In Which Dalston Makes Up for Lost Embraces

October 14, 1165

Tired of watching the clouds breeze by, Dalston arched his back and fiddled with a loose thread of his tunic. When was Deian's game going to start? He had waited long enough, and was now growing impatient. Maybe he was testing them one at a time, and Dalston had drawn the last turn. Yes, that had to be it. The only other reason it should take this long was in the event that both Octavius and Severin had lost and Deian was therefore not even bothering with him, but that was bleak thinking; Dalston preferred the first possibility.

"Dalston?"

He looked up to see a tall, fair-haired man standing on the other side of the rose bushes, his mouth as immobile as Dalston remembered, but a smile in his eyes of the likes he hadn't seen in many years. "Father?"

Dalston scrambled to his feet, then edged through the bushes, an eye open for any indication that this man was not who he thought it was. "Father, is it really you?"

His father nodded. "Yes, son, it's me."

Still somewhat skeptical, Dalston placed his arms around him, then proceeded upward to his shoulders and face. He did not disappear upon contact, nor morph into whatever object had been the framework for the mirage. He was most assuredly real, and most assuredly present.

"It is you!" Dalston exclaimed as his father pulled him in for an embrace. "Father! I missed you!"

"I missed you too, son," his father muttered into his ear. "You've done well for yourself, Dalston; I'm proud of you."

Dalston felt a smile break on his slowly-warming face. "Have you seen my children?"

His father placed a hand on his shoulder. "Indeed, I have. They're beautiful."

"Dalston? Abrich, is it Dalston?"

A slender figure emerged from the exterior rim of the thicket and made her way toward the father and son, the skirts of her gown swishing over the blades of grass as her pace quickened to a run. "Dalston? Is that you?"

"It's him, Rica," his father confirmed, using that familiar pet name that hadn't breached Dalston's ears in decades.

Her unforgotten smile swelled to its potential. "My son."

As opposed to her straight-laced, controlled husband, she had always been an irrepressibly joyful woman, her happiness that of the most contagious of sorts. Dalston could not help but return the grin. "Mother!"

Laughing, she rested her hand on Dalston's arms and met his eyes, her smile unbroken. "It's wonderful to see you again!"

She flung her arms around his neck and held him tightly, as though determined to make up for all those long years of lost embraces. "Oh, Dalston! I haven't been so happy in years!"

Dalston placed a quick kiss on her cheek. "Mother, it's been far too long."

NEXT CHAPTER:

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."

NEXT CHAPTER:

In Which Dalston Knows What Makes an Heir

October 2, 1165

Dalston had spoken with Octavius and Severin prior to Roderick's audience, and the three of them had agreed that in light of current events, it wouldn't be the worst idea to bring their heirs along with them, just so the boys could have a chance to see first-hand just what their future duties would include. So far, however, it didn't seem to be going as planned. While it didn't seem too unreasonable to expect Sparron and Jadin to run about like the pair of reckless nine-year-olds they were, Dalston had been hoping that Lorn would stand with him and pay attention to the matter at hand; instead, he sat quietly next to Prince Ietrin, whom Dalston could have sworn the boy didn't even care for, just staring off into space.

Who knew what he was thinking about? Books? Horses? Girls, perhaps? It had been a long time since Dalston had been ten--but then again, it should not have mattered, as Dalston was a second son. He had never been his father's heir. He had expected to become a knight, not a lord and certainly not a duke. Lorn, on the other hand, had been born to succeed his father, and he knew it--so why would he not pay attention?

Roderick cleared his throat for what Dalston guessed was the third time in ten minutes. "Well, one thing is for certain, gentlemen; now that we've each lost a village, we cannot deny that something has to be done."

The king hadn't been raised as an heir either--none of the four of them had. Roderick had been a spare prince, given the odd lesson in diplomacy just in case Oswald met an untimely end, but any chance of his ever being King of Dovia had all but vanished with the birth of his first nephew. Neither Octavius nor Severin had ever been considered a potential successor for their respective fathers, Octavius being the youngest of eight brothers and Severin being the son of a foreign mistress, so they too had been forced to learn the ropes quickly upon becoming lords in Naroni. Every once in a while, there came along a situation which rendered all four of them clueless, and Dalston did not want their sons to share that same obstacle. In fact, he almost regretted not bringing young Abrich and Severin's son Searle along, and he wished Roderick and Octavius had more than one son apiece.

"Fortunately, we do know who is behind this," Severin reminded him. Whenever they met with Roderick, there was a silent agreement among the three of them that Severin did most of the talking; it seemed to come with the territory of being simultaneously the king's greatest grievance and only friend. "Recall that my daughter is friends with that boy who healed Florian, and he's given her more than enough insight to condemn his fiercer relations."

Roderick nodded. "So we find the lot of them and kill them, then?"

Dalston groaned; Severin scowled in agreement. "You do realize that what you are suggesting might go by the name of genocide? Roderick, they obviously want something from us, and before any drastic, unnecessary measures are taken, I'd like to find out what that something is."

The king's lip curled inward as he tilted his head, the crown upon it only held in place by his stiff hair. "Diplomacy used in regards to a group of primitive forest dwellers? And just when I thought I'd heard it all!"

Severin sighed. "I doubt that fighting them would be like fighting other human beings. From what I know of them, I would guess that the weakest of them could easily take several of the strongest of us."

"We could send for aid from Dovia."

"They've been dropping like flies in Dovia lately; the last thing they need is to risk losing any more in a conflict that we might be able to avoid in the first place."

Octavius exchanged an exasperated glance with Dalston, then turned to the king. "He's right. Look, why don't we just have Raia tell her friend to tell his grandfather that we'd like to meet with him for a civilized talk. We'll come armed, and we'll have a party of men with us just in case things get out of hand. How does that sound?"

Dalston nodded in agreement. "That sounds reasonable."

"It's risky, but just sitting around doing nothing is even moreso," Severin agreed. "What say you, your majesty?"

Roderick strummed his fingers across his chin, then placed his hand on his desk, a vein throbbing in his temple. "Fine. However, there's no sense in all four of us going; in the event of a mass murder, at least one of us should probably stay safe at home. Since I am king, I suppose it is only responsible of me to reserve that tiresome duty for myself while the three of you go about with your adventures."

"But don't they think he's king?" piped up Lorn suddenly, gesturing toward Severin. "That's what Raia said, anyway."

Roderick glowered at him, then turned away. "Never you mind that! Anyway, that may work to our advantage in the event of any slaughterings. If this creature gets angry and decides to kill him, then he and his pack will think that they've killed our king, when really..."

Severin rolled his eyes. "Yes, we understand what you're saying. I'll talk to Raia; I'll even go with her when she goes to meet the boy."

The king sniffed. "Good. Now, forgive me, but I do have several other important matters to which I must attend; consider yourselves dismissed."

Severin turned away and strode toward the door, resting his hand on Jadin's shoulder and guiding him into the corridor; Octavius and Sparron were quick to follow. Aware of the impatient tapping of Roderick's boot, Dalston locked eyes with his own son. "Ready to go? Or would you like to say a quick hello and goodbye to Leara, perhaps?"

Lorn looked up at him and grinned. His eyes were exactly his mother's, down to the sparkle. "If you don't mind, Father."

"I don't," Dalston assured him. "Heir or not, I suppose you're only young once."

NEXT CHAPTER:

In Which Dalston Loses a Possible Moment

May 3, 1165

It was not unheard of for men to find their wives less attractive as they aged, but Dalston could not claim to understand this. Celina was thirty-two, approaching thirty-three, and not a day had past that Dalston had not woken to find a woman even lovelier than she who had lain beside him the night before. She was a mother of five children and a wife of ten and a half years, and as was invariably the case, she was not immune to time. Still, it was rare for him to find a gray hair among her thick chestnut locks, or a wrinkle upon her youthful face. He had known many a pretty girl to whom age had been nothing but ruthless, but his Lina was not one of them. If possible, she was even more divine now than she had been ten and a half years earlier.

