Penumbra

by Cinis

Summary:

Rennala did not choose her family. Nevertheless—

Chapter 1: 1-1

Golden lightning arced through the twilight sky, and thunder peeled deep in its wake.

Rennala knelt in the bloody muck of the field, surrounded by corpses. All around her, men and women of Liurnia lay dead. Their banners and arms, once shining silver and sapphire, like the lakes for which their home was named, were trampled and dark. In the distance, a glintstone dragon, oathsworn to Caria, bellowed a last agony as it fell to the ground, pierced through by a hundred golden spears.

Radagon, shining almost beyond what mortal eyes could endure, strode slowly, inexorably, forward. The crown of Caria, a gem-set masterwork of filigree, fallen during their battle, crunched under his armored boot.

Rennala looked up.

Radagon looked down.

Rennala’s head swam. For days, she had poured every ounce of her strength into crushing Radagon and his army. To no avail. Now, trembling, depleted and on her knees, she could barely remain upright. The effort of speaking was almost beyond her, but Rennala had to know. “My sister?”

Radagon said nothing. His face betrayed no emotion. Not violence, not frenzy, not regret. He raised his hammer for the last blow.

Fury replaced resignation. Rennala snarled, and the air around her crackled with unformed power. In her fury, she reached for it, finding again the will to fight. The sun dipped low on the horizon, the moon was rising, and she was not defeated. Not yet. If she did not have her answer, she had enough left in her for one last desperate exchange, and another, and another, and the standstill of years would grind on, and so many more would die for ambition and pride. “Tell me, Marika!”

Radagon paused. His light dimmed by so slight a degree as to be nearly imperceptible. After a moment, he lowered his hammer down to his side. “She struggles still with Messmer,” he said. He looked over his shoulder, across the field.

Despite the numb weight of exhaustion, Rennala followed Radagon’s gaze towards a distant conflagration of crimson and black flame, veined only faintly with azure light. Terror lanced through her. “Call him off,” she hissed. “This is over.”

Oh she wanted so badly for it to be over.

“You said that Liurnia would not fall, that this would not be over, while you still drew breath,” Radagon said, returning his attention to Rennala.

“Such taunts are beneath you,” Rennala snapped.

Radagon stared at Rennala for a while, silent. Eventually, he planted his hammer in the mud, then squatted down so that he drew level with her. He met her cold blue eyes with his own eyes of liquid gold. “Liurnia need not fall,” he said.

[] [] []

They chose a point on one of the eastern ridges, where one with keen eyes might see the shadow of Raya Lucaria to the west and the shimmer of Leyndell to the northeast. Or, if one looked down, they might see all the devastation that Marika’s mongrels had wrought on Liurnia. Lush evergreen forests, stretching for kilometers, burnt to char. When the wind blew up from the valley, everything stank of sticky pine smoke and, sometimes, of cooked meat.

And for what?

Why?

Rennala stood on a high outcrop on the ridge, overlooking it all. She had withdrawn to the farthest point she could go from where the rest of the Carian delegation waited without leaving the vicinity entirely.

Which was not to say that she had altogether escaped company.

“Tens of thousands died to protect these lands. You disgrace our house not to do the same,” Rellana said tightly. She had not come on invitation. She had stalked after Rennala when Rennala departed from the others, asking no leave to impose on Rennala’s brooding. Not that she ever asked Rennala’s permission to do anything.

Rennala looked over at her sister.

Rellana wore a silver coat, embroidered with the sigil of Caria in thread the distinctive deep blue of their house, over a tunic the same shade of blue. The coat and tunic, though exquisitely made, did not quite fit her. They came from before the war, and hard years and hungry marches had left her lean. On close inspection, her black trousers had faded and were threadbare in places. Her belt and boots were black leather, polished, but not enough to entirely hide the scuffs of hard use. A ring of carved glintstone hung from her right ear. Her posture was painfully rigid, her jaw clenched hard. Her azure eyes glinted steel. She rested both her hands on the worn hilts of her twin swords.

There had been some discussion of both sides fully setting aside their arms before climbing the ridge. The discussion had been extremely brief.

“What would you have me do then?” Rennala asked, dispassionate. “Jump?”

“Your flippant response demeans their sacrifice,” Rellana replied, tone frigid.

The rebuke had no effect on Rennala. The worship of sacrifice held great sway among the warriors with whom Rellana associated. Rennala herself did not incline towards such fanaticism. “Those lives are lost and we are defeated,” Rennala said. “We must look to the future. I see no future in further struggle.”

Rellana bristled. “There is even less future in this surrender,” she replied. Her tone had a roughness reminiscent of a growling wolf, the kind that prowled the border heights of their land. “You will live at Radagon’s pleasure. We will all live at his pleasure, at Marika’s pleasure. What sort of life will that be? There is no place for our kind in their orthodoxy. They will erase us.”

“Our kind?” Rennala echoed, questioning. Out of long habit, she clasped her hands before her within her long sleeves, as she did when she stood at the front of lecture halls in the academy. The movement was somewhat harder than usual, as she wore a formal robe of very heavy and stiff brocade. Chips of blue glintstone sewn into the hem of the robe further weighed her down. Her head, however, felt light. The tall crown of Caria, broken into a hundred pieces, lay in a box in her chambers in Raya Lucaria. Her long black hair flowed free. 

“Liurnians are unlike the minions and spaniels of Belurat and Altus,” Rellana replied in a manner close to a sneer. “To be Liurnian is to be absolute and sovereign.”

“Liurnia’s customs and institutions, its sense of self, will remain,” said Rennala calmly. “That is part of the terms.”

Rellana clenched her hands tighter on the hilts of her blades and leaned forward. “Bullshit,” she hissed. “You are blind. You have sold us out. If I had known what you intended when you called the retreat, I would have stayed in the battle to die rather than see this. You are a coward, unprincipled and weak. I was prepared to die for our land. You were not.”

This time, finally, Rellana’s words did stir her sister–Rennala disliked the suggestion, phrased so inelegantly, that she had failed to properly assess her course of action. “We fought and we lost,” Rennala said. “If they wish to extinguish Raya Lucaria–or any other heritage of this land or its people–further violence will be no protection. This, at least, is a hope that has not yet been foreclosed. We are alive. There is no hope for the dead. I will not allow further wastage of life. I cannot stop their conquest, but I can make it less bloody.”

“And Caria?” Rellana demanded. “Our own house? What of our house? You built it to grandeur, and so you are free to wipe it away–is that how you see this? Even if Liurnia might retain something of itself, Caria will fall from grace for its association with you.”

“Would this sit better with you if I said that I chose for myself only?” Rennala asked. “If I said that I chose this to save my own life and for no other reason?”

“It would sit no better, but at least it would make sense .” On that last word, Rellana’s voice cracked, broke. “I don’t understand. We’ve fought so hard, we’ve lost so much, we’ve suffered so much–”

Rennala hastily turned away from her sister and again looked out at the vastitude of Liurnia. It was easier to look at Liurnia in ashes than at Rellana. There were tears forming in the corners of Rellana’s eyes, and seeing them made Rennala uncomfortable. Guilty. She did not empathize with her sister. She did not feel the same emotions, and she could not bring herself to judge Rellana’s arguments as anything other than childish. But Rellana was not a child. She was a warrior in her prime, a champion of both wars with Leyndell, and an able enough scholar as well. She did not make childish arguments. “We will survive,” Rennala said. “We will not be the same. But we will survive.”

Less a challenge, more a plea, Rellana asked, “You say that we will not be the same–so how can you say that we will survive?”

“To change and to survive are not mutually exclusive.”

Rellana snorted with disgust. She took her right hand off the hilt of her blade to gesture dismissively, flicking her fingers brushing away a gnat. “Semantics.” Then she used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes.

Footsteps behind them drew Rennala’s attention. Moongrum, head of her personal guard, approached. Like Rellana, he had, under the terms of the engagement, set aside his usual armor for court clothes, a Carian blue tunic with silver trim and black trousers, that no longer quite fit. Also like Rellana, he had not entirely disarmed and still wore his sword. A step after Moongrum, his cousin Moonrithyll was dressed and armed similarly. They both bowed.

“What is it?” Rellana asked, tone sharp and curt. She hid expertly that she had been near tears a mere moment ago.

“They’re here,” Moongrum said darkly.

“Who has come?” asked Rennala.

“Radagon,” Moongrum started. He glanced back over his shoulder, down to the assembly. “His children, Messmer and Melina. A detachment of knights to escort them.”

“Is that all?” Rellana scoffed. “They insult us with the paucity of their retinue.”

Moonrgrum arched an eyebrow. “Would you prefer they have sent the full army?”

Moonrithyll snorted. “If the queen of Caria is to be wed, Marika herself should beg an invitation.”

“But if she did show her face here, I should not hesitate to break the truce,” Rellana said, vicious. She held up her right hand, then slowly curled her fingers into a fist. “Starting with her face.”

“Watch yourself, your grace,” Moongrum warned.

“Or what?” Rellana challenged. She swept her clenched hand through the air in a motion of violence. “The worst is already here. And this is not my truce.”

“Nevertheless, you are bound by it,” said Moongrum. 

“Don’t tell me what I know,” Rellana snapped.

Rennala gestured for attention, silencing the others. When she had their focus, she indicated the rocky trail up to the outcrop where they stood.

A lone figure climbed the trail. Tall, solid, with long red hair in a braid and ever-shining, Radagon could be mistaken for no other. In the style peculiar to northerners who couldn’t long survive even the mild warmth of spring in Liurnia and the other lowlands, he wore a loose golden robe  that left much of his very well-muscled chest bare.

Rellana quickly moved to stand between Radagon’s advance and her sister. “What do you want, dog of Leyndell?” she demanded. “You intrude.”

Radagon slowed to a stop. He did not bow. But he did incline his head, by only the smallest of degrees, in greeting to Rellana. The barest of courtesies. Then he looked past her, up to Rennala.

Rennala avoided meeting Radagon’s eyes. She didn’t need to meet his eyes to understand the request. The order? The expectation? She also didn’t need to look to her sister to feel Rellana’s judgment. “I will have words with him,” Rennala said. “Alone.”

Because, when all considerations and arguments were proposed and weighed, what choice did she really have?

Rellana spared her sister a glare, made a disgusted noise, then shouldered past Radagon down the trail. Like a great boulder in a stream, he didn’t react to her jostling at all. Moongrum and Moonrithyll bowed to their queen before going. As they left, they both gave Radagon a wide berth.

When the other Carians had departed, Rennala asked, “What is it?”

Saying nothing, Radagon stepped forward to join Rennala on the ledge overlooking Liurnia. Hands clasped behind his back, he gazed out at the wasted lands. 

If Rennala looked at Radagon from the corner of her eye, she saw it–how his frame did not match his being. How some parts of him were light, and others were the shadows cast by that light. When Rennala had first perceived it, on the eve of the first war when Radagon had come to the Carian manor with his unacceptable terms, she had thought herself deluded. Rellana, who was nearly Rennala’s equal in sorcery despite her mulishness, had seen nothing. But now having seen Radagon several more times and having scoured the library of Raya Lucaria for understanding, Rennala had an inkling of what he was.

“It will be a long-suffering marriage if you never speak,” Rennala said. She tried to keep resentment from her tone. She did not know if she managed it. “Or is that the intent?”

Radagon looked away from Liurnia and over to Rennala. His face was stern, and, to Rennala’s reckoning, unreadable. They were, after all, practically strangers. “You do not know to whom you speak,” he said. His voice was smooth and low, and he drew out his words in a way that made him easy to hear, to listen to.

“How would I know?”

“You could ask,” said Radagon.

“Would you have an answer?”

The corners of Radagon’s lips quirked up, the hint of a smile. “Not a useful one,” he said.

“To whom do I speak then?” Rennala asked, annoyed at that slightest glimmer of levity. He could be glad, could be light. After all, he had won.

“Me,” Radagon answered.

“Are you sure that you are from Leyndell?” Rennala replied. “With wit like that, I think you would not be out of place in one of the lecture halls of Raya Lucaria.”

“Not out of place, perhaps, but still unwelcome,” Radagon said.

“You would do well to remember that,” said Rennala coldly. “Though this marriage may install you at my side, you are and will remain all that you have done to Liurnia. No one else will forget that, nor should you.”

“I do not begrudge you and your people their resentment,” Radagon said quietly. Whatever mirth he’d had before vanished. “I will remain in the field, elsewhere, for some time, I think. But there will come a day when I am compelled to return here to Liurnia.” He shifted, offered Rennala his hand. “The day grows old.”

For a moment, Rennala considered refusing him. But then the moment passed. For better and for worse, the decision had already been made. She took his hand.

Lower on the ridge, the other Liurnians and the delegation from Leyndell waited.

On the Liurnian side, Rellana sat on a boulder with Moonrithyll in conversation. Moongrum and several other Carian knights were minding scholars of the academy. Almost all were mere journeymen, sent as obligatory representatives of their respective conspecti. Of the deans, only pale-robed Lazuli had come. It was an intentional slight that the other deans remained in Raya Lucaria. Rellana had distinguished company in thinking that Liurnia should have fought longer, harder. Many promising young scholars, full of the fire of patriotism, had lost their lives in defense of their home. The wars had decimated an entire generation of students.

Apart from the Carian knights and academy scholars, a small number of Carian and Liurnian nobles had also ventured out to witness the occasion. Not since the start of the last war had Rennala time enough to summon the nobility to a court. The brave were dead, the timid still in hiding. The handful gathered now for the wedding were neither brave nor timid, rather, they were the eccentrics. All wearing their courtly best, they milled about aimlessly, except for Rabbath, who seemed to be having a staring contest with a local tortoise.

Rennala did not mind that so many had declined to attend the occasion.

She was not ashamed.

That did not mean she wanted witnesses.

The representatives of Leyndell numbered even fewer than their Carian counterparts. Still, if there were treachery, the contest would be even. The dozen or so knights who had come with Radagon all wore the ornate golden armor of the order of the storied Tree Sentinels, Marika’s own personal guard. For why wouldn’t Marika’s own guard accompany Radagon? The Tree Sentinels saluted as Radagon came near, touching two fingers to chests over their hearts.

And, in addition to the golden knights, there were the children of Marika as well.

The man Rennala recognized instantly. Messmer had his father’s hair, if not his frame. While Radagon possessed a statuesque solidity, Messmer stood lanky and gaunt. He held himself with a sort of lazy grace reminiscent of a large cat. Two snakes lay draped over his shoulders, languid, occasionally flicking their tongues out to taste the air.

He had proven himself Rellana’s match in battle, and Rellana was by far the most powerful of Liurnia’s martial champions.

The woman, Rennala had not seen before. But Rennala could deduce her identity regardless. She was tall and had ash blonde hair. Her long dress of a delicate pale green with heavy gold embroidery spoke of immense wealth, as did her matching cloak of a slightly darker green. She hailed from Leyndell, she was not a knight, and so she had to be Radagon and Marika’s daughter, Messmer’s sister, Melina.

Both groups, those from Liurnia and those from Leyndell, had formed a sort of assembly on a grassy area on the ridge, but they had drawn themselves over to opposite sides. The truce had put a stop to the violence, not to the enmity. 

As Radagon and Rennala approached together, Messmer and his snakes turned to face them. “Ah, the guests of honor have arrived,” he drawled. “We can get on with this surrender.”

Rellana immediately stood, as did Moonrithyll a beat after her. “Watch yourself, cur,” Rellana snapped.

Messmer opened his mouth to give further offense, but then Melina put a hand on his elbow. One of Messmer’s snakes shifted, turning to look at Melina. Something passed between them. Messmer shrugged and took a step back, and Melina took a step forward. She curtsied to Rellana. Her movements had an ethereal quality. Her manner was utterly unlike that of her father or brother, and her face far gentler. “Let us not quarrel today–it is a day ill-suited for such things.”

“Any day and every day is well-suited to fixing your brother’s head to a pike,” Rellana growled.

Messmer’s lip curled. “Melina’s patience is infinite,” he said. “Mine is not. I would be more than happy to renew our duel, Rellana of the Twin Moons.”

“There will be no dueling, no fighting, here,” Melina said, in a tone that would allow no argument. Then, commanding by example, she turned about and curtsied to Radagon and Rennala. “Your grace,” she greeted. “My lord.”

As Melina spoke, Rennala happened to meet Melina’s eyes–

Rennala did her best to hide her surprise. Melina’s right eye was rich gold, the gold of Leyndell and the Erdtree. But that eye had no true iris. Instead, it had the sign of Marika where the iris should have been. Her left eye was more usual, except in color. Her left eye reminded Rennala of the sky at dusk, a deep lilac. There was a power in her that bore no kinship to Marika’s gold, but also was not sorcery. It unsettled Rennala, deeply.

“This is not a surrender,” Radagon said. Though he spoke softly, he spoke clearly and his words carried well through the crisp air of the ridge. No one could have missed what he said. “We have come here to sanctify a treaty. And so we shall.”

A short pause followed Radagon’s pronouncement as the crowd vacillated, but then, led by Melina, they all started to shuffle towards their allotted positions.

Leyndell and Liurnia, though neighbors, shared almost nothing of culture due to the nearly impassable barrier of the Altus cliffs. Leyndell had more in common with Belurat. Liurnia had more in common with Limgrave. And the house of Caria, with its ancestral ties to the northern peaks, was something of a stranger even to Liurnia.

As Rennala understood it, weddings in Leyndell were grand affairs with many guests. Sometimes they lasted days. In Leyndell, without a wedding, without a marriage, a child would not be accepted into a father’s house. Messmer and Melina were children of Marika but not her heirs because, while they had mother and father both, their parents had not married and so they were judged bastards.

Though–Radagon being as he was, Messmer and Melina’s parentage was troubled for other, greater, reasons as well.

Liurnia was night to Leyndell’s day. Rennala and Rellana had full and equal claims to Caria through their shared mother–though Rellana had stepped back in favor of her older sister. They might have been sired by the same man, or perhaps not. It hardly mattered. If someone wanted to be a father to a child, they had to win the mother’s favor and not lose it. Weddings were for tree worshipers.

Rennala stood in her place facing Radagon as Melina recited some time-honored admonition or the like. Rennala did not listen. Her attention lay on the solemn man across from her. She still remembered–for how could she forget–his face as he stood over her, hammer raised, in the last battle of the war. His face had been completely blank. Vacant. And then Rennala had screamed someone else’s name, and then…

Cold water poured over Rennala’s head, yanking her from her thoughts.

She had forgotten about this part. Baptism by celestial dew. It was one of the few traditions found in most of the lands, though Carians collected dew touched by night stars and Leyndell collected dew from the leaves of their Erdtree. With rivulets now dripping down her face, Rennala thought that the celestial dew water didn’t seem so different from the common stuff in any Liurnian lake. 

Melina stepped back, and then Radagon started to speak.

“I take you to be my wife,” he said, in his steady and low voice, “ I repent my transgressions against you and yours. I promise to be true to you, to honor you, to worship you. My children, those who are and any who may come, will be yours, and–”

“That was not discussed,” Messmer snarled, stepping forward from the assembly. His snakes, coiled around him, agitated.

Radagon paused and looked over to Messmer. Their eyes met. Radagon said nothing. Messmer, after a long moment, scoffed. He turned about and stalked away towards where the Leyndell delegation’s horses were grazing at the thin grass of the ridge. Alone, he mounted a black charger and left.

When Messmer had gone, Radagon turned back to Rennala. As if he had not been interrupted, he continued, “And I will have no children except yours. I will remain faithful until destined death takes me. This I vow.”

Rennala cleared her throat. “I take you to be my husband,” she said. “I vow.”

Those were the only words required.

She had no inclination to say anything more.

Melina made a ritual gesture, said a ritual benediction, and then it was done.

[] [] []

For weeks, Rellana steadfastly refused to speak with her sister. Rennala allowed the childish behavior to pass unremarked, though she did miss Rellana’s counsel, however ill-considered and ill-tempered it often proved.

After the wedding, Radagon, Melina, and their knights had returned to their camp. The army of Leyndell had not withdrawn back to Altus. Instead, with no more resistance in Liurnia, they now marched on Stormveil and Limgrave. The emissaries from the southlands had fled as soon as the truce with Leyndell had been announced. The only representatives of the free lands who remained in Liurnia came from Nokstella, and they pressed Rennala on her decision at every opportunity. But if Nokstella cared so much that someone stop Leyndell’s advance, why had it not lent aid when Liurnia needed it? Liurnia owed the ancient city nothing.

Still, the progress of Radagon’s host through Liurnia turned Rennala’s stomach.

A bitter voice in Rennala’s head that sounded exactly like her sister asked–well, what did you expect?

Rellana might be refusing to speak with her sister, but Rellana’s fellow dissenters at the academy spared Rennala their opinions not at all.

