The city of Dytikástro was beset by rain-storms every day after Bardulf and the rest of the travelers left it. Such was the moroseness of the city to this change in the weather that there were no songs to be heard throughout the city. The local farmers, fishermen and artisans of the city were all confined to their homes, miserable and dark-eyed there was not one happy face in the environs of Dytikástro. Sullen-eyed, all the people clung to each other in the cold-days that presaged the papás and hiereia said good, hearty days ahead of them all.

  Only Michail the papás was to claim that dark days loomed ahead, the head of a temple in the poorer quarter of the village he was old and deaf in one ear. An old Ratvian with balding hair, and white fur, a thick beard the same colour with dark eyes, he walked with a cane and was hardly liked by most folks. He was however popular, with some of the poorer folks of the city, which included Prithia’s minstrel Gianis, who reported his words to anyone who might listen.

  “Michail the Ratvian says that there are far worst storms upon the horizon, once the heavens clear,” Gianis would tell any who would listen to him. This was before both Penthesileia and Stamatios ordered him to be silent about his worries.

  Reluctantly, he soon withdrew to the stables to drink intensively with the court jester, old Anóitos. A fat old man with wispy grey hairs, a short beard, blue eyes, far shorter than even Daegan he was every bit as melancholic as the rest of them were. If for other reasons than most, claiming that the ‘end was nigh upon them’, this was deemed a foul jest which was why he was said to have taken to drink.

  Keen for liquor Andvari had joined them in the stables, whereupon he rejoined Daegan and Fergus in her large, spacious chambers to report what he had heard. That is when he did not get lost, and wake up in the kitchens with his head pounding, not dissimilarly to how it felt he complained to being struck by a horse’s hooves.

  The new chambers she was given was ostentatious to say the least, with bright yellow-painted walls intended to imitate the appearance of gold with some white marble peeking through. The floor was richly decorated also with red silk carpets with the auburn face of a bear with blades crossed behind it. The floor was almost wholly covered by this carpet, which fell only a little short of the eight meter long and five meter wide chambers.

  A large four meter wide and length red-wood framed bed perfectly cut with thick silk bed-sheets, with a brown-bear fur drapery slung over it completed the ensemble of the show of wealth that was the bed. The nearby two meter long and across square table, with its accompanying two chairs were almost as richly crafted from the same red-wood tree that had once dominated just north of the city-walls. There were also four book-shelves betwixt the two sets of doors that led into the room, were filled with large tomes and books that Daegan could not imagine she could ever read to the end, even were she to live as long as Arduinna had.

  Refusing to be defeated or to admit defeat though, she had set to work alongside Fergus to search for any volumes that might speak of the Blood-Gem of Aganippe, of Tuathmurdún or of Antillia’s history. What they found was very little regarding the Blood-Gem, as the song of its history had rarely if ever been interwoven with that of the Misty-Island. Tuathmurdún had several sad tales and songs, mostly of the fall of the Jarls Mundi, Sigvar and Harald. All of whom had sought to defy its might in the past sixty years.

  It was not until four days after they had bid farewell to their friends though that Fergus, who slept outside the room as he and Andvari had not been given any chambers, and had been forced to pile up the books upon the table to make them easier to access found something relevant. Hours of fruitless reading had garnered them thus far, little more than an ill-mood on Daegan’s part. On the verge of throwing the current tome she had in hand, one about the conquest of the midlands of the island by Jarl Mundi I.

  Dressed in a pink dress given to her, one made of silk and that she did not know whether she liked it very much or not. It was certainly pretty and was easy to put on given how it had to be tied at the shoulders. The trouble for her was that she cared little for the opinions of many of the men who did look to her with appreciation, when they noticed her in her Romalian styled dress. She cared only for Cormac’s opinion about her dresses.

  “Careful with the tomes,” Fergus would always say whenever he noticed her prepared to throw them across the room. This time was no different, though what was was the manner in which his bright blue eyes lit up with joy. “They are not as delicate as you, yourself doubtlessly are milady Daegan.”

  “Shove off,” She grunted good-naturedly, only to notice then how his eyes shone with mirth and triumph. “Did you discover something of note?”

  “Not as such, only a tale that interested me.” Fergus explained thoughtfully, looking back to the book before him, “Thankfully most of these tales are written either in Romalian, Dorian or Gallian… this last one does surprise me.”

  “Why should you be surprised, by these people wishing to be sophisticated?” Daegan inquired with a sniff, convinced that Gallian was the most civilised of tongues in the worlds she could not grasp what he sought to imply.

  A sigh was torn from his lips, ere he clarified what he meant, “I meant only that Amazons have precious little to do with Gallia.”

  “They ought to,” Daegan grumbled.

