In Which Severin Meets the Other Side of His Coin

October 14, 1165

There were many activities that could be enjoyed with large groups of people, but so far as Severin was concerned, horseback riding wasn't one of them. He'd always enjoyed going for rides on his own, or perhaps in the company of his wife or some of his children or maybe even one or two of his friends, but it was a quiet, thoughtful sort of pastime; he found that the presence of too many people ruined that, making it more of a chore than anything else.

Or, perhaps it was more a matter of context than anything else. Parties on horseback rode to battle. Parties on horseback rode into exile. Ten able-bodied males between the ages of eighteen and thirty-seven who lived in three different shires never just went for a leisurely ride or an afternoon hunt together; there was work to be done, likely of the unpleasant sort.

About a week or so prior, he and Raia and a handful of guards had ridden to the fringe of the forest to meet with her friend Tavrin, who agreed to arrange for this audience with his grandfather, the apparent leader of these forest-dwellers. The next day, the boy had led Severin and Dalston to the exact spot and had given them the date and time--this date, this time.

A handful of men had volunteered to come along, just in case the negotiations didn't proceed as peacefully as planned. Falidor, Aldhein, and Florian were among their number, as were Adonis, Ceidrid, Halford, and Seoth. They had met at the armory at Severin's castle that morning, where they had all been properly fed and equipped, then they had proceeded into the woods, Dalston in the lead, with Octavius to his right and Severin to his left.

After about an hour's ride, they drew near the assigned meeting place and halted. Severin fiddled with the reigns of his horse, knotting and unknotting the strap of leather with the obsessed intensity of a child fighting to find the trick to a difficult riddle. For the first time in his adult life, he wished his father could be with him. He was a lecher and a cad and an altogether dishonorable man, but Lonriad could hold his own in a diplomatic exchange. He gave people what they wanted while achieving his own ends. He steered conversations while convincing the other party to believe himself in charge. He found loopholes that allowed neither side to come out of a situation feeling cheated or looking like an idiot.

And yet, of all his skills, the only one he had managed to pass on to Severin was an enhanced tendency to mentally undress attractive women--go figure.

Dalston swung his leg to the other side of his horse and eased himself to the ground. "Deian? Are you there?"

"Yes," replied a voice from further into the forest. It was a silky baritone of almost aqueous quality; Severin recalled a semi-repressed memory of a drop of clear poison rolling off the rim of a glass phial and into the cup of wine below. "And you, my good sirs, are late. Fortunately for you, I feeling patient today."

Severin dismounted his horse and stared in the direction of the voice, scanning for a silhouette of a humanoid figure; he was unsuccessful. "Sorry."

Wherever he was, Deian laughed the sort of laugh one might have expected to be greeted by in Hell. "I have no need for your apologies. The three of you, simply come hither; leave your men where they are."

Exchanging the briefest of glances with Octavius, Severin nodded, then followed the other two toward the origin of Deian's voice. He repeated Tavrin's description of his grandfather again in his head; tall, white hair, silver skin, all-seeing eyes...

But what he saw was not what he had been told to expect. There were sights, he was well aware, that rendered men speechless, and others that summoned screams from even the most stoic of champions. Some caused people to freeze in their tracks, while some sent their witness leaping backward and running in the opposite direction.

And some, like this one, merited stupefied, slack-jawed gapes accompanied by blinks of disbelief.

It was an orb--a hovering, cloudy orb.

Octavius raised an eyebrow. "You're Deian?"

"Indeed," Deian's voice answered from the orb. "For the sake of your comfort, I decided to contact you from afar using this artifact of my ancestors; I figured you might be somewhat uneasy in the presence of a man who has spent the past few years slaughtering your people at random. I hope this isn't an inconvenience."

His speech was laden with a demon's oily taunting, falsely considerate and even mock-patronizing. It was the sort of voice that was only used to provoke an angry response; Severin resolved not to give him one. "Believe me, it's no trouble. Anyway, I imagine you're a busy man, and you've waited long enough, so we shall be blunt--why are you murdering our people?"

That toxic laugh resounded once more; the poison met the wine and diffused throughout the chalice, undetectable save for the ripples remaining from the drop's impact. "I shan't bore you with the details; all you need to know is that I need your people out of this valley. Since you don't seem to have any intention of heading back to your native Dovia any time soon, I've seen fit to commence in your extermination. Is that a satisfying enough answer for you?"

"In all honesty, no," replied Octavius, the toe of his boot furrowing into the ground. "Why do you want us to leave?"

An annoyed sniff could be heard from the orb. "I am not at liberty to discuss that--particularly not with men who make adulteresses out of their own queens, men who lock their mad wives in filthy dungeons, and men who are so deeply bound within tightly-controlled personae that they no longer even recognize themselves."

By process of elimination, Severin had to place himself as the third. He stared at the orb and frowned, trying to process the words, but failing to make sense of them. "Sorry?"

"You heard," insisted Deian with the hint of a cackle. "You know, it really is a pity that we have conflicting interests, because I imagine under better circumstances, you and I might get along splendidly; we're two sides of the same coin."

Severin scowled. "You're mocking me."

"And if my mocking isn't the truth, then why should it hurt you?" the voice teased. "I like you. I believe I shall kill you last--of course, a man such as yourself would probably rather die before having to live without his precious wife and children, correct? I imagine that woman is the only thing keeping you from some rather self-destructive vices, and it would be a shame to see someone so outwardly honorable descend to such behaviors."

"And now you're just stalling," he concluded, turning to his companions in hopes that the subject would be changed.

Dalston came to the rescue. "There must be some way we can stay here without further inconveniencing you."

"Actually, that is not the case," Deian insisted, "but I would be willing to perhaps stall my quest for your destruction--if you do something for me, that is."

Severin glanced back at the men and their horses. At this point, moving the whole kingdom back to Dovia was almost out of the question. Florian was an exile. Aldhein was up to his eyeballs in his father's debt. Adonis, Halford, and Ceidrid had all established themselves here for more firmly than they ever could have in Dovia.

Perhaps Octavius might be given a title and some lands as a result of his marriage to Holladrin, but Dalston would hold no rank higher than that of a knight in the old kingdom, just like any other second son. Severin himself would probably not even achieve that; he did not think he could raise seven children on a gentleman's income. None of the assembled cared to leave, he could tell from the unease with with they clenched their fists and gripped their reigns--if there was a chance that they could stay in Naroni for however long, they would take it. "Obviously, just 'stalling' your planned genocide doesn't benefit us in the long run, but I suppose we have no choice but to hear you out."

The other two nodded in agreement, then peered expectantly at the orb. Deian allowed a second or two to pass before he spoke. "I want the three of you to play a little game with me."

Dalston tilted his head to the side. "What sort of game?"

"The sort of game that all three of you could potentially win," Deian assured them, "and it isn't possible for just one person to win; either you all win, you all lose, or two of you win and one of you loses. For each one of you who wins, I will hold off on the further slaughter of your people for a whole year, so even if only two of you win, that should give you plenty of time to decide whether or not your half-imagined kingdom is worth dying for, and for you to plan your evacuation if you decide that you value your lives over your delusions."

Octavius frowned. "And suppose we lose?"

The venomous laughter rang once again; Severin's hand flew to the hilt of his sword. "I suppose there's no sense mincing words; any man who loses this game dies."

Severin ground the lining of his cheek between his teeth. "So if we all lose, then not only will you continue to burn villages and maul travelers, but three shires will be left be lorded over by children?"

"Well, you can't expect me to offer to postpone my plans and therefore seriously inconvenience myself and my family without making it into some sort of wager," mused the voice of Deian. "That would be rather unfair, don't you think? Anyway, make your choice--will you play, or will you not?"

Dalston sighed, his eyes darting back and forth between Octavius and Severin. "What do you two think? I think we can risk it; the boys were better groomed for the task of ruling than we ever were, we have to remember."

Severin nodded. "True. It seems to me that it's only responsible of us to accept this wager; better one of us than God knows how many of our people."

"Florian!" Octavius called to his steward. "If none of us survive, tell the king to evacuate the kingdom as soon as possible; he won't like it, but even he's not dense enough to stay in such a situation."

"Yes, my lord," Florian responded from atop his horse.

After sending what might have been his last ever glance to the brave men who had agreed to accompany them, then to Dalston and Octavius in turn, Severin faced the orb and nodded. "All right. We'll play your game."

"Excellent," hissed Deian as a white light burst from the orb, fast engulfing the trees, the sky, Severin's own body. "Best of luck to all of you, my lords; it is always a shame when men such as yourselves meet untimely ends."

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