At dawn, Rennala stood alone on one of the balconies of the grand library tower at the heart of Raya Lucaria, her elbows on the rail, her head in her hands. From so high, she could see all Liurnia–the burnt north, the craggy west, the windswept east, and the still-verdant south. And in the center of it all, Raya Lucaria. Before the wars, every lord between Altus and Stormveil answered to the Carian crown, perched atop the academy. A local baron could dispatch a message to Rennala’s seat and expect an answer within a day. Now, news took weeks to travel from one corner of the realm to the other, and then weeks again for any reply to travel back.

And in so many parts of Liurnia, there was no one to send word, and no one to receive it.

As long as there had been war, Liurnia had something to unite it. Now that the war was done, finished with a truce no one wanted, every fiefdom went its own way. Even those that might still follow Caria had no way to either lend support or ask for aid. Even when Rennala was younger, before she had established Caria as a royal house above the other noble lines of Liurnia, the realm had not been in such a sorry state.

What could she do?

Should she summon the deans and attempt to browbeat them into supporting her as they once had when they elected her to mastery of the academy?

Should she call the remaining nobility to her, hold court in a mocking imitation of the rituals that had once held Liurnia together?

Would anyone answer the call?

She was so tired, and no small part of her wanted to walk away from it all.

She had bought them all peace. Could that not be her last service to the land?

No–of course not. She had worked too hard to bring all Liurnia under Carian dominion to let that go now.

Far down below, a bright glimmer of sunlight reflecting on steel advanced along the great highway, towards the ridge of Raya Lucaria. It moved quite quickly, already at the outskirts of the city at the foot of the academy. A group of riders, no doubt, though at too great a distance to be made out by mortal eyes. It took Rennala only a whisper of a thought to spell her sight, bringing the party into focus.

With a twitch of her fingers, Rennala pulled her glintstone scepter to her from the absence of space where she kept it when not in hand. The crown of Caria having been shattered in the last battle of the war, the scepter was her one symbol of rule. Scepter in hand, she turned on her heel and swept from the balcony into the library proper.

The grand library of Raya Lucaria, like its eastern cousin the Carian study hall, had many stairs, many landings, and shelves upon shelves of books, all wrapped around a central atrium that used sunlight and moonlight both to give light without fire to the many scholars who poured over its numberless tomes. Once, it had been said there were as many books and scrolls in the academy as there were trees in Liurnia. Now, after two wars and with so much land razed, there were surely more.

At Rennala’s entrance, Moongrum and Moonrithyll, both seated at a table by the balcony door and hunched over a game of chess, stood at once and bowed. A brief glance told Rennala that Moongrum had been thoroughly trouncing Moonrithyll. Embarrassing.

Rennala spoke to Moonrithyll first. “Get Rellana,” she said. “I will meet her in the entry hall. Her least favorite treehugger will be here soon. And Radagon.”

Moonrithyll bowed again and hurried off. It was good that she’d been at hand. She was probably the only person who could reliably track Rellana down during a sulk.

As Rennala herself headed for the library entrance and the lift down to the rest of the academy at a more measured pace, Moongrum fell into step at her side. “This respite was too good to last,” he said.

“Nothing ever lasts,” Rennala replied wearily. “Not Liurnia. Not Leyndell.”

In the courtyard at the bottom of the lift, three sorcerers blocked their path. Their craggy glintstone crowns, the same as any other member of their conspectus, concealed their faces and they wore the dark robes of every scholar of the academy. Two things, however, marked them out as members of the academy council, that perpetual thorn in Rennala’s side. First, while journeymen and fellows of Raya Lucaria wore red stoles with gold embroidery, the deans had stoles inlaid with glintstone. Second, and more obvious to one of Rennala’s bent, they held power so great that it seeped into the air around them, giving it a taste of metallic fire. They could contain that power, if they wished, but their power was exceeded only by their arrogance. 

Gathering herself, Rennala stepped off the lift and set her gaze on each dean in turn. “Olivinus. Karolos. Twinsage,” she greeted, tone frosty. “Is there something that you need?”

“What is Leyndell doing here?” Olivinus demanded, her voice high and reedy and utterly incongruous with the thickly bearded mask of her conspectus. She swayed as she spoke, as if shaking with rage beneath the robes that concealed her form. Or perhaps she was just drunk–it would not be unlike her–though she did not slur her words. “You sold all the sacrifices we made for a promise they would leave us alone–and now your bargain is already falling apart. You–”

“We demand that the gates be barred immediately,” Karolos interrupted. In contrast to his colleague, he spoke in a low baritone rumble that matched the face he wore, and he stood stock still. “We don’t want your new husband here. You surrendered Caria, but the academy remains independent. Send him away to your manor where you have dominion. He has no place in Raya Lucaria. Our fellows did not die defending this land only for you to welcome Marika’s hound into our halls with open arms.”

“Open legs,” Olivinus hissed.

Ignoring Olivinus’ clumsy crudeness, Rennala folded her hands together in front of her, her empty left hand over her right hand that held her scepter, the very picture of patience. She turned to the last of the three deans and raised an eyebrow. “Twinsage?” she asked.

Twinsage shrugged. “I am here to watch,” they said, feigning disinterest. As their crown had two carved mouths, their voice had a hint of a strange echo to it. “I am watching.”

Typical. Of two minds about everything, the current dean of the Twinsage conspectus suffered from terminal indecision. Rennala had once seen them waffle for over an hour whether to have a gravy biscuit or a soup for breakfast, during which time the food went cold. They had probably been happy to encourage Olivinus and Karolos only a few moments prior, but now, faced with Rennala in person, they had second, third, and fourth thoughts.

“I see that Lazuli, Haima, and the Witch are not here with you,” Rennala said, setting her attention back on Olivinus and Karolos. “Do you speak for them? Do you speak for the full council?”

She of course knew that Olivinus and Karolos did not. Lazuli was a Carian partisan and knew better than to bite the hand that fed him. Though Haima, the oldest and foremost of the deans, had dissented from the truce, she had gone out to oversee the reconstruction of one of the northern villages. Sellen didn’t give a rat’s ass what went on about her so long as nothing interrupted her experiments. Sometimes she would join the council seemingly for the purpose of making snide remarks about her colleagues’ intelligence, but mostly she kept to herself.

So long as the council did not convene, Olivinus and Karolos lacked the power to mount any serious challenge to Rennala’s mastery of the academy. All they could do was annoy.

“We had no time to consult them, nor was there need to consult them on a matter of such clarity,” Olivinus claimed. Imperious, she pounded the butt of her mage’s staff on the stone pavement. Beside her, Karolos nodded gravely.

“It would be rash to act without their counsel,” Rennala said mildly. “We should revisit this when they are available to make their voices heard. That is the same courtesy you would demand, is it not?”

Olivinus drew herself up. She had stopped swaying. A tall woman, she seemed to look down the carved stone nose of her crown at Rennala. “You did not consult anyone before making your treaty. Now that you have married one of Marika’s base beasts, there are already rumors that you are a puppet of Leyndell,” she warned. “And that your sister might be better suited to lead Liurnia.”

“Did you start those rumors, lass?” Moongrum asked, with more than a hint of menace.

Twinsage snorted. Quietly, more to themselves than any of the conversants, “Not rumors, rumors are things of doubt, the things they say are said with certainty.”

Rennala met the gaze of Olivinus’ crown, carved in the image of Rennala’s old friend Lusat. Ah–if Lusat could have foreseen how far his successors would fall, perhaps he’d have delayed his peregrinations and stayed at the academy a few years longer. But he’d left, and he’d left Rennala to tend to his progeny, whether she wanted to or not. “Stand aside,” Rennala said, putting steel into her voice. “I have business to see to.”

For a moment it seemed like Olivinus and Karolos might not back down. But, in the end, they did. They had to. Even the both of them together would not equal Rennala’s power, and none of the other deans would aid them. Certainly not the ever-ambivalent Twinsage. Reluctant, they shared a look, then turned and strode off.

“Are you done watching?” Rennala asked Twinsage.

Twinsage tilted their double-faced glintstone crown to the side, which gave the impression that the individual beneath it studied Rennala intently. They surely were. Their inability to make up their mind about anything was not for lack of intelligence, indeed, just the opposite. After a moment, rather than answer Rennala with words, Twinsage merely stepped back so that Rennala and Moongrum could pass.

Although Rennala now felt as though she had lost time to make up, she kept her stride measured as she left the courtyard and traversed the corridors of Raya Lucaria. She had not maintained control over the academy for so many years by allowing others to see her out of sorts. Despite her deliberate pace, Rennala still reached the entry hall before Rellana and Moonrithyll.

The entry hall, a long vaulted room, rose several stories high. Stone columns so thick that a grown man could not get his arms around them supported the distant ceiling. Stained glass windows along the sides of the hall depicted illuminated scholars of the past. A few guards and servants went about their business, but no one notable was present on the main floor. However, a crowd was forming in the upper gallery, a favorite spot for gawkers. Gleaming glintstone eyes set in lapidial faces peered down at Rennala from the high shadows.

Several minutes passed, during which Rennala considered what might happen next. She did not focus on playing out any particular scenario–under present circumstances, she did not have enough information to reliably predict relevant parameters, so any plan she might lay would be based principally on speculation. Instead, she reviewed what she did know, and she allowed her thoughts to suggest ways it might be relevant, or how she might use it under particular circumstances.

She started with something easy. Messmer. She knew that neither he nor Rellana could not help but jab at one another. Though rebuking the pettiness might show Rennala’s authority and reasoned judgment, Rellana would resent it. It would be best to ignore any verbal scuffles.

Then for something slightly more complex. Rellana. Having not spoken with Rellana in a week, Rennala did not know whether she had softened or hardened regarding the treaty. She would bet glintstone on the latter. But would–

One of the side doors into the entry hall slammed open so hard that several servants and guards startled. Rellana emerged, with Moonrithyll trailing in her wake.

Today, Rellana wore the ubiquitous dark robe of a scholar instead of Carian finery. Black ink stained her fingers. Still though, she had both her swords strapped to her belt. “What do they want?” she demanded, not wasting breath on a greeting. Her words rang loud in the hall, loud enough for all the onlookers to hear her displeasure. “Why are they here?”

“You sound like Olivinus and Karolos,” Rennala remarked, at a far more conversational tone that would not carry far.

Rellana scoffed and lifted her chin. “Do not compare me to those fools.”

“Then don’t act like them,” Rennala replied. She gave Rellana’s inky fingers a pointed look. “You’ve kept yourself occupied.”

“I am composing a history of the wars,” Rellana said, finally lowering her voice. “With attention to how we might have prevailed but for your surrender.”

Off to the side, Moonrithyll leaned close to her cousin and muttered, “It’s in epic verse.” Moongrum made a strangled choking noise.

“I am glad that you are engaged in such a productive pursuit,” said Rennala.

Rellana crossed her arms over her chest. “You did not answer my question,” she said. “Why are they here?”

Rennala spared a glance at the many crowned sorcerers lurking in the upper gallery of the hall. Several were leaning dangerously forward on the bannisters, trying to hear better. With a flick of annoyance, Rennala visualized the sigil of silence, stretched, warped, curved into a dome around herself, her sister, and Moongrum and Moonrythill. A ripple of blue light etched the sigil in the air, excluding the eavesdroppers but still allowing sound in from outside. “I do not know,” Rennala said.

“I would have thought they’d be on their way to Stormveil by now,” Rellana said, starting to mellow. “Coming here would require doubling back. I suppose they could manage it without slowing down their march if they traveled lightly on good horses and the army moved slowly.”

Judging that a moment of weakness, with only Rellana, Moongrum, and Moonrithyll to hear, would do no harm, Rennala said softly, “I wish that they had kept going. I do not want to see them. I fear what they might ask.”

Rellana hesitated in replying. Her thoughts showed clear on her face–she wanted to renew her complaint that it would have been better to keep fighting, but she also wanted to offer reassurance. Before either impulse could win out, a commotion by the main doors of the hall announced the arrival of the riders.

Escorted by two very nervous scholars, both learned enough to have earned crowns but still junior enough to have been posted at the gates, the delegation strode into the hall as if they owned the place. And, Rennala thought darkly, in a way they did. Radagon led them. As he had the day on the ridge, he wore a loose robe. This time though, the robe was a practical traveler’s brown, though it did have some gold embroidery near the hems, and he had fastened it closed in front. He had no weapon about his person, though he needed no steel to work destruction.

A half-step behind Radagon and slightly to his right came Messmer. Unlike his father, he had made no sartorial concessions to his circumstances. He wore a black tunic and trousers with bright crimson and gold details. A thick layer of dust from the road rather ruined what would otherwise have been a quite striking assemblage. Apparently uncaring who could read his sentiments, he scowled as if he were quite put upon.

With the two Marikans also came an escort of four knights, all in ornate armor that identified them as Tree Sentinels. Each one stood far taller than average, and were broader than average as well. Rumor suggested that the Tree Sentinels had kinship to some inhuman race, and, in close quarters with them, the rumor seemed based in some truth.

When they reached a polite distance, Radagon halted. Messmer kept going. After following in Radagon’s wake, he now stepped to the front. He gave the shallowest of bows. His snakes, holding themselves aloft and staring intently at the Carians, did not bow at all. So close, Rennala noticed that, like his sister, he had a seal of Marika over his right eye. Hair as red as fire hid his left from sight. Did it hold twilight like Melina’s? “Queen Rennala,” Messmer greeted. For Rellana, he had no greeting.

Rennala had many years of experience dealing with petty politics. She withdrew the mote of attention she’d been using to maintain the shield of silence around the Carians. For a half-heartbeat, the place where the shield had been went dimmer than the world around it, and then there was no trace that the shield had ever existed. Rennala then fixed her gaze on Radagon, who stood quietly with his hands clasped behind his back. “Lord Radagon,” she said, ignoring Messmer, “To what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

Messmer shifted to place himself between Rennala and Radagon. “We are here to request the assistance of our ally,” he said. “The city of Nokron has sent sorcerors to aid Stormveil. We require someone of your skills to come and break their wards, and other sundry tasks.”

“You don’t need us for that,” Rellana cut in. Mirroring Messmer, she too stepped in front of Rennala. “You’re perfectly capable of defeating their wards yourself, are you not?”

Messmer’s single golden eye narrowed. His snakes swayed. “It would go better with us if you acceded.”

“I’m sure it would,” Rellana said. “Still.”

“Do you refuse us?” Messmer asked.

Before Rellana could say anything further, Rennala raised a hand to stay the two of them. “Lord Radagon,” she said again. “I would like to speak with you about the present circumstances–in private.”

Radagon gave Rennala a small nod and stepped forward.

Without waiting to see if he would follow, and certainly without waiting for either Rellana or Messmer to object, Rennala strode towards one of the many doors exiting the great entrance hall. She knew the ways about the academy well. This door led to a corridor that in turn let out into a walled courtyard. A large fountain commanded the center of the courtyard, and the sound of its flowing waters rang loudly enough in the enclosed space to prevent eavesdropping.

When she came into the courtyard, a pair of younger scholars, not yet crowned and neither older than two decades, sat on the edge of the fountain, engaged in some seemingly emotional conversation. One of them looked near tears. Upon seeing her, they both promptly fled.

At the fountain, Rennala turned to face Radagon behind her. Standing tall, she met his golden eyes. Letting every ounce of her displeasure seep into her voice, she said, “This was not part of the bargain. You said you would be absent from this place for some time.”

“The bargain was for your friendship,” Radagon said. Before, on the ridge, for a moment he had seemed almost warm to Rennala. Now though, he sounded cold, distant.

“To whom do I speak?” Rennala demanded.

“Does it matter?” Radagon asked.

“Do I speak to one who made our bargain, or merely one who suffers it?”

Radagon clasped his hands behind his back. “You speak to a friend.”

“You try this friendship sorely,” said Rennala.

Radagon inclined his head by a degree, the barest of acknowledgments. “We will be camped about a week’s journey south of Laskyar,” he said. “We will overcome Stormveil, with or without you. If every soldier who marches with me falls under its walls, another army will come after us, and another, and another. But if you aid us to do this swiftly, there will be less war, less death. Is that not what you wanted? I will take my leave.”

Without waiting for any response, he turned and left.

Watching his retreating back, Rennala clenched her scepter so tightly she wondered how the silver did not deform under her grip. She remained by the fountain for a few minutes after he had gone, to be sure that she would not encounter him when she made her own way back to the entrance hall. She did not delay long though. Given his manner, she was sure that he would very quickly collect Messmer and be on his way.

And, indeed, no sooner had Rennala stepped into the corridor back than Rellana stormed up to her, Moonrithyll and Moongrum trailing after her.

“They treat us like dogs to be called upon and ordered about,” Rellana hissed, throwing her hands up in agitation. “If they cannot overcome Norkon’s wards themselves, they do not deserve their conquest.”

Rennala’s eyes fluttered closed. She sighed.

“No,” Rellana snapped. “Don’t even.”

“You need not accompany me,” Rennala said, opening her eyes once more. “Though, as ever, I would like to have your company and counsel.”

“You never heed my counsel,” Rellana muttered, crossing her arms and scowling.

“I do value it,” Rennala replied, not bothering to rebut the assertion. Rellana was not wrong. “And sometimes it is good for others to hear it as well. You can say much that I cannot.”

“I should go rather than you,” Rellana said grudgingly. “It will be destabilizing if you go. In this moment, Liurnia needs its queen. And someone must be here to mind the deans.” Unspoken–Rellana, for all her bluster, had little ability to control the deans. Despite her great power and skill in sorcery, many at the academy mistook her brash personality for lack of intellect. The academy had never offered her a position on the faculty, not even an honorary one. The deans saw her as a piece on a board, not as a player.

“The academy cannot stand without Caria, not anymore,” Rennala said. “The deans know that, even if they will not admit it. Though they may work mischief, their mischief against us can only go so far.”

Did she herself believe it? She wanted to.

“But they are fools,” Rellana replied. “Do not underestimate the ruin that fools can wreak. And cousin Sellen–she lives to cause trouble,” Rellana pointed out.

Rennala shrugged, a dismissive gesture to hide her own unease. “Even she knows when the trouble isn’t worth it. Her father will talk sense into her if she falters.”

“Rabbath is rarely lucid enough to talk sense into anyone,” Rennala replied. She reached up and tugged on her glintstone earring, frustration clear. “I think you rely too much on her eccentricities and underestimate her ambition. There are only a few Carians of high rank in the academy. That thought will have crossed her mind several times in recent days.”

“Do you know some rumor or plot that I do not?” Rennala asked.

Rellana scowled. “No,” she said quickly. “Of course not. Just… This is a poor time to be removed from the seat of power. And there’s unrest outside the academy as well. Last year there were too few hands for planting, and too few hands again for the harvest. The men and women from the army are going home now…”

Now, Rennala sighed. “I decided in the truce that we would walk with Leyndell. That I would walk with Leyndell. The truce was personal. It is too late to turn back, and this is not a request that I can refuse. At least, I think, it may hasten them out of our lands and on to other parts. The deans will do as they will, and we will deal with them then. There were lean years after the first war. Liurnia survived. It will survive still and again.”

“Fine,” Rellana said, shaking her head. “But when this bites us in the ass, I’ll have warned you.”

[] [] []

As Radagon had said, they came upon the army of Leyndell camped, a camp as vast as a city, not far past the town of Laskyar in southern Liurnia. From the look of things, the army had not been there long. Given the length of the journey from the academy, Radagon had named Laskyar because he had thought it would be where Rennala would catch up to them, not because they had been waiting for the Carians there.

Rennala brought only her sister and a small guard of knights with her. Liurnia had laid down arms. Even if Radagon had asked, there was no longer any muster to summon to support Leyndell. The people were tired and done with war.

Smirking horribly, Messmer greeted the Carians outside the camp just before dusk. Ensconced in a carriage, Rennala studiously ignored him. Rellana, riding on a gray charger alongside the carriage, immediately fell to bickering. Rennala felt the stirrings of a terrible headache. Perhaps inviting her sister to accompany her had been a mistake.

Trading increasingly creative verbal barbs with Rellana all the way, Messmer took the Carians deep into the heart of the camp. To Radagon.

Rennala’s carriage came to a halt outside a large tent. Like so many others around it, the tent was made from drab canvas. Unlike its fellows, however, it stood quite tall and had breadth enough that at least two dozen men could fit inside with room to spare. Four knights in gleaming golden armor stood guard outside it. Messmer dismounted from his horse, then, with an imperious wave, indicated that the Carians should wait, and strode into the tent. Only a few moments later, he reemerged looking positively sullen.

“Lord Radagon will speak with the queen in private if she wishes,” he said to Rellana stiffly. “And  I will assist you with anything you require in establishing yourselves in our camp.”

Rellana leaned forward in her saddle, towards Messmer. She grinned at him. “Is that so?”

Not wanting to listen to Rellana and Messmer, Rennala rapped her knuckles sharply against the door of the carriage. At once, Moongrum leapt down from the coachman’s seat, opened the door, and unfolded a small set of steps so that Rennala could descend without any undignified hopping. Without acknowledging Messmer, much less the guards around the tent, Rennala strode forward. Someone–her peripheral vision suggested it was one of the golden knights–drew back the canvas flap that served the tent as an entrance, and Rennala stepped inside.

Bright mage lights illuminated the space within the tent. Radagon sat at a table heaped with books and scrolls, a small library’s worth. Several books lay open, and he had a sheaf of loose paper and quill and ink like he had been scribing notes. He looked up with his eyes of liquid gold as Rennala approached.

Rennala looked down on Radagon and his work. His handwriting, she observed, bordered on illegibility. A chicken scratching at dirt could surely do better. She felt vaguely embarrassed on his behalf. Were he an acolyte at the academy…

“Your calculations are completely wrong,” Rennala pronounced.

Radagon blinked. He looked down at his work and frowned.

“Get up,” Rennala demanded.

After a moment’s hesitation, Radagon stood without protest and stepped aside. Rennala swept around the table and took the seat he’d just occupied. She set her scepter aside in the space without space about her. With a flick of her wrists, she swept her long sleeves back, out of her way.

Spread out on the papers before her in Radagon’s horribly messy hand was a child’s attempt at working out ward positions and strengths across uneven terrain. It looked as if he’d been trying to plot how to systematically dismantle them, but his conclusions were so wide of the mark that Rennala could only really speculate as to his intent. Rennala’s eyes narrowed. Was there anything salvageable in his work? And, in the back of her mind, guilt–a familiar guilt that had sat with her the entire journey to Laskyar. She had no quarrel with Nokron. They had every right to resist Leyndell’s conquest. As had Liurnia. How many would die if she helped Radagon? How many would die regardless of whether she helped Radagon? Did the sheer number of dead matter so much as the colors under which they marched? So long as Caria remained safe, what did any of it matter?

Rennala lifted Radagon’s quill and gently dipped it in the inkwell. Behind her, Radagon shuffled closer so that he stood peering over her shoulder at the papers.

“I cannot work with you looming,” Rennala said.

Radagon receded, but only by a half-step.

“Farther,” Rennala said.

Radagon took a full step back.

It did not take long at all for Rennala to set out where Nokron’s wards would be, and where they would be strongest, given the geography of the area. She assumed they laid their defense properly because they were too sophisticated to fall short. Rather than unwind Radagon’s errors, she simply did all the work herself. When she had finished, she gave her figures a final, approving look, then stood and turned towards the entrance of the tent.

“Wait,” Radagon said. Rather than advance again, he leaned forward, towards the table with the new calculations.

“You will find that they are correct,” said Rennala.

Radagon glanced at her, and, when she did not rebuke him, he returned to the table and the papers. “What was my error?” he asked.

Taken by surprise at his question, Rennala answered it without thinking, as if she were back in Raya Lucaria dealing with a student rather than in an army camp dealing with a lord whose hands were drenched in the blood of so many of her people. “You did not account for proximity amplification among the wards. A spell is never just a spell. It is formed by and forms in turn all other workings about it.”

Radagon stared down at the papers.

Rennala started again to leave.

Radagon looked up. “Will you stay for dinner?” he asked.

Rennala hesitated and turned enough to look at him squarely, without craning her neck. She still had no skill at reading his expressions. His face reminded her of a well-carved statue. Whatever he felt, he hid it well. If he felt. “I came here only to help you reach Stormveil,” Rennala said.

“But will you stay for dinner?” Radagon asked again. “Our food is good, for all that we are encamped. Our wine is good.”

“Your food and wine are looted from the Liurnian people,” Rennala said. It was, she felt, something that her sister would say. But Radagon’s offer had been crude, and it merited a crude response.

“Yes,” Radagon replied. After a pause, he said, “You are entitled to them.”

“Have I a choice?” Rennala asked.

Something flickered in Radagon’s golden eyes. “Of course,” he said. “You have will. You cause consequence.”

Rennala arched a fine eyebrow at Radagon. “Clear your table,” she said. “I will not dine on the floor, nor will I risk sullying books.”

Radagon did as he was told. Rennala watched him with some approval as he carefully marked his places in his books using scraps of paper rather than folding the pages. His handwriting might be a disgrace, but he was not a savage. In good order, he packed the books and his scrolls into several chests in the corner of his tent. One of the golden knights from outside brought in a second chair, and several servants soon arrived with an assortment of cooked meats, a loaf of bread, and a dusty bottle of dark wine.

The wine was an older vintage. It tasted like Liurnia. It tasted like one of the northern vineyards that Messmer burned during the first war. He had burned so much.

Rennala thought it wasteful to eat in lonely silence with Radagon when she could eat in the company of her sister and the other Carians, and she seriously doubted Radagon was capable of engaging in smalltalk. So she asked, “What are you?”

Radagon chewed his food rather more than was necessary, swallowed, then washed it down with a deep draw of wine. “That is not a simple question,” he said.

“I have little patience for simplicity,” Rennala replied.

Quietly, Radagon set his large hands palm down, flat on the table. He splayed his sun-dark fingers and seemed to consider them. “Is it a question that expects an answer?” he asked.

“It is a question that expects a response,” said Rennala. “In the corner of my eye, your form is not that of a man. I think I am entitled to know to whom I speak.”

“I am a champion of Leyndell,” Radagon said.

“And?” Rennala prompted.

“And I am its god,” said Radagon. He looked up from his hands, his eyes meeting Rennala’s. “I am not simple.”

“You are also now husband to Rennala, Queen of Caria,” said Rennala.

“I am,” said Radagon. “It is to my honor.”

Rennala watched Radagon closely as she said quietly, “You were going to kill me.”

Radagon did not so much as twitch. “Yes.”

“Why did you not kill me?”

Radagon said nothing.

Rennala waited.

“You saw me,” Radagon eventually said. “I was surprised. Melina knows. Messmer once knew, but it pained him and so he put it from his mind. No one else.”

Arrogance, earned, tinged Rennala’s reply. “I am the greatest sorcerer in these lands. And the full moon understands much of piercing shadow.” Having finished eating, she steepled her long fingers before her.

“Why did you accept?” Radagon asked.

“This was the only path leading to a future.”

Radagon reached out and took the opened bottle of wine on the table. He hefted it, gauging how much remained. Not much. He poured half into Rennala’s empty cup, and the other half into his own. “We are not very romantic,” he said.

“I understand that the highborn of Leyndell do not value such things,” said Rennala, lifting her cup in a mock toast before draining it.

“But I understand that Liurnians do,” Radagon replied. Even though he had poured himself a share of the wine, he did not move to drink it. “And I was not born in Leyndell.”

“I do not think that we can make the past any better than it was,” Rennala said. She took Radagon’s cup from him and drained that as well. Then she stood and tucked her moon-pale hands into her wide sleeves. “Good night, husband.”

[] [] []

Though Rennala had charted out how to overcome the wards of Nokron, she took no part in their breaking. She and Rellana, accompanied by their guards, kept themselves at a remove on a nearby ridge as Radagon and a troop of priests slowly battered the wards down with their  faith-arts. The wards, enormous dark glyphs traced into the air to stand like a sorcerous wall between the army and its objective, shuddered as over and over brilliant arcs of golden light slammed into them.

“This display is barbaric,” Rellana muttered, leaning up against the side of a scraggly tree with her arms crossed. Today, she wore her armor. Over the years, she had grown to be more comfortable in steel than in silk. “I cannot believe that the sorcerors of Nokron are being overcome by this brutishness.”

“Watch carefully,” Moongrum said gruffly. “Their efforts are strong, but also well-placed. Those wards would have taken a week to raise, but I think they will fall within the day.”

Rennala felt a coldness in her chest. The previous night, she had thought her correction of Radagon’s calculations too trivial to mention to the other Carians. Now… All the Carians who had come with her knew the purpose of the venture, but, still, Rennala found herself reluctant to speak.

“Luck,” said Moonrithyll, dismissive. Lax in her duty, she’d taken a seat on the ground rather than remain standing. Nothing ill would come of it though. There were a half dozen other Carian knights about, and it was easy to see if anyone approached up the ridge.

“No,” said Moongrum. Unlike his truant cousin, he stood at a relaxed attention, hands clasped behind his back. “No one is that lucky. They know what they’re doing.” A great darkness fell over his features. His next words were softer, grief-stricken. “We lost both wars to them. Is it such a terrible thing to acknowledge their strength? Doesn’t our pride require us now to say they are mighty?”

Heavy silence settled over the group of them.

After a long while, as the forces of Leyndell continued to batter down Nokron’s great wards in the distance, Rellana spoke. “If they are so mighty, what purpose have we here? How long must we linger?” As she asked her question, she turned her face towards Rennala, demanding that Rennala answer.

“We will stay for as long as our presence has any benefit to Leyndell,” Rennala said carefully. For her own sake, for everyone’s sake, she tried to find words that did not admit the extent to which they were beholden to the whims of others.

Rellana made a rude noise–a sort of wet snort, entirely unbecoming. “They asked us for assistance with the wards,” she said. “They’ll have the wards destroyed by dusk.”

“Nokron aren’t fools,” Moonrithyll interrupted. “There will be more wards, and I’m sure nastier magics too. These will just be the outermost perimeter to discourage bad ideas. Even if Leyndell did not need us to assist with these, I think the greater defenses will trouble them.”

“And then we can get on with helping murder ones we called friends just a few moons ago,” Rellana said.

“I didn’t realize we ever called the Nox friends,” said Moonrithyll, with more than a trace of sarcasm. “We’ve never been their friends–they’re too arrogant to have friends. Friends would have given aid in the wars.”

“We got along with them better than with Leyndell and Belurat,” replied Rellana. “The Nox have proper respect for learning over zealotry.”

Moongrum grunted, derisive. “Zealotry is doing short work of learning today.”

Rennala suddenly turned and started to stride away down the ridge. “I have seen enough,” she said. “I am returning to our lodging.”

Behind her, she heard Rellana, Moonrithyll, and Moongrum all shift about, starting to move, watching who else moved, and then moving more when they saw others too were in motion. As all three of them were in steel armor, none of them were quiet about it. After a few beats, they fell in step behind her, following her back towards the camp. Around them, the other Carian knights formed a perimeter, a clear message that no stranger should approach.

As Radagon had devoted the day to dealing with the wards of Nokron, the bulk of his army sat idle. Common footsoldiers loitering about the camp stared at the Carians as they strode past.

How many of their comrades had the Carians killed?

How many Liurnians had they killed?

Rennala tried not to look directly at any of the soldiers. She didn’t know what emotions she might see on their faces, and she decided that she should not care. From the corner of her eye though, she did see how terribly young some of them looked. Leyndell had no scruples about which bodies it hurled into its wars.

To Rennala’s surprise and slight annoyance, a visitor waited by the tents the Carians had pitched for themselves the prior evening. Having seen her at the wedding, such as it was, Rennala recognized Melina easily. But Rennala had not expected Radagon’s daughter to be traveling with the army. Upon further reflection though, why would Melina not be with her father and brother? A child of Marika, she doubtless had power on the same scale as Messmer. She had never been seen in any of the great battles between Leyndell and Liurnia, but that was no evidence that she had not been nearby.

Two of the Carian knights left behind to guard their tents stood a respectful distance from Melina, but watched her closely. Rennala would interrogate them later. For now though, she had to deal with the guest.

As Rennala and the others approached, Melina curtsied gracefully. “Queen Rennala,” she greeted first, then, second, “Princess Rellana.”

“Lady Melina,” Rennala responded, courteous. She came to a halt about three paces from Melina. An appropriate distance. Close enough to exchange words, but not close enough to suggest either familiarity or threat. “It is good to see you again.”

Something about the way Melina’s lips quirked up at the corners, only the faintest ghost of a smile, suggested amusement at Rennala’s polite lie. She bobbed her head demurely. “We are honored by your presence,” she said. “I came to ask if you have all that you need, and, perhaps, to come to know you better.”

“We have everything to suffice,” Rennala replied. “Thank you for your concern. As for knowing us–I fear this is not the time and place for that. It would be better to call on us at Raya Lucaria or in the Carian holdings.”

“Your grace, I could hardly wait so long,” Melina replied smoothly. “You are here, and it pains me that my father and brother should have you all to themselves.”

A step behind Rennala, her sister snorted rudely. Being near Messmer pained her as well, and she would let no one forget.

Rennala gave Melina a hard, appraising look. Yes, there was power in her and about her. Like Messmer’s, it had the shape of a flame, though Melina’s fire was far subtler than his. But no less potent. In her years as master of Raya Lucaria, Rennala had come to understand that subtle power often worked greater mischief than its counterpart. It would be foolish to underestimate Melina.

A smile would be too much. Expression neutral, Rennala inclined her head. “It is somewhat past noon–the hour for taking tea. Would you pass that hour with us?”

Melina tilted her head to one side, questioning. “You brought tea with you?”

“We are civilized,” Rellana replied from just behind her sister. “Of course we did.”

Without being told, the Carian retainers were already setting out a table and chairs. Rennala was quite sure that this furniture had not come with them from the academy. Tea was one thing. Tables, chairs, Radagon’s library–such luxuries only came to a camp in an overladen supply wagon. Rellana must have bullied them from Messmer. Good for her.

Protocol demanded that Rennala sit first, so she did. Around the small table, Rellana took the seat to Rennala’s right, and Melina took the seat to Rennala’s left. From the corner of her eye, Rennala saw Moongrum conjure a flame to heat water in a small iron kettle, just the right size to travel with.

Protocol also demanded that Rennala speak first as well. She chose a question that would push Melina to speak about herself. “How long have you been with Radagon’s army?” Rennala asked.

“A while,” Melina answered. “I do not worry so much for my father and brother when they are nearby.”

“Your father and brother can take care of themselves,” Rellana said.

Melina turned to Rellana and, saying nothing, arched one skeptical eyebrow.

A surprised grin lit Rellana’s face, and she chuckled.

“My father and brother are stubborn,” Melina said. “To their own detriment.”

Moongrum stepped forward with three cups and the kettle. He set the cups out for them, and placed the kettle in the center of the small table. It would not be ready to pour yet, but it would be soon.

“And your mother?” Rennala asked.

“You must be more specific,” Melina said, a mischievous gleam in her mismatched eyes.

Rennala set her hands on the table, pale