  “I would not wish that, for the Amazons have a tendency to war with all those they have contact with.” Fergus replied darkly.

  He went on to brood on this statement, while his friend reflected at some length over what he had said. Thinking back to the history of the people of Namavo, how they had crossed from barbarism in ancient times, ere the wars of Ilion to civilisation in the centuries that followed. How they had aided the Dark Elves in the First Wars of Darkness, against the Ogres only to change sides to aid them, then rounded upon them once more. After that they had pulled themselves up from squalor and poverty, to a magnificent civilisation only to fall to ruin just before Roma had conquered them. After the fall of the Atenian Empire they had fallen back to barbarism, and had yet to pull themselves free of it, yet somehow managed to quarrel with all their neighbours. Along with all the peoples they came into contact with.

  Not that the Ogres are much better, Daegan mused wishing to defend the Amazons, especially their women-folk until she remembered how poorly most of those same women had treated her father. Depressed she could only think that, while Namavo’s people had disappointed her at least Gallia and Caledonia could not.

  “What was the tale you found?” She asked of her friend, who only then remembered his triumphant discovery.

  “It is about the Snake-men or the Colubar as they prefer to be called, and how at the time that Mundi first pushed back the Centaur-tribes to the west they came down from the north.” Fergus said reading the text once more.

  “To invade?”

  “Nay, to negotiate peace between the two factions, against the Northmen,” the Pardiff told her grimly. “They negotiated at a later date, when the Jarls had exhausted some of their strength, for them to make peace with the Amazons.”

  This struck Daegan as particularly strange. Why would the forces of evil wish for peace, amongst their enemies when they could have easily conquered them then, when they were still divided amongst themselves? It was such a strange tactic she mused, incapable of wrapping her mind about the turn of events of which he spoke of that, she only stared.

  “Why would they do that?” She questioned confused.

  “The truces agreed upon, were tentative things that all appeared to have failed, but the one who negotiated these truces… his name is quite-” Fergus stated tartly only to leap several feet in the air as the door nearest to the bed was thrown open then closed again. “By the gods, why must you slam the doors so?”

  It was Andvari to whom he addressed his question. The Dwarf newly arrived hither into the chambers, threw himself against the bed with a groan. Exhausted he let slip a few cackles that let it be known to both of his friends, what state he was in.

  He had had far too much to drink; this much was discernible by scent as much as by sound, and sight. Daegan wrinkled her nose, though she could tolerate it when some such as her friends or Cormac drank too much, seeing the Dwarf behave so unsightly made her feel less approving of such acts.

  “Penthesileia and Gavriil have a good eye for wine and ale,” He sighed gustily with a hearty laugh from his thick lips.

  “Must you drink until you stink so?” Daegan complained loudly, grateful that her father had never in all his life made such a complete fool of himself.

  “Aye,” He cackled in response.

  It was not a tinkling chortle, but rather a miserably bitter one. Heartbroken, hardly able or willing for that matter to hide his apprehension at the future and his past, Andvari pulled a frown from both of his fellow prisoners. Both of them pitied him to be sure, though they also felt disapprobation towards his recent decisions.

  Daegan wished to correct him, or at least to say something to the effect that he had a duty to ‘shape-up’ as it were. She was however stopped from doing so, by Fergus who chose this moment to include the Dwarf in their conversation.

  “Andvari, if I may, I have a question regarding the history of your people and the Deep-Dwarves,” Fergus said to the Sea-Dwarf who only grunted and looked up at him. Encouraged, the Tigrun licked his lips and cleared his throat, before he moved on to his question, speaking with a hint of apprehension. “When you were young, were the Dwarves of the western-mountains and those who loved the sea best, antagonistic against one another?”

  “Aye, a little,” Andvari replied with a shrug, only to add, “However, when we noticed how men and Centaurs were rallying, we formed closer ties.”

  “Did anyone counsel you or your people then?” This was the next question from Fergus.

  Andvari frowned, the redness of wine upon his cheeks paled ever so slightly, as sobriety returned in full force. “I am not certain.”

  “Because the representative, who restored peace long ago, was Romus,” Fergus revealed.

  “You jest!” Daegan accused hardly believing her ears.

  “Of course not, it was he who informed the Amazons that the greatest danger lay in the Dwarves and their forming a possible alliance against them.” Fergus informed her stroking his chin pondering the text. “I have a thought; Andvari when did the threat of Tuathmurdún first arise?”

  “Seventy years ago, almost to the day,” Said the Dwarf at once, sitting up now a little atop the bed, a frown on his lips as it was embedded into his furrowed brow. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because, I had the thought that mayhaps Romus had arranged for this place to remain divided, forming and breaking pacts with the various people hereupon the Misty-Isle.” He said slowly almost musingly.

  “But why would he do that?” Daegan asked confused.

  “Because he did not strive to control the flow of history, merely to manipulate it; for example, the Amazons were exhausted by their war so he sought to link them to the equally wearied Centaurs. After this he strove to break apart the Arns, to tie them to the Amazons, broke them apart from the Centaurs all the while he kept the Dwarves divided against all of them.” Fergus proposed almost as a query.

  Andvari for his part was thunderstruck by his words. The realization that the schemes of Romus and his successor had so enveloped even the Dwarves suddenly dawned upon him. Disgust and fury soon overtook his face, so that it darkened as an impending storm might the clouds overhead in the heavens.

  For her own part, Daegan hoped that they were wrong. It was she decided far too terrible a discovery. One that she hoped if true was soon to be realized by Cormac and the others.

  They would have to tell them what they had found, the moment they returned to Dytikástro, she told herself resolutely.

  *****

  They did more reading, studied more of the tomes that Prithia had left in Daegan’s chambers. All while the skies remained bleak and tempestuous in nature. As though the heavens themselves were growling at all who lived upon the land of Antillia. The subsequent days saw them sift through ancient tomes and poems, which brought up more records of Romus acting as a witness in a variety of roles at various times. He was advisor, diplomat, trickster, traitor and minister wherever and however the Amazons and others needed him when they began to forge or break their peace-ties with one another.

  Certain now of his theory, the Pardiff though did not have much more time to entertain it, not with how he was called down to attend one of Prithia’s feasts in the days that followed their affirming his theories.

  Andvari was to promise that when he returned to his people, he would meet with the archivists of the great city of Throrkhad?n. He swore to ask of the lore-masters of his people and his priestly castes of Dwarves known as the scyldhror all of them in possession to access to one of the greatest libraries in the world. “-If only after I have ascertained the safety of my family,” He promised with blood-shot eyes and a firm look in them.

  This promise was one that Daegan did not doubt, he would keep.

  Not that she was to spend much time pondering promises of this sort in the days that succeeded that one. Not with Prithia now insisting that she attend her feasts, saying to her. “I desire your company lass, you and that Pardiff friend of yours.”

  Hardly able to refuse, she would acquiesce if reluctantly so to sitting by the side of the Warlady when the time came for them to sup at the end of the day. This hardly pleased Corin’s daughter, for she was placed to the passive Otrera also, for reasons that escaped her. But that she suspected had to do with the lass’ aunt, not wishing to be seated next to her.

  Still seated at a lesser table Stamatios, appeared sullen and weary when he was seen at these feasts.

  Singing in a low cadence two days after the discovery of Romus’ name in the text book Daegan now knew of as the ‘History of Lesser Namavo, by Daritius of Dytikástro’. It was a morose meal.

  That is until Fergus had the gall to criticize from where he sat thereon a chair at the guards’ left-hand table.

  Irritated by his criticism which was delivered with considerable mockery, Prithia glowered at him, as he mocked Gianis. “Bark louder, I am not so certain that the high-table heard you!”

  It was at this time that she snapped at him, “Mayhaps you think you could do better than he, or any of our other poets Pardiff?”

  “Certainly, I believe a cow or the horse I rode hereupon could sing, far more beautifully than this buffoon.” Fergus snorted cheeks rosy, a hint that he had had too much to drink.

  “I dare you to say that again, you drunken sod,” Gianis bellowed prepared to leap forward at the Tigrun who had besmirched his honour as a minstrel.

  Laughing, Fergus retorted to him, “Allow me to do you the honour, of showing you how a proper minstrel ought to sing.”

  He gained his feet with some difficulty, so that a great many laughed at him. Some sneered, jeered and otherwise muttered behind their palms or mugs. Amongst whom, one would be forced to notice that Prithia herself joined in the jests against the twin of Ronald the sorcerer.

  Once he stood in the center of the hall, Fergus sucked in a breath and began to sing. Hardly sober he could still sing each of them noticed at once with a start, far in a way better than any of those assembled put together could.

  “This be Cormac’s tale,

  Quiet in birth in that far vale,

  Black shores welcom’d Elves,

  Dark wore the foul ones,

  Slack found they the Lairdly-Isle,

  Hark sayeth they the most vile,

  Years uncount’d pass’d whilst war ruled,

  Corpses untold heap’d whither they annex’d,

  Flowers withered in all fields,

  Amongst both the corps and the reeds,

  Paint’d all scarlet didst they with steel,

  Vale to vale was red seen,

  Wails wert shed by clean and unclean,

  Short ran the plenty until famish’d,

  More cry’d all who bled,

  Vast travel’d was Neithan Oak-manstle,

  Father to he who never didst rankle,”

  The song was one of Daegan’s favourites. It was a surprise to all present who were not her though. Prithia appeared the most stunned by the beauty of the tale and by the topic with her niece smiling thinly hardly pleased by his accomplishment, just as Stamatios applauded with sincere pleasure upon his face. It was these latter two reactions that Daegan paid more attention to, and was pleased to see.

  “A magnificent voice, what say you half-sister?” He asked of his liege-lady who gave him a warm smile.

  “Quite magnificent, though it might have been better sung by Andromache,” Prithia grumbled in her pride.

  Her words pulled forth from the crowd a guffaw that began with Fergus, and soon spread throughout the whole of the mead-hall.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The reason was one that neither Daegan nor Andvari comprehended. Both of them look to each other from across the hall from each other, to one another. Utterly flabbergasted they looked now to the Tigrun who was almost doubled-over with laughter.

  He was hardly alone in this respect, for Stamatios appeared as though he were struggling to breathe so tremendous had he been overcome by the humour behind her ill-thought out words.

  Once he had recovered enough to speak, Fergus said to her in spite of how he was panting, “Do you mean to say Andromache of Dytikástro? The same Andromache who can hardly keep a tune together, and has less of a memory for song than some kittens I have seen!”

  “I suppose so,” Prithia conceded at long last with a small smile.

  This was not the only feast that was attended by the three of them with those that followed destined to be entirely cheery affairs. Andvari was to try to sing a great Dwarvish dirge one late night, his song one that the Amazons hardly appreciated. None could truly understand it, with the translation so difficult for the old Sea-Dwarf that he gave up after his second attempt at it.

  When he did so, he grumbled, “Darin could have translated it.”

  “Who is Darin?” Daegan had asked him curiously.

  “My wee lad,” He muttered, on the verge of tales such was the sorrow that gripped him.

  In response to his words Fergus raised his goblet, to toast the Dwarf, who appreciatively raised his own ere he downed the drink.

  After this it came about that Daegan sang a song her papa had sung to her in her early girlhood, one about the Poet-Princess and the winter that came over her husband, after her passing. A winter that never truly passed, so deep was his sorrow. It was one of her favourite songs.

  The whole of the hall was struck by the force of her tenor and the confidence of her voice and fluency in Gallian, so that many of them could only stare at her.

  What made Daegan particularly uncomfortable was the intensity of the awe on the face of Otrera. Glancing away from her, her gaze met that of Stamatios to find that he was staring at her, with a strange sort of intensity. One that made her distinctly all the more discomfited.

  There was such malevolence on his face at that moment she would have given anything, for Cormac to be therewith her.

  *****

  It was not all feasts and songs, as Daegan discovered early the succeeding day, when she was requested to spend the day with Prithia and Otrera. As the day was sunny for the first time in some time, so that it was desired by the Warlady for her to join them in the exercise of arms. This was something that Daegan had some experience with, as Corin had wished to teach her to defend herself. So that she was quite skilled with the sword.

  A talent that when she was invited to join the two score warriors training with swords, spears and bows in the courtyard, her hosts were astonished to find her so keen to practice. Most of those trained in swords were men. Certainly there were those, such as Prithia who were adept in their use, but she was an oddity.

  “Why is it so strange, for me to know to use my father’s preferred weapon?” Daegan asked petulantly, proud of her skill with the unicorn-hilted sword that was ever present at her side.

  There was a derisive snort that was heard to escape from the nostrils of Otrera along with several of the men-folk nearby. Otrera was for the first time since she had met her, dressed in an iron hauberk and greaves, so that only her head was unclothed. Daegan was dressed in much the same manner, having been sent armour of the same design, with the same design and copper colouration of the Amazons. The hauberk and ring-mail that went below it had been forged, according to the servant with her in mind. Something that part of her very much doubted, given how ill-fitting it felt. She also did not very much like the bear symbol on her hauberk.

  Daegan would have preferred to wear the gold-dragon of Forlarin, or the blue with gold lilies of the standards of the royal clan of Gallia.

  “What is so funny?” She asked with some of her old haughtiness.

  Wearing her armour far more proudly, with it pinching her likely far less, Otrera answered her with a little amusement. “It is nothing Daegan, only that we Amazons never fight with swords ourselves; we leave such arms to our men.”

  This shocked the maid of Glasvhail, who stared confused by her words. “I’faith, if such is the case however do you fight your foes? With your bare-hands?” This last part was remarked with incredible parts dubiousness as it was mockery.

  Many of those around her flushed crimson, outraged at her lack of respect for their ways. It was Prithia though who chortled at her words though without any hint, of mockery in her voice. Prithia dressed in her own hauberk, and mail with a large halberd held up with its point in the ground and a bit of sweat on her brow. “No lass, we women fight with bows and pole-arms, oh and at times on horse-back.”

  “”Rather like the Gallian knights?” Daegan asked of her friend, who chuckled once more.

  “Aye we combat at times similarly to their knights, while our men take up combat on foot and a-horse with pole-arms and swords, where and when necessary.” Prithia explained at some length, with some small measure of irritation in her voice, “I must emphasize however how we combat our foes, is different from those men.” Her irritation shifted so that it became impatience, “Enough of this talk; Otrera will teach you to fight as an Amazon does.”

  The duel that ensued involved swords, and saw Daegan the victor. She shattered the other woman’s sword and after four sword-swings along with the woman’s buckler.

  It was startling to discover for her, just how inept Otrera was in comparison to herself. Pleased by this and by the praise Prithia showered upon her.

  “Well-done Daegan, I could see in the manner which you swung your blade, how skilled you truly are,” Prithia complimented; only to then scowl in the direction of her sister’s daughter. “As for you Otrera, is that the best you could wield a sword? You almost dropped your sword twice. You shamed us!”

  “Apologies aunt Prithia,” Otrera stuttered at once, visibly humiliated.

  To Daegan’s surprise she found herself filled with pity for the other woman and would have preferred to demur from another duel, yet the choice was soon taken out of her hands.

  The next battle was one that involved spears. It was Daegan’s turn to be humiliated.

  Taught to use a lance on horse-back, and to stab and slash from side to side with a spear, she was hardly as well-trained as Otrera with this particular arm.

  When the weapon was knocked from her hands it was all she could do to keep from crying out in anger and shock as the other woman had done.

  Now it was Otrera who bore an expression of triumph, on her pretty face.

  “I won,” She said gleefully, the pride on her face was washed away by her next words as she sought to make peace with the younger lass. “You did well Daegan, though the moment things turned foul, you did not rely upon your shield enough.”

  Daegan cursed, her cheeks stained crimson with humiliation and anger. “I do not need your pity!”

  It was unbecoming she knew, Corin would have said something similar but this did not matter. What mattered to her then was that she had to put the other woman in her place.

  Fergus who had watched from the side sniggered loudly, “That is not what I saw, Daegan was terrible! Horrid really, she was clumsier with a spear than you with a sword!”

  Both women flushed red now.

  “What would you know Fergus?” Daegan snapped furiously.

  “Cease these childish antics,” Prithia snapped ere she stepped between the lasses, to turn her attention to correcting them. “I expected more from you Daegan, and as to you Otrera. Your form was sloppy near your left side, and your leg was not stiff enough, the blow is supposed to come from a straight back and arms. You bent them to weaken the blow, and left yourself open. What if Daegan had been a proper foe, or properly trained? Really, and to think you are my heiress! For shame!”

  There was a moment of satisfaction for Daegan, who felt pleased that the other woman had been the one to be more severely reprimanded.

  Her momentary joy was dash at the hurt that carved itself onto Otrera’s visage.

  *****

  Daegan did not see Otrera for a day and a half this might otherwise have suited her just fine. The difficulty was that she was now plagued by a monstrous sense of guilt, for how the heiress of Dytikástro had been treated by the Warlady.

  Fergus was of a mind that it was not for her to mettle into the affairs of the Amazons, “They have their ways, and it appears to me that she makes a poor Amazon-warrior.”

  “How so?” Daegan asked confused by his words.

  Fergus shrugged, they stood upon the city-walls gazing out at the fields to the north, both of them having developed the habit of wandering past there whenever they could. They both longed for Ronald and Cormac respectively. “If she can be reduced to tears by mere words, she has no place upon the battle-field, using arms.”

  This was an analysis Daegan did not much like. She did not much like Otrera, feeling discomfited by the woman’s peculiar enthusiasm towards Corin, she did not know if she liked seeing her weep. It had certainly evoked little compassion or pity from Prithia, so that she had that much more in common with the Pardiff.

  Still, she thought to herself she had expected more sympathy from the Tigrun. He had never shown himself to be so harsh hitherto that moment.

  *****

  Andvari was the one who surprised her though, by speaking gently of the lady, when she asked him where to find the maid in question. Curious to know her reason for wishing to find her, he appeared consternated and directed her towards the flower-fields to the south-west of the city. There was a small field by the local temple of Orcus, which served as the necropolis for the ruling family of the local Amazons. It was where six generations of Warladies were buried, and where Otrera often fled to.

  “She visits it to tend the flowers I am told,” Andvari explained early that morn’ shortly after Daegan had exited her chambers in search of the other woman. “I am surprised that you seek to speak to her, Daegan, is it in regards to your father?”

  This brought forth even more discomfort, as the lass had the impression that he had read her mind. A sensation she did not much like.

  “Nay, I simply wished to speak to her,” She replied awkwardly.

  “To apologize,” Andvari replied gently, with far more sympathy in his eyes than she had expected from him. He had always appeared so brusque, half-mad yet there he stood before her, patting her hand in a grandfatherly manner.

  She knew then that they truly were friends, and felt a surge of joy and regret. Regret for how she had treated him in the prison of the Dwarves. It was this thought that made her think to herself if only she had known what Cormac had seen at once.

  The temple of Orcus or Pluton rather, was a rectangular building built in the style of the Dorian temples in the distant south-east. The stones might once have been snow-white, but over the centuries they had degraded to a putrid yellow that made the shrine appear sickly. It was one hundred and twenty meters long, half that in girth and about as high as it was wide. It was an impressive shrine, with few caretakers and even fewer clergy to care for it. The statues of the death-laird and his beloved bride Venus, whom he held close while he held up a royal sceptre in the other hand, were made of alder-wood.

  The fields around the shrine were not large. But they were covered in gold, blue and white peonies, lilies and garlands so that the small field that was a third of a kilometre in length and diameter was as a sea of colours.

  Tended to with religious devotion, the flowers that encircled and clung to the old shrine were a truly beautiful sight to behold. At that moment Daegan felt grateful to have lived, to see them.

  It was as she walked along the ill-cared for road around the flowers, the song of the Lily-Princess’ journey alongside the old hero Corentin, ancestor of the house of Strawthern for Caledonia came into her mind.

  “The seas deep, the waters blue,

  The ship-mast tall and grand,

  From atop the hoary-cliff a flame burnt most true,

  As a star in the dusk,

  Marthe stood upon the prow eager for land,

  Noontide suns-light were trapped in her strands,

  And all others ladies were as husks,

  There Siomon stood enthroned upon the cliff cold,

  Royal robes green as the leaves,

  Last of the sons of Causantín of auld,

  She journeyed homesick and sorrowing,

  She peered about the drake-prow that loomed high as reeds,

  And beheld in awe hoary cliffs,

  His hair long as hers blazed with frost and red-gold,

  Just as hers were honeyed-gold,

  O’er the peaks did her lily-gold voice fly,

  O’er the promontories did her voice roam,

  Thither the ship hastened, mast held high,

  Past crashing waves did she voyage,

  Lu?ia’s scarlet bannered port distant as home,

  Left barren surrounded by foam,

  Proud as a lion mind supple as a Loch,

  Encircled by gold banners as by nobles,

  Firm as the Destined-rock he had withstood the shock,

  Of R?dwald, Razenth, the Warlock-King and the world,

  Cloak soft and billowing tresses free as a bird,

  One by one with lilting voices,

  Bellowing flew o’er the dusken waves,

  In the airy seaside roaring,

  He fought forever, struggling long,

  There sea-feathers of years thickly crashed,

  Through bog, glen and dusk to dawn,

  Past wintry peaks fleeing,

  His nephews entombed,

  As snow atop the hill blood was wrung,

  Caled bright swords glancing,

  When winter passed he came hither,

  And his crowning wrought the brimful spring,

  Hark! Rising flowers bloom as a golden river,

  Snow and ice thawing,

  Yet still he mourn’d in spring,

  As in winter unhealing,

  He longed for her to sing,

  With him a verse less troubling,

  Once more she sang ere she set foot on land,

  Prince Roux! Prince Roux!

  She called him amazed anew,

  There maid fast by the mast wall

  Sodden boots waited he, upraised hand,

  A spell lain o’er him at her call,

  Gloom fled her at his command,

  As it did him at her demand,

  As Marthe gazed into his eyes,

  Upon the sunlight of his hair,

  The roaring seas calmed alongside the skies,

  Hand lain o’er hand he saw she the Lily-fair,

  In each eye reflected joy,

  About fair shoulders he cast a cloak light as ayr,

  About him he was cover’d by hair gold-gleaming,

  Far was the way they went,

  O’er sea, hills and past fields warm and green,

  Through full score years ‘till Bhalkeld gave vent,

  To scarlet volcanic fury inspir’d by envy most unclean,

  The thundering swords of steel left her to lament,

  Long she trod bereft until she departed in the midst of a dream,

  Thus has pass’d away the Blossom-Queen,

  At last the Thistle-King and Lily-Princesse once more met,

  O’er the River-Styx singing their duet.”

  The song sung with sincere gratitude for the beauty all about her, and her eyes upon the blue lilies that appeared to burst out as the suns did from past the great mountains far to the east. So that her vision was awash in tender blue the colour of the heavens, her mind imagining that Marthe the Lily might have sung this very song upon the ship that took her north-west from the lands of Gallia.

  It was a song that surprised Andvari and that drew a curious glance from him, “I am not familiar with this song.”

  “Kenna sang it when I was a wee lass,” Daegan explained eager to discuss her aunty.

  “But you are still a wee lass,” He teased lightly, when he saw her annoyed look her sniggered ere he added a little more seriously. “May I ask who this Kenna is? ‘Tis the first I hear of her, was she your aunt or sister?”

  “My aunty of a sorts, she is Cormac’s mother.”

  “Then she is a fine lady,” Andvari stated at once, “For only the greatest of ladies could have mothered such a great son.”

  She did not answer him at once and felt unsure of how to answer that question. It was not that she did not agree with his sentiments, she also knew how harsh the older woman could be, towards Cormac. Nodding her head in approbation at the blind affection that the Dwarf, had for Cormac warmed her heart, ere she turned her attention towards one of the papás.

  The man was a stout one with a bent back, hardly any hairs upon his head and was dressed in a dark robe, with a young Minotaur to one side of him. The two men were both dressed in dark robes, though the Minotaur wore his hair long as those people were wont to do. The elder’s blue eyes were still alert, whereas his younger companion’s gaze was a green one.

  “And what pray tell are you here for lass?” The old man asked first in one language, then his thin lips frowned deeply as he stroked his long-chin’s beard, and repeated the question in Caled.

  Pleased he could understand her, and that she could understand him, Daegan was to answer him at once, “I seek er- the lady Otrera.”

  They had her wait, with the old man hurrying away to fetch the lady in question, while his companion studied Daegan, Andvari and their three guards dubiously. The latter men had been sent to accompany the two of them, as Prithia claimed she did not wish for any harm to befall them. The fact that neither her niece nor her brother, needed guards had not escaped their attention. All of them were muscular men, armed to the teeth with swords and hatchets.

  Whenever leaving the palace Daegan was forced to wear a dress for raiment rather than wearing the raiment of a warrior, for she was hardly trusted. No fool, she would not have worn the chaffing armour of the Amazons, were it offered to her then.

  Otrera was soon brought hither from the rear of the temple, wiping her hands against a piece of cloth extended to her by the monk. Her hands dirty with dirt itself. She had been busy with gardening, a passion she had developed from early girlhood from her mother in marked contrast to her elder sister Andromache.

  Visibly surprised, Otrera halted when she caught sight of the two of them, so that when she addressed them, it was to speak with a hesitant tone. “Why have the two of you called me hither?”

  Daegan hesitated.

  Pushed forward by the thought of how her father had never hesitated to apologise when in the wrong, whilst retaining his glorious dignity she addressed the older woman with her head high. “I have come to apologise regarding your aunt’s behaviour towards you.”

  “Have you now?” Otrera asked coolly, doubt in her voice so that the younger woman flushed crimson, feeling as though the older woman had impugned her honour. “I do not think it is for you to apologize for my aunt’s words.”

  It was Andvari who came to the rescue when he snorted muttering to himself, “Such is the nature of an Amazon Warlady.” At the stunned stares of the women, he went on in a scathing tone, “Woe to all the Amazons who follow, she who has sworn herself as all other lairds and rulers of the Misty-Isle!”

  “What do you mean, by those words?” Otrera questioned confused by the manner in which he spoke of her aunt, an angry flush colouring her delicate, beautiful throat.

  Daegan dreaded how the Dwarf might answer.

  She was thoroughly displeased by the words that burst forth from his lips, “It is that Prithia as with all other rulers who are not of the kingdom of ériadhr?n, she intends to swear her allegiance to the Dark Laird.”

  This accusation drew a gasp from not only Otrera but the Minotaur. It angered the both of them; they were both so choked up with wroth that they could not speak for some time.

  Daegan did not suffer from this difficulty though, as she hissed at her friend, “Andvari! Enough with this nonsense of yours!”

  “It is the truth though,” He insisted with his eyes regaining some of their previous certainty, so that he almost appeared as mad as he was during his imprisonment in his home-village.

  “How dare you impugn the honour of my aunt,” Otrera objected at once, disgusted by his disrespect to the closest thing she had ever known, to a mother. The only person she held above Prithia was in truth Andromache and even in regards to her sister she would not have tolerated her disrespecting their aunt.

  Andvari did not answer. He remained mulishly persuaded, of the rectitude of his mistrust of the Amazons. The only people, he was utterly convinced of the trustworthiness of his own people.

  Daegan felt her own agitation grow, so that she wished that the Dwarf had chosen not to accompany her. She had wished to make peace with Otrera, in some capacity and here she was at greater odds with her than ever before.

  “I for one think, Prithia to be trustworthy,” Daegan stated firmly, her arms crossed over her chest in a gesture of defiance.

  Andvari for his part appeared chagrined by this statement, but he did not argue with her, “Fine if you wish to believe in her, do as you please. Yet do not come crying to me, when the time comes for her to disappoint your faith in her.”

  The Dwarf was to amble away, back up the road thither to the city, his back firmly to her.

  The animosity in Otrera’s eyes made it so that Daegan found it too uncomfortable to remain, near the flower-field for long.

  When she left it was with the sense that the burning gazes of the clergymen and the heiress of Dytikástro scorching her back. Throughout this journey, she was to curse at Andvari under her breath.

  *****

  That first day in the field had been an uncomfortable one, and though Daegan enjoyed how passionately Prithia felt about teaching her in the use of arms. She was to long for some time away from her training. The ache in her muscles was enjoyable, but not entirely unfamiliar to her, for her father had trained her well in the use of weapons in Glasvhail. The difference was that he had taught her such things, he had always encouraged her to go sew with Kenna immediately afterwards. He had raised her to be a woman, as well as his daughter.

  What Prithia wished was for a shield-maiden who had few other passions, outside of the way of the warrior with little tolerance for her to indulge in the joys of womanhood.

  This realisation was one that brought little joy to Daegan. For though she loved the practice of arms, and adored also the gift of a war-horn that Prithia had made to her, one made of iron and rounded with small Dorian symbols. The most noteworthy symbol was that of a brilliant sun towards the middle of the horn. She could not bring herself to reject that which she was at her core; a lady. This left Daegan rather troubled and confused, as to how she should behave in Dytikástro.

  For this reason, she found that she preferred to follow the counsel of Fergus, who advised in a mild tone that she ought to join Otrera in the fields. He said this during one of the few private meals they had enjoyed in her chambers. His next words were, asked when Andvari entered with Daegan rising to her feet at once. “What is the matter with you? Did the two of you exchange harsh words?”

  Andvari glanced from the Pardiff to the maid, his mouth open. His intent was to address the lass to make peace between them. Daegan well-understood that it was not entirely the Dwarf’s fault, he was half-mad and therefore it was on her shoulders to behave as a mature adult.

  It had been her intent to mollify the other woman, yet all that she had done was made relations between them all the more awkward.

  Or so she thought, as she tore away from her chambers to hurry thither to the temple where Otrera so often fled to. With Daegan telling herself that she herself, was not fleeing from Andvari or Prithia, but rather was seeing to investigating the matter of Otrera, and why she spoke so highly of Corin.

  On this particular subject, Daegan spoke with all the tact she was ordinarily known for, as they tended to the flowers, “About my father, and his stay in the prison of your aunt, I had wondered if there was more to the tale you and he told us.”

  Otrera did not answer; she preferred to focus upon pouring a little bit of water gathered from the lake upon some of the nearby flowers. Her hands were covered in dirt, and her resolve was quite impressive.

  Daegan had never worked on a garden before; she had however worked as a seamstress’ apprentice and as a pupil of sorts for her father. Yet gardening had not struck her as particularly difficult to learn. This had proven her father’s proverb that ‘only the most difficult things in life to achieve have value’ truly wrong. This was the case in this situation, for though there was little difficulty in caring for flowers with Daegan finding this one of the most satisfying activities of her life. It was pleasant to see something so small, slowly take shape however what she did not find satisfying was with whom, she had engaged in this endeavour with.

  When she did not receive an answer, Daegan was to complain, “Why do you persist in ignoring me so? Is it because my friend insulted your aunt? Or is it because she prefers me to you?”

  Otrera who had her back to her that day, with her head held high despite kneeling down to care for some yellow-lilies sighed. “Daegan, do you realize how infantile you sound?”

  “How am I infantile?” Otrera cast a dark look in her direction, one that served to goad the younger woman all the more, wherefore Daegan turned to stomp away. “Very well, if such is the case mayhap I should speak to your aunt once more.”

  “Daegan, what your father did-” At this time Otrera once again fell silent, as she struggled visibly with the telling of this tale. “Your father was most chivalrous, and I admire that in him-” The Amazon stopped with a gasp when she looked up at the Caled-lass.

  Daegan who had turned to face her did not understand why she had stopped speaking. Bewildered she turned to look towards the city. Or rather to the north of it, thereupon the plains that stretched out north-east lay a mass of dark figures that had gathered.

  https://www.youtube.com/@BrosKrynn