Over the course of their decade together, Dalston had grown to appreciate these occasions his active self had once dreaded, these moments of having nothing to do--nothing, that was, except for just being with her, her and their children. As much as he had hated this feeling of stasis before his marriage, Dalston too had been prey to time, and he found that each year had made him wiser. There would always be work; there would always be concerned pensioners, irate taxpayers, and census results to be reviewed. In these troubled times, however, he could not say how long his family would remain as content and protected as it was, and as such, he planned to spend every possible moment with his wife and children.

Much to his dismay, however, Aldhein's knock told him that this was not, in fact, a possible moment. Dalston sighed. "Enter."

Aldhein swept inside with all the gloom and foreboding of some spectral messenger, closing the door with a swift brush of his arm against it. As it snapped shut, the flame of the nearest candle vanished. "Your grace, my lord, my lady," the steward addressed Celina and the children in turn before resting his eyes on Dalston. "Your grace... you have to come with me. The baron and his lordship are all ready en route."

Dalston raised an eyebrow. "What has happened?"

"I don't see fit to explain in front of your children," Aldhein dismissed. "I'll tell you on the way. It suffices to say that the king himself has sent for all of you."

Dalston's heart froze abruptly, like a horse approaching a fence it had only just realized it could not jump. Roderick had sent for him? Knowing Roderick's tendency to gravely underestimate the seriousness of dire situations, it must have been horrific indeed. "Well, we shall not keep him waiting."

He pressed a gentle kiss to three-year-old Rona's forehead, then set her down on the floor. "Take care of Mama and your baby brother, all right? Your older siblings should be back soon."

Rona answered with a toothy grin; he couldn't help but wonder how many more of those smiles he would ever see. "Yes, Papa."

NEXT CHAPTER:

In Which Dalston Follows a Rusty Odor

March 2, 1164

"So, let me get this straight," choked Dalston between chuckles as he followed Severin down the slope and into the edge of the forest, "you've been dragging me around the kingdom all day just because of a tip from your eight-year-old daughter? For an indulgence, you're sure taking this seriously--going soft in your old age?"

Severin sent a brief glance his way, a spark of annoyance in his brown eyes. "Let me remind you that you are two years older than I am--and I'll have you know that this is no indulgence. A tenant expressed a concern, and I am therefore compelled to take it seriously."

Dalston sniffed; the concept made sense from an administrative standpoint, but there had to be some bias here. "A tenant who just so happens to be your little girl, that is."

"She knows better than to send her father on a wild goose chase just for her own amusement, Dalston. Good Lord, I hope you don't think your own children would do anything like that; I'll have you know for a fact that they're all much better behaved than any of mine are."

Well, that was certainly believable. Dalston and Celina had the most well-behaved children of everyone they knew--and of course, they wouldn't dare think it if everyone they knew hadn't told them so in the first place. However, it did worry him somewhat that his children were so unfailingly, almost blindly obedient, and while Lorn was not the worst of them, he was the one that made Dalston the most anxious. Would the boy be able to step up and take charge come the morning Dalston did not rise? If he was to be honest with himself, Dalston wasn't sure; in some ways, he might have breathed easier if Lorn had always been something of an unruly scamp.

"Does that smell like blood to you?" asked Severin, interrupting Dalston's thoughts as he proceeded further into the gully.

With a frown, Dalston stopped, allowing the rusty odor to waft into his nostrils. "You know, now that you mention it, it does."

The other man took a moment to scan the area. Dalston watched as his lip curled inward; he had found nothing. "I'll do a quick search of the area. You try to find the source of that smell, all right?"

Dalston nodded. "All right."

He continued along the slope's plateau for a minute or two, his nose guiding him further into the woods. The putrid aroma was growing stronger by the second; any moment now, he would see what it was. Perhaps a stray cat, or the remains of a rabbit or squirrel, or...

"Uh... Severin?" he called, unable to peel his eyes from the gruesome sight. "You'd better come see this..."

NEXT CHAPTER:

In Which Dalston Is Truly Sorry

January 24, 1162

As Dalston caught sight of the person seated on the couch in his study, all he could feel was the wave of utter relief at the fact that Celina and the children were visiting at Veldora for the day; he did not wish to risk a meeting between any of them and this uninvited guest. He already felt bad enough that he had not been home the last time she had called, in order to prevent her from disturbing his wife.

"Dalston," Geneva greeted him curtly, unusually hesitant to meet his eye; was it possible that she actually did feel somewhat guilty about their past encounter?

"Geneva," he replied in a similar fashion. "I must say, I was quite surprised when Celina informed me that you were actually alive."

She shrugged, as though she deemed the fact that nearly two entire kingdoms believed her dead to be insignificant. "Life is full of surprises."

"Yes, but why are you here?" demanded Dalston while Geneva pulled herself to her feet in order to meet his eye as best she could. Geneva was not the sort of person who preferred to stand when a seat was available--whatever it was that she wanted from him, it appeared that she considered it at least marginally important.

He silently prayed that it wasn't sex.

But those violet eyes held a rare sobriety he had never seen them house before, he realized as she inclined her head. For an instant, she was no longer Queen Geneva of a Thousand Lovers, the woman who had shamed his king and all but destroyed his marriage. As he stared into her troubled gaze, whatever she had become melted away; she was simply his young cousin again, and something was troubling her.

"I've been calling at Tetran for the past few months, at nightfall," she confessed. "I don't wish to disturb Octavius, but it seems that Medea is never in her room, and I find it difficult to believe that she is frequenting his. I confronted the steward a few times, but all he would tell me was where to stick it. I wouldn't dare approach Roderick, since the last thing he needs is my reappearance when he's so content with his other wife, and I realize that Severin and Alina have lost all respect for me, and... well, you already know about Celina. I figured if anyone would tell me what was going on, it would be you."

She was right; in this instance, he was all she had. Perhaps it was a sort of poetic justice--so tragically right that he should be the one to ruin her life, just as she had ruined his--but Dalston was not the poetic sort. No one he knew could make sense of such things, no matter how they applied pretty words or meter or themes, nor had anyone any idea as to right way to tell such news.

"Geneva..." he began awkwardly, biting his tongue in his frenzied search for words. "I'm surprised you haven't heard by now; the people are talking about it, I'm sure. You see... Medea's been dead for a week now."

If only there had been another way to say it--or if there had been, if only he could have found it. She didn't scream or cry or insist that he was lying to her; she merely stared in stunned silence, which to Dalston sounded worse than even the most piercing wails of the most anguished of souls.

"A week?" repeated Geneva at last.

Solemnly, Dalston nodded. "She went quite mad after you left, you see. It started off slowly--little things, like her forgetting to do her hair or walking around in her nightgown, losing her ability to keep names and relations straight--but then it got to the point where she tried to kill Octavius and the twins, so they detained her, and then... well, she went through the window. I don't know if she wanted freedom or death or what; all I know is that I am truly sorry for your loss."

And he was. In the end, Medea had been the only one who loved Geneva, and Geneva had always been the only one who loved Medea. It seemed that now, they were both thoroughly alone, in completely separate worlds.

Without so much as a parting embrace as per her usual physical manner, she brushed right past him on her way to the door. "I imagine she is buried at Tetran?"

"Yes," he answered softly.

Geneva nodded, placing her hand on the doorhandle. "Thank you."

NEXT CHAPTER: