and surged forward.

Domen cleared his cobwebs to seize the moment. "People of Feallengod, you have thrown off tyranny! No heir is left to the king! The bloodlines of Ecealdor run dry! Celebrate, people of Feallengod! The inheritance falls to you! Feel your island beneath your feet, for the land belongs to you now and no other!"

Again a gruesome cheer, and I joining in, curse my voice and the breath behind it. But I gladly shook off that instant of terror — anything to respirit my safe, smug confines of self-importance. Use the crowd, fade into its folds, separate unto inscrutable self-interest. The good people of Feallengod dragged Coren's body to the ash heap – a final throwing off of royal authority, just as Domen said – far from the community, where garbage burned and smoldered, flames constantly flaring and dying in turn. Rudely dumped upon the waste, empty eyes open to the acid air, his crumpled remains lay like a heartbroken child, and drops from a coming storm pocked away all traces of human activity. Nothing exists more useless than a dead man.

Quickly most all of the community prepared for grand celebration. Precious little toward the festivity came from me, apathy born of nothing more honorable than laziness. Once the hedonism commenced, my appetites found the thick of it.

As the hours and days ground past, Domen's men pushed into the peoples' homes. Under force men and women relinquished their gold and silver, the earrings and bracelets and chains they had hidden away. This too suited me well, for with Mægen-El's chalice cast aside, and Liesan's sapphire long ago bartered, I had no precious possession to hide or steal.

A heavy pounding landed upon the Feohtans' door.

"Give over!" demanded one of Domen's lieutenants.

"What? What do you mean?" Cwen wavered, unable to mask the fright in her voice.

"This! We know you have it! Give over!" The man grabbed the leather string holding the gold medallion, the image of the fawn, and tore it away from Cwen's neck. The single, violent jerk ripped open her blouse and yanked her to the ground, blood oozing from the strafing wound, and there she sobbed in the doorway of her home.

A great heap of such items, large and small, accumulated in the square before the stone law, blank in its worn oversight. The smithy melted down the precious metal, and artisans shaped it to form a mighty lion, complete with crowned head. Great were its teeth, long and fully bared, and its claws extended and sharp. Eyes filled with anger and purpose stared out ahead of the terrible creature. The polished metal shone as bright as the sun, the sun even as Domen cursed it, blinding the crowd to its wonderful glory. A magnificent flowing mane perched upon its neck and shoulders, trailing along its back all the way to the serpentine tail, and muscles fairly rippled within its powerful legs and flanks. Never had a more glorious, foreboding work of art been fashioned upon Feallengod.

"This statue enshrines your great victory over tyranny from afar!" Domen shrieked. "This figure rises a monument to liberty! Receive your symbol of my glorious majesty!"

Great stores of succulent foods emerged wondrously from the houses of Feallengod, at last, at least for this moment – generosity inspired no doubt by threat and toadeating. Tables upon tables, lined end to end, and still the banquet spilled over onto the cobbles. Wine flowed from flagon to cup first, then directly into gullets as jubilants slaked themselves in its power. For days the riotous festivities escalated, through the day, into the night, beyond the rising sun.

Music played endlessly, raucous and to the end of no melody, and we danced until exhaustion felled us. We gave ourselves to every conceivable debauchery, sacrificing the disciplines our culture had taught for generations. Most all of us wallowed in each other's embrace, and those who didn't made good use of opportunity, relieving otherwise occupied revelers of their purses. Rejoicing slid into angry outbursts and violent quarrels, then back again into carousing. Somewhere, at some time within the dark nights, gangs of vandals took sledge hammers to the ancient stone of the law, and reduced it to gravel.

Never had my stomach strained more full. I had fairly forgotten the feeling, a belly solid like rock. My cravings claimed their rights during those days: I made full use of the grand tables, at them, on them, under them. Yet in their midst was I starving to death. The delicate wiles of maidens became a feast of pretty thighs, and the grease of gluttony streamed down my cheeks and chin. Only did I refuse my old rival the bottle, even as Gastgedal did nothing to restrain kissing its tender sweetness at this most glorious occasion. With a head clear of shadows, and free of his continual prattling, I made all the better at every other vice I could dream of.

Over the braying attended Domen, an unholy priest, contentedly smiling and frowning as one. "Eat and drink, my people, for the flesh is your being, and Feallengod is your trough."

Hatan as well observed from afar. "A noise like war lifts its head, dancing upon death and beating on the bones of martyrs," and he retreated deep into the orchards.

He sat grieving, neither working nor sleeping, thinking nor knowing. His body bowed under the weight of his guilt. Beorn's words echoed in his ears: Just like Begietan. Just like Begietan — but no, yet worse. He had loved Coren. But so? Didn't he stand silent at the bloody moment when Coren needed him most? Could he claim to love Coren now? He betrayed the prince out of cowardice alone, and had proven only his love for his own skin. The voice of his thoughts tortured him, leaning upon the strength of his beloved grove of trees, weeping bitterly.

I still feel the rough texture of his coat, digging in my wretched fingers, still smell the earthy scent of the fabric as I bullied him into destruction. That was my only goal, as though his doom served me in some way. I peer at these hands; they seem not to me now capable of such wickedness. These hands, the very tools of my writing, my calling, covered in ink, covered in blood.

Now, in death, Hatan thought, Coren at least deserved burial, not exposure to circling birds. Fully three days had passed since his murder; surely by now decay had settled into the body, in spite of the cool weather. Hatan determined to collect the corpse and secure a grave. Desolate in his sorrow and loneliness, he trudged toward the ash heap – careful to give wide distance to the community – dreading this duty but determined to see it through. His breath hung mistily in the early morning hours. Suddenly he stopped short, frozen in confusion.

The ash heap spread before him bare. An impression, a shape in form like a human, sharply defined, reclined in the cinders, but Coren's body had vanished. In its midst a tiny seed, perhaps falling from the folds of his clothing, had taken root, sprouting from the desolate mound, reaching infant branches to the sky. A sudden wind blasted down from the peaks of the high mountains, off in the distance, roaring with great force across the barren spot of dirt. The gale hit with shocking strength, like the blast of a trumpet, hammering Hatan to the ground; as well all signs left of where Coren's body had lain blew into history, dust that blows across the wide world, filling cracks and crevasses, invading eyes and teeth but keeping secret its story. Then, just as abruptly as the air had stirred its passions, it fell still, and the little tree held fast.

Chapter XIV

Thousands upon thousands numbered the feet that had trod Feallengod, a vast sea of men and women in ebb and flow across the land, across time, whose grandchildren came and went, leaving them forgotten to memory. The soils of the island had offered their rich hospitality to all the generations of the ages, all sizes, colors and walks of their lifetimes. Humankind's variety abounded as culture mixed with culture, ideas grew and transformed into new ideas, and wayfarers brought home peculiar customs from far-flung peoples. One such wayfarer already has crossed my pages, Andsæc Cirice.

Cirice had spent his days a child and a parent; tradesman and peasant; master and slave. He gave his time as a laborer, a steward, a prisoner, a counselor to the elders. He had been a sinner and a saint in his full life on Feallengod, but no matter what station he had taken, he always maintained a quiet devotion to King Ecealdor. In these last three days more had passed into his eyes than he could bear.

A stocky, rugged man, heavier than he should have been, dirtier than he should have been, more scarred than he should have been — the man Cirice. The hair upon his crown, kept short but ragged, clung grimly to its iron gray, when it clung to his head at all. Tattoos decorated his hulking arms, vague markings old and faded but still hinting at faraway lands visited in the distant past, like a map of the circuitous route a life takes. He owned little save the love and loyalty of everyone who bothered to know him.

His will stood as strong as his broad chest, and once he had set his sails to the wind, he never turned back. One story told me, when he worked at the granite quarries in the lower mountains, before my own servitude, came about after an accident left a huge crane crippled. A wooden beam had buckled, letting loose the counterweight and lifting one poor beast of burden into the air. Crews of men struggled to pull the simple machinery apart, but one large bolt would not budge from its rusty, twisted shaft. After watching teams of men with oversized tools try vainly to turn the nut, the hanging ass hoarsely crying out, Cirice shouldered the workers aside and grasped the bolt in his massive bare hands. With one mighty grunt he managed to loosen it slightly. As he continued to strain, applying only brute strength and stubbornness, the rest of the crew shouted support and laid bets. An hour later, drenched in sweat, slathered with grimy oil, he casually threw the bolt to the feet of the whooping onlookers and kissed his biceps.

Fortune sent Cirice's way what it would; he simply accepted and made the most of it. So moons passed, and he took hardly any notice of the spiraling events upon his island. When Coren arrived, however, he knew that the distant king roused against Domen's corruption. I saw him often in the crowd when Coren spoke – and saw the piercing glances shot at my hateful prattlings – and the truth of the prince's words drove deep into his soul. But he had hung on only at the fringes of Coren's following, and now grieved and bristled at his own absence when murder felled the prince. This conviction at length took hold of his heart, and now he agreed together with it. No longer would he stand on the sidelines of truth.

The depraved festivity of Coren's elimination — not only the physical excesses but the dark spirit spawning them — turned Cirice's stomach. Certainly, he thought, certainly a handful of men still might stand against this bitter offense to the king. Though Coren deigned not fight for his life, perhaps a few left upon Feallengod would take up his memory, his honor, and his father's cause. So he took up his quest.

"Good evening, my friend," he said one day, perhaps a fortnight after the revelry, as we crossed paths. He cast a dreadful glance at Gastgedal.

"Good evening, Cirice! What mischief brings you about? Anything for my hand?"

"Merely walking the village. Merely taking in sights of the streets."

"Best see to yourself. The streets have become dangerous these past several days." As despicable as I'd become, still a touch of humanity prevailed within me to warn a friend. Times already had turned lean again, and I well knew my own dark pursuits in the alleyways. But I knew as well, Cirice would fall victim to no one.

"Spicy we like it – if you're not afraid to dip into a little trouble," Gastgedal grinned at some keen whimsy he'd unveiled.

"So have I known. Tonight peace is as much trouble as I wish upon myself, or you."

"Make peace, or take a piece," Gastgedal fairly bounced, giddy with wit. "We make our own way, and care little for the fears of petty girls." He stuck his gnarled nose within reach of Cirice's swing.

"An ill wind blows from your gullet, unless I'm mistaken about the opening," Cirice sneered. "I'll not waste time nor trouble on you this day."

"Take your provocations elsewhere," I scolded Gastgedal, motives muddled between right and self-righteous. "We want no argument with this fellow," but what I wanted had been sealed already.

"Oh, pardon, sir," Gastgedal replied with deep, sarcastic bow. Unable to stir any anger in Cirice, seeing that I had no interest either, he withdrew his insults. "Domen has set the new path for the island, never to slip from his fingers. Surely one day you will have the time and inclination, and will not let the opportunity die."

"Perhaps, man, though death seems something of a more royal pursuit here upon Feallengod," Cirice scowled and turned his attention back to me, studying my expression.

"Yes," I laughed. "And just as well! Little matter — I take care of myself upon Feallengod, as does every man! Best then join, and watch how you step, Cirice."

"Yes. I see, good fellow. Good evening to you." And then indicating Gastgedal: "This man is no more than doom to you." With that, down the street he continued his pursuit. I watched his broad shoulders – bearing his glad unknown yoke as he ambled near to speak to another countryman – shaking my head as I returned to my own designs.

I learned later his mission. I knew him, his loyalty to the king, to anyone who showed themselves worthy, but realizing what I considered such utter sentimentality in him struck me with surprise. Honor remained easy for him — he did not seem to care about the king's disregard for his son. He had not seen the foul belly of Ecealdor's callous brutality, his cruel indifference, as I had. But, oh, my king, little did I understand.

Cirice combed every path of the village, searching out men and women not consigned to the designs of Domen. As weeks passed, his tiny remnant increased, though many cowered, afraid to join him openly. On the island's far side, in the swampy coves off the Ocean Heofon, he organized his brigade. This musty, murky area had frightened me as a child; Feallengod parents often threatened a night upon the moors to discipline unruly sons, and I earned my nightmares. Many men brought horses to the camp; many others offered food and supplies. A community of sharing returned to this fractional people, not out of compulsion but a known unity. All the swords, lances, maces, pitchforks, axes and clubs the people could muster began to accumulate, along with a ragtag collection of armor. During the days the people walked the streets of the village, house to house, but in the evenings, as often as opportunity allowed, they gathered in the moors under the headship of Cirice, for his exhortation and training.

And there as well did Hatan find him.

The cloud of Coren's killing that swept across Feallengod drew a shroud fully over the face of Hatan's heart. He thought of the high mountains and the depths of Heofon, and how each might rejoin him to his Magister, but he did not think of his home, unable to face his mother and unwilling to look upon his father. At first he told every man and woman he could find about the scene at the ash heap: Coren's body mysteriously vanished. He mostly met only doubt and derision in return; some accused him of simply stealing the body. So many feet trampled the area, seeking either proof or excuse, that within days even he could not say for sure where Coren once had lain, if not for the tree. The little sprout flourished, spreading its limbs remarkably quickly, a sapling now waving in summer breezes, birds alighting to rest.

Hatan made the orchards his sanctuary, thinking solitude the only refuge for his treachery. There his days and nights melted into one as depression sank into his being, and he took to peering around the walls and trees like a hunted beast, afraid of who might venture in and find him. Eventually desperate loneliness drove him from the walls, seeking whoever still might share his desire for Coren and the king. Perhaps he would find a measure of mercy with them, or perhaps condemnation to at least give his guilt a place to lay its head. He at last returned to the streets of the village, where he heard whispered rumors of Cirice and his collection of mates.

Sentries appeared from behind trees as Hatan delved into the moors. They carried weapons as if on a hunting mission, throwing up neither defense nor attack, but their eyes studied him carefully.

"Good day, friend. What brings you into the marshes? We have only just decided to depart — the hunting has turned against us."

"I am Hatan Feohtan," his gaze dropped in shame.

The sentries' faces brightened as though waking from a dream only to find it true. "Goodwill to you, friend, and peace! Peace to you! We have all heard your report, and long have we awaited you! So many despairing that you had fallen into Domen's clutches! Come, please come with us," and taking him by his elbows, they fairly dragged him deep into the fog of the moors.

As they drew near, the sentries surprised the quiet camp with their rash exuberance, "The witness! We bring the witness!" Shouts and outstretched arms greeted Hatan, grasping and hugging him like a lost dog reunited, all along the way to a small bonfire.

"The witness has fallen in with us! At last!" the sentries called out, and Cirice vaulted to his feet. "Who? Him?!" his eyes wide as his mouth, he enfolded Hatan in sturdy arms.

"We have hoped for you these weeks. Your word spreads like wildfire — see? Even the bogs smoke. Your testimony calls like a trumpet, a song of expectation for all of us. Please tell me it rings true."

"True it is," Hatan said. "The body lay there, as the imprint within the ashes attested, and then it didn't. Don't ask me to say how."

"No need," said Cirice. "Hope lives — the tree testifies to life. Did he not go about planting upon the island? So does he still. We have seen the tree, but we must believe the empty mark his body left. Whatever has happened in the ashes, hope lives that Ecealdor does not abandon Feallengod, though he chooses to remain in Gægnian. So many here pine for what you have truly seen. But no matter — we will believe anyway. Upon your eyes, upon your word we will believe. Sit! Sit down and warm yourself, and tell me you've come to join us."

"I want to — to cast off these chains of guilt. Desperately how I want to. What work do you have for me?"

"We plan to oppose Domen every way we can. We plan to campaign against him in homes and taverns, on the streets and battlefields if so needed. When we march, we will hold high a bloody scarlet banner, the banner of Coren. You will find the way you fit in with us. Do you renounce any love for Domen?"

"Love?" Hatan scoffed. "Never would I speak such a word in the same breath as the villain's name. Good leaders number few, bad leaders many — Domen's evil stands alone. I cannot follow that way," he said quietly, his head upright.

"Well said. Though young, you have become a man, and suddenly, I think. Like a ship come into shore upon rocks, you exchange the innocence of youth for cynical experience. To your credit, your distrust rightly aims at the forces of ruin, but as you grow wise, take care to retain your gentle heart. You will join us here and greatly benefit our people, and maybe find peace for yourself."

"Certainly you know, though, my father has made covenant with him. You must know this, then perhaps choose to drive me from you. My brother – my brother killed my Magister, killed Coren. My only brother." Hatan's eyes looked distant. "Blood, blood levied for a fawn."

"A terrible burden you carry. We will not add to it."

"More still I must confess, Cirice. More you must know, for my presence may prove a fatal thorn. This tears at me, rends my spirit — at the very moment they dragged him away, I would not speak for him. When I should rather have given my life for his, I turned silent against him. Can my chest not receive a sword as well as any man's? If I had said something, if I had done anything, perhaps he would live even now. Or I'd at least have died with him."

"Take heart, Hatan. When you confess failure in this matter, when you confess to your wrong, you agree that Ecealdor is right. When the king's people show him to be right, they robe him in honor, though through the heartache of their own failure."

"But I walked with him. I invited him to his murder. For such injustice, mustn't a price be paid?"

"A price indeed, but you cannot bear it. Perhaps another. What the king decides extracts a price from Domen. We must believe. Does he blame you? No, we know the prince did not. He warned you about Domen, and we gathered here will protect you. Your Magister you share — our Magister; his death has made of us a new family, fathers and brothers who will not abandon you."

"Yes, I see. To think that my failure might glorify the king, offers me great comfort."

"So I learned from experience. Besides, I have thought the same: Should I have been there? Might I have tried to stop what happened? Do my arms reach farther, stronger than the king's? I like to think I can twist fate, but certainly I don't know. I dote upon protecting my own buttocks, too, you know. So maybe guilt falls to me as well; guilt enough to cover many. I know years passed, and I gave only lip service to Ecealdor's law. Today it screams at me, how far I fall short. For generations we half-believed a promise; now hope stands in the gap. If he came once, perhaps he will come again. But we will never cease grieving for his first time. What I do know beyond hope, though — I'm here now. So let's both of us release what's past and look to what's present and future."

"Very well, then," said Hatan, and the smile on his face felt like his first.

"Anyway, I do know this: I could have taken the blade, but I could not have gotten up from that ash heap. Nor either you. As we know, according to our best source," Cirice smiled back, "his body was gone."

"Yes, his body gone. What would you have me do now?"

"Right now just stand about and look inspirational," Cirice said. "You don't realize how you're loved here. So many wish they could have seen — but the tree declares life. We're all left to merely believe your report."

"I want to help."

"Simply talk. You walked with him longer than any other, from the beginning. We must talk together, to help remember what Coren said. The people here will gladly listen, and you will lift their hearts. Much lies ahead of us all. I'm sure blood will flow. Domen will discover this camp and destroy us, if he can. Tell me, Hatan, would you kill a man for Ecealdor?"

"I don't know — but I would die for him. I would take up Coren's staff."

Cirice clapped his hand hard upon the shoulder. "Excellent! That's all we ask!" he grinned broadly, revealing a crooked row of teeth. Laughter flared loudly from a nearby group of armored men, like the fire where they huddled, and Hatan, catching them with an eye over his shoulder, joined in, timid at first, then filled with gusto.

"What might you bring? Have you a sword?"

"Yes, I can put hand upon a short sword. Also, the fruits of the orchards, what yet survives. Every piece of fruit or grain, I will bring."

"Fine, farmer boy. Now let's fit you out with some armor. It wouldn't do to send you into battle wearing a mushmelon on your head." They walked toward a twisted pile of tarnished metal, and Cirice stroked his grizzled chin as he sorted through the collection of shoddy armor.

"Here, a belt to carry weapons, and tassets to defend the family jewels; first things first, 'ay?" he spoke in a distracted way, eyes still sorting armaments, and slapped the belt into Hatan's belly. He threw aside some odd bits of metal tangled in a knot. "Let's see — this breastplate could work. You'll have room to stow a ham inside, if you happen to have one. We must add some meat onto your bones, boy, you're thin as a miser's penny." Cirice jerked his thumb toward a pile of shoes, some of stiff leather, others of pointed bronze, then planted his finger in Hatan's chest. "Be sure to pick some boots that fit; if your feet give out, you'll end up on your knees for sure. And keep your stockings dry, too, that'll hold the stench down. Go ahead and aspire to high rank, but not on account of your feet."

Cirice continued to poke through the piles of oddly shaped coverings. "Ho-ho! Here's a buckler. Think it big enough? We men need them only large enough to hide our looks — helps keep the women off." He winked at Hatan, holding the shield up to various parts of his body, finally arriving upon his rump. "I don't want to see you like this," he said. "No running away unless you're following my lead. Behind me I won't see you. No, indeed. This helmet looks enough for that big head of yours. I cannot abide anyone with a head bigger than mine in these parts, so watch it. Hmmm ... looks like all you'll gain here. Bear in mind to bring your sword; though if it's all as dull as your conversation, you're in trouble."

Often have I suffered under Cirice's absent-minded, unrelenting ribbing, a hallmark of the brash gaming tease he poured upon those he loved. But Hatan knew not, and the deluge caught him with stunned surprise at first. Soon quickly though, the abuse gave him to know he stood among friends, that he'd get no better nor poorer treatment than any other man. He was home.

A tall, burly soldier wrapped his arm around Hatan's shoulders with assurance, "You'll do well, Witness."

Low singing in rich harmony arose into the clouds above the moors. The night sank deep over Feallengod now; no light escaped the overcast sky above nor the mists rolling in off the restless ocean below. Darkness gave Hatan a sense of comfort, a door to close against the memories tormenting him. Under cover of the blackness he fled the prison of his agonies. Thick enough flowed the dark to persuade doubt that the land existed at all, if not for the feel of it underfoot. Thick enough, in fact, to hide a skulking figure from the eyes of even the sharpest sentries.

The sun only mulled at setting over Gægnian, but within the courts of Ecealdor a pall had fallen. Mægen-El stood before the king, head erect but eyes lost somewhere in the distance. Secanbearn lay upon the bare floor, weeping into the folds of a man's cloak, grieving with the whole host of the palace. Tears bled not for Coren, nor for the king, but for the wretched people of Feallengod.

"Coren's mission is complete," said Ecealdor, his face lined, exhaustion plain in his voice. He leaned his weight on both fists set upon a table.

"Has he failed, Lord?" asked Secanbearn.

"That I did not say. Though Feallengod is but a small corner of my greater kingdom, every work I undertake lies heavily upon that little island. Though all the rest of my domain does me honor, though Feallengod remains in rebellion, still my endeavors depend upon Feallengod alone. Now, the people of the land must agree, and declare which way they will go."

"Do you leave them to themselves?" She lifted a finger to her breast, then away from her body.

"No, child, though many won't find me so comforting from here out. They wouldn't accept my watchmen; I have left them no doubt about what fails. Now will I demonstrate what succeeds; yet still they do not revere my son." Ecealdor's breath broke away hard, and he stared blankly upon the ragged map before him — a dark form moved mysteriously behind.

Chapter XV

Begietan ran, foul and fleet of foot, through the darkness. He knew the choking blackness would make Domen only easier to seek out. Any light intruding upon his thoughts drove Domen further into vile solitude. A night like this — drowning in ink — and what might lie hiding in its depths, would lure him into the open, to embrace in base copulation.

Lost in single-mindedness, Begietan ran like gearworks, blindly dodging trees and jagged clefts. All he had once desired for himself — wealth, power, adoration — these he now desired only for his prince. Like a mule, thoroughly bought and bridled, Begietan labored, emasculated before his master. I turned almost sorrowful to see what he'd become, but my near pity for him quickly found cure; his cloak of arrogance before the people made cause to revile him all the more. Never a single act, nor word, nor thought passed from him, without he first consider his sovereign's backlash. Now he lurched through the forests, refusing to requite the aching of his legs and lungs, bursting into Domen's haunt.

"Rebellion roils in the mists, Lord," he reported to the border of Domen's wooded lair, upon his knees, his head low. Begietan could not see his master, but rasping breath birthed from the dark betrayed his presence. Swallowing hard, Begietan struggled to keep his panting low. "An encampment grows in the eastern moors. The quarry worker Cirice entices all men to take up arms and conspire against you."

"Very well — if they so believe in death," Domen thought out loud. Begietan heard his pacing steps upon the forest bracken. "The island lies in my hand, this island is mine, so has he said. Means abound to foil this little plot, many means. The right play of our hand will cause it to die of itself. The fools hang ripe for spoilage. First we must infiltrate — send the least of our recruits into its midst. Their stupid innocence will mask their mission, to be as a thorn in the rebels' flesh. Even should we lose a few to Ecealdor's cause, we still can corrupt whatever ideals this simpleton Cirice upholds. We will make their thoughts muddled and soft, and their threat to me will fade to nothing. Then Cirice too will disappear — I allow no other leader here; I will be king, I am just as he is. Later we attack, when they least suspect; we can bide our time, only then to sweep in and scatter them."

Domen turned his attention to Begietan, rapping his knuckles stoutly upon his bowed head. "Hear my bidding: Send spies into the rebels' camp, birds to pick at this seed of revolt. Plant lies among them. Raise doubts and arguments, empty debate, the more trivial the better. Strike at their unity through their weakest members, those who count themselves strong. Even only a grain of sewage added, and their fountain will flow poison. But first fetch your father to me, boy."

Dutifully Begietan ran to his assignment. The eastern horizon had only begun to glow pink with the rising sun as he reached the Feohtan hovel. Roughly he shook Beorn awake, barking "Domen wants you," without pretense of whisper.

"At what god-forsaken hour? Now? What for?" his voice bruised, his mind muddled. He glanced to his sleeping wife.

"Domen wants you — need you know more? Do you think I've stayed waking all night for the joy of it? What's good for me is good as well for you people," and Begietan ripped the bedcovers off, exposing mother and father to the chill air.

Beorn snugly returned the blankets around the stirring Cwen, hurriedly dressed and followed Begietan. The night surrendered its sword to the dawn, but the light gleamed dim still: Beorn, left alone, would have had no hope of finding Domen. Though Begietan's years of combing the island served him well in these difficult conditions, he calculated his long, determined strides this morning to make Beorn's trek difficult nonetheless, and so succeeded.

"Here," Begietan snapped at the copse edge. "You'll find him here, or he'll find you, more likely. I have work elsewhere." He disappeared into the tangle of trees, toward the village, where fate would have him meet me, and I destiny.

"Come to me," a ragged voice called from somewhere behind Beorn. "You have ascended an important man upon Feallengod, no? You have earned high respect within the village?"

"Yes, now. For now," Beorn halted, searching among the limbs and leaves for the voice. "Not long ago the people cared nothing ..."

"Nor I. I have work for you now. Treachery takes root to overthrow me. A pitiful band of men plots my downfall. Do you join with them?" the voice demanded.

"No! No, by stone, I swear ..."

"The village will confide in you, man of Feallengod. I have given this to you. In return, you must number all who would fight for me against followers of Coren."

"Do you prepare to shed blood?" asked Beorn.

"I do only what I must, whatever I please. Even now my enemies devise an ambush in the marshes. I must know my disciples, and those who fail me. Beat them, threaten them, bribe them from your rotten heap of fruit if you wish, but bring to me all the names."

"But I fear my son has drifted into the moors, perhaps among the Coren-Ans." Beorn spoke the name the village commonly used, always in hushed tones, for Cirice's separatists, telling Domen more than Begietan had: The movement had unfurled into a presence, and identity among the people.

Beorn persisted, knowing that Hatan's name on paper would fill in his death warrant. "Already you command allegiance from almost everyone. Why must you number them? Why must you sift out the Coren-Ans? Allow them to go their way without bloodshed. Do not gather your forces against them!"

"Do not dare spew that cursed name again! Why stand you there? Will you end your days here, or obey?" and Beorn finally spotted Domen, red eyes glowing from the shadows. "I give you a command: Count the men who will draw swords for me. Tell me the number, and compel them to prepare. Count those who turn traitor! Hesitate, and you will witness bloodshed sooner still than either of us bargain for."

Beorn started as if to speak again, but thought better, nodded silently, and slowly turned on his heel. The walk to the village – long, unpleasant, repugnant – offered no path to his thoughts. He had not anticipated war. He had not prepared for delivering up neighbors, nor singling out his son; this greater wickedness overshadowed anything he could have foreseen. But his vow to support Domen remained. His word tied his hands to Domen's lash, and he could not, would not break it.

I remember the morning well — Gastgedal and I walked through the village into the forested lands, where a simple cutting job awaited. My stomach ate a hole in me as I sucked my own spittle out of a piece of straw. Leafy underbrush crunched underfoot as we entered a shady grove. My thoughts fell scattered to every side until a hand came down upon my shoulder so gruffly, I spun to its grip ready to throw a punch. Only then did I see its owner to be Begietan. He smiled so as to show his equal eagerness to buy me drinks or leave me bleeding in the street. My gut turned at the sight of him.

"You! You know the islander Cirice, do you not?" he demanded.

"Yes, I know him," equally confronting. "Less happily you as well." My foolishness blinded me to all those, willing or no, who could end my time upon the island with not much more than a thought.

"The strutting rooster, just as you said! Welcome, cock fowl!" Gastgedal gleefully threw kerosene on tiny flames.

"Shut up!" I said as one with Begietan.

"The day comes quickly when your words will change," Begietan continued. "Cirice makes himself a traitor, sentenced to die. Declare you traitorous designs also?"

"No, I stand loyal," I said. I was loud, and a fool, but not a loud fool. Indeed I spoke truthfully as well, but not adding that my loyalty remained only to myself, never to buttress hollow despots nor empty promises. Yet did I grow still more hollow myself.

"Then Domen lays a mission upon you."

"I've had all the missions I want from him," I remembered well the foul work of Fulwiht's prison cell.

"You volunteered that service," Gastgedal eagerly reminded me.

"Shut your trap," I suggested, then turned to Begietan. "Get some other stooge to do your dirty work, whatever it may be."

"You are the only stooge who'll do. You people seem not to understand – you have no choice in work done for Domen."

"Slavery does not befit me. I will pick and choose my doings. I will be my own master."

"Master me! Master me!" Gastgedal cackled. "One man's master is another's rebel."

"Shut up, I said!"

"You'd best not turn rebel," Begietan glowered.

"I said I stand loyal. I just prefer my own work."

"Domen's work comes first. All work is his now, and his pays best. Complete this task well and you will reap rich reward."

"Listen to him – he makes good sense," Gastgedal broke in.

"How so?" I asked both the men.

"Recall the festival of death? May you pass every day just so."

I did remember parts of the festival, enough to prefer such indulgence over hunger. "What does he demand of me?"

"Stamp out those followers of Ecealdor — you confess to knowing their leader. Go into his camp and inform on what you see."

I cared not a farthing for Ecealdor, the sneering tyrant, but nor did I crave to sell out Cirice. "No – no. Why do Domen's bidding, or more so, your bidding, you disgusting slug?" said I.

"Because I be my master's servant," said Begietan, drawing a dagger to prick at my ribs. "Because I serve my master's edicts, and his edicts serve only himself. My master uses those he wishes and throws them away. Do you make yourself refuse? You should never have spoken to me today, for you have taken the hand of the new order. You dicker yourself either essential or expendable. Which do you choose?" He firmly gathered my coat around my back, tight under the arms, and pressed his point with sheer metal in my flesh.

"Let me go. You cannot make me," weak words heralded my feeble struggle. I felt my heels rise slightly from the earth. My staff clattered to the ground, sounding like running footsteps. I glanced around for help and found Gastgedal missing.

"I can and will. I own you now. You will follow my command, or I will hunt you down to slit your throat like a hog."

"Let go!"

He did, onto the support of the dagger; the blade entered my side. I gasped and pulled away as best I could. Quickly I knew I made no martyr. When one believes only in oneself, hardly any point exists to die for one's convictions. The way Begietan knew the island, with the power he had attained under Domen, I knew I could never hope to escape him. Fully had I been bought.

"All right! All right!"

"You will do as I say, then?" Begietan pressed.

"Yes."

"Yes?" He shook me violently, my head rattling.

"Yes, sir." I despised myself.

Begietan dropped me to the ground and wiped his bloody dagger in my hair. I lay in the mud and tenderly tried to tend my wound. The blood pulsed, the pressure ached, and the choice of survival over pain came with difficulty. But in truth fear flowed more so than my gash, and the desire not to give over life to the whim of Begietan. "I expect a report in two days. Come to me, or I'll come to you," he explained. I entertained no doubt that he would.

Gastgedal, worthless, peered out of the cover of the underbrush, comically shrouded in scattered leaves. I scoffed under my breath at his impotent friendship. "You are of no good to me. You stay behind – Cirice does not like you." Gladly I would escape his company, yet never did I feel severed from him.

So here now another part of the heart within me beat its last. First my love for Astigan, then for the wife of my bed; the wish for community, then for my king – all had died. Now the love I had for myself, so misguided it was, even that fell under the executioner's blade. Vacant, paper man! I knew my wounded side would stand out like a badge, marking me a victim of Domen's rule, false witness of my dedication to the Coren-Ans. The vile corruption within made perfect complement to the filthy crust of my clothing. So I exchanged my soiled attire for clean garments upon some innocent laundress' line, and made for the moors. My new appearance of purity might succeed to fool some there, but certainly not me.

Beorn as well went about his foul bidding. From day to day, door to door, throughout the village he numbered men willing to spill blood for Domen, and men whose blood would spill. He listed anyone well old or young enough to lift a sword, tallied their weapons, calculated the horses and mules each could contribute. The days returned that baleful eyes met him at the doors and windows of the village. The townsfolk already knew it better to remain invisible in Domen's kingdom, and Beorn's rolls soon became a dangerously precise, tautly detested registry. Beorn also learned of a number who seemed absent from their homes lately, those who disappeared often in the evenings, not returning until early morning. Such men faded in and out of the mists of the moors.

"Many abide in the marshes," he said to Cwen, fingering through his ragged sheets. "More than we suspected."

"You give all your time to those lists," she replied.

"Duty requires me. I have no choice. I don't want to displease Domen."

"I regret the day we first listened to him. He cares only for himself."

"Do not say, Cwen. You believe me a shameful lackey to him, and rightly so. You must know he has posted spies and cutthroats everywhere. Do I make myself important to him? I tell you I'm not above suspicion. If he hears of you complaining against him, surely we will know his vengeance." Beorn's fingers fumbled nervously as his tongue.

"You think only of him now. I want you so devoted to me."

Beorn remembered when he had been. He took Cwen in his gentle embrace, and felt her slip away. Her eyes brushed the floor as she held her arms stiff. What had made for this stillbirth — Beorn slow to do her wishes, or Beorn yielding weakly to her pressure, and that of Domen? Cwen couldn't say what had grown to repulse her. Sorrowful, she knew not this man as one she could love, not in the way she wanted to love. Beorn let his hands drop, the sheaves of paper hanging perilously loose.

Some of the names from Cirice's followers came as a surprise to Beorn, belonging to men who openly declared loyalty to Domen only days before. Begietan had chosen well, and these men he sent to work discord in the midst of the marsh. I made my name surety, witness to my prying obeisance. Within Cirice's camp we wagged insolently of Coren's death. We speculated that his body disappeared to symbolize power slipping from Ecealdor. We claimed to have seen him in dreams or visions, speaking new words of secret knowledge. We fostered hope placed in a stick of rooted wood, the one sign of life within the ashes, the one thing a man could put his eyes and hands upon. Words flew like arrows to find idle ears.

"His spirit lives," a favorite greeting of mine.

"Yes, he must live!" might come the reply.

"I hear him rustling in the branches. His body matters not — but his spirit, it lives in all of us."

"What do you mean?" A crestfallen tone always followed.

"His body can't be alive. But no matter, he lives in the leaves. I saw him killed – his body fertilizes the tree. Good for the king! Now only his spirit lives, his memory, but lives forever," I followed my teachers well. "What a wonder!"

"But, his body vanished from the ash heap! You do not doubt that?"

"Ha! Perhaps I know it; perhaps I don't believe," I replied. "I saw him killed. If this man from Gægnian can fall to humble death upon Feallengod, then I might as well be prince."

"I choose to believe Witness."

"Well you might. But he can't claim sainthood himself. Don't forget, he joined his family and kept the orchards' food to himself. What secret agenda directs him now? He just enjoys the flattery of words, like anyone else."

Yes, Hatan came under particular attack; Cirice's spotty past also spawned much talk.

Only now do I realize my putrid failure. Perhaps I can take consolation in a lack of commitment to my task. Regardless, my words had little effect. I remember not a single member of Cirice's band falling away; still, argument arose and debate prevailed where listening should have reigned. The way I could twist truths and words, inspiration fails to describe. As the unity of the camp began to crumble, some began to wonder why they had traded one chaos for another.

"I suspect a snake in the grass, Witness. A weak attempt arises in our midst, to destroy our sanctuary," said Cirice one afternoon. He now gave all his time to the moors, organizing and studying, and many of his followers as well. Those with families still spent days in the village, but Hatan and others had taken to remaining with Cirice.

"Domen's wickedness grows yet more devious. He knows our feet tramp the moors, I am sure. He means to undermine us, and he will have us accusing each other if he can," said Hatan. In his weeks of serving under Cirice, the forces' numbers had grown and skills sharpened. Many found the comfort of labors focused their thoughts against the undercurrent of doubt. Armor and weaponry came to be polished, sculpture of delicate wood carving emerged, and the sights of beauty gladdened hearts within the cloud of the impending battle nobody doubted.

"I've heard the whispering. They count the prince dead. They call the king weak. He is only as weak as we are, and we are as strong as he is." Cirice squinted into an indeterminate horizon.

"Domen will find the chinks in the fortress."

"Better to meet him in the open, then, than to let him plant a cancer within us. I'd rather be killed by enemies than friends. Go find your father, young one. Tell him we march against Domen. Tell him one week — seven days and we march. That will bring Domen's army into the moors. We'll make ready, and perhaps leave the impression of a boot on his ass as we go down into death." Cirice's grim smile left no doubt: Prospects amused him not at all.

"Yes, I will tell him. Evening draws down, and he will arrive home by the time I get there. I might as well whisper into the ear of Domen himself."

"Do not make of your father an enemy, Witness. He has fallen to deceit, and may yet come to his senses, if he does not see hatred in you. Do not let your heart fail."

"Yes, you counsel well. I must remember. I'll return," Hatan said over his shoulder.

Upon the well-worn paths of Feallengod, Hatan couldn't outpace thoughts that this might prove his final journey to the home of his youth. The days past with his father in the orchards, the heavenly days under the leaves' tender attentions, seemed a distant fiction. Games of his boyhood — riding upon Begietan's back, springing out in childish attack from thinly veiled hiding — these vanities weighed especially absurd to him now.

As his feet bore him along, a voice in his head rose to a whisper, then into a nagging drone: "You are utterly alone, are you not, man of Feallengod?"

"No," he insisted. "I am not."

"You are alone, alone."

"No, no."

"But so you are. Soon your family will testify. You have separated yourself from them, and you are utterly alone."

"No."

"Do you expect your mother's embrace? Will your father run to meet you on the road?"

"No." Hatan's steps slowed.

"On an island of thousands and thousands, you are utterly alone. You have separated yourself from all humanity."

"No."

"See them at their work? There in the fields, there along the road. They go about their lives without this worry and despair. Who are you to judge their ways? What wrong lies in the lives they choose?"

"They're no different from me. It isn't me that makes the difference," Hatan thought.

"Don't you long for their company, for their friendship? Don't you desire love's embrace? There — don't you see her?" the voice said. "What about that girl — see the curve of her cheek? See her skirt sway against her moving? She looks at you — and now not, but she smiles still. Don't you long for her touch?"

"Yes." Hatan came to halt.

"Do you think her evil?"

"No."

"She will make you happy. She at least will drive away your sorrows."

"No. They will never leave me."

"You just haven't tried. Forget about what has happened. What's past fades into dead memory. You must cling to what you see now, and live in the world born to you. Let go of the things you saw once, the things you no longer see."

"No. I must remain faithful."

"Don't forget your failure. Don't forget, you betrayed Coren. No one will have you. Nobody will stand with you."

"I know I failed. I will fail again — nothing new. Cirice said so."

"Cirice only uses you, to lead you into destruction. You shake with fear."

"Yes. But I must trust him. I have no other – you say so yourself," Hatan's eye again caught the girl, her face brown from the sun. The smiled lingered.

"You have your final chance. She is not evil. See the softness in her eyes? Will you have a normal life? Or have you sold your soul?"

"Yes. I have a job to do. Cirice depends upon me."

"You will receive no love in return."

"I require none."

"You are utterly alone."

"So be it, then." Hatan bowed his head, and again his feet took to the path, and his mind to his mission.

Hatan's mind turned to another girl, his mother. He only vaguely remembered the times long ago, Cwen's voice in the kitchen, her glad song lightening the toil of everyone within hearing. In those days her touch, gentle as a petal, could lift away tears and heartaches, and her healing words would anoint his young spirit.

Cwen spent her days now seeking busyness, any kind distraction from her crumbling house. She studied her hands far beyond their interest at whatever work they found. The days had long passed that she cared about the orchards, the pits and cores of vain sweetmeats. Her thoughts turned ever more in to herself, though out of mourning what she had lost, rather than selfishness and what gain might be had. Once she had coveted the good foods of the land; now she only wanted her sons. One dead and gone, another crazed beyond recognition, the third stolen away by strangers.

"Hatan!" her cry cut like a knife as he appeared in the doorway. Her sewing fell as she jumped from her chair, running to throw arms around his neck. At last he had come home, and she thought to retain him through weight of will.

"Mother, I love you," he said, returning her hugs. For a moment they clung to one another like trees entwined together by the years. "I must speak to Father."

"Oh," she said simply, withdrawing her grasp. Her heart sank at the words. "He toils out back, replacing mortar fallen from the walls. Please make peace with him, Hatan. He needs you so. We so want you home." Without thinking, she reached to her breast, but no medallion hung there.

"I must do what I can, Mother."

"Hatan, your sword goes missing from the mantle," her eyes spoke her worry.

"I know," he replied. He exited the door; through one window and to the next, Cwen watched him round the house to the back where Beorn worked.

"Father, I come to speak to you."

"Hatan," said Beorn, working a trowel into large cracks where Begietan's room pulled away from the rest of the house. He looked up from his labors and stilled his hands; the two men kept an uneasy distance.

"You must know I'm with Cirice."

"Yes, I suppose I knew. I suspected no other thing could come upon me."

"We know Domen has moved against us. He cannot stand to let anyone slip from under his thumb, and so he conspires to eliminate us. I give you warning, we will march against his forces in a week's time."

"Domen means you no harm, nor your people either," said Beorn.

"Do you speak those lies, Father, or does Domen's own voice creep from your throat? You know I will not believe such things."

"I don't know what I say, nor what I believe myself. It seemed the best way, the easiest way ..." began Beorn.

"We will march within a week, Father, many men, with many weapons. I don't expect you to join, but please do not cross blades with us. If you refuse to stand against us, perhaps Ecealdor will show mercy to you."

"You still believe Ecealdor? Even after all your eyes have seen, you insist on still believing him?"

"Where else lies there to hope? Do you not feel the destruction awash around you? You don't trust Ecealdor, Father — then perhaps trust your eyes. Look at the overthrow of Feallengod, the rape of the orchards, the village's wreckage. See your own family, Father, it tears at the seams. Domen has his will with us! He has blinded your eyes, and you have preferred his darkness."

"Hatan, I don't begrudge your love for the old king, but you must consign him to legend. Recognize the folly of opposing Domen! I myself have counted his forces; he numbers surely ten to one against you. You have no hope of victory, no hope of survival. Men walk among you who will wait until battle enjoins, then slip their knives into your back. In deciding for battle, Hatan, you will rather choose suicide."

"You force me to decide, Father!" Hatan fairly screamed through his bitter tears. "What about the hymns, the singing that filled the orchards? Do you not remember? Have so many years passed that you can't remember? If those words only emptied the breath of your mouth, if they did not caress and carry your heart's longings, then they bear a putrid odor to me. And you refuse him even that barren devotion now. You it is who forces me to decide, Father, and you force me to decide against you."

Beorn dropped his tools to clasp his hands. "Please, Hatan, do not ride out with Cirice. So great a man of valor, still he can lead you only into the grave against these odds. No end awaits you in this but death."

"Fine. Then I will share the same end as Coren."

"Coren! Coren!" Beorn's voice and anger rose to match Hatan's. "That name has only poured out division upon Feallengod! Oh, how I yearn for Coren's memory to forever disappear from this island! How I lament, that he might never have drawn this line in the dirt to make us choose!"

"The problem lies not in Coren, Father; your heart mourns its own divide. You never sought him, never thought of trusting him. In your arrogance you took insult that the king bowed not to your desires. From the first time your eyes fell upon Coren, you rejected him, though he begged and pleaded and even came into your home."

"Please come back to me. Come back to me, Hatan," Beorn threw his lot to hopelessness.

"My name is Witness," came the reply.

A short pause seemed an eternity. "So you renounce your name." Beorn's countenance fell further, though hardly possible.

"I love you, Father, the father I grew up under; I can stand with you no longer. The day has passed when I would never go against you, when I defended you against even my own mother and brother; now I must declare you wrong in this. Go the way you must, but as for me, I will serve the king. I take a new name."

Beorn remained silent. Retrieving his trowel from the ground, he lightly poked at the space between two stones.

"Please do not ride against us, Father. One week's time."

Witness stood there another moment, then moved to leave. With no farewell to his mother, his duty done, he wept each step of the slow journey back into the moors and the tender embrace of his friends.

Beorn went through the motions of his work, until his arms drooped. He leaned his head against the vain strength of the stones and wished himself dead. His thoughts pounded within his brain until he no longer knew them but for their pain. Minutes, perhaps hours, passed, he knew not where, and he heard only the sound of his own breathing. Slowly he stood erect, wiped his hands on his pants, and started upon the smoothly paved path out of the village and toward the malevolent gloom of Domen's grave hideaway.

Chapter XVI

The ascendant sun dabbled about its palette, splashing the sky a rusty pink as I caught sight of Witness rushing his report back to the moors, his journey greatly winding him. Slowing to a jog past the guards, he threw a weak salutation and entered the open camp, resting his hands upon his hips, his head hanging backwards, chest heaving. I had used my history shared with Cirice to work into his inner circle, and I now drifted in his direction, to pick up what information I could.

Upon hearing Witness' gasping message, Cirice's first command sent his men directly back to their motley beds. Many obeyed eagerly; others lay stiffly upon the ground unable to sleep, complaining about the brightness of the sun or the chattering birds. Cirice kicked a couple of rib cages before turning deaf to the undercurrent, whipping instead into a whirlwind of thought.

"Well you grieve over battling your father, but you have no recourse at the moment. Perhaps a day comes with opportunity to seek forgiveness. Rest at peace for now, if you can; we must take the moment to think of our lives, while we have them.

"The sun safeguards us well enough during the day. Domen will do nothing by light of day," he handed a steaming cup to Witness.

"Perhaps the strongest should stay awake, perhaps put to work on a stockade," I offered.

"No, we must sleep as best we can in the sun, then lay awake at night, ready for his attack. Quiet over there! Go to sleep! Yes, and you too." He shoved me with his open hand, to no effect – I knew a closed fist awaited me if my ears did not wake lively. "Domen will come down upon us like a storm one of these nights soon. Each man who enters in the evening will have to remain awake, then stand sentry the following morning. We'll need only a few guards at a time. They can drop off for a few hours in the afternoon, and again spend the night awake, until the owls know to expect us. Every man will adjust to that schedule soon enough.

"Nobody can leave camp, not me, not anybody. All who come in must settle on remaining. The sentries must detain anyone trying to leave, and prepare to lay them low. Your father confirms our intuition." Cirice stopped pacing and pulled close a fellow standing nearby, speaking to him softly. "Soldier, put in bonds those spies we know; we must open wide our eyes for others sent among us." Now I truly did try to drift away, as benignly as I had drawn near, stretching as if to bed down, looking disinterested but staying within earshot.

"We must lie undercover, wise as snakes. We must expect Domen within the week, and make ourselves ready in secret. A week's time, that's to our advantage; they'll come little prepared. They will rely upon their greater numbers, and honestly that probably will carry the day, but one never knows. They'll bear the mark of little training, and the discipline only of fear. We're much smaller, but the rugged life makes for steel readiness."

Cirice's shoes sorted the stones underfoot as his mind did ideas. "Good for us too, no fleet lies at Domen's use. With Ocean Heofon at our backs, he can't flank us. Men coming at our backs off the ocean, now that would mean real trouble. They must not know we expect them — keep our lights low, but have torches ready to burn. We must root out the spies. The cover of darkness alone offers them surprise, and in those hours we will make ourselves most ready. Events couldn't turn better for us." Cirice's gaunt optimism again indicated either cynical confidence or utter insanity.

He caught sight of me and beckoned, "On second thought, come over here, friend."

"What is it?" said I.

"Just this." He planted a fist so securely to the underside of my jaw that later I found a shard of tooth stabbing my cheek. Only long after did I reckon what had happened to me; a horse once kicked me, too, an experience much the same. I remember the starburst, then awaking to find myself trussed up and tied to a persimmon tree. A gag crammed into my mouth also served as a bandage to my swollen jaw. How I got there, or for how long I sat so disposed, I can only leave to imagine. This I do know, though: It might have been the greatest favor a fellow man has ever done me, though certainly I blighted him then. For all the begging and pilfering of my life, this most precious gift I never asked for nor desired nor even knew I hungered after. Bound and gagged, I was given to be an ineffective turncoat, only an onlooker to the massacre of kinsmen, spared from being again a murderer against my king. Never will I forget the good work Cirice did me that day.

A similar scene unfolded a few hours before, dense in the wood at the opposite, darker side of Feallengod. Slow though he had walked, Beorn relayed his son's message to Domen when morning still lay wee. Domen quickly sent Begietan with his lieutenants invading the village, armed with clubs and Beorn's lists, to forcibly muster his army.

"Attack me?" Domen fumed. "Death they desire, to my glad accord. How dare they threaten me! I rule, prince of this land — so has he said. I will crush them — I will crush them under my raging will alone! If they so wish to retire to their graves, so will I accommodate them. They will choke on my army, on the writhing of my anger, they will learn my rage will never end. I will come down upon their heads like stars falling from the heavens." A scorpion crawled around the back of Domen's neck.

Beorn returned to the village and his hovel, where he found Cwen back at her sewing. She had made no progress since the evening before, the fabric she held now wet with tears. Without a word through the house, he walked to the back room. She saw only the lance and shield as he returned.

"Beorn, please, do not go out against Hatan," her eyes begged him.

He could not look at her. "I must go. If not, Domen will compel me — all the worse for me, and the result the same. Here I flop about, futile, like a bird in a snare — my attempts to fly only entangle me more."

"Beorn, please," Cwen continued, blocking his exit at the door.

"Get out of my way," he said curtly.

"Please, Beorn, please," was all she could speak.

"Don't make me have to – " he threatened, but could not finish.

She collapsed into sobbing upon the step, her heart breaking at Beorn's every footfall through the doorway, down the old path, making no reply.

Witness slumbered through the morning, not to arise until the heat of the day. He joined in Cirice's constant planning as the defense of the camp took shape. I, wrapped in ropes like a winding sheet, sat near enough to see, distant enough to fall deaf. Cirice pointed generally in the air, Witness watching and nodding. Busy with his hands, he often took the young man by the shoulders, or jabbed him with a finger just enough to raise reaction. His familiar fondness caught in my throat.

"We will place the lances and pikes at the front, in case of cavalry charge," he told Witness. "Our own riders will deploy in the open lands to the north, to come down upon their flank. Archers will be under my direct command; short of a slow advance of their infantry, longbows won't do us much good, I fear. We'll so decide as the battle bends, whether we lay down bows and take up swords. The infantry will establish positions in camp; we must pack the soldiers tight, keep our lines together. Witness, you will take command of these.

"Fellows, make yourselves two companies: Digging and cutting. Choose up your tools. First group, carve out a trench dug across the front of the camp, waist deep will do. This group over here, yes you, take up shovels and picks and get started. You others, scale the trees and cut fresh branches. We'll need hundreds, not too heavy, full with leaves. Twice a man's height or so. Quickly, we haven't much time!"

Outside the deep forest, Domen thundered at his assortment of minions. Though clinging to the shadows of the wood, he could not avoid the sun's exposure, adding light to his foul temper. Brandishing a whip, backed by Begietan and his deputies, he drove his fighters into formation and drilled them in his tactics.

"We will sweep down upon them hard! They threaten your homes, to rape your wives, devour your children! You must slaughter this creeping menace! You must wipe them out! The cavalry will come down upon them first, and hard! The infantry will charge behind, hard! We will pound, and pound, and pound away! You, my troops, my right in Feallengod, will bring down all the evil upon them that I give you! Not one will remain standing, not one! They make much of that tree within the rubbish heap – I allow no other symbol! Bring me its head!"

His men raised all the enthusiasm they could, and some woodsmen set off to execute the tree. These farmers and mill workers, miners and cobblers, only that morning cast their thoughts only to their trades. Not a soldier among them, though they took up arms of their own accord, they trembled to hear of what lay ahead. Beorn tried to work into the heart of the throng, to escape the blows and humiliation of his son Begietan's bullying.

Hastily, over no more than two or three days, the army organized and trained. These were the scruffy growth of Begietan's gang once humiliated by Gelic-El. The ragged battalions bore no polish, but at least their weapons no longer posed threat to their own ranks. Finally Domen's patience ran its course.

"Begietan!" The voice roared. "We march on the camp tonight!"

"These men bleed raw! Their fighting will do them more harm than their enemies can hope to," Begietan spat his disdain.

"If I needed your advice ..." Domen gritted his teeth. "You'll not know that pleasure! I want it not now, nor ever! I care not how they die, nor if they die. Get ready to march!"

Begietan scowled. "All right, you people, you heard him! Get into ranks!" The green switch in hand streaked red upon necks and shoulders.

Three nights she sat alone, and for three nights Cwen did not sleep. The interminable days dragged, the nights worse still. Her fears for her husband and sons mocked the quiet, and she wept until her tears were exhausted, until the night fell fully upon her heart.

Witness watched the sun retreating over the mountain range, the musky dark filling his nostrils. The island's high peaks cast dusk early upon the moors. He looked to Cirice and heaved a sigh.

"Each passing day draws them closer," said Cirice.

"Yes. A clear sky tonight, likely, with a full moon — Domen will not like it so. Can we do no more to prepare?"

"Bid the men continue fasting into the night — keep them sharp. And pray."

Beorn sat upon the ground, wiping an oily cloth along the blade of a dagger. Begietan swaggered behind and sniffed at his father's bedraggled appearance.

Cwen rocked silently before a slowly dying fire, staring blankly into the coals.

Witness walked the lines of the infantry, securing armor and making his charges alert. Yet his own thoughts wandered to the orchards, and the single tree of the ashes.

And there sat I, lord of my domain, self-reliant to the end, held tight by my wooden guard. The folly of my pride strutted before me, struggling there against the ropes and muzzle I had chosen for myself, no more than just another inert object in camp. My captors' indifference completed my dissolution, found out a traitor and made an impotent fool. I thought of the bonds about my arms and chest, and about the dangling stone, and how one rope persistently frayed while the others held fast. Helpless, I could do no more than watch events from over the tattered edge of the musty gag. What a vain peacock is man, to believe himself master of his own fortunes. How fickle our passing days seem to us, when truly guided by those who rule, though they remain unseen to us. Let go, oh man; you do not even know what to desire.

Domen croaked the order: "March to your glory, men! Serve me well! March to victory for the lion of Feallengod!"

Cirice stood at the front of camp alongside the sentries, the sharpest eyes scanning for movement upon the outlying country. Seconds slowed, breath held, and still they watched in wait. Then it came: Massive numbers of men, mounted and on foot, appeared from around the southern foothills. Their ranks approached rapidly, the cavalry at a canter and infantry behind, pushing a swift pace to keep up.

"They come! Look lively, they approach!" Cirice called out as he sprinted to camp, through the lancers and archers and into the infantry. The men roused themselves with a mighty shout, awakening an explosive fluttering of wings as great flocks of the birds of the heavens took flight from the canopy of trees overhead. The women and families of the camp, who had come to minister to the soldiers, retreated toward the ocean's shore. I uselessly awaited fate.

"They come! Go, alert the horsemen! And try not to get your butt killed," and Cirice dispatched a courier to the north. "They come! Though many or few, they avail nothing against the promise of Ecealdor! Stand fast! Stand fast! He will return! May these men not prevail against him!"

Cirice climbed to a post on a high platform, spying out the advance. Peering intently, he saw that Domen himself led, mounted upon a burly horse that only emphasized his own gaunt, wasted frame. Begietan rode beside, and then both flanked in turn by more chargers than Cirice could make out. Beorn lost himself among the multitude of infantry bringing up the rear.

Cirice jumped from his post to take up a bow alongside the archers.

About three hundred yards from camp, Domen's army paused. Riders and infantry alike milled about, and indistinct voices shouted mottled orders. Torchlight flashed, menacing, off long swords and pikes. Cirice's men strained their necks to spot the distant enemy. Then, without apparent cause, the horses startled and the mounted troops broke into a charge; a breath's moment later the camp heard the sudden blaring of a brassy horn. At full gallop the brutes bore down upon the camp; a banner emblazoned with a gilt lion rode at their head, flickering in the wind. The camp's lancers, their weapons planted in the ground, leaning toward the attack, braced against the brunt of the crashing wave of onslaught. "Stand fast! Stand fast!"

Abruptly, horses pressing in so close that the men felt the mists of their husky snorting, the line of cavalry disappeared into a writhing, tumbling confusion of legs and bodies engulfed in the terrible dark. A melee of twisted flesh and cursing spewed from below into the night air. The weak covering of branches, camouflaged by leaves and shadows, had given way under the horses and sent them screaming into Cirice's trench directly in front of his lancers. Yet so many yards away, I winced and jarred against my bonds at the impact of the carnage. Even at my distance, I saw the flash of terror in their eyes; I saw men thrown upon the piercing spears. The animals struggled to regain their feet, scores of riders swallowed and crushed beneath their rolling bodies. Horses not at the front of the charge managed to stop short at the ditch's edge, discarding their riders into the fray. At best, horsemen who remained unscathed had to abandon their refusing mounts and proceed on foot.

As Domen's infantry struggled to cross the heaving mass of bodies, the lancers engaged them head-on with unrelenting, stabbing thrusts, pikes held high overhead. The archers let fly arrows in a high arc, returning again a deadly rain upon the rear of Domen's infantry. Witness' foot soldiers girded themselves for a new offensive, sure to come. Domen, still mounted, cursed and berated his men, as did Begietan, shooting well-considered and well-aimed arrows.

As Domen's forces began to regain their bearings, the small cavalry from the camp swept down at a gallop from the north. This tiny force – pounding hooves racing past so perilously close that I feared for my legs – larger in bravado than strength, showed themselves ready to trade teeth for flesh, surely charging into their deaths. The northern flank of Domen's army fell into disarray, and many broke and ran, including Beorn, who found cover in a low thicket. But I could see massive numbers of Domen's infantry advancing, slow like a grinding wheel, and pouring into the breach, grasping hold of bridles and pulling riders down; the advantage of Cirice's forces soon passed. Witness ordered the infantry into frontal attack. Cirice signaled the archers to take up swords and join the advance.

This second wave again set back Domen's forces, but still line after line of his infantry continued to join the battle. Solid footing among the fallen bodies failed the grappling men. Cirice stood in the thick of the fighting, wielding his sword against three and four foes at once. A heavy blow from a scimitar broke his blade right in two. "Piece of crap!" he bellowed, and plowed into his adversaries with no more than his shield, bowling them over backwards. A second later and the shield too was gone in pieces, and Cirice picked up a discarded axe, wielding it with all the strength of both arms, daring his opponents to draw near.

Witness waded into the infantry, directing movement and encouraging the men to hold their ground. Lanterns and torches upset by the struggle ignited small fires in the underbrush and peaty soil; holding a line together grew yet more difficult. As the enemy swelled toward them, Witness could pick out familiar faces, each one bent upon killing him. His short sword served well, though each blow landing upon a man of Feallengod stabbed his own heart also. Somewhere amid the clash Beorn concealed himself within his hedge.

The swarm of Domen's army gradually claimed the upper hand. "Press up to the trench! Hold the trench!" Cirice screamed over the incredible clashing, but to no avail. He, and Witness, and all the men of the camp understood the dawn of being overwhelmed. To the right a man slung a sword wildly with one hand; Witness' stomach knotted to see the man's other hand, swinging, useless, from a bloody gash halfway down his forearm. Cirice strained toward better fighting ground, but bodies of fallen comrades held fast his feet. And still Domen's army drove harder and harder. The attacking numbers swelled, just too great; each of the camp's small victories dissolved into the air as the onslaught continued.

War certainly shows mankind at its worst, the fruit of ambition and greed realized. Yet in the midst of all its bloody outrage, man can show himself altruistic as well. I sat in safety and pondered such things as I saw my fellow islanders on both sides falling at the cruel edges of swords and knives. Many tried to drag wounded countrymen to safety, only then cut down themselves. Others sought escape, only to meet the weapons of their mates. A stifling dust that rose and mixed with the mist plagued my nose and throat, and I remained unable to prevent any of it. And then, as if sent only to increase my affliction, there stood Gastgedal. Again, out of all the multitude of Feallengod, he had found me.

"Ah, what a grand spy you be!" he greeted me. With the battle swarming all around, as though not a single soldier took notice of him, the old villain squatted before me, beaming with grinning sarcasm. "Well you serve your master, supporting that tree. Your weakness will speak well of you in his courts."

I made grunting sounds, so well gagged was I, pleading to be set free. My squirming at the ropes only added to Gastgedal's entertainment, and he in turn let me remain his captive audience.

"Yes, you fool, strive against the bondage! Struggle against the grip of slavery! You cannot escape! And I will not release you. You and me, we belong together! Never would I think of abandoning you."

He stood again and began to pace, hanging his head at me. "Long you've thought you had control, that you serve yourself, but time has come to show that you serve me. Though once we romped together with gladness, I sense reluctance in you lately. This does not please me. And now you are at my mercy, no? Will I let you go? Will you pursue your way or mine? Think you are better than me? I swear to you, you are only as worthy as I allow.

"So now you wallow at my feet, seeking aid at my kindness. First I think you have more lessons to learn yet again, and I think I it be who again must send you off to school. You cannot so easily shed me as by sneaking into this camp. Do you not see, here am I? Joining yourself with Cirice will not break my bond with you, friend. You will learn to follow my will, though you hate it with all your heart. You will learn to submit to me."

With that he drew back the blunt end of his staff, taking careful aim. Our eyes attached, his with purpose and mine in pleading. Violently I lurched against the ropes, to no avail. The staff crashed against my head, though I tried to limply roll with the impact, and I could barely hear my own muted groan. Gastgedal took careful measure of his prey as he crossed back and forth before me, landing blow after blow, I defenseless as a newborn, as every moment I'd spent with him came back upon me. Thus did I partake in a battle, as a battle raged around me, unperceived, uncomprehended. I could no longer see it for my own conflict, and that to no good end.

Watching from atop his mount, Domen's eyes found Witness. "For your testimony," he growled, "you will fall to me." Choosing a long trident from a tangled sheaf of weapons, he spurred his horse to pick its way toward Witness. Glaring down at the struggling warrior, Domen slowly worked through the teeming mass of violence around him. In the corner of his eye, Witness caught a bronze glint overhead and turned to see the trident aloft, its cold fingers pointing in accusation. Domen tested the balance of the weapon in his hand, grinning at his victim, ready to throw. "Prepare to join your beloved Coren," he shouted, foam spewing from between his teeth. With swords and clubs threatening from every side, frustrated by the confusion of which bloody man was friend and which foe, Witness recognized eternity at hand. He could turn away from Domen or face him, force Domen to stab him in the back or stare him down, defiant in death. Disregarding the conflict around him, Witness set his feet and turned his chest to the blow, cocking his sword for one last, desperate thrust.

Terror was only just on the rise.

As the havoc had continued on every side, muddled thoughts shot through my head of the heroism I might offer; ah, fool, had reality somehow cut your ropes, you surely would have fled. But first I'd have crippled Gastgedal. On and on went his abuse, stick and words. "You belong to me! You cannot escape my grip!" His berating rambled and at last turned meaningless until I noticed he'd stopped altogether. Through blood and sweat, and no way to wipe it clean, I struggled to see as he scampered away into shadow. A familiar yet forgotten scent haunted the air. Not caring enough to be grateful, I hung from my bonds like a pig from a hook. Then I heard it too.

A low rumbling rolled in off the horizon, a quaking coming from the shores of the ocean, and the choking dust dissipated. The trembling earth gave warning; indeed, the fighting waned and then hesitated as the combatants turned their attention in the direction of the echoing rhythm, a sound like heavy hoof beats. There in the billowing vapor, a giant shadow, a fearsome form slowly took shape against the moonlight glancing off the ocean. A great black spectre, long hair and beard whipping in the wind, draped in a flowing cape that seemed to somehow cover the entire camp, came at the armies across the mossy ground, mounted upon a huge horse at full gallop, coming down upon the battle with irresistible doom. A majestic figure bathed in darkness that glowed with light not there, a roaring stillness streaming behind, delicately etching the swirling air. The rolling mists hastened to make way for the immense phantom borne upon the beating hooves, drumming out a bodhran's military cadence. I tilted my eyes upward.

I swear, he smiled at me in my cowering as he passed.

"Blawan!" Domen screamed.

Indeed, Blawan, King Ecealdor's mysterious battle lord. Greater than Mægen-El, greater even than Gelic-El, greater than Dægræd-El's grandest conceit, Blawan came and went as the wind blew. At the service of the king he made ever present, seen and then unseen, never failing, never flagging, never far. His might in battle raged like a wildfire, consuming all in his path; his was the arm of Ecealdor's power and determination to judge.

Blawan sat erect, tall atop his steed, a great animal bred in the highlands of Gægnian, mane and silken hocks snapping with each stride. His head bare, Blawan's breastplate and shield flashed like pools of molten silver, so polished as to cast a perfect reflection. The moonlight framing his head tinged his hair red like flame. High against the night he held his peculiar sword: Broad and sharp in the blade it was, shining like a ray of the sun, and from its hilt flowed a long, elegant feather, as if topping a quill.

Ecealdor's greatest officer had arrived, the lone passenger of a fleet of vessels from Gægnian, putting into the bays just as the conflict joined. Hearing the din of battle, Blawan had jumped his mount easily over the ship's railing and shallow waters, hitting the shore at full clip. A cold wind cut the bones of Domen's troops. Standing in his stirrups, head back in full voice, the roar of the sea's stout gales, the great Battle Lord drove his mighty beast up the lines of stone-struck men, hooves pounding flesh and sinew beneath. Men scattered in a deadly retreat, desperate to escape. He seemed a thousand, a million blades, drawn against a conquered nation. The fallen soldiers clawed after safety, thinking of injustice, and virtue, and judgment. Then down the line again, yelling throatily, Blawan rode through the midst of the fight, employing his sword tenaciously against the soldiers of Domen, scattered before his punishing blows and the panting, snorting brute below.

"Blawan!" Domen raged again as he drew near, startling his own steed with his eruption of furious shock. "Curse you, you bastard spore, son of a bitch! You pollute the shores of my island! You can not stop me, you dead man's toady! How dare you intrude!"

"Vere Cirice goest, Blavan goest," his ancient accent whispered in the wind. His burly steed pawed the ground impatiently, and musky swirls of fog swept in spirals around him. One swipe at Domen with the flat of his blade, and Blawan sent him head over heels down a small embankment into a puddle of murky water. "Vun day," he said.

Cirice's forces again took heart, and followed Blawan into the core of Domen's army. As quickly as that, the battle flagged, floating into the vapors. In a confused tangle, Domen's ill-trained troops had thrown down their arms and run under the threat of Blawan's two-edged sword and the hammering of hooves; they had of a truth been many in number, but proved weak of spirit. Domen remembered another time thwarted by the failings of his army; as he gathered himself and slunk away, he swore never to let the weakness of his followers determine his fate again.

Cirice sat down hard upon the ground alongside his soldiers, too exhausted to hold up his shoulders. Shed blood, no telling whose, smeared his armor. Too much death surrounded him to allow for celebration, but he could not help a certain satisfaction at having survived. Not an hour before, he had hoped only to make a good end. Witness stood dumbly, his mouth hanging open as wide as his eyes, gazing upon Blawan, still high upon his steed. The king's battle lord touched his blade to each of Witness' shoulders, as if to knight him.

"Fly. Run. Walk. Standest faithful, as he ist."

Smoke from the fires twisted lightly into the fog, creating a dense curtain, hung like mourning rags over the slaughter. Though locked in deadly combat only moments earlier, these men of Feallengod littering the field had lived as neighbors to each other long before they died as enemies. The dead and injured lay all about, but unless a wounded man cried out, the night gave not much hope of putting a name to anyone. So cruel irony had its way indeed as Beorn, picking his way out of the moors, stumbled upon the muddy, battered, lifeless body of Begietan.

Chapter XVII

The darkness folded over Beorn's aimless wandering, and his heart as well, as it swelled into one emotion then sank to the next. Surviving the battle had been his dearest wish; but instead of breathing glad relief, his soul gnawed at guilt. And why had he lived through the battle? Because he had crawled under the safe branches of cowardice, an ample bush. Again loathing within accused him of failure, of weakness. To what purpose had he survived? If Domen discovered his desertion, likely no better fate than death awaited. And Begietan — as usual, he knew not what to feel about Begietan. Should he grieve? His son's heart long had died to him; seeing his body only forced Beorn to believe what he had known for years. So fear loosed its grip upon his heart, only to give way to hatred, swirling into grief, then guilt, and back again to fear.

The rising sun, finding slim exposure between the horizon and an incoming tempest, called him to the home that had offered shelter from so many past storms. The path, the same winding, narrow way so common to Feallengod — he remembered the many days he had set out upon his own path with the dawn for company, Cwen singing benediction from the window. Now the smooth stones, feeling like glass beneath his feet, made him ashamed to return again to the hovel, knowing he had betrayed those many faithful generations of ancestors before him. His mind froze, paralyzed at the thought of telling Cwen she had lost yet another son. The storm clouds barreled in off Ocean Heofon, their purplish-black rolling in and out of Beorn's mood. Through the murky wilderness of Feallengod he drifted until he found himself at the place he most detested, Domen's deep woods.

A limp songbird hung from Domen's jagged fingers, downy feathers clinging lightly to his bristling whiskers, tinged red, framing his startled face. Denied his mountain, and the relative sleep of his matted pallet, he made do with a crude nest of fallen leaves, dry and wet, dusty and rotting.

"You slug, you would make me wait?" he growled. "Your son has proved his worthlessness, and leaves me to reorganize by myself. Well that I'm rid of him! One less fool of Feallengod for me to gnash against."

"I don't want ..." Beorn began to protest.

"Shut up! My problems abound enough with Blawan — I will hear nothing from you, man of Feallengod. Killing off the rebels makes for hellish work now with Blawan here. The day comes when your bumbling will no longer thwart my desires, you vile squatter! Force won't suffice at all now. Attack now must issue from a cancer within, yet more division, more accusation, more corruption. I will fill the camp with agents, all the hundreds I can, sneaking vermin and bile, starting with you. Elder in the village! You joke — but so you are known, so take your place within the camp, use your authority to take charge. Raise enough men to overthrow Cirice, then bend the rest to me. Contort their love of themselves, or Feallengod, or of pleasure. Stoke arguments about thin differences, feed their proud minds, choke out forgiving ways with complaint. Wrap them up in trifles, whatever divides. Use all the lies you can contrive."

"I don't want ..." Beorn's voice bleated.

"A plague upon you! Damned, putrid rodent! Get out of my sight! Out of my sight!" Domen's words and arms whipped into frenzy, firing at Beorn with rocks and logs much too great for him to have reasonably lifted. Beorn ran from the wood, as Domen's diatribe rang through his head, again retreating and lost. He resumed his wandering, a sojourner in his own land, thoughts colliding within his mind. Unable to think, unwilling to concentrate, Beorn tried to arrive nowhere. At last, out of duty or perhaps desperation, he turned back for the moors. Perhaps he should obey his orders; perhaps Hatan would tell him what to do. This time, he promised himself, he would listen to Hatan.

The threatening clouds gave up their rain as he made for the camp — heavy, full drops pelted his face. The downpour's pattering upon the ground, a million times multiplied, sounded like the growling purr of a ravening lion.

Head down, Beorn trudged as the mud grasped sucking hold of his feet. Slimy rocks and slick, leaf-covered trails left him slipping and sliding along his way. Many times he went down, struggling mightily back to his feet, bruised and scraped, covered with the muck of his world, rain still pouring. Arriving at the outskirts of the camp at last, he lifted his head to see nothing but the destruction of the night before. Bodies still lay upon the ground, but only those of Domen's followers.

Beorn halted, puzzled at the spreading scene of ruin: Arrows lying about harmlessly, bloody spears sticking into the soil. Only then did he realize the silence of the camp; he heard nothing but the drone of the rain. His face aghast, he broke into a run deep into the moors, water flaring into the air at each footfall. No braying of donkeys greeted him, no barking of dogs, no clattering of cooking pots, and no sentries appeared from the cover to call him to account. In camp, the fires' last dying embers smoldered against the rain, supplies and weapons littered the ground, and spies struggled mutely against their trusses. Among them sat I, rain washing away the dried blood of my beating; my wild expressions and pitiful grunting pleaded with Beorn, but his eyes seemed to have grown darkened, veiled in a milky, muddy glaze, not as though he were going blind, but as if all the light had drained out of him. His gaze appeared both directionless and ranging far beyond me, straining to glimpse Hatan, or any of his fellows, staring deep into the expanse of the horizon.

Cirice was gone. Hatan was missing, too, as well all the men, the living and wounded, the dead and dying. Gone too were the wives, the sons and the daughters who had chosen to tend to the men of the camp.

A peal of thunder, and a terrifying thought flashed like the lightning. As the storm beat upon him, Beorn sprinted through the marshes toward the eastern bays. He quickly ran far into the distance, until finally his feet pounded upon the wooden docks, the only answer a hollow echo. His eyes froze upon the sight he had dreaded, his feet skidding to a halt, barely clinging to the edge of the pier.

Proud on the ocean's surface rose the masts and sails of Blawan's longboats, distant on the waters of Heofon. Upon the masts' highest pinnacle waved the flag of Gægnian. Blawan had journeyed the vast distance to Feallengod not just to defend Cirice and all his number, but also to seal their passage to the courts of the king.

These cursed eyes had lain witness to it all. After the battle Blawan cut short the muted celebration and directed every man, woman and child to the boats. First the dead, treated with royal respect and deference, washed and wrapped in white linen. Then the wounded, their injuries tended, helped down to the docks. Last the healthy, followed by Cirice, Witness, and finally Blawan. The mighty warrior offered tender care to even the least, even the most frail, stabbing at my cold heart, and I called out. But the gag prevented me — I called, how I begged! Was I not too wounded? My efforts even yet fell well short, and once again I believed myself abandoned. Yet another brush with royal grace, my refusal bittersweet with longing as well. I had bound myself to the curse, and the curse held me in its grip.

Beorn's despair washed over him like the deluge: In that moment he realized in stunned epiphany that all he wanted then, or had ever wanted, was aboard those ships set out for Gægnian. A scream arose in his chest, and he tore at his waistcoat; Beorn collapsed to his knees and wept, but tears in their weakness only mocked the depth of his hopelessness. The uncaring rain washed away the witness of his sorrow, and I could only listen to his distant anguish.

***

Deep in the bowels of the woods, under nature's gracious covering, Domen bent oblivious to the rain as his scheming built upon itself. Perched upon a stone, his elbows dug into a large oaken stump that served as a rough table. "I can bring them down, or I can raise them high. Either way, I win. I will tear them apart, through pride or poverty. I will break them apart until they curse Ecealdor, and forget Coren altogether."

At a twittering sound, Domen turned his head to two simpering faces, similar in appearance, eyes adoring him with anticipation as if to suggest they fed from his attention, and he might feed off them. They appeared familiar to him.

"Lord Domen, we come to you, Mann and Cynn Draca," said one. "I am Mann, he is Cynn." Between breaths the two laughed like chirping birds through their noses.

To this point I have spared myself telling of the Draca twins, but they forced themselves upon the island, and now again upon me. Suffer long, my mind, yield not your peace to the tale of these vile serpents. My king, forgive the words I must sacrifice to these, your enemies! Yet claim I any more better? Of what use such comparison, for the depth of their guilt does nothing to clear mine. Indeed, my wickedness, as theirs, overflowed the island long before the reign of Domen. Vultures to the poor, they grew rich with swindle. The clever would never fall victim to their clumsy cheating, so they made game of only the foolish and feeble. The weaker the prey, the better, for their concern; one penny stolen pleased them as well as a million. As the law of Ecealdor waned from the people's thoughts, the Draca twins took advantage quickly. And yet they hesitated to fall behind Domen, always testing the wind. At last they knew the time to throw their lot, and now offered their foul services.

"I know you, from behind the corners of the village," said Domen, briefly looking them up and down.

"We run the alchemy shop."

"Idle work for the stupid. Tell me your offerings before I flay you. I have no time to tolerate fools."

"You know us from your army, too. We fought the great battle." And mirth like fools washed over their faces.

"I know who marched with me, and I would remember your vomitous presence." Domen glowered at the two, setting them to more nervous twittering.

"You judge rightly, Lord Domen. We fought not at all. We stayed home. We hid."

"Did you make your journey here to brag?"

"We come because we love you, Lord Domen."

"You tease me with falsehood — better yet if you believe it. If you look to curry favor, you have much to prove. But you show potential."

"We wish to serve you now, Lord Domen. We would make no soldiers, never, don't want to get hurt, but your man Begietan fell dead, very dead." And again the laughing.

"Just as well to be rid of him, and you may join him if you wish."

"Make us your aides now, Lord. We tell the people what to think, at our shop, and to think of you, and we can make support for you. We know ways to conjure desire, secret ways. Give them not long, they will hunger to follow you or die."

"And how do the people think of me now?"

"Oh, with great love they love you, Lord Domen, they would do anything for you." Laughing.

"They don't think of me at all, until I come at their backs with a whip. They stay well occupied feeding the lusts of their flesh."

"Yes, wise Lord, they don't think of you at all."

"You pick like birds at my cadaver. Lying comes as second nature to you. You could come very useful to me."

"Mann here is the liar," said one, and he laughed.

"You called yourself Mann before," said Domen.

"Yes, you accuse well, I am Mann. Cynn here is the liar."

"You indeed speak inspired guile. A father could not give prouder audience to two sons."

"Permit us serve you, Lord. We can tell you something now you'll like, something to help you." Excited laughter followed.

"Spit it out then."

"Blawan flees the island, and Cirice as well," said Mann and Cynn in one pasty voice, as though passing idle gossip. "Departed this morning, with all from the camp. They left in the boats from Gægnian, back to Gægnian."

"What?! What do you say?" Domen jumped from his seat. "Do you swear to this? Swear on your mother's soul, or do you dangle another lie?"

"Yes — no. We speak truth." They grieved at the admission.

"I don't believe you! You will pay dearly for this trickery! I will see for myself!" Domen scrambled from the woods' shelter and toward the island's eastern end, Mann and Cynn trailing behind. Doughy and foppish, unaccustomed to exerting themselves, they quickly fell behind Domen as he raced toward the docks.

The overcast eased Domen's pain of the day's light. My bonds had stretched loose enough to allow my violent shaking as he passed, ambivalent to his disabused mercenaries. We sat prisoners of time and a fate designed by a multitude of strings. Not until and not before Domen reached the end of the pier did he break his stride; there Beorn still lay, doubled over upon his knees, his fingers knitted over the back of his head. Domen's eye caught only a final glimpse of the longboats disappearing behind the northern coast, looping westward toward Gægnian; any later and he might not have seen enough to force belief. He came as close as he ever had to dancing, his arms outstretched above his head. "I win! I prevail! Ecealdor deserts Feallengod! No more shall I suffer the humiliation of your tiny victories! No more will these puny men tread upon my appetites! The island truly falls to me now, the island is mine. Blawan departs, the power removed! For a ship, oh, if only for a ship to pursue! If I could make the waters divide, and the land emerge dry, I would follow after, to strike you down even in your homeland, you fleeting coward! I am king of Feallengod; I am just as he is. I attain all principality, and power!" The hollow echo of his exultation trailed across the moors and found home only in his own heart.

"Told you so," Mann and Cynn gasped from shore, stopping short and struggling to recover their wind.

Beorn looked up through the tears and rain, barely making out Domen's form, standing erect, grinning, hands on his hips. "You!" a growl rumbled within Beorn. "You've destroyed my family! You've stolen from me my sons!"

"A buffoon and a coward. Well done to rid you of both!"

"You!" Beorn again erupted, and from his crouch lunged at Domen. No stranger to betrayal, Domen easily deflected the attack, delivering his heel sharply to Beorn's head. Beorn rolled moaning onto his back, perilously close to the pier's edge. Domen considered his prone figure.

I watched from my leafy prison, confining me but offering no protection from the wet. I struggled and trembled against the ropes, poor, pathetic attempts, then again resigned to defeat. My hair and clothing plastered my skin; I suffered with hunger and aching, tormented by the sight of the departing ships — I had finally earned the night in the moors that had menaced my childhood. At this low point, I drank in the true face of cruelty, its indulgent excesses. After the heartbreak of losing Astigan, after seeing battered Liesan in the hands of royal knaves, now I witnessed the father of malice at his work. Empty fortune, the king, the lord of the mountain – did they not all work against me? And still yet I wept only for myself. Domen delivered two sharp kicks into Beorn's groin, then walked studiously around his writhing body. He spat upon Beorn's face, applying his heel to grind it in. He trod upon Beorn's fingers and ankles, curling the man like a worm into the smallest possible target. He took up Beorn's staff, lying on the dock not far away, and brought the stout end against his head and ribs until Beorn could no longer groan. "Rise, you who suddenly call yourself saint! Arise, and serve me! Love me!"

Never had I witnessed such gleeful brutality as now visited upon this helpless man, and yet I remembered the hundreds of temptations visited upon me to deliver just the same abuse. At last I knew, it lay not upon me to hate Ecealdor for allowing evil; I must hate evil for itself and not rest until it succumbs. And I screamed and wept, because for me all hope faded, lost, and still the gag stole away my lamentation.

"As the branch is, so is the vine, no, man of Feallengod? You draw equal to the uselessness of your sons, both of them."

"You. You — why must you do this?" Beorn moaned through his agonies, prone upon the ground.

Domen glared as though more willing to kill him than answer. "Because I am," he said, and stalked around his crumpled form.

"Cynn and Mann, I make you my chief ministers — Blawan blows into the horizon, and I assign power to whomsoever I will. You will have authority to speak for me and decide judgment in my absence, as I direct."

"Yes, King Domen. Hail, King Domen. Thank you, Lord, we will serve you justly."

"See that you don't – just do as I say," grim cunning in his voice. Thoughts swarmed upon each other like hornets in their nest. "The invisible hand abdicates; I take hold of Feallengod now, but it satisfies me not enough. I will not remain here to rule only my prison. The son lies dead, the king grows old — his realm will come into my hand yet. You two will be my face upon Feallengod; my appetites go beyond this dead island. I must work in dark secrecy, so I leave the island to you.

"You will use its every resource to subserve the people to me. Their lips will speak only 'man, man, man.' Upon their hearts will rest only me, me, me. Rob them of their children, to school them in my ways. No longer will they hear their truths or traditions, only the chanting requirements I make of them. I will be father to the children till all their parents quake in fear before them. Raise out of these my subjects a grand army, young and old, and build a great navy, to cross the greater kingdom. Again I will tread Gægnian, and not at Ecealdor's invitation. He will see me upon his throne, and I will have my vengeance upon him and all who have escaped Feallengod. For now we will enslave this people, to turn against him completely. They will know me as their only master."

"Let us talk to the people today, with their minds fresh upon the victory of the great battle," the Draca twins said. "Allow us talk in the square today." The laugh continued – persistent, annoying twitter.

"Yes, we'll do that directly," said Domen, in deep thought. "Come with me to the village. I have an idea." He spat upon Beorn as afterthought. "I may have use for you yet." And the three set off toward the south pass around the mountains.

The rain at last relented. Beorn, head still spinning, body aching, lay silently on the soaked wood. The remorse burned so hot in his mind he no longer knew what thoughts passed through its refining. Mental images swirled: men and women he knew, the blood and gore of the battle, the dreamed visage he long had given to Ecealdor's face. There he lay, with not a single reason to live. Perhaps a stone cast from the sky would fall upon him, he thought, or a great whale might swallow him up. No fate loomed too horrible for him, he believed, except one: He still could not bear going home to Cwen. Begietan's dead body had lain exposed before his eyes; now joined, just as assuredly gone, by Hatan. Cwen had no sons left to comfort her old age, none. No hope for daughters-in-law, no hope for grandchildren.

"This exile bears no fruit," he finally said. "I must face her. She will know eventually, and she deserves to hear these tidings from me. At least I owe that much to her."

The clouds still churned and billowed overhead. They seemed an extra weight upon Beorn as he pried himself off the ground and set out stiffly for the village. He chose the long route to the north of the mountains, so at least in his mind he would not follow after the path of Domen. As he limped past, Beorn, just delivered from ungodly wrong, would not refuse an act of unmerited kindness: His eyes finally met my frantic gaze, and he cut my bonds. Together we found a fellowship that can be born only of suffering. I tagged behind him, but at a distance, for I knew myself unworthy to offer him consolation, and so I believe even now. Like a chastened puppy I fell in behind, because although I had long chosen solitude, never had my isolation been so crushing as then.

But the fates cruelly decreed, Beorn could not avoid Domen. As quickly as he entered the village he could see him, standing above a large crowd, enrapt in impassioned speech. Frail, bent shoulders draped in rich, red robes; and then I also beheld him. At his feet waited Mann and Cynn, and the golden lion.

"Again the time has come for you to see me not, people of Feallengod, fitting for your lack of worthiness! I will watch over you, have no fear of that, for you will remain in my unseen eyes, but my work calls me away from your presence. Therefore, I appoint these two ministers upon Feallengod, witnesses to my power! Hear them now, people, hear the instruction they bring you!"

Mann and Cynn mounted the platform, murmurs and moans spuming from the uneasy crowd. They had only just risked their lives, lost sons and fathers, for Domen's sake, and such was their reward. Domen stood silent behind the two, his teeth only slightly bared. "You know us, people of Feallengod! We have been among you in the village, and many of you frequent our shop! You know us, no fools, and we give nothing except to gain us more! If a bargain for you promises a bonanza for us, that's the deal we make! If you go away empty, all the better. We may cheat, but never will cheating fall upon us!" No laughter lilted their voices now.

The crowd's murmuring grew as the people agreed, the Draca brothers indeed spoke truthfully for a change. No secret hung about their reputation.

Joining together in a high wail, a whining liturgy of hypnotic effect, they continued their hellion song. "So you know we tell you rightly when we say Domen will master us. We always choose what's best for us, so you know it best for you as well. To make fortunes to come, you had better make your friendships with us now. Prepare your future! Cirice and his men left Feallengod this morning: We count them dead! Domen's brave attack in the night drove them off the island! We count them traitors, deserting Feallengod at its time of need! Dead they be, now and forever, and never will you see them again. Domen remains true to Feallengod! He claims his rightful leadership, because those who oppose him have run away! He scatters them before himself!

"Cirice's men girded themselves to dead Coren. And dead they remain, the fools! They bought false hope! Their lies led them to destruction, destruction they deserved! Our enemies take them captive, but we breathe free! Some claim Coren arose from the ashes. We say Domen brings Feallengod out of the ashes! Look about you, people — where comes the dissent now? Where arises the quarreling? Where is war? Domen banishes all, along with all the Coren-Ans! Domen delivers Feallengod into a new golden age of peace and prosperity!

"Today we coronate Domen! No longer do we poor people of Feallengod have to rely upon empty hopes and faith. We enthrone a king for our island! Rejoice, oh you people, you have now a leader to see and touch, to know and feel his justice! We have a mighty lion to lead and protect us. Well did we cast this great golden lion at Coren's defeat. But this graven eidolon falls short of our true king. It can only symbolize the real lion of Feallengod, that lion Domen!"

Mann and Cynn performed well, whipping an emotional froth into the crowd, convulsive support for Domen. They pressed the people into wild cheers, much pleasuring their leader, glowering behind. His craven eye cast about the huge gathering, noting each face, each expression. How he hated them.

I glanced to Beorn, his face frozen, a death mask. I glanced about again and froze myself at seeing Gastgedal.

"People of Feallengod, make you Domen's subjects now, make you plain," continued the brothers. "You will do as we say, make that plain as well. If you keep Domen appeased, you remain secure. You do not want to displease him. So to make everyone happy, even make him happy — so to speak, to keep the peace — he requires one thing: Your complete, steadfast, unwavering loyalty. Only those who give their lives to Domen are worthy to keep their lives."

Seething arose in my breast, and I worked my way through the crowd toward Gastgedal. All my contrition faded as I conspired my thoughts toward serving him some just desserts. Gladly would I repay his abuse even before this august audience. Carefully I maneuvered toward his rear.

"Behold the lion before you, forged of your own donations of gold. It stands insufficient! The tree lies hewn, the stone reduced to dust; only the lion remains upon Feallengod! There rules now no law; Domen is the law. Domen is life, and there is no life."

I crept ever closer to Gastgedal, my head held low to the shoulders, each step swift but gentle. My fingers flexed eagerly to take hold his wattled gullet. I came within arm's reach of him.

"At long last, together again, my lovely!" he crowed as he wheeled about to face me.

I hesitated just for a moment at the shock, but then let into him with all my hatred. Taking hold of his hair with one hand, I proceeded to pile blows upon his forehead with my fist. My crazed screaming painted me insane even to myself, and the crowd gave room to us as it could.

"As we say, the lion offers a sign to you, a symbol of Domen, your supreme leader!" The Draca twins droned on as if nothing amiss was happening. Domen observed the melee with benign disinterest, and I fought on. "The great golden lion will remain in the square, enduring token of his glorious power. We say to you, now a shrine you will build to house the lion, a grand shrine of stone and gold — you will find yet more gold to give. You have no need of it, for we dispose of buying and selling forever! Domen lays claim as your only benefactor! For your desires, you will come to him; for your needs, you will beg to him."

Onward I pummeled Gastgedal about his head, and he struggled to defend. Gratified at wreaking my vengeance upon him, not just for the abuse in the moors but for what seemed a lifetime of trouble, I relished each painful landing of knuckles against skull. He wobbled underneath my grip and I felt him go down to his knees, but my feeling of elation soon became only too real as I sensed my body rising in the air. Gastgedal, old and wasted as he appeared, had grasped me underneath the crotch to deposit me back over his shoulder, head first upon the paving stones.

"Plan a little fun at old Gastgedal's expense, eh?" he chimed, wiping away blood with the back of his sleeve. "Itchy for a little rumble?"

Quickly he returned the favor to me, kicking my ribs as I writhed like a worm. So complete was my pain, I could feel no new amount. I cannot say for certain what he did to me until I saw the flash of a knife in his hand. He kneeled close to my face and carefully inserted the point into a nostril. "I will lead you by the nose, if I must," he counseled as he ripped a great slash in my flesh.

Standing, he placed a foot upon my neck, and I screamed between clinched teeth. "You need never worry about me. I'll never forsake you, my lovely."

"Yes, your gracious lord Domen will tend to you, and satisfy your needs. He will feed you, and you will rejoice in his abundance. Only you must visit the lion every day; he requires you to bow low when you pass. Your fingers must touch the lion, your lips kiss it, to make remembrance that you rely upon Domen. Touch its claws, they glimmer sharp; feel its teeth, they tingle voracious." The voices drifted across the crowd like a pall.

I lay in ruin upon the ground, and I thought of Beorn beaten upon the docks. No mocking came from my throat this day. I recalled the words of Coren, months of words, that made offering rather than demand. But they echoed from opportunity long past, and my thickened dregs of indifference had separated me then and delivered me now into this unholy servitude. I saw no way to deny nor escape the Dracas' new order upon Feallengod, but this I knew even now: The brothers spoke lies about the law – though reduced to no more than gravel, the stone still hung ever greater over my head.

"Any man of you not loyal to Domen stands unworthy to rest at peace, not worthy to live," rang the voices. "Every man, woman and child upon Feallengod must declare permanent, undivided devotion to Domen. We people of Feallengod will endure no disciple of any rival magister. Therefore, to prove your love, Domen requires you to take a brand, a brand upon the forearm — a seal upon every act you commit, every moment you work, every item you take hold of — a brand in the shape of the lion. So has Domen said."

Chapter XVIII

Cwen fell into silence after that day. Though she directed none of her quiet against Beorn, it little mattered; where once singing reigned, now ruled a sorrowful hush, and he applied the blame to his own head, a further penalty for his foolishness. Now Cwen neither complained nor cared about their table, for the orchards' waning foods had lost their savor: She barely ate even for survival, and her hands surrendered their industry. Few times did I see her, and fewer still her eyes caught me; she walked about as though headed nowhere but afraid she might arrive – her mind blank, her expression anxious. Every hour her thoughts turned only upon Hatan, and Begietan, and Astigan, upon the precious past and the barren future. Her heart felt like wax within her, and love drained from the Feohtan hovel.

Beorn himself took to weary idleness. He abandoned his seat in the gate to the pigeons, as he would no longer be witness to the village's descent into hell. Domen ordered him to turn out his cellars, his storehouses, the orchards' produce so miserly guarded at last released; the fruits and vegetables, reduced to putrid mush, made more suitable for Domen now. What food remained to glean from his lands, Beorn so did, though most of the trees had gone to ruin. These children of the soil too fell victim to his spade; once beloved, now sacrificed, their roots boiled into paltry soup. The Feohtans' appetites had fully squandered the plants and trees of the garden, yet the shame he felt over this wreckage still could not stop his scavenging. Indeed, he had little choice: Domen's largesse took prisoner of the islanders, and scant marketing survived among the dwindling number of shopkeepers who resisted the brand of the lion.

As for me, I tried to reclaim invisible life upon Feallengod. My ability to fade into the woodwork, with Begietan out of the way, served me well as I blended into nothingness. I had tried joining a movement, which proved distasteful. My anger had been beaten down — brutal headmaster – and as well my pretense of living for myself. True to his word, Gastgedal would not let me be, forever imposing his will upon my action. My proud self-absorption fell away to reveal only confusion, and nothing more than a void, like a tomb, rushed into its place. Love for years had been a talent lost to me, with no regard for anyone but myself; now I saw even myself an empty prospect. I no longer found resource nor satisfaction within; the awful mutilation of my face left me as hideous to see as to know. I cared about nothing but my next breath, and took and left whatever work presented itself, if any. Idle puttering about the fields or Four Rivers filled the days as I kept my head low. My eyes sought no others, but always went first to a man's forearm. Sleeves worn long especially roused suspicion, and yet my own went always to my wrists. Gastgedal had been one of the first to take the lion, and his incessant pressure to follow gave me no end of grief. The bottle he used to wear at my resistance, and the persuasions of women, but drink's fascination had already turned dry for me; the warmth of a shared bed abhorrent.

"You're blowing any chance for dominion over these men. Every one who has taken the brand is ahead of you – every one better than you," he rode me more than once. "You're lucky our Draca friends have not already pulled the string on you."

Having lost dominion over myself, I had no designs to gain such over anyone else, but Gastgedal had no concept of this. "Not today. I have things to do," I made excuse.

"What? Warm the earth as you lie flat on your back? You sleep away your ambition. You grow fat and lazy."

My hands pretended to do something. "I'm not ready to swear to Domen. I don't want – "

"What you want matters nothing. I'm with Domen, and what he wants is all you need care about. Admit it, deep down you take our side anyway, every time."

"I don't want to make any decision now," I insisted.

"Wanting isn't good enough. You'd best be prepared to defend yourself, give reasons before Domen's accusing. I'll tell you once more – submit to us now." As his voice grew more threatening, so also did his shoulders and fists.

"Oh, leave me alone," I capitulated. "Just not now. I don't feel well."

"Certainly you don't – you shake with fear. You are not fit to take the brand of Domen," he growled. "Weak and stupid you are, too weak to make of yourself any use. Domen has no need for such trash anyway! You who are afraid to take a brand, to suffer for your master!" He brandished his forearm before my face. "He will show you suffering! You have much to fear indeed. I have to tell you everything, and I tell you now you're not fit for his service!"

I only wished it were so.

"Come on," I said, "Is there nothing else we can talk about?"

"All words lead to Domen," Gastgedal cupped both hands behind his head and leaned back into philosophy. "All acts fulfill his will upon Feallengod. Then why not some fun, my lovely? It will draw you ever closer to the lion."

"What then?" I feigned enthusiasm.

"I know of a house. It stands empty except for tools – someone has stuffed in implements to the rafters. They are storing up treasures for some secret purpose. These playthings beg for fire."

"Do you suggest arson? I don't know – "

"No, you never know; it's a good thing I do. You would like to see it burn, the destruction of someone's desires. Your heart would dance with the flames. How many times have you gone frustrated? Enough to pass around? Then let some other fool share in your pain. Let it burn, feel the burn upon your face and flying sparks singe your hair! In flames there is life! Sweet destruction!" He pushed his stinking mug into mine like a giddy lover to seduce me into his overheated impulse.

I wanted to, and did not want to; knowing he would not relent, I found giving in the easiest road, while still staving off yet worse ruin. But up to my ankles or up to my neck, my feet were still stuck in a sucking mire. Still, I so succeeded in keeping Gastgedal's mood pacified, if not jovial; as for myself I found no more humor in him, nor in Ecealdor, nor certainly in Domen. My greatest desire came to be in stillness among others without the brand, unnoticed and unwanted, but not alone. And hunger burned at my gut.

Feallengod sought closure as it committed the dead to the ground, its mourning mixed with the forced revelry of Domen's victory jubilee. Every night great diversions of pronounced debauchery swarmed upon the square, bestial veneration of the lion, as the people sold themselves to celebrate license. I had seen such before, and had no heart for it. The pulp that came from Beorn's hoard passed through the alchemy shop and emerged a kind of paste, delivered to the people as they took the brand. The paste came gladly, for thugs continued to clear out wares and shut down shops; Domen heartily provided, as well — the more the better, moderation sternly discouraged. The growing festivity condemned in its emptiness, and as the weeks passed, the hopelessness that hung over the island drew tight its coils. More and more the populace consumed the paste, and their eyes showed less and less life. The village had been shattered, divided into the missing, the dead, the living and those somewhere in-between.

A new wall arose around the village, a palisade of tall spikes, each topped by a body, stripped of clothing and life, mouths agape and eyes sunken. Some fresh with gore, others dried in the brutal heat of vengeance, held up as example after the cruel fate of Fulwiht, my own victim. Under their gaze I languished, for trimmed in gauzy flax, with her familiar shrewd mien, I recognized my wife. Oh, the curses I pour upon myself! Am I not to blame, not impaled in her place, giving my life to preserve my bride? What devotion I gave to saving my own skin, worthless, while those in my care perished. Forgive me, my darling, my king; share with me the mercy I denied others. The empty sockets weep, they see deep into the blackness of my heart. Today I can only call her better than I, for taking the pike.

Slowly the lion's roster claimed new numbers of men and women, fearful, hungry acquiescence to Domen's requirements. The followers of the brand and the paste increased in number and devotion. Gastgedal would sit before me with his bowl, thoughtfully, mechanically stuffing mush into his mouth with his fingers, staring deep into my eyes and into my stomach. I had no taste for it, and yet it called to me, and I turned my face toward it and away; the hunger dug in its heels. Those who indulged quickly grew dependant, and they sought it like hubris. Men and women fell into its grip, force-feeding their children of this wicked inheritance, giving their bodies over to dull emotion and hollow satisfaction. The more they partook, the more they desired, and they came to worship the obscene stupor it offered.

As for others who remained stubborn and still somehow alive, they secreted away what little gold they had, hidden from Domen's hoodlums, but soon found it worthless in this time of want, illegal to own, not enough to secure them even a day's crust of bread, should they find one. So they resigned to abandon it, and Domen's riches increased. His most fanatical followers had lined up immediately for the brand; the latter ones made a show of coming just as gladly. Some considered acquiring the brand a rite of passage, a show of sacrifice. Domen demanded nothing less.

The platform that had elevated Domen to royalty remained in the square, set behind the golden lion, an absurd parade ground for affixing the brand. A stout brick hearth sat like a corpulent judge, and fires burned day and night. Some half-dozen menacing brands stuck out of the furnace, glowing red with heat. Long lines of muddled mankind climbed the stairs, each one a cog in a human machine, every man and woman taking turn in the chair at the branding place, right arm strapped like death to a stout wooden brace. A heavy man applied the brand as the recipient writhed, pulled desperately, vainly battled the bound arm. The air hung heavy with the sound of searing flesh, screams, groans and an undercurrent of indifferent laughter; some observers worried sorely for the branding man, wilting under the heat of the furnace. Water splashed upon the faces of those now swooning in the chair, then unstrapped, dragged from the seat and shoved teetering toward the stairs at platform's edge. There each received a bowl of the rotting slop, glad reward for the grand show of allegiance, so sealing another minion. A clerk kept precise count of those who passed through the ordeal, as the man switched out another brand from the fire.

Even as the suffering surged, the people came. They gambled away their last, most precious possession on hopes of finding mercy amid the coals of cruelty. They threw their destiny at the foot of the lion, a brazen image of impotent treasure, and bowed to the pleasures of Domen.

Now unable to reclaim my life from its drifting between Ecealdor and Domen, still sleeping famished within and filthy without, for a time I let my hunger wrestle into stalemate with desire; Beorn held out with greater concern. He counted himself responsible for Cwen's suffering, and worry over her plagued him — he rested sure that hunger would not drive her to the brand, but she might starve to death without knowing. The wound of the longboats sailing off the edge of his world, leaving Feallengod to its worst inclinations, remained festering. His thoughts of futures past haunted him every minute. All about him he saw heartless faces of the village, eyes staring a hole through him. He saw the scorched stems and leaves of the orchards, the soil turned rock-hard, the deadwood. He observed the growing thuggery of the streets, and from all these things, he sought seclusion.

Slipping into the Boar's Brew, he chose a booth in a corner.

"You're in here early," the tavern-keeper set down half a mug of bitters. His shirt sleeves, rolled high to his biceps, carefully exposed forearms decorated by hair and none else. "Sorry, this is all I can serve."

"No matter. I have nowhere else to go. How goes business?" Beorn asked, showing courtesy but nothing more.

"Never better. Later on enough drinking and decadence will flow in here to make you sick. Makes me sick." The man looked about his inn as though he didn't recognize it. "These people now, they come in already drunk on something, and when I tell them I cannot serve more than this half-stein, they declare bold as brass they'll kill me. I don't doubt it. They turn this place into a brothel every night, a temple for their whoring, and I can't stop them."

Beorn wondered for a moment why the man was still talking, before realizing he had invited it. "Can't you call upon the elders?"

The tavern-keeper's look into Beorn's eyes ill-disguised his disdain. "An elder like you, I suppose? What will you do about it? Slink out of here before hell converges? All the elders with any power remaining carry the lion. Cursed brand. My wife says just take it, she says, but I won't. I won't do it. They demand it upon my sign. This tavern has carried the Boar's Brew crest since my great-grandfather, and I'm not changing it. Stinking brand!" The tavern-keeper pulled a chair up to Beorn's table.

"I seek no argument nor company." Beorn didn't take kindly to the criticism, though neither could he deny it. The man's words forced Beorn into the very thoughts he fled. Besides, he had entered into this place for solace of solitude.

"Sure, suit yourself," the tavern-keeper got up but left the chair well in place.

Beorn slammed down the remainder of his drink. Numbly he sat, mind inert, a tangle of misery and confusion. Grief and despair dared him try to think or not think. Soon empty yearning filled his head, as though some benevolent spirit might change the world for him. He wished for his youth back, he wished for the last several months back. Finally he settled on wishing for death; no other refuge persuaded him. Nothing else he might aspire to made any difference now, his neck bowed assent. His fingers plowed his hair, his forehead resting upon his palms, his elbows dug into the table.

The barkeep watched from a distance. The chair squawked across the floor again as he returned to the table. "Look, friend, you have no place here."

"You throw me out?" asked Beorn, not looking up. A fitting final blow for him, kicked out of a dusty two-bit tavern.

"No, but perhaps I should. You don't belong in the village anymore. I can tell who belongs to the lion and who remains free, brand or no brand. Soon those who resist will find life impossible. Agents come into this damn place every night, practically hand out a calling card: They don't drink. They'll strike up a conversation every time, leaning on my bar – taking the brand, what might happen if I don't. Nothing specific, just veiled threats, you know?"

"What kind of threats?"

"What a pole might do to my innards, mostly. To my family as well. To my business — all the different ways fires can start, that's been explained to me at length. And demanding to know if we have any children – never could, thank goodness! Already they tell me I can't restock my barrels, not unless I carry the lion. Without drink, I'm without customers, so I'll be out of here and on the street. But no point remains to it — selling is banned, so I give drink away like the paste to anyone, paid or not. Soon no one will want more than that awful stuff, anyway; Domen has got his hold on these people, caught in their bellies like a hook. Business may be good, but it won't be long; then they'll take over this dump and have their way with it. But I gladly choose poverty over the brand."

The two sat, silently considering time's maddening patience. Beorn still demurred against conversation, but then a new wave of depression hit him. "Why does he have to use a brand? Can he not dominate without making us into cattle?"

"I don't know — I think he just likes the screaming."

"What has happened to Feallengod? Where did we turn so far wrong? At every opportunity to set things right, we chose exactly the wrong path."

"Yes. I remember hearing Bregdan, laughing at him behind his back. So more easily did I laugh in Coren's face. I listened to Cirice's talk, too, like just so much foolishness; he used to come here often. A day passed long ago that he laid me flat on my back; what a weak fool I thought he had made of himself in those last days. Now I don't know. Seems like everything Bregdan said has come about. Seems like what they claimed about Coren now returns true."

"Hatan is my son."

The tavern-keeper scratched his head. "Who's that?"

"Witness."

"Oh, him I've heard of."

"Begietan was my son, too."

"Surely hell welcomes him, that bastard!" and the tavern-keeper jumped in his chair violently in his sudden anger.

"He grew into less a man than I desired, but reflects nothing upon his mother. His mother remains an honorable woman, a great and wonderful woman who has suffered much at my hands, so I will thank you to watch your tongue," said Beorn with equal anger, but his body hung limp in his seat. Moral outrage seemed almost a mockery to him, and his forehead returned to his open hand.

"Damn! I didn't mean — I wish no insult to the lady. I just meant he sold out his fellow islanders like a — well — a bastard."

"Yes, I can't deny it, and yet when choices came to bear, I followed his way."

"Seems like you went after the wrong son."

"Many bad decisions have I made, but none worse. His path seemed the easiest way. But I shouldn't have followed any of my sons — I should have led. I can see I'm no leader; my name should never have entered among the elders. I fell into Domen's madness, which has led to nothing but destruction."

"Look," said the tavern-keeper. "I sat here by no accident. People come through here day and night, and I talk to everyone like you, everyone without the lion. Like I say, I can tell who belongs. Pressure to take the brand weighs heavily — you know so. Anyone who hasn't got it yet likely won't. I listen to everyone, I see into their eyes, and I figure some seven hundred still don't have the brand."

"Perhaps so. What do you mean to say?"

"Just put your mind to this — do you want to live under the brand?"

"No, but I'm not quite sure I want to stick my head into the lion's mouth, either."

"You will come to that or letting the ass end squat on you. Your choice."

"You have a way with words."

"Got it from my wife."

Beorn paused a moment. "I choose the teeth. Idle wishing can't deliver me, and I'd rather die than trail after Domen any longer."

"Well said, for soon events will leave no other alternative. So should we not make a stand? Perhaps fortify some isolated place, together with whatever others we find? Then if we can live peaceably, fine, we can hunt and gather our food again and live. If not, and we die a bloody death for what's right, all the better."

"You seek a place to defend?"

The tavern-keeper grunted with his nod.

"One place — the plateaus of the lower mountains, by the quarries. You think it possible? A group might hold out for months there, lasting as long as their supplies."

"Indeed. Surely you belong with us, for in fact many already have started moving food to the plateaus. But I've also considered this: I remember you going through town recording names."

Beorn's heart fell heavily. Why had this man offered such comfort, only to accuse him now? "Do you wish to shame me? Yes, then, I confess. I sent many to their deaths, yet more burden to carry. I just couldn't make myself say no." His thoughts and words trailed off, suddenly choked upon his own excuses.

"Look, perhaps you can redeem that loss. Maybe your work turns to save lives now. Your lists give witness — what few still wait, willing to reject the brand."

Beorn brightened again — too quickly had he judged himself. Now he could see the point: the lists might help them identify other dissenters, men and women who avoided fighting the great battle for Domen. "I came in here by no accident, you know," he said, indicating the tavern-keeper's forearm with a glance.

"Right — I get it. We want you with us. All of us have failed in the past, every one, all tortured by regrets, so you'll fit right in. Go gather your wife and enlist any others you can. You'll probably run into many already with us. Always seek the offer of supplies, as each is able — dried fruit, dried meat if they so possess. Meet at the quarries. But keep low upon the street — time quickly will betray us to Domen's agents."

"So your planning began some time ago," said Beorn.

"As soon as we saw those sniveling cutthroats on the platform. Though deceived once by Domen's heart, that lying Draca pair put our senses right. What Domen hid upon the mountain, Mann and Cynn made plain for years. They make an unholy trio."

"I wonder — the sign of three Bregdan promised? Could he have spoken of these three? What could it mean?"

"If so, they could claim another lie. Coren gave the sign of the seamrog – the shamrock. Three leaves of the shamrock, Beorn. Don't you recall your son's words? Remember the length of time Coren lay upon the ash heap?"

"Three days." Beorn's face froze like stone. "Well, that seals it. How could I spend my life blind? Does stupidity really claim me so boldly as that?"

"Well," the barkeep didn't want to answer. "We've all asked the same, if that's any consolation."

"Your failings don't make mine any less," said Beorn. "But if Coren made himself a sign in the past, then so also now. No life passes as symbol only, without a purpose behind it. You have designed a good plan, sir. I had fairly given myself over to doom, or at least despair, but you restore in me some hope."

"You don't seem very happy even yet."

"I'm not. I may never call myself happy again. But at least I don't feel evil anymore." Beorn took his leave after paying the tavern-keeper two copper coins. "I want to pay," he pointed out. "Besides, they're worthless."

Beorn's pace tripped somewhat spry now on the short journey to the hovel. As the people passed along the way, none attracted his notice, though surely they cast suspect eye upon him. Beorn's thoughts dedicated themselves only to Cwen.

"Cwen, love!" he called as he entered. "Quick, we must take leave!"

Cwen stared out a window, her face masked in a hollow look, with absent mind wiping her hands with a towel. She didn't answer.

"Cwen, dear, listen," Beorn wrapped an arm around to hold her shoulders close to him. "We must leave the village. Put together some things and run with me to the plateaus on the mount." Beorn found a tote sack and rudely stuffed it with whatever household items lay at hand.

"What foolishness do you say, husband?" Cwen replied.

"We must flee. We can have no more of Domen. His ways lead only to death, a slow rotting death that kills from the inside. I will have no more of it. All the townsfolk who refuse the lion must escape to the plateaus." He talked haltingly, sorting through items, throwing some aside, some into his bag.

"Who? Who goes?"

Beorn stopped. He hadn't expected enthusiasm, but he had hoped Cwen wouldn't argue. "I don't know. The tavern-keeper for certain, but I know of no others. He knows of seven hundred." He busied himself with packing to cover his exaggerated confidence.

"A tavern-keeper says seven hundred."

"I know what you think, Cwen. For one thing, the sun shows barely noon and I had one drink. Half a drink. And I believe it — I wrote down the cursed lists and I believe it."

Cwen emerged sharply from her despondent silence.

"Oh, that's fine, that's just fine. You mope around here for months, and then suddenly declare I am to move. On the word of an innkeeper you tell me to leave the home where I birthed my sons, to move me to a mountain."

Beorn directed his attention to Cwen. "If nothing else, at least this notion returns the spirit to your eye. Rage at me, Cwen, rage furious. Then follow me." And he resumed his mission. His wetted fingers fumbled through a large stack of stiff papers before pulling out a select few, a shout of accomplishment raised. He'd found copies of his lists.

"Beorn, I wanted to follow you. I wanted you. But what you say now makes no sense to me."

"The final day has not passed for us, Cwen. All the warnings of Bregdan, of Fulwiht, of Coren, we rejected them before, but now we can — we must — claim them for ourselves. Do you recall Hatan's last night here?"

"Do I recall? All I have left to me in this hovel are my memories."

"Yes, surely you remember. Did you not hear what he told me? I remember well: 'If you refuse to stand against us, Ecealdor will show mercy to you.' Hatan believed right to the end. But still the end is not. Cwen, Cwen — he remains our only son still alive. I will not believe the lies, I believe he is not dead, and we are not dead to him."

Tears caught in Cwen's eyes as the memory of that night washed over her.

"Now will I believe," Beorn continued. "If we resist Domen, Ecealdor must have mercy, for no other will. If we die, we die, but we give our lives to the side of Ecealdor, and not that demon spawn Domen. Now I see myself a fool. His patience calls to me – do you hear, Cwen, or only me? Cirice took this stand, Hatan took this stand, and finally, at last, at long last, I take this stand! I will not despise my last chance!" Beorn talked bravely, but his voice joined in with his body to still betray the fatigue of his soul.

"Beorn, Ecealdor left Feallengod. Coren died. Blawan sailed into the wind. Cirice, the flower of Feallengod manhood; even he deserts. Our own Hatan abandons us. All those you speak of, they leave only the prints of their feet. Only the people remain, and who of them will fight? A handful? Domen steals the will of almost all, leaving only the weak in body and spirit. But you and I, Beorn, we are different. He fooled us once, but no demand lies upon us to follow him anymore. We don't need him, we don't need Ecealdor. Our home, this home of our wedding night, still stands upon our island. This tiny hovel alone is left to me, the only thing enduring of our entire lives together. Don't require it of me as well! No one will notice if we stay here. We can survive, even with Domen upon our throne."

The words tore at Beorn's heart, and it bled and wept, and he stood slowly erect and still. At another time he might have seen Cwen's fear deep in her eyes and put aside truth in favor of comfort. Now he knew her words just fell false. No demand? No more would he hear of living apart from Ecealdor — at best, as Cwen said, survival and no more, and certainly not life. Compromise claimed too high a price for the mere privilege of breathing air turned foul. But perhaps Cwen couldn't smell the truth, and Beorn braced to find his way without her. "I prefer death, any death, to living under Domen," he said as if dead already. Bag upon his shoulder, he turned to walk away one last time along his narrow path, under the trees bright with autumn color.

Cwen watched his departure, steadfast, unrelenting. Her long, dark lashes caught droplets of moisture as tears spilled out upon her cheeks. Billowing clouds painted a gray and white watercolor upon the sky. For long moments her eyes followed him, memories racing, flashes of life through her mind. Begietan her first-born, a helpless babe once, long ago, the wonder of life itself latched to her nipple; he had cried easily at skinned knees while testing his first steps. Astigan, the comely man, gentle of heart and touch, quick with wit and generosity, slipping away into mystery that seemed in retrospect almost as beautiful as his shining smile — surely all of Feallengod was intended to follow after Astigan. Hatan beat like the heart of the family, strong in faith and belief in right, caring not for himself but only for truth, truth he had followed into Gægnian. Truly only Ecealdor's courts knew where he took his steps now. And Beorn, Beorn whom she could see now vanishing into the horizon, the tall young man who had slipped a ring upon her finger under boughs of October leaves, red and gold just as now, dangling like baubles upon heaven. The tall, straight young man she had surrendered to, a gift to her from the king — how she had loved him. Now he marched into hope and death.

A cat jumped onto the window sill and offered comfort with its head, crying for Cwen's notice. "Then I will die too," she said quietly. She let her dishtowel drop and ran after Beorn, pausing only to retrieve the one cherished treasure left to her: a broken leather string. The door to the hovel swung easily in the breeze, hanging open wide, as if welcoming anyone, expecting no one, forever leaving the future to its fate.

And so did I find it, instead of a chance handout. Seven hundred, at least; seven hundred souls who would not sign on to Domen's reign of terror, and I one. But my life upon Feallengod had made me no man, less than human; and now did the hunger burn fierce. The weakness of flesh does tear at the very sinews of the spirit, and I had long ago surrendered the days of my strength. Years of decadence and waste had put me out of mind to most islanders, violent rampage earning their hatred, and I can hardly assign them any blame. As I look back upon my ways, I prefer to forget them as well. Nor do I blame them even today, for each man must answer for himself. So the desperate people gathered every item that might sustain them, took hold of every hand that might join with them, and made a frantic run for the plateaus of the low mountains. And not one spoke a single word to me.

Chapter XIX

Desperate at last to dull the stabbing, anything to quell the gnawing hunger, I sought out the paste of Domen's beneficence. I did not desire it so much as to want to barter, though, certainly not at the price of whatever soul I had left. So around the shadowy corners of the human imagination I crept, against the walls as Gastgedal went after his ration. The inhabitants of Feallengod filed by in every direction, looking down or away, no words spoken.

With me I carried a flagon of the hard stuff, a raw mixture drained from pilfered bottles of dregs. He stood dutifully in line to receive his pail full of slop. As Gastgedal returned past me, he dangled his foul prize under my nose, always ready to taunt; at that moment I produced my own prize and returned the favor. His eyes lit up.

"You warm my heart, I've taught you so well. There's hope yet for you in the new world."

"This may help wash down that mush, or at least dull the smell."

"Do you complain against the good graces of Domen's rule?" Gastgedal blustered. He snatched the bottle away from my grip, and took a splashing swig. "Yet a time comes that you will beg for this mess, or wish to steal it."

I startled at the word: Did he know me too well? "I'd rather have your backwash," and I reached weakly to retrieve the drink.

"Shut up!" Gastgedal retorted, and cuddled the bottle close. "Only if I say so do you satisfy your thirst. Only on my terms will you see to the pleasures of your body. Long now you've refused any grog – you won't mind if today you can only see its good savor." He took another deep draft of the spirits.

"At least leave some at the bottom," I whined, putting on a real desire for the stuff. "If you drink it all, I'll have nothing in my stomach today."

"Then nothing it is," he said, "And afterwards you can watch me eat as well." With that he killed the flagon, rocking backwards. I lurched toward him to struggle for the bottle, but made sure not to breach his hand outstretched to keep me at bay. He arose from his chugging with dazed triumph, belching and taking an expression like an ox had run over him.

"You'll do what I tell you," he said without conviction. Again he belched, his face looking like all his innards had flown up into his head. The bottle hit the ground with a clunk.

There he sat, no sign even of breathing; he made a grotesque statue. I studied him hard; he eyes hung open but empty. He slumped slightly; he seemed indisposed, but I knew him still to be just as dangerous as a rotting corpse. His eyes glazed over.

Like a snake my hand struck, taking hold of Gastgedal's pail of paste.

In a blink he bellowed like a buffalo, his fingers still grasping the handle of the pail. Wide his eyes spread as he jerked upright, wild as his screaming. I hung on like grim death, not sure if Gastgedal was there or not, but driven to desperation by hunger. Frozen in motion for a moment we engaged in a posed tug-of-war, until he collapsed limply upon his back in satiated stupor. Even with his eyes staring, he clearly had fallen woozily asleep upon the cobblestones. I made off with his pail, seeking a hidden place, where the cold mess fell like a brick into my belly.

Hell soon disabused me about its niceties. The sickness arose in me like a balloon growing, like a sheep blown up on clover. My stomach would neither tolerate nor give up its putrid treasure. My throat tight, suddenly my head as well seemed to billow and pucker in turn. A clammy sweat broke over my face, wet to the ministrations of my trembling fingers. The wind twisted the world about, a troupe of dancers, doors and windows flashing by with mocking upon their gaping faces, and my knees and ankles wobbled treacherously. I could see thunder; I heard the ripping screams of starlight. Perhaps my years of dabbling in the spirits, so much fermenting my brain, made for this reaction; I can only wonder at what the goo painted upon other minds. A beam of light exposed all the most extreme excess that lay in the latent recesses of my will; the paste like a stick prodding a hornets' nest gave me over. Swaying violently, it seemed, to every side my body lurched, and I stumbled through the opening of some nearby grotto and crawled like a wet dog through a growth of trees and bramble. The ground had the choking smell of dung and sick. Somehow I found a low ceiling and fell into the cool shade of solitude. Darkness swirled unseen but in my mind, rolling like a violent sea. In my isolated room I desperately tried to hold still my head, with both hands, wishing myself back into a world familiar to me.

To the east, the low mountains of my homeland sat as ever, nestled within a crook in the higher peaks, one of Four Rivers winding around. They gave birth to the great quarries, womb to the stone that in turn raised up the grand buildings of the village. Their steep sides, dotted with pockets of scree, leveled off into wide plateaus some 250 yards up, natural mesas expanded by quarrymen to act as a platform for extracting huge blocks of granite. I confess, in the days that I worked the stone, I often slipped away from my labors to find sanctuary in the plateaus' nooks and crannies, and so did I learn the many hidden passageways. These flat highlands always did seem like an enchanted land unto themselves; so the scattered opponents of Domen hoped as they sought asylum, yet I lay moldering elsewhere.

The flinty soil of the plateaus stretched nearly devoid of greenery, but ample pools of captured rainwater lay deep and clear. The little ponds attracted wild goats from their vaulted sanctuary in the higher peaks, the only animals able for the climb; birds as well swooped from the skies to drink and bathe. Though activity at the quarries had fallen silent in recent years, cranes around the lip, erected to lift great cut boulders, remained in place. The massive machines rose rickety overhead, simple wooden levers, clumsy pulleys, ropes of hemp, stones for counterweights. These the refugees now used to haul up food and fuel, tents, tools, utensils and animals. They brought up musical instruments and books, family heirlooms and sentimental treasures without price. Everything they could move, everything they could carry that might recall home to the mountaintop, they brought to their new haven.

The wind whipped at Beorn's coat and leggings as he scanned the outlying lands. "Pity about those tools," a voice said behind him, and he turned to see the barkeep. "The fire made nearly every one useless." Beorn grunted assent and continued to survey the grounds. The back half of the low mountains butted the higher peaks, completely blocking access. An attack could come only from the east and south, he saw, and the face of the mountain, sufficiently steep, promised to make any advance difficult and slow. Though without weapons of any consequence, the people could defend themselves here, at least for a time. Beorn stood at the very brink of the precipice. At every move of his feet, small rocks kicked and bounced to the bottom of the perilous drop, clicking and clacking gaily.

Dice rattled and rebounded off the stone walls of the village's tallest building. A harsh voice called from above, drawing the eyes of Mann and Cynn from their gaming and up the height of the wall, and there to Domen summoning from a window. A couple more throws, and they abandoned their sport, making for Domen's quarters. A cold, stone room on the top floor, with only one narrow window to the outside, it suited Domen perfectly. A heavy curtain blocked the sun's trespass through the single window; the room's only light glowed orange from a single tallow candle upon a heavy wooden table.

"What do you desire, Lord Domen?" the two asked, laughing. "We came right away."

"What use do you pretend to? Why has the branding ceased?"

"Nobody remains without the brand, Lord. We carefully check everyone in the village. All have taken the mark of the king of beasts."

"I must give all my time to raise an army! Draw out invasion plans! Do you think Ecealdor will be so easily overthrown? Much scheming remains for me here! Do I have time to complete your obligation? Do you not realize your lives siphon value only at my pleasure? My records say several hundred upon Feallengod go still without the brand!"

"Your records lie, Lord." And the two twittered at each other.

Domen's fist pounded upon the table, splattering wax from the candle onto the folios and scrolls, and raising a cloud of dust. "My records lie only as I desire! Can I not see? This paper lists shirkers from before the great battle — can you understand that, through your daft reason? Do you wish to read your names? These list the dead, and these the branding record. At least seven hundred names remain missing." Domen rapped the stack of parchments with a bent finger.

"They lie, they lie," the twins said, staring blankly at the papers.

"The missing confess themselves traitors — they offend the brand, they refuse it. Every one."

"Perhaps they love Coren," Mann and Cynn said, twittering.

"You say that name again and I will blacken your bones inside the furnace!" Domen roared and threw a chair across the room, bouncing off Mann and splintering against the wall.

Mann gathered himself from the floor and Cynn squeaked, their eyes glassy and panicked as they again scanned the lists, no better to them than a foreign child's riddle. "They lie," they suggested again without thinking.

Domen lost what little patience he'd ever had. "So clever you make yourselves! A couple of geniuses. The turncoats not found upon the branding list, they also go missing from the village. Do you think hundreds of people vanish into thin air? They remain on the island, treading my ground, breathing my air! Find them — find them now!"

Domen snatched up the lit candle, hurled at Mann and Cynn, who scattered from the room and out the door of the building. For a time they wandered about the streets of the village, not knowing how to go about their mission but feigning so. Each man and woman they passed fell subject to questioning, yet all they ran across carried the brand. Many spoke of friends missing and missed, but nobody could say where they had gone. Trickery and deception failed to raise leads; nor did intimidation improve any memories. The brothers continued to roam the streets, until arriving at the Boar's Brew Tavern.

"Look at that," said Mann.

"This place holds promise," replied Cynn.

A glaring light, the sun or perhaps a candle, burned brutally into my vision, and I could not turn my eyes away. Slowly a red hue overcame the glowering beam, waxing and waning over me as it faded in and out of focus. Deeper the scarlet flowed; my head pounded with devilish fury, like waves crashing upon jagged coasts, or boulders bounding down mountainsides and into the confines of my skull. The light dripped out of the air and left shifting, flowing waves of color I'd never seen before. I think I groaned; certainly I wanted to, but my throat squeezed tight. I knew I rested in the embrace of my shrinking enclave, dark solitude, and still I could not escape the fiendish illusion intruding upon my reality, this phantasm world so mercifully hidden from my sight until now. Confusion cavorted upon my brain, pounding, beating; even now I strive against my words. I prayed for escape, but my captivity only revealed new watchmen.

From the whirlpool of black mists, two beasts, two creatures of hellish design, came into view; I cowered into nightmare shadow. One a great, toothsome snout round about with scales, like a crocodile, or perhaps a cackling fowl but with a tail whipping behind, and about the size of a man; the other a bear, I think, with pointed ears and a muzzle short like a cat, its teeth long like sabers, shambling in with casual, confident threat. How I trembled, for surely they sought me! So alone, for the selling of my life to save my stomach! For the stolen paste, the instrument of my torture, now I would fall into the maw of unearthly beasts, torn to shreds, passionate, unholy vengeance! They spoke like humans, but not so — hard to understand, but still the language of Feallengod tripped upon their gurgling voices. Cruel frowns above pure white eyes, grins split their faces as they scanned the surroundings. They sat or squatted upon something, I know not what, and leaned their elbows on what looked like a great slab of dirty ice. I shivered in its cold.

There appeared a woman, I thought at first my mother, and I wept that she truly now saw me thus, and had returned to the Feallengod she had already left through death, certainly lost and unable to recognize it. Then the face changed, swirling into a young girl's smile, and then again into the work-worn face of a woman upon whom life had fallen, drawn and sad. She held before her a large basket, in which she somehow appeared also to sit, until she appeared to carry a platter bearing towering objects, like great buildings. Speaking softly to the hideous beasts, she set down two of the heavy objects, like mortars with pestles, or metal tankards. The beasts addressed her in their garbled talk, and though she clearly drew back repulsed, and wanted to make her business quick, she could not tear away. I felt sleep weighing down upon me, but my eyes wouldn't close.

"Signs against you, mistress," the reptilian beast's tongue slathered out the side of its mouth. "Lion sign! Forbid trade! Paste free, freedom paste. Lion door!"

"Right here," the woman defensively pulled up her sleeve, flaunting her forearm. Her words rushed in my ears like a flock of birds, surging into the air then settling again, high-pitched and clear. "Right here's the brand." It glowed swollen and angry.

"Show lion," growled the other beast, digging its great claws into her arm directly at the wound, blood oozing, pain flashing across the woman's face. She twisted toward release, but her arm only burned worse from the struggle, so she gave in with a low, resigned cry. The horrid thing threw her arm aside and tipped to his mouth the object, now clear to me a mug of bitters.

"Fresh meat, woman," the first beast yanked her toward his attention, popping open her blouse. "People don't follow rules, dead people. We watch, watch you closely."

"I'll change the sign. I can't find the carpenter who always did our work. With no coin, nobody cares for work like this now anyway."

"Yes, man gone," roared the second beast, and slammed his drink down. "Know you where?"

"I haven't seen him, not since the great battle." Before my eyes the woman's belly grew until it was fully round. She edged away from the conversation. "But I never saw him that often even before then."

"Sit, mistress."

"I can't, other customers require me." The woman withdrew slightly more in hopes of getting away.

"Sit," the second beast caught her again by the wrist, and her arm slipped all the way down into its gaping throat. She saw she had no choice. My head fell backward and banged against a hard surface. Something was crawling under my skin.

"Customers? Forbid trade! Tell them us. Any drunkards wasted not here, no still come?"

"I don't know." The scene shimmered back into view, and I saw the woman still had her arm. I don't know how.

"What, don't know," bellowed the first beast, greatly indignant. "No games play us, bitch. Answer."

"I don't know, I tell you!" insisted the woman, afraid and frantic to make them believe. "I didn't work here until a fortnight ago! I stayed home. My husband worked this place until he left!" Her face distorted into a deeper and different anguish, an expression as sad and awful to behold as those of the beasts.

"Husband left?" the second beast purred, as though concerned. Then in my eyes it changed, melting into the image of Begietan, smiling in his foul way. His eyes misted sentimental, until they turned vacant, and opened into round sockets, his smile stretching across macabre teeth, and he became a severed head upon its pole. The smile turned into Gastgedal's sick grin. I shook with terror, greater so than the woman. Why did she not flee? The skull's yammering jaw worked like an insane nutcracker.

"Yes, yes," the woman sobbed through tears. "The fool, he refused the brand. He knew business would fail if he didn't take the brand, so he just left. He said at least I'd have money, but what good that? Now I have to run the place by myself, with not an hour's worth of knowing how, and I still have to keep my house, and I'm alone, so alone. I have no time to rest, no time to think — much less time to change a damn-fool sign!" She fell into weeping, out of anger and heartache and fear. The voice grew to a blaring screech in my ears as I wished hell upon all of them.

"Dearest," continued the beast, back to itself. "Not right your burden. Help you." The beast's eyes did not match its words, and saliva dripped from glimmering teeth.

"You would — help me, sirs?"

"Something to think," the beast seemed actually contemplative, like a man. "Something to allow — take away shop? Please you? Then no sign worry. Like?"

"But then I'd have nothing," the woman, struggling to understand, realizing a cruel trick, though even I, surely the author of these imaginings, did not comprehend.

"No work forever," said the first beast.

"I'd lose everything," she replied, laughing nervously, as if to suggest the creatures merely crafted a clever joke.

"Then no problems."

The sky fell heavily dark. I looked upward as a great presence grew out of the clouds, a stone, perhaps the stone, falling from the heavens. But it looked nothing like the stone, and bearing down upon the Earth it grew into a blazing star. What happened to us I know not, for as the stone exploded into the ground, all beneath it was obliterated. Among the destroyed I saw two bodies, lying head-to-head, rotting in the paste and blood. I saw them with a thousand eyes, and the bodies came clearly to my sight: One had the face of Astigan, and the other mine. Then the low ceiling again became my covering, and I held my head in moaning.

"Sirs, please — I got the brand," said the woman's voice. "I did what you said. What has happened of Domen's care? He promised. Please ..."

"Arguing, woman? Forbid trade, paste free! Why still trade? Why seek us help, hate ideas? New thought then — fetch husband you?"

"You could do that?"

"If knew us he. No lion, so not here. Where? Where he for us?"

"He longed sometimes to leave the village. He dreamed of leaving with others who didn't take the brand."

"So true?" asked the second beast, only mildly interested. "What others?"

"I don't know ..."

"Not like 'I don't know,' " said the first beast again in a low growl, rattling within its throat, looking sore disappointed and drumming short talons upon the slab bearing up its elbows.

The woman looked anxiously at the first beast and directed her answers to the second. "I don't know. He never told me names. He mostly talked about men who fought alongside Cirice, all those gone from Feallengod."

"Lord Domen many killed. Great victory," the beast's fur bristling, his size and attitude swelling.

"He never!" blurted the woman, not thinking. "They laid him flat on his bum."

The reptilian stood abruptly and grabbed the woman's collar. "Subversive here," he said to the other with mock astonishment. "Woman, much of master to learn. Those favored does he crush; cross him and he consumes."

The commotion caught the attention of other figures within the murky background, and they scattered before my eyes at the brutal business. I cannot guess what so possessed them to stay to that moment. For myself, I could do no more than quake. I saw myself running and never moving, my feet mired in grasping muck. The mire brought me to my hands and knees, and I knew I slipped into a bog of the paste, and I sank deeper and wallowed in it. The comfort I found in its enveloping ooze soon became cold filth, and I shook and scraped at it with my ragged fingernails. Then I arose from the fetid pool, my feet planted firmly on rising ground. Beneath my feet I saw two forms, facing each other, climbing upon themselves, and as the slime fell from them they became the two beasts.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. That's my husband's talk, curse him, not mine. I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the woman pleaded.

"Much to make up, woman," said the hairy beast. Horns or perhaps new ears grew around the perimeter of his head, until together they looked like a furry crown. "What insult from you! How repent you? What penance Lord Domen does satisfy?"

"What must I do?" she looked up now at the first beast, begging in her eyes.

"One thing only — " the first beast's face brightened. "Turn in husband!"

"Turn in my husband?"

"Now. Ran out! Brought you ruin! Want him punished?"

"What would you do to him?"

"Not worry you. Get he what's coming. Get justice you want."

"But I want him back."

The beasts sat silent and startled at this simple statement of love: Beneath the tears and terror in her face, still beat a heart for mercy. They had counted on the woman's anger. I myself blinked in disbelief, and I wondered how my feverish illusion could give rise to something kind and honorable. But blinking swept no fuddlement, ill or good, from my eyes.

"We decide that," the second beast at length answered.

"I don't want you to harm him," her look flitted from one beast to the other, afraid to rest upon either.

The first beast took hold again of her limp blouse. "Tell he where us, then decide us what do him." Adding again to his anger, he loomed over the woman and shook her roughly, shredding her frock. As she tried to cover herself, the beast slammed a fist to the slab, and it crumbled under the force. I saw no ice in it at all, but rather iron, mixed with clay and easily broken.

"No, don't hurt him. I won't let you injure him," the woman cried quietly.

"Realize you not, plenty harm all," the first spoke with measured patience. His grip upon the woman's collar loosened, and instead he took her firmly by one wrist and forced her fingers to spread flat upon the slab, returned again, smooth and hard like flint. "New group on Feallengod means war. Not Domen follow, means war. War want you? No brand die. Perhaps more."

The woman struggled weakly, wild-eyed, pleading looks darting from the second beast, to her hand, to the empty room. Her hand held fast, yet the world tumbled. I saw the tail of the first beast grow, and it wrapped about itself and the woman. The tail drew them both into its grasp and a deep abyss, until they disappeared in boiling rocks and smoke. I hoped the vision had seen its end, but then a voice pealed.

"Yes," said the second beast, as he raised his stein and studied the beveling around its base. The object changed as he spoke. "War leave many dead. Better make end now, before too late." The stein turned into a wheel in my mind, spinning and rolling, going every direction at once. Rising, he placed the maniacal wheel over the last knuckle of the woman's small finger. Just enough pressure told her exactly what to expect.

"No!" her voice wavered.

"Before you say. Before rash, understand," said the beast, holding her hand prisoner with his mighty strength. In her terror she did not feel how it squeezed her wrist, and claws sunk into her flesh.

I fell back into my shadows. I plummeted backwards, as though caught in an avalanche upon the high mountains. Cascading faces and vermin and horses rolled screaming past as lights swirled about me in helpless descent, and brought with them a rush of heat.

"Know us must. Reveal husband place. Traitor he, save us him before too late," said the second beast, its voice rising into a psychotic shriek at the final words. Leaning all his weight upon the wheel, it rolled over the woman's finger, circling and grinding upon her flesh in terrible retribution. She screamed frantically as the unreal spinning crushed the bone, and blood oozed from beneath her fingernail.

"Stop! No, stop! Please ..."

"Important know us," said the monster, with either smile or craving grimace, and moved the whirling, turning wheel to the end of her ring finger. "Shame it, wedding band not there. Shame," and it drove the churning wheel down on her finger again under all its force, the sound of the bone scraping and breaking covered only by the woman's convulsive wailing.

She turned pallid there in my vision, then flush, her face awash with tears and beads of sweat, eyelids fluttering, eyes rolling backwards. I knew the heat and light-headedness she felt, as though she drifted into my nightmare, then awakened by the agonizing pain, as the beast leaned into his work. "Stop! Please, stop! The plateaus! They're on the plateaus!" she screamed in the escalating horror.

I heard her, and yet I didn't hear. I had seen such ruthlessness before; what difference might this specter make? Yet still for some reason this injustice stabbed me right through. Never in all my hedonist past had I so suffered the wages of my ways. Reality eluded me as I sorted what I saw – what had brought me here? I did not know, for neither could I say where my sad body lay sprawled. The chill dampness trickled down my neck, and my teeth chattered. My surroundings turned, ever faster; perhaps the swoon I foresaw in the woman would fall upon me.

"Not so difficult, no?" said the second beast, and he lifted the wheel from her finger, then higher as if studying it once more. Aloft I saw it change again, into the form of the lion, into a solid gold image of the snarling icon. Then hard it came down upon the woman's hand again, a cruel, crushing blow. Blonde liquid splashed glistening from the gold, sprinkling the slab, tainted red. The colors melted before my eyes and spun into murky brown, then blackness, and I saw no more. Gentle rest flowed over my mind as sounds folded into themselves, quiet shuddering, until I could hear little, then less, then nothing.

"Wasted us time you, wench," said the first beast. "May we no need return. Return not so easy you."

What little I know of the vision, I know less about what followed. Hours, certainly; days, perhaps. I can say for certain only that my mind let go the torment, fount of the horrible images. Eventually I returned to my world, to habitats familiar. My eyes opened to cool light, a tender awakening, and an enclosed space the size of a small cart, to both sides solid benches. Above me spread a wooden structure, supported by a central wooden beam — the underside of a table. I slid toward the opening, tending to throbbing head and muscles, and quickly recognized the Boar's Brew. Then I caught sight of the next table over, one corner broken off, covered with golden lager, tinged with blood.

The images of my unrest flooded back, and a worse nightmare lit upon me: I had seen no vision. The beasts and their brutality, the woman's suffering, the plateau and its betrayal — I had been made witness to all, to the vicious appetite of power. Yet again, the goodwill of the island's rulers had defrauded me; the promise of the paste had proven a deadly lure, and under their power I could trust nothing, not even the passing of my thoughts. So deep did Domen's covenant with Feallengod run. On my hands and knees I crawled out into the open.

That day's revelers, whichever day, had descended again upon the inn. In turn they brushed past the matron, indifferent, brusque, and though her hand thickly bandaged, demanded service. I staggered toward the door, turning from the tavern's society and deeper into void, only to be called back by a familiar voice.

"Leaving again so soon, my lovely?"

I turned around in time to see the butt end of a staff careening toward my head, Gastgedal's bulging eyes taking pointed aim. I managed to deflect the blow, flinging up my forearm, and so took little of its punishment. Twisting into the smallest target I could make, I rammed my shoulder into his gut, and we spilled out into the street, upsetting a group of horses. His staff clattered to the ground.

Gastgedal recovered first and clambered to his feet. That old goat always looked a day away from death, but he had the strength of a hemp rope. One swing he took with a foot at my ribcage. "So, you would pilfer my very food, then steal away yourself?" he chided. "Must I teach you again who's master? Do I not grow weary of these lessons?" He smiled a grimace while kicking me about in the garbage and muck allowed to accumulate along the curb.

I rolled as I could to dodge his boot. Finally I laid my hand upon a stone, which I lobbed at Gastgedal, catching him on the throat. Enough chance then to gain my own feet, I rushed at him like a crazed bull, head down, screaming and weeping. Together we plunged into a wall, he blindly delivering one uppercut after another to my face.

"Aw, ye little girl!" he taunted. "Shall I tie your skirts over your head? Let us show the island your manhood!"

A tremendous weight crashed down on the back of my neck, and I saw only blackness for a moment. My eyes slowly focused again to see Gastgedal looming over me, looping a black leather whip in his hand. "You'll be my pack mule, my lovely, if I have to lead you around on a bridle, you will serve me." The whip cracked in the air, and I felt a sudden stabbing upon my cheek and across my eyes.

From my knees I lunged at him again, taking hold of his ankles, sinking my teeth into one calf – never since have I been able to rid myself of the foul taste. Yelping like a dog, Gastgedal kicked and shook his legs to get free. My only hope was to hold on, and I slowly climbed up his body like Domen's mountain. Once reaching his neck I wrapped my fingers round and clung like a frightened child to its mother. His eyes told the tale of shocked doom, and I squeezed harder.

Suddenly my knees gave way as pain plowed into my groin. Nothing more was left to me but to collapse into a heap upon the cobblestones, groaning in agony. Gastgedal wheezed and coughed as he gathered his breath and wits, and rewound the whip. "I see you do not believe, still you belong to me," he panted. "Your life is mine, to end or extend, to do as I like."

I don't know how long the whipping continued, nor even when it began. At some point, however, the pain upon my back overruled that of my underpinnings, and I struggled to move. Twice, I think, or three times I lurched to my knees only to fall again. My pathetic writhing fed Gastgedal's confidence, and he opened a door to my last desperate attempt to put some end to his rule over me.

With a flourish he waved the long whip over his head, but his skill was not so great as his ego, and as he brought the whip low, caressing the ground like a snake, it wrapped securely around his legs. Seeing the tangle, I mustered my remaining bit of strength to leap at Gastgedal, pushing him headlong into a deep stone trough filled with water for the horses.

Then I ran as best I could. I fled like a coward whose only strength is a place to hide. Into a cleft between the scattered buildings of the village I escaped, I fled until fully swallowed up within the black shadows.

Through the village's streets I drifted, taking no straight line anywhere, until I arrived outside the walls. Though fresh from a beating, the cuts and bruises left no greater impression than the sights of my horrors. My mind cast aside the escape from my haunting companion and returned to the nightmare vision of the Boar's Brew. The trials of my hidden witnessing may have turned me truly invisible, for though I gazed in panic upon every set of eyes, every forearm, not one man glanced toward me on the way. No man walked unworthy of my suspicion or judgment, as if I alone laid claim to truth, though hidden in terror. In that same hour I knew that though my heart thought itself alive, what I had seen left it dead. I found myself at last at the ashes, grasping for the denuded pillar of the tree, lorn monolith, its support still grand and strong, perched upon roots sunk deep in unbending soil; yet surely Domen squatted grinning at its peak. I clung to the tree, I vomited at its foot, I worshipped that tree, and never was I so destitute.

In short time the open road called me, leading to the fields where I had once before seen those without the brand, the fields where one could stand idly swinging a scythe, gleaning little, thinking nothing. How I hoped to find them there again! How badly I wished to blend into the dirt.

So I sought out among the tall grasses the few islanders I could find without the lion, isolated communities, a handful of vagabonds content with seeds and freedom. I kept my sleeves and head judiciously low.

In the distance, some men coming down the path caught the attention of my little gathering. We ducked into hiding, breath low, and stealthily watched the company, approaching in two straight lines, twelve rows, perfectly shoulder-to-shoulder. They carried with them a bristling assortment of weapons, all polished brightly and sharpened well. As one we watched them upon the road, listened to their cadence, gazed upon their stoic expression passing, and minded their disappearance beyond a bend leading to the village. Upon each forearm the brand splayed prominently.

"Where do they march?" asked a girl with brown skin.

Suddenly a memory fell into my head. "What? What was it?" I drilled myself, and my brain ached for answer, for at times I still buckled woozy. At last the words made sense, and I translated my horrid dream. "They're going to the plateaus! They will attack the plateaus!"

"Attack?" The girl and the others turned anxious. "Who will they attack?"

"Those without the brand, they have fled to the plateaus," I said, not sure what urgency I felt. "They will be slaughtered."

"We must go! We must go!" they all screamed at me. The girl grabbed my hand with both of hers and pulled at me desperately. "We must run!"

"They're going there to attack!" I argued.

The girl only pulled harder. "There will be no hiding for us either!" Many a maiden has led me by the hand, but never one with the love and desperation of that girl. Terror flashed in her eyes, but not for herself. For no reason I know, she saw only the fate that awaited me. I looked deep into those eyes. I drank deep, for in those eyes glistened tenderness that I had thirsted for, without even knowing, since the days of my youth. And I knew this girl not at all; her heart bled for me, but not because of me. Some other inspiration gave it birth.

I don't know why, still I don't know why, but at that moment I thought of Gastgedal and hesitated. What was he doing, and should I know?

I looked in the direction of the passing brigade. I looked back toward my retreating fellows, and still the girl pulled at my arm. My resignation to believe nothing abruptly wavered – but what to believe, or believe in? Still, this I knew: In one direction lay destruction, ruination, the end of everything I once held decent, whether in admiration or disdain. In the other at least lay life and breath. Again I scoffed at the idea of promise. But what if the king's promises proved true, in spite of my eyes? The idea finally took root in my obstinate head: Oh, my king, how could you have waited upon me so long? How did you restrain your hand from justice? Without warning the mists dissipated into nothingness, and my brain beheld a notion that now seems too cruelly obvious. Should I believe the king, or believe my eyes? What deprivations I had forced upon myself to remain blind! But now I could see what had remained veiled so long. This truth I saw at last, that the guarantee was death, the promise hope. The promises always gave us our only hope! And considered alongside, truly nothing else did matter. As dark as I had walked my chosen path, I suddenly realized it surely would one day open up into light. A spark ignited within me, and I turned and ran, ran harder than ever before, desiring the plateaus, ran to save my pathetic life, and now it was I pulling the girl.

In the heights of the low mountains, where the sky sat flat upon the mesa, Beorn joined in the work, organizing the labor, setting up tents and other shelters. Once the last of the supplies reached the summit, the men attached large harnesses to the cranes. A dozen at a time, women and young children climbed into their grasp and rose to the plateau. Rope ladders reached down for the more hearty men and women to ascend; I scrambled to the top like a startled squirrel. I joined Beorn as he helped many step from those unsteady rungs onto the mountaintop; he hung precariously over the ledge, steadied by a rope wrapped around one hand and extending to a pile of loose lumber. My heart stopped as the girl — no, the angel — from the fields slipped upon the frail rigging. Without a sound she dangled, her feet hanging as if at rest, and I would have sold my useless soul to save her; but Beorn caught her by the wrist and lifted her to sanctuary.

The refugees reached safety in due haste, a final check found none left at the foot of the mountain, and all means of scaling the peak slinked delicately to the top. My group had been among the last to arrive, the entire escape taking only a couple of days. I had never felt so exhilarated; for the first time in all my years, I knew that, truly, beatifically, nothing mattered. Live or die, I belonged in this mountaintop community, and what happened to me there didn't matter at all, now or ever. We gathered in a council at the top of the rock, I joyfully pulled my sleeves up to my pits, and we chose our leaders. Beorn sat with a tin cup, chewing on coffee grounds.

"In all your generations, Feohtan, you bear the most honor of any man here, and you must be our elder," the gathered people said to him.

"No — you must choose a worthy man as chieftain. King Ecealdor bestowed blessings upon my family, which for long years treasured the gift, but I laid waste to it. Instead of honoring the king, the prince, I followed his worst enemy. I stand among you the greatest of traitors."

"We all carry the guilt of our rebellion, we all scattered like fawns before wolves," said the tavern-keeper. "Your regret makes you worthy to lead. Because you failed then, you join us here now, to help protect us. We didn't call you here by accident, you know."

Beorn looked to Cwen, who smiled warmly, the kind of smile he had not seen since the day of Hatan's birth. He walked to the edge of the plateau and gazed upon the expanse of Feallengod for a long moment. The October wind whipped over us in brisk, victorious cleanliness. Beorn's eyes explored the beauty of the land, and now he gave it the last thing he had. "I hope we brought up everybody," he said finally, "because those ladders will never go down again."

So as I at last embraced Coren's people, safety at last embraced me, or so I thought. At least I had cast off Domen by choosing death for myself. But in truth my self-assurance still stood exposed, and I strode about blind. Domen knew all too well.

Chapter XX

The air over Feallengod had turned crisp, and the sun set a little earlier with each passing evening. The keen chill that blew across the land now inspired one to feel alive, and to prepare for the deadness to come. The animals needed shelter for the night, and the fields begged for harvest, but now none would serve; the paste had removed both need and desire for the earth's good gifts. The times and traditions had come around this season as they always did on the island, but autumn activities snapped to a halt when Domen ordered all those branded to turn out straightway at the village gate, equipped for war.

A much sharper force gathered, and better equipped, than the ragged assailants of the great battle. The surviving men had tasted combat, tasted the sharp business of swords and pikes, many now proven by the loss of friends, family or limbs. Weapons and shields rattled amply, as all Domen's blacksmiths and woodworkers had turned to the task. Some men drilled day and night with the longbow, others the lance, others the sword. Horses and matériel had been confiscated, first from everyone without the brand, then those with. Domen had pressed a proper army, built upon forced service and humbling paste, dumbly obedient, able to defeat or oppress any rival to his thumb. Now arose a chance to prove its might, to make an example, to show all the people the strength of the lion.

Somewhere in the distant horizons, Ecealdor remained unwilling or perhaps unable to bring down his fist.

Only a few days had passed. As dusk pulled its dark shroud over the island, Mann and Cynn mustered the militia. The men, some barely in their teens, others in their eighties, lined up in phalanxes twenty deep, segregated by weapon. Women fell in behind the soldiers, forming companies, carrying supplies for siege or battle. Their breath misted, only barely visible, in the darkness; Domen, of course, found solace in the gloaming.

A striking stallion served as his high throne, snorting and strutting before the lines of troops. "I emerge from my consecrated sanctuary to face you again, people of Feallengod! Only the most desperate events could pull me from my exalted counsels to join your battle. Feallengod approaches its greatest hour! At last I give you obligation to defend the lion! Your privilege at last comes to serve the lion, to kill and die on its behalf! Now at last, your time arrives to join my struggle, to wipe out the dissidents who corrupt our land!"

The warriors lofted their weapons and raised a stirring cheer, Mann and Cynn commanding from behind the mincing horse. Domen planted his fists upon his hips, his thrusting chin affirming the mob's veneration, comically puffing up his puny frame. Yet still the strains of wickedness bulked exceedingly in his voice.

"Those who do not love the lion betray Feallengod! Those traitors reject the mark of the lion, they reject you, my faithful, obedient subjects. While you gladly declare your loyalty, they draw away to hatch treachery, and deceit, and violence!"

The crowd again roared, now in judgment of their countrymen's retreat. Domen's raised hands made indulgent show: He understood, he empathized with their outrage, as though they were one with him, and they should fall quiet, and quickly.

"They try to overcome us, but we will overcome! They try to establish a kingdom upon Feallengod, but we will defend our island! They cling to old dreams of glory, drifting upon the air like smoke, but we will increase my splendor! Come, come with me to this grand cause! Give over yourselves to the lion, even your lives, to the end of your lives! Then will I ascend without equal, I will be just as he is! We march to the plateaus!"

Again a gathering of voices lifted, but this time met no effort from Domen to quiet them. His squealing mount galloped up the lines and back, a banner bearing the golden lion ripping in the wind high above. Mann and Cynn signaled the march to begin, to the low mountains; and so they turned on their heels, advancing like a true corps of military men.

The march took the better part of the night, but the troops did not tire. Domen indeed had molded them well for his service, long dark drills adapting the people to working through the night. The tramping of their feet persisted unrelenting as they made around the foot of the mountains; officers barked out cadence as line upon line of weaponry bore toward the quarries. In a matter of hours the sounds of the march alerted sentries watching the horizon from our mountain fortress.

Beorn followed the point of the sentry's finger, peering intently into the darkness. The night sky lay still far short of dawn, with no stars to help. Squinting made him no difference; "No, I don't see them yet. The light goes out of my old eyes. But I hear it — I do hear it."

Almost everyone upon the mountain, and I among them, rushed to the ledge to peer along with the rising glow of the sun. The minutes marched on, and light advanced upon us as single-mindedly as Domen's troops. Soon the mass of armored manpower appeared out of the gloom, led by Domen upon his rowdy horse. Slowly, steadily, they surged toward the low mountains like fate itself.

Suddenly our attention spotted a few simple folk of the island at the foot of the mountain face. These men and women, a dozen or so, another little community that had refused to take the brand, and now came out of hiding to seek refuge, knowing the purge had begun. Immediately I thought, I should be among them, and looked behind me foolishly to assure myself the girl had reached the mountaintop. Arms reaching upward for a rope or chain, they called out for deliverance — their voices as small as their hope of survival. Many upon the plateau called back, others made helpless gestures with their hands; Beorn stood and watched, turning and pacing with agitation. The peoples' cries rent at me, and I desperately looked about for some salvation to offer. The army drew ever closer, and the risk of lowering a ladder simmered deep within Beorn's eyes.

Finally he blurted, "I can't take this! Lower a rope!"

With a shout a gang of men, I among them, fetched the rope we reckoned to have the greatest length and secured it to one of the rustic cranes. Over the precipice the end flew, looking like a wisp of smoke.

At the bottom the worst of panicked humanity unfolded as each individual fought the others for the lifeline. The weak were flung aside as the strong sought only their own salvation, and the soldiers marched nearer and nearer. At last a single man got a firm grasp on the rope and began his difficult climb. In agonies of struggle he lifted himself one arm's-length at a time, grasping clumsily for foothold, swinging side to side.

The columns of the army moved in without thought, without delay. Another man jumped upon the rope, and it swung like a pendulum. The fiber ground against the sharp edge of a high ledge jutting out of the mountain and quickly began to unravel against the strain. Again my mind flashed to the stone, to its fraying rope, to its silent judgment poised. The first man somehow had made it a full quarter of the way up, and more refugees took hold of the end. Tighter still the rope stretched, grating across the unforgiving rock, until the inevitable end fell upon those people. The rope snapped, and betrayed its victims to their fate.

His face waxen and blank, Beorn turned away from the shelf. I heard him say quietly, "Failure. Is there no end to this failure, this fatal weakness?" My own heart fell dead.

"Help! They'll kill us! Help us! Please!" the lost people cried vainly before Domen's soldiers. My own words, "They will be slaughtered," came back to me. Frantically the people tried to scramble up the mocking steep sides of the mountain, sliding helplessly down on the loose rubble. Why languished I not at the bottom also? For what cause did I elude the teeth of the oncoming massacre? More sad than terrible, and haunting for their nearness to me, their eyes will never leave me. I swear, as if payment for doom I had wished upon them, the eyes of their deaths will never leave me. Afraid to look, afraid not to look, the people stared upon the army folding over them as they pleaded and struggled against the mountain's sheer face. Domen's lashing whip stirred his men's bloodlust as the mob swallowed the screaming, unarmed people. Flailing fists and bludgeons blotted out eyes alight with terror. Tiny areas of angry violence boiled up like swarming ants, then fell still. Horrified voices echoed off the mountains and then went silent — that quickly lives slipped out of existence. On the plateau strong men and women gasped and sobbed at the sight; many had to turn their eyes away. I could only stand and wonder at what had become of Feallengod.

As well, at that moment I knew the plateau did not save me, nor did the people, nor the tree. As long as my heart pounded and lungs demanded air, each beat or breath might come as my last. For all my careful service to myself, though I gave my words again to the king, I gained nothing if not in serving him, and his subjects. Until that moment alit, I might as well still toss about in the skirts of a whore, or the tight neck of a bottle. For this be truth – all the moments that I thought myself rich, I was poor; all the times I made for myself love, I was destitute. All the times I wept for myself, I gained yet more reason to weep. All my wasted life when I believed I saw the truth, I was blind as an unblinking statue. All the times I thought myself full of life, instead I beat upon the door of death.

"We come for your bones!" Domen called out.

"That same death awaits us," said Beorn to witnesses of the atrocity. "He will call for us to surrender, and offer us pardon, then slay us like a butcher at his trade."

"I offer you mercy!" Domen continued.

"The mountain will hold him off for a while, perhaps not long," Beorn said. "I yet carry the bruises of Domen's mercy. Do we let ourselves fall into his hands?"

The men closest to him murmured and grumbled, vowing never to surrender. I spoke for no others, nor for myself; I knew, whether right or wrong, my end did not matter.

"Come down now, and return to your homes in peace!" Domen brayed.

"I must agree," said Beorn. "Our worst fate lies in survival within in his hands — we must consider death's other option. Dare you prepare to take your lives from Domen, in order to save them?"

All of us who heard stood in stony quiet. Not one agreed, but not one dissented, and I as well. I knew nothing for the others, but Beorn's words shook me not: I would go to my death believing my own end did not matter.

"If you resist, we will strike down every man, flay your bodies and tan your hides for shoe leather!" Domen screamed the end of his benevolence. Shaking his fists, he spied unblinking for any movement from the mountaintop.

A tiny speck flew into his view from over the edge of the plateau, a stone careening into sudden menace over the army. It caught Mann squarely upon the forehead, caving skull into his brain. Without even a grunt he fell at the hooves of Domen's startled horse, raring to finish whatever work remained. Beorn turned and looked upon Cwen in utter disbelief, and I leaned back with gay laughter. "Nicely done," he said at last to his lady, and then over the mountain ledge, "There's all the answer you'll get today."

Domen flew into a rage; Cynn stood struck dumb, mystified by his brother's flabby corpse. "Gather your wits together, fool!" Domen screamed, sinking a kick deep into his belly. "Useless toad! Get the officers together! Now!" Cynn whimpered and blubbered, but went to his task.

Domen barked out orders. "Shod your feet to climb this mountain! Spike your shoes and cast up hooks! Take the women's bandages and oil, and soak the fabric. We'll turn things of healing into flaming arrows. Blazing hail surely will set something up there to burning. You over there, get those men together! Take beams from the quarry and build a siege tower — I don't care how, just make it tall. I swear upon my own head, they will not see the sun rise again, not one of them! They will never again draw breath to defy me!"

A flurry of activity billowed at the foot of the mountain as soldiers hastened to their orders. We could see the scaffold rising quickly, but each new level made it lean and groan under its increasing weight. Men attempting to scale the mountainside stumbled upon the unfamiliar spikes under their feet; as well, we kept them occupied with rocks thrown from overhead. Their bowyers took hardest toll upon us, sending a rain of flames into the materials at our encampment. Their arrows flew gracefully high into the sky above us, arching to a slow apex before angling downward again and hurtling into their unseen targets. The heavens glowed thick with fire.

Beorn put a bucket brigade to work on the blazes, but our cups and pails carried no sufficient water to quell the waves upon waves of flaming missiles. Occasionally an arrow found a man or woman, sent into a screaming panic, and so also pulling from the water lines those who snuffed out flaming clothes and dressed wounds. I myself took an arrow to the arm, but my injury counted naught, and I simply tore off my burning sleeve. I gave myself over completely to tending those whose light fell dim from the flickering darts. Soon great blazes engulfed whole shelters and stockpiles of supplies. As we scurried to fight the flames or nurse one another, our defense of the mountain fell to neglect.

By trial and error, Domen's men grew more skillful at climbing the rocky incline, no longer under a deluge of stones upon their heads. They found which grooves in the walls offered them a secure grip and quickened their ascent. The tower extended ever higher, and the bowmen crawled up its framework like flies upon a corpse, each new landing gaining them a clearer shot onto the plateau. Slowly the entire army began to take the mountain.

Domen dismounted his command to join the climb. Years of deftly scaling the rugged slopes surrounding his high refuge left this mountain face little challenge. Instinctively his jagged toes knew where to find the next foothold, his claws which tiny ledge to clasp in turn. Shouldering larger men out of the way, he worked his path from one side to the other and back again. His glowering face, never turning from his goal, made terrible spectre as I dared gaze down upon him. As he drew ever nearer the top, Domen's lusting sense of power grew. While exalting himself ever higher, he prepared to claim his final conquest of Feallengod, victory in his long conflict with King Ecealdor. At last he would drive down his island, subject and ruin this people so treasured to his enemy lord. His arms and legs bounded with strength, fed by his hatred for everything so long denied him. Quickly he had climbed several yards higher than the men of his army, and his baleful eyes appeared over the rim of the plateau.

Beorn looked on with anguish spilling over. Whether the scene be at the top of the plateaus, or along the sides of the mountain, impending violence surrounded him. I lay my hands upon his arm and shoulder, an attempt to offer comfort, a vain gesture lost in the chaotic melee. The flames roared and spread, feeding upon oils and alcohol among the supplies, flaky ashes dancing upward with sparks on the torrid air. The men and women huddled together, panicked by each new shower of arrows. Many used their bodies to shield the wounded, crouching over those too weak to protect themselves. Others simply looked about in confused terror, wishing for some escape. The morning showed fully golden pink in the eastern sky, hovering over Ocean Heofon.

Domen's bloody, gnarled hands and feet gripped the flat peak and lifted him over the ledge like an insect. The cruel teeth of his grinning snarl portended savagery to come. Slowly he gained his feet, plotted an arcing path toward the people, his eyes burning with malice, one hand's bony fingers stroking the other, clenched into a fist. I shuddered at the sight, not so awful to behold, but because I knew now how close I had come to him. My end mattered not, for I died his enemy. Our men drew what ragged weapons they had and held them ready over weeping loved ones, waiting only for a sign from Beorn to inflict their own compassionate carnage. But Beorn saw them not; when he spied Domen's loathsome form climbing onto the plateau, his mind flew into confusion. In anguish he paced the mountaintop, long strides and agitated gestures, the very image of a madman. Tearing his fingers through his hair, he cried out the desperation I had long ago accepted as truth: "Meaningless! Every day, every breath, meaningless! Who can deliver us from this death?"

The sun rising distant over the waters revealed an angry cloud unrolling over the island, yet the surrounding sea lay smooth as glass. A thunderclap began to rumble gently in the distance, from no particular direction, but far from dissipating, it lingered and grew. A sudden, drenching cloudburst — fresh, cleansing rain — hit the plateau, cooling sheets lasting only a few moments but leaving the great fires mere hissing, steaming embers. In a flash so fast — I'm not sure I remember, but never will I forget — a stunning streak of lightning rent a gash across the full breadth of the sky from east to west.

Slowly, and yet as if the heavens strained in urgency, the thunder built until the skies unleashed a tremendous blast of sound upon the island: A sound like cannon fire, or a legion of trumpets, but greater by thousands, perhaps only thousands; like the crescendo of a multitude of orchestras. Within it echoed the devastating, metallic resonance of all the wars of all of history, fought at one horrendous moment; a sound like the rolling, mounting roar of an avalanche bearing down upon doomed fate, gaining muscle and speed along its descent. The explosion of noise erupted with cascading energy, invisible, terrible to the islanders as we watched this devastating, unseen force visited upon our brittle, physical world. Feallengod's mighty peaks shook under the pressure of the tremendous percussion, as if they themselves feared crumbling to dust. We upon the plateau all fell, cast down, thrown from our feet; climbers flew off the sides of the mountain like water droplets shaken from its shoulders. My head caught the edge of a stout wooden frame as I went down, bouncing and twisting to the side. My brain spun and showered with color, then swirled into a daze, and numbing fear paralyzed me: The paste might be taking hold again to suck me into utterly deep, inescapable terrors of my own making. My eyes swam, and I struggled to at least lift myself to my elbows.

Great boulders broke loose from their moorings upon the peak, bounding down the mountain face to crush all of Domen's soldiers caught under the cascade, and the terrible quaking endured. A last, tortured, splintering crack pitched the siege tower tantalizingly to one side – it bowed and paused, its creaking audible over the screams – then into complete collapse, dumping men and arms to the ground, pummeling the scattered people below with massive timbers. From the intense rattling of the land burst forth the fountains of Four Rivers, crashing with spraying brilliance upon the feet of the mountains, and the onrush swept many into the yawning mouth of the sea. A tremendous tangle of bodies and screams roiled at the foot of the mountain as the entire army fell to waste.

At the foot of the mountain also lay the body of Gastgedal, his arms swung out, stretched to each side, palms toward the sky, a sword embedded into his right side.

Of all his forces, only Domen alone stood safe upon the plateau.

Knocked to the ground, victim of the severe shaking, he who would rule the island panicked, trapped within a mob of his enemies, defenseless, with only his anger and hatred to strengthen him. None of us moved toward him, nor took we even notice of him (I speak for myself, for neither did I see my fellows, nor hear, nor touch.) The storm had abated as quickly as it once arose, and as the cloud passed over the island, the sun directed its light onto a point of brilliance upon the highest peaks of Feallengod. And every eye drew to it.

I had only begun to regain my senses and knew nothing swirling upon me. I still feared the illusions haunting me, my mind's trickery making me believe things that were not. Falling images like men and skeletons and stones flitted about me and spun into a great mass. Something told me that ages and ages of fractured details had suddenly come to their unified end; and so my reason begged me not to believe. But horrified screams of "Look out! What's that?! What's coming?!" arising from the groveling people, waving frantically toward the tall zenith, gave witness to reality. Some tried to gain their feet, but they had no place to run. All stared with the terrible fascination of the doomed.

As the mists rolled down from around the peaks, a figure appeared draped in awe, color swirling about it in an unnatural way, high upon the uppermost point. A figure of tremendous grace, of resolute mission, of radiant beauty, unafraid against the billowing maelstrom just passed. I could not make out his face, so remote his distance, neither could I discern his intent. My head still swam from the blow, or from the paste, perhaps — I alone among those on the plateau had partaken. I did not know then; now I need not wonder what the others might have seen. To me he appeared bathed in light, so bright as to almost obscure him altogether, so cool as to heal the blind, and so I saw.

His garments, shimmering like snow and delicate as gossamer, went the length of his body, resting gently at the top of his feet, strong and dark and rich as bronze. A golden belt about the waist held fast his robe, floating in the swirling breezes of the plateau, and also a long sash, deeply red like sardius, draped over his right shoulder. From the belt hung a great scimitar, a menacing curved blade sharp upon both edges, one for severing, the other reaping. Broad and burly he held his shoulders, and his hair hung in loose platinum curls just below his neck, their luster ablaze in the sun. His face glowed like luminescent copper, tanned and ruddy, his countenance without dismay, without conflict, instead displaying the peace of confidence, the courage of absolute assurance. Sparkling eyes, green as jasper, flashed with resolve like a flame of fire. Upon his head rested a golden crown, encrusted with precious jewels, engraved with delicate runes. About him hung a spirit of wonder, so that every man and woman upon the plateau felt drawn to him, and yet all parted to make his path clear.

The people of my island say even the meanest poet can bring flowering eloquence to the stroke of suffering, and still the greatest psalmist can string barely ten words together to celebrate joy. And so, perhaps because our lives' foundation lies upon bedrock mourning. The shroud that covers each step of our walking, each turning of mind, spreads over in flowing billows of gentle sorrow: We miss our beloved. Long we do, for that distant time of embrace. Then shall joy be born of suffering, and Coren stand among us.

A warm, sweet fragrance floated upon the air. I knew the man to be no spirit, no figment of imagination, but as real as my own heart beating. And I knew nothing else mattered, for Coren had arrived. He made his way down the treacherous mountainside easily — he fairly glided, wisping fog spiraling about his descent — and then he reached the great plateau, and now his feet again exalted Feallengod.

Yes, the Prince came to us, the Magister — this man Coren returned, but not as I nor anyone had ever seen him before. And the multitude of memories of my own perverse scoffing, the faithless accusations of lying I had leveled at my king, all rushed over me like the dry dust of stampede.

"I cannot stand before you!" for suddenly I grieved again, not for the destruction that lay about me but for that within.

The people, as one, went to their knees before Coren. Beorn's heart leapt as he realized his eyes beheld the appointed day of the ancient promise, that one thing came to a close forever, something that even in its greatest beauty had left a tender void in the hearts of the people, and another thing utterly new prepared to begin.

I gazed at my knees resting upon the plateau, in the midst of security that a moment before had been a plain of annihilation. All the reason and self-reliance in the world blew away with the wind now. This, the finest thing I had ever done, the one show of wisdom my life had ever produced — to stand with Coren — had set everything right.

From the ground below a glad noise arose. I turned to look, and through my tears I could make out Cirice, and Witness, and thousands of others, eyes cast to the plateau, looking up at Coren in adoration and rejoicing; thousands who had joined with Coren, and against Domen so long ago; thousands returning to once again populate Feallengod. Cwen collapsed into pure, helpless joy: There too walked Astigan, carrying a fawn upon his shoulders, even his death exposed as a lie. My gladness at seeing again the friend of my youth defied description then and still now, and there behind him Liesan, restored to health and happiness; and yet still only Coren commanded my delight. In the distance, in the bays and inlets of the eastern shore, brilliantly colorful longboats from Gægnian gleamed in the morning's new light, and the beauty Feallengod had once known rekindled there in the communion of the ages. A roaring cheer rose like incense from the plateau as every soul called out to returning friends, family long lost, and every voice sang praises, every voice but one.

"You be Coren!" Domen demanded, exclamation more than question, lying upon the ground, casting a charred squint to the dazzling light.

"I am."

"I killed you!" screamed Domen.

"Not so, for never was I victim. You do not know the depths of what I have finished. And so, as I show you, I live."

Domen wrenched his body in frustrated defiance. "Long I knew this day's arrival, yet never did I believe!"

With no source of shade upon the plateau, Domen lay fully exposed to the hateful brightness of the sunshine. Only the shadow of the son gave him any shelter from the light.

"I came to you once before, Feallengod," said Coren to all. "I came to you in humility, but no longer. Today I come to you in all the glory of the king's courts in Gægnian, in all the power I have known since the beginning, for the end was determined from before the beginning. All things are made subject to me, by the will of my father, King Ecealdor.

"As a witness of Ecealdor's love for you, oh Feallengod, he gave me to you once before. Far from standing distant, I join in your suffering, and in suffering never were we closer, you and I. Now Ecealdor pays the earnest upon the promise, and he gives me to you once again. To seal his devotion to you, for the sake of his glory and promise, this time I am come to you, oh Feallengod, chosen out of all the greater kingdom, to claim a bride. Ecealdor makes a marriage alliance with you, people of Feallengod, to last through all generations.

"Make no mistake. I am Coren, I am the sovereignty of Ecealdor, I am the power of Blawan. If you have seen me, you have seen Ecealdor; I bear the sign of the seamrog."

Then his eyes fell upon me, the most wretched of traitors, mouth of the most foul denials, enemy to his followers and his father. His gaze burned a hole in me as I suffered my shame.

"You, my friend — your heart breaks for another. You loved deeply a subject of Ecealdor. Is not Liesan's story your own, and that of all Feallengod as well? For mankind opens the womb in grief, and into grief, and many times the cause remains hidden. Yet still those who endure the fiery darts but remain faithful to the king defeat his foes, do they not? And so I take part in the suffering your enemies would inflict. I take part in the penalty of being born upon Feallengod – not by fate, but by choice – to reveal my father greater than the enemies he banished here. I became a man of Feallengod to be like you, so you now can be like me."

I stood never more guilty in my rebellion, but I received the grace of the king. And at last the binding ropes were cut, and the stone no longer hung over my head to crush me. And I stood upon the stone.

"Oh, blessed little island, Feallengod! Yes, you nestle within the greater kingdom just a tiny speck, but you have taken part in the greatest victory of all days past or to come. King Ecealdor has not established you in vain. In your suffering, in your weakness, you have persevered, and the forces of Domen have not triumphed. You have fought valiantly in resolute belief. Though led into slaughter, you are found to love your king more than your own lives, and you have served to humiliate the king's enemies. For this time have you long groaned, Feallengod, for now the royal presence vanquishes forever the insurrection that has torn at your soul, vanquishes forever the forces of evil and hatred, and we regather this little island, this grand battleground, into the courts of Gægnian. The suffering we endured together, that I chose to endure with you, is ended."

I stood unthinking for a moment, and then unthinking I asked, "But why You?"

"Because of Love."

Chapter XXI

Mine is not the story I tell, and yet so it is. The scratching quill falls still; it mocks my sanity. The scratching imputes my blessing, and my penance. I remember no more.

All of Feallengod returned to the community. Everyone who had taken the brand of the lion had swept into Domen's downfall, his final calamity imposed. There in the square, the people fell upon the golden lion and tore it to pieces, casting each shred into the great furnace of the branding place. I, myself, stoked the fire, and fanned the flames until the molten gold dripped out upon the streets and into the cracks between the cobblestones.

A thousand pairs of hands dismantled the hearth, the bricks put under heavy millstones and ground into dust, then scattered unto the four winds. The platform came apart board by board, and the wood taken to the ash heap and burned until only dead embers remained. The brands themselves plunged deep into the Ocean Heofon to rust and waste away. Waves lapped gently at the shores, and warmth like spring poured from the heavens upon bones newly dressed in the health of flesh.

Our happy task done, the people of Feallengod congregated in the town square. In the midst of us all, crouching low to the ground, we placed Domen.

The men and women cast an unwavering gaze upon him, our narrow eyes set to contemplating the ruinous weight he had brought upon our families, upon the island. I wondered at my own lack of understanding, as surely did many others, when we had considered him benevolent, or innocuous. At last we saw – his power had reigned over us even when we believed not in him, as the words of the law wore away. Now, the strength and authority of Coren exposed Domen as nothing more than the unwitting, disabused victim of his own lust for destruction.

The wickedness and folly, the foolishness and bile roared in desperation within what heart Domen had. Madness erupted from his mind. "Damn your eyes!" he spewed, pointing his accusation at us. Directing his diatribe at Coren, he screeched, "These! You see your enemies before you — every one! Every one fails you!" I feared that he might hear Domen's words and believe, for surely I would lead those wrathfully turned away by my exceeding beloved, and rightly so, but condemnation arose only from my own weakness.

Domen's anguished screams echoed into oblivion. "Ecealdor made me thus! You will not take up my cause! You and the king conspire together, always the same!"

"You will submit in silence," said Coren. "You will no longer accuse these, for I have chosen them, and they have agreed. You never held authority to affix judgment, for these stand on my side; they have sought out mercy, and they have persevered against your attacks."

"I accuse you! You brought it upon them, and upon me!" Domen's voice rasped. "You and your king!"

"So then you accuse me? Yet who is there to judge me? I have borne the lowly raiment of these my people, but no more. Today I dress them in my own robes. Your time has passed, Dægræd-El. You once did abide in the courts of Gægnian as the most favored. You gathered splendor and eminence unto yourself, bedecked with every precious jewel, anointed with the greatest honors. You have in your day been found wonderful in your beauty and bearing and wisdom. Yet you reviled your high office.

"We found you blameless, until you manifested violence in your ways, as well pride, and you took up the cause of your own will. By reason of these things, you have corrupted yourself. Your conceits worked less for yourself than against the king. You dared elevate yourself to Ecealdor's majesty; you vainly considered that you could be as he is. But have you not only served him? For these purposes we placed you upon Feallengod, and this people as well, and our intentions against you have been fulfilled. I have seen you cast out of the courts of favor, and now cast out of the dust, to the end of utter destruction. This very people whom you sought to destroy I have taken unto myself and made them the instrument of your defeat. See, I lay you before kings, that they may behold you in the totality of your ruin."

And then Coren turned to face us, his glorious face alight, love beaming from his countenance. "Or did you not know you would judge princes?" looking directly to Beorn.

"I have ached for you these many years, but my heart refused," his voice glazed with sweet regret.

"Had you not fallen away, I would never have given my life for Feallengod, and never defeated Domen."

The people of Feallengod stood silent for a moment, as Domen shrank under our scrutiny. He lay before us stripped of clothing, stripped of covering, stripped of power. The taut muscles of his arms and legs convulsed beneath his skin, diseased and wasted; his ribs and the bones of his spine etched grotesque patterns; dried blood caked heavily upon his knuckles. His sneer transformed into a miserable, wailing grimace and back again. A question swelled in my mind, what he was now, what he had ever been. Quietly, voices arose as we looked upon him, first one, then another, then more.

"Is this the man?"

"Is this the man who made the whole island tremble?"

"Is this he who shook the very foundations of Feallengod?"

"Could this man truly wring our wills and so imprison us?"

"Is this really one so bold, so proud?"

"Is this really one who dared challenge Ecealdor?"

"How could this lone man be the greatest evil of all the ages?"

And we gaped upon him.

"This man made not the king his strength, and trusted in the abundance of his arrogance, and strengthened himself in his wickedness."

These judgments, brought by those he hated and abused, left Domen writhing in the ashes, clenching his fists and teeth in futile rage. The peace that embraced us, the reverence Coren commanded — deserved without question, received in natural grace — our staring eyes probing the depths of his failure: All these offenses now did seize Domen's entrails, twisting violently about in the bitter hatred of his mind, enraging him beyond anything he had ever felt. "Damn your eyes!" he screamed.

"You will cease. Power in Feallengod lies no longer in your hands, to choose when you will speak or accuse," Coren measured his voice. "The robes of the government of Feallengod now hang upon my shoulders. You have never gained anything except what the royal counsels of Gægnian allowed in our unity. All your victories counted no more to you than defeat, for they only drew you closer to this moment. Your sands run out, Domen. Your time of dominion upon Feallengod fails, forever past. As for now, the dungeons of Gægnian will take hold of you."

***

The overhead door of the cell, the pit, slammed shut with a ringing, metallic bang. Domen crouched, confined to the cold and dank, to the darkness he always had coveted. "Curse him," he said.

###

After earning bachelor's and graduate degrees at the University of Missouri, Craig Davis toiled for 20 years at newspapers, and has spent a lifetime in biblical scholarship. He has also authored "The Job: Based on a True Story (I mean, this is bound to have happened somewhere)" and "Wars of the Aoten." An amateur musician, he was once wrestled to the ground by a set of bagpipes. To keep up with other works by Craig, please join our Facebook page at  http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Job-Based-on-a-True-Story/104805546240239. Also, please visit http://www.StCelibart.com.

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# Appendix

All names in Feallengod have meanings in Old English, with the exception of Domen. The Hebrew word El is added to those characters who serve in the courts of Gægnian. All Old English words are accented on the first syllable.

Domen = Doe-main

Feallengod (Fallen good) = Fay-all-ayn-goad

Gægnian (Rejoice) = Gag-nee-ahn

Ocean Heofon (Heaven) = Hay-oh-fone

Ecealdor (Everlasting life) = Ache-ay-all-door

Coren (Chosen) = Coe-rain

Blawan (Blow) = Blah-wahn

Dægræd-El (God's dawn) = Dag-rad-Ale

Gelic-El (Like God) = Gay-leek-Ale

Mægen-El (Strength of God) = Mag-ayn-Ale

Andsæc Cirice (He who strives Church) = Ahnd-sak Kee-reek-ay

Secanbearn (Seeks child) = Say-cahn-bairn

Liesan (Redeemed) = Lee-ay-sahn

Bregdan (Draw out) = Brayg-dahn

Fela (Many) = Fay-lah

Mann, Cynn Draca (Mankind Dragon) = Mahn Coon Drah-kah

Beorn Feohtan (Man fights) = Bay-orn Fay-oh-tahn

Cwen Feohtan (Woman fights) = Kwain Fay-oh-tahn

Begietan Feohtan (Acquired) = Bay-git-ahn Fay-oh-tahn

Hatan Feohtan (Named) = Hah-tahn Fay-oh-tahn

Astigan Feohtan (Ascends) = Ah-stee-gahn Fay-oh-tahn

Fulwiht (Baptism) = Fool-weet

Tweard (Two countries) = Tway-ahrd

Aberan Eft (Born again) = Ah-bay-rahn Ayft

Gastgedal (Death, separation of soul and body) = Gahst-gay-dahl

You Can't Count What Isn't There

Some days it just doesn't pay to be alive. For instance, one time Judas just plain refused to do what Poncey told him, so Poncey had to beat him. He beat his ears back, to the point where finally Judas would follow orders. This result turned out bad enough for Judas. But then later he sat on Poncey's lap – while Poncey was trying to read – and emptied his bladder. From that moment on Poncey suspected that the world would always have the last laugh on him, no matter how much smarter he was.

Judas was Poncey's mongrel dog. As a puppy he was called Sparky, but in time Poncey came to realize the son of a bitch needed a more appropriate name.

Poncey Muldoon stood around like a typical doughy, barrel-chested youth of pure but indistinct European descent, heavy enough to be strong, but light enough to play defense for his high school football team, during a bad stretch. He held his body solidly, walking with something of a swagger and hanging his arms loosely to his sides, elbows out and the backs of his hands always rotated forward. Early in life his hair was a rusty blond, but what color it was now nobody could say for sure, since a number of years ago he had taken to wearing a beaten-up baseball cap all the time. Poncey's mother's maiden name was LaFayette – pronounced La-Fay-yet – and she fancied herself of French stock. "You gotta remember the people you're from," she would often say. "You gotta remember who you belong to. If you're not sure of that, you can never be sure where you'll end up." She well remembered her childhood in New Orleans – her family having fought with Jackson against the British – and as a result a story arose that she had actually named her son La Ponchartrain, but fortunately for him only "Poncey" stuck, if indeed that was the case. On the other hand, his father's forebears had arrived in the area long ago and for one reason or another had failed to bring along their history. Poncey's father was an old railroad man who spent most of his time pining after steam locomotives.

"Them 4-2-2 engines, now there was a beautiful sight," he'd say. "Them engines looked like a whale, spoutin' their smoke, and the engineer'd give a blast on the steam, and it was like knowin' you was alive for the first time ever."

"Well, you wouldn't've been alive long," Poncey would explain, deeply versed in the history and development of mass transit in the United States. "That smoke was why nobody could breathe. Diesel engines are cleaner, they're quiet an' don't kill everybody."

Poncey had attended community college for two years, which was more than anyone else in his family could say, and that gave him a natural advantage when talking.

"I'd give a pretty to see one of them ol' 4-2-2s runnin' again. Don't give a flip 'bout no diesel engine."

"Well, it don't matter what you give, they're all diesel now anyway. Might as well face it."

Poncey had lived all his life in the tiny Tennessee town of Skullbone. Nestled under groves of sassafras and sweetgum, surrounded by small patches of cotton rows, the little community seemed to survive within a Medieval novel. Skullbone was shrouded in mystery, being both the capital and the entirety of the Kingdom of Skullbonia. Nobody ever figured out quite what this meant, but the state said it was so, and everybody went about their business quietly and tried not to let it become an issue.

Before the war the area was best known for its strawberry crops, led by gentleman farmer Will Butler. He favored the name Stillwater for the little town that had sprung up by his fields, but most of the populace had already taken to calling it Skullbone, after the bare-knuckle boxing matches that drew crowds from far and wide every Monday night. Joe Smith – then the richest businessman outside of Jackson, what with his mercantile, smithy and livery services – was the leading voice on the Skullbone side of the argument, and he was easily able to persuade the incorporation committee. This loss so vexed Butler that he took to trying to run down Smith in the streets with his horse and carriage, but his aim was so bad he never succeeded. Smith endured this petulance for a while, but eventually the inconvenience became such that once he had the opportunity, he stuck a pistol in Butler's' mouth and pulled the trigger. After awhile stories spread that the feud had nothing to do with the town's name at all, but rather that Butler was running a still, and Smith planned to turn him in, but the first version is more colorful. Now most of the strawberries come from Mexico.

Some decades later a gubernatorial decree set the area apart – the Kingdom of Skullbonia – by virtue of its history of the boxing, as well as hillbilly musicales and other knavery – and not, in a blatant breach of convention, because of any political fooling around. This alone naturally set people on edge – Skullbonia just was, for no good reason, it sat there taking up space. At least that's the way Poncey thought of it.

Obviously, what with his advanced education, not even the nebulous borders of Skullbone could contain Poncey's fortunes, and now as an accomplished adult he tested his horizons in the nearby town of Rutherford – pronounced Relaferd. As a child he had often visited there, tagging along on otherwise pointless shopping trips, and the long lines of traffic lights and dingy businesses never failed to inspire awe and excitement in him. Back then it seemed to him filled with wonder – signs ablaze with color, display windows stocked with bizarre machinery and mannequins decked out in hunting gear – sights more dazzling than what any reasonable boy could ever aspire to attain. But now Poncey raised his ambitions to a new level, in a way expecting to cash in that old inspiration, and prepared to benevolently impose himself upon Rutherford's little people. He believed his grand store of knowledge would open doors to great career opportunities in Rutherford, and eventually the government believed it too, and hired him on to watch over the Davy Crockett Replica Cabin (and Mother's Gravesite).

The structure was pure Americana, massive timbers stacked upon each other with rough-hewn precision. A clean rail fence separated the grounds from the parking lot, neatly defining the centuries. Old-growth trees extended their branches like a protective deity over the wooden roof, leaves waving welcome in the gentle breezes, and Poncey imagined himself living ruggedly independent on the old frontier. He saw to his duties well – sit and wait, dust, police the area, sit and wait, shoo off children from the school next door. Visitors who wanted a tour after regular hours had to call him special, and he would decide when they could come. He pretty much memorized the two-room cabin and its contents. In his heart he felt like close friends with the mounted animals – in some way testaments to Davy's hunting skills – the rocking chairs, the stone fireplaces. His greatest affinity, however, was to Davy's deceased mother, Rebecca, buried on the property under a proper headstone that listed her date of death as "about 1834."

"He was a Congressman," Poncey reasoned to himself. "Never mind that he lived in a log cabin – he was a Congressman. How can they not know when his mother died?" In his mind, this uncertainty was a gross affront to the eminence of learning.

"What you mutterin' 'bout?" Poncey's father said.

"Now, Davy's grave is another thing," Poncey continued, more loudly. "No tellin' if he's got a grave or not. But his mother, she was right here where we sit, right here where she's buried, even right now today. How could they not know when she died?"

"Son, what does that matter now?"

"It matters that we know the facts."

"It don't matter what all you know," his father rose to leave. "There's still always ample opportunity to be stupid."

Poncey took it upon himself to learn every detail he could dig up about Crockett and his kin. He checked out all the books he could find in the community college library and filled his head with all sorts of legend and trivia. He absorbed all the new and revolutionary theories hatched by experts set on dissecting the Crockett clan, those lives really witnessed only by the depths of the wilderness. He even sneaked out the first edition of Davy's autobiography from its display in the cabin, flipping delicately through the flaking pages for clues. The book's unschooled words flailed at the nearly two-century passage of time like a dull blade against a buttonwood, but Poncey fought through the bramble to make sense of it. Still Rebecca remained elusive, a ghost in the wind. Davy himself had little to say about her, except that since he was reasonably sure that he'd been born, then it would figure that he also had a mother. He only allowed that he loved her dearly, and that she was old and Irish. Poncey felt personally betrayed by fickle history.

"Everybody knew Davy Crockett. He was a hero already, before he ran for Congress. How could they not know when his mother died?"

In spite of this nagging frustration, Poncey prospered at the cabin, nodding hello and goodbye to visitors, chasing off schoolchildren, sitting and waiting. But, just when things look like they'll never change, that's when they choose to whirl around into a new direction. One spring after hard times had hit the country, the government spent eight hundred billion dollars to preserve Poncey's job, but the next year it did not, and he found himself no longer engaged to protect the legacy of the Crockett name. Deep down he still believed he was smart enough, in spite of Davy's mother. Deep down he clung to the belief that the government had made a great mistake letting go someone of his abundant knowledge.

So Poncey, disgusted and disconsolate, was looking at the job listings in a relatively recent newspaper when Judas did his number on him. After throwing the dog across the room and changing pants, Poncey took up the paper again, and his eye fell upon the article about a census of all U.S. residents. He quickly checked his calendar, and indeed the nation's decennial inventory was due to come around again. The government had mailed out forms, the paper warned, and held every recipient responsible for filling them out and sending them back. Poncey's eyes lit at the notion: For the first time, he would fill out his own census form. In years past he'd been no more than a cipher within his father's house; this time around, he would be recognized at last as an individual. The old man could now wheeze about steam locomotives on his own, officially. Poncey glanced back down at the story. Whenever a form was not returned, it said, a census worker would be sent to the address for a personal interview.

Poncey's appearance genuinely glowed. A census taker would come – a government worker. He let his hands fall to his lap, bunching the paper into a damp and crumpled mess, and stared into the future. Possibilities danced in his head, flashing images from a silent movie, much too fast to keep up with. Opportunity beckoned him to redeem his bad fortune, and Poncey was not about to let it pass. Once and for all he could prove to himself and everyone in charge that, as highly educated as he was, the government should never have allowed him to slip away. Some government worker, one with a job, soon would come face to face with his superior, and boy, would Poncey let him have it.

His first step was easy – Poncey watched for his census form, then didn't send it back. The second step he was used to: sit and wait.

Sure enough, after a handful of rude warning letters, the cheap doorbell to his worn apartment went off with a sound like a spoon against a frying pan. Poncey had a feeling this was his official visit, since nobody had ever come to his home before. This guy's going to pay the price, he thought, this guy'd better watch his step if he knows what's good for him.

He opened the door to a young woman.

"Hi, I'm LaTarika. I'm from the United States Census Bureau," she smiled as she quoted her introductory materials. "Are you – La Ponchartrain S. Muldoon?"

"Poncey," he stumbled. "Just Poncey."

"May I come in?"

Poncey didn't know what to say, so he stared stupidly, but did manage to stumble aside so she could enter. The dingy place didn't offer much to look at – a couple of ratty chairs and a wobbly coffee table with fake wood veneer. Judas scurried behind the couch, from whence arose muffled growling and an acrid odor. The walls stood bare except for smudges of dirt and a framed picture that had probably been clipped from a magazine. The hallway led back to a dusky bedroom, past the compact kitchen off to one side – complete with a pile of dishes rising out of the sink to peek over the bar-style counter.

Poncey looked around his surroundings nervously. He hadn't counted on a woman; not that she posed any intellectual threat to him, but she threatened him in every other way. Not since the seventh grade had he trusted a girl of any sort besides his mother, and he wasn't all that sure about her. Not since the time "Jazzy" Luray accompanied him to a movie. Her name was really Jacine, but she'd earned the nickname Jazzy by age ten; even as a naïve youth Poncey was suspicious when she agreed to try dating with him. But for some reason she did; anxiety over the impending date drove him to toss and turn sleeplessly the whole night before. After yawning through their burger and shake at the Diner, he fell fully asleep in the flickering theater light.

Jazzy was not one to let such an opportunity escape. As Poncey snored through the battle scenes, she applied a generous layer of rouge and lipstick to his face, accented by subtle eye shadow. She roused him gently as the closing credits rolled, to his eyes appearing never more pleased to be in anyone's company. Even the townsfolk they encountered on the walk home seemed more friendly toward him than any time before. People who had never given him a second glance just beamed upon crossing his path that night. When he dropped her off at home, Jazzy agreed that she'd happily go out again anytime and do the very same thing with him all over again. Poncey was so encouraged, he brazenly kissed her cheek, then stared with horror at the bright red lip prints he'd left on her grinning mug.

Poncey hid in his room the rest of that weekend. He was too sick to go to school on Monday, but eventually his mother rooted him out of bed and sent him to his doom. "You'll not learn anything if you don't go to school," she told him, but Poncey knew she was wrong – he'd learned plenty already. For years classmates called him "Glamour Boy," or "Poncettia," or just plain "Bozo," and he still saw Jazzy's mocking glee in every woman's eyes.

The census taker carefully surveyed the room and gingerly moved a couple of wrinkled t-shirts so she wouldn't have to sit on them, then settled stiffly into one of the chairs.

"I'm here because you failed to send in your census form," she informed him.

"I know," Poncey replied. He was off to a good start.

"So you did receive your form in the mail?"

"I didn't send it back. I wanted to get a government worker."

"Okay," she drew the word out. "I'll just ask you a few simple questions. You are La Ponchartrain S. Muldoon?"

"Poncette – uh, Poncey."

"All right, then, Poncey."

"I worked for the government myself."

"We'll just be filling out the short form, so there's no need for that information," the woman replied politely, pretending to study her paperwork. She was tightly overweight and had little lap upon which to brace her clipboard, so she held it out slightly. Bronze dreadlocks fell to her shoulders and over her eyes, stray hairs catching lightly on mascara-encrusted lashes. Her face glowed with youth and enthusiasm for serving the public, and she couldn't wait to get out of Poncey's apartment. She had never visited Skullbone before and had never thought she would, and she wasn't sure why anyone would want to count what was there. Unfortunately, people who lived in interesting places like Memphis or Nashville seemed to know how to mail in their forms, and the people she had to track down personally all seemed to live in wide spots in the road like this one.

"I went to the community college," Poncey offered.

"Really? I'm going to state right now. Actually, I'm taking this semester off to work. Got to make some money, you know? But I'm going back."

Poncey shifted uncomfortably. A hacking cough came from behind the couch. "I finished. I've been finished. I worked for the government."

"Yes. Now, how many live here?"

"How many what?"

"Residents. How many residents live in this apartment."

"Me. It's just me an' Judas, but he's a dog. He doesn't count."

"No."

"I worked at Davy Crockett's house, in Rutherford."

"Do you own this apartment?"

"It's his cabin, but it's only a replica, most of it. It's the last house he lived in," Poncey was full of formidable information, but not at all the kind the census taker was looking for. He let fly. "His mother's buried out there, headstone an' ever'thing. She died circa 1834. 'Circa' means nearabouts."

"Yes, I know. Do you own this apartment or rent?"

"I rent for now. But I've got my eye on a house, soon as I get back to work. It'll be a big house. Davy Crockett's house was just a two-room cabin."

"That's very interesting," the woman intoned. "What's your telephone number?"

"Hain't got nam," he sputtered. Apparently this girl had an attention problem. "There's all sorts of things in that cabin. Ya been there? Animals an' things. Did you know that he was a Congressman?"

"Yes, I think I had heard that."

"He was elected, but then he lost. So he says, 'Tennessee's gone to hell, I'm goin' to Texas,' an' he goes an' gets himself killed at the Alamo." Poncey began to enjoy himself, and he rocked back a little in his chair. "He says, 'You all go to hell, I'm goin' to Texas,' " he laughed.

"Sex?" the woman asked.

"What?" Poncey's voice cracked. He came to a sudden stop and moved his hands about uselessly.

"Male, right?" she smiled. "I'll put down male."

"Yes," Poncey tried to sound confident. He regained his composure enough to attempt the high ground again. "He's buried somewhere out there. At the Alamo. But I expect his grave's harder to find than his mother's."

"Probably. Age and date of birth?"

"His mother's grave is out by the cabin. Doesn't even say for sure when she died, only 'about 1834.' He was in Congress, but nobody even knows when his mother died." Poncey paused to let this notion sink in. He felt that his teaching was going to waste on this girl. She needed to appreciate that he was every bit as good as her – he lost his job because of a fluke, not because he didn't have skills like hers.

"Age and date of birth, please." Her eyes began to take on a dead look.

"They don't know. They can only guess."

"Your age and date of birth," she said sullenly.

His gaze darted about as he tried to think of something to cover his mistake. Instead he just told her: age and date of birth. Hoping to sound trustworthy, he added, "They don't match up because I haven't had my birthday yet. The math will work out better after October."

"Yes, I can see it hasn't passed yet this year."

Poncey realized she could figure out his age herself, and he panicked. He felt the visit slipping through his fingers, and he hadn't made his point at all.

"I worked for the government. I wasn't fired – they just stopped payin' for my job. It wasn't my fault they dropped my job."

"I'm sure that's true. Are you of Hispanic, Spanish or Latino origin?"

"French. My mother's French." Poncey looked defeated.

"No Hispanic background?"

"My pap coulda been, but he won't say. He never talks 'bout that. He only talks 'bout trains."

"So I can put down Caucasian?"

Poncey knew that meant white, so he nodded. "I didn't send my form back on purpose. I wanted to talk to a government worker. I wasn't counting on a girl. I could still be a government worker, but they stopped payin' for my job."

The woman looked at him now with even less patience. "Do you sometimes stay someplace other than this apartment?"

"Sometimes with Mam and Pap. But they don't count me on their form any more. I count by myself now. That's how I knew you'd come out, if I didn't send in my form. I wanted to see a government worker."

"Well, you're just lucky I came all the way out here, then," she scolded, gathering up her belongings. "We don't always try to find single-dweller homes that have not seen fit to comply with the law."

"What? You don't look for folks?"

"The government isn't obliged to hunt down people like you."

Poncey sat there, stunned. "You do have to. Ever'body has to count. I have to count."

"Oh, we know what to expect. The computers automatically count the people we don't get forms from."

"What?"

"The Census Bureau doesn't need to see you to count you."

"But you're supposed to find ever'body. This isn't 1830."

"No, honey, we don't have to find everyone," she batted her lashes matter-of-factly. "The office makes its numbers whether we see somebody at each address or not. The bureau knows who exists regardless of whether they're here, or there, or nowhere."

Poncey stared, his purpose completely lost now. "You can't count what isn't there."

She stood up. "You were counted last time on your father's form. Social Security knows you're still around. You were on payroll, for goodness sake. Our computer models know to expect you. They know where people are supposed to be. The statistics see you even if nobody else can. You're no more real than the marks on this paper."

She waved the forms before his face, then neatly into her attaché. Poncey could feel time running short, but his swirling thoughts were too jumbled now for him to take hold of one. He had wanted to show he could out-think any person the government could throw at him, but now he was under siege by a computer as well.

"Why'd you even come out here, then? If computers figure that I'm here anyway, why'd you show up?"

"It's a job. I want to get paid, and the government wants to pay me. It makes them look good. You should know that – you worked for the government yourself, before they dropped you, remember? A job sitting in a cabin! But we like to get paid, don't we?"

The woman moved toward the door, and Poncey could only lamely follow after her. All his schemes through the months of waiting faded into futility, and he would never have the chance to prove his worth again. His confusion gave way to the distaste he'd felt before she arrived and threw him off with her gender – but now it focused even more on those who used to employ him. A new thing stuck to the inside of his skull: He was no more than a blip on a hard drive. The government never did know what a bundle of scholarship and talent he was; it never knew him at all. It wouldn't care if he lived or died, he'd be just a number either way.

"I'm sorry, I've got to go now," the woman told him as she let herself out. "I've got to find some place called Sweet Lips. You have a wonderful day, you hear?" and she disappeared beyond the closing door.

"Thank you," he said without irony. His mind was elsewhere.

As the days passed, the encounter ripened and fermented in Poncey's brain, its torment only serving to infuriate him more. "I know I'm smarter than all them fools up at the capital, and their blame computers too!" he fumed. I've got to prove it, he thought, I've got to show them. Only one thing could rectify his sad situation – the injustice of it all drove him to apply to get his job back, and what do you know if they didn't find just enough money in the new budget to re-hire him. A letter arrived instructing him to reclaim his post at the Davy Crockett Replica Cabin (and Mother's Grave) at the beginning of the new year, kind of a Christmas present from a government that openly acknowledged neither Christ nor Poncey. Maybe they'd learned their lesson after all. Poncey carefully filled out all the employment forms and dropped them in the mail.

So on an unusually sultry day for January, Poncey arrived at the cabin to re-establish his value to the U.S. government, to show them once and for all the great contribution he had to offer the world. Again he took up his calling to dust, sit and wait, and open the door to visitors who called in special. He lovingly surveyed his surroundings, happily studying the stuffed animals and quilts draped over crude furniture, making sure everything sat correctly in place. Outside it looked like rain. Poncey felt like a European baron in a rustic castle, no doubt how Davy felt himself long ago. His sight lit upon the aging autobiography.

Late in the morning he heard hollow pounding on the porch out front. He recognized the sound all right – the rowdy kids from the school next door – but why would they need chasing so early in the day? School wasn't due to let out for another three or four hours.

"Hey, you kids, get offa there!" he burst from the cabin door. "What are you doin' here? Why aren't you in school where you belong?"

"Got out early," an escaping boy shouted back. "Let us out on account a' the weather. Look!" And he pointed behind Poncey and over the horizon.

For the first time Poncey noticed the heavy veil of black clouds milling about overhead. The sky below seemed to hang suspended, glowing a sickly, luminescent green. Trees stood at uneasy attention, wavering as though they were about to faint. The siren mounted upon the school's roof slowly revved into a mournful wail.

"Look out!" the boy yelled.

Poncey ducked his head and vaulted off the porch, running to the relative shelter of the brick school building. A slowly turning section of cloud picked up speed. Poncey watched as a twisting finger reached down and touched the cabin's roof, sending shingles exploding into every direction. He heard the sound of one of his father's locomotives screaming through the neighborhood, although he could not see it, nor any tracks. The tornado flexed its shoulders and lifted the huge logs of the cabin fully off the ground, tossing them end over end in a titanic game of mumblety-peg. Items from the cabin danced into the sky like escaping ballerinas, some laid carefully upon the soft grass while others were sucked into oblivion. Once more Poncey's eye caught Davy's autobiography, its pages flapping like a bird in flight, driven by the wind into a wild chase. The storm shimmied like a woman over the site, grinding its hips in a terrible demonstration of allure and judgment. It passed across the street, furiously ripped a chain-link fence from the ground and flailed it like a ribbon, and finally retreated once more into the billowing atmosphere.

Poncey stood silent in the pattering rain, gaunt like a mourner at a funeral, and gazed at the remains of the cabin. All the twister had left was the final resting place of Rebecca Crockett, still buried there for nobody knew how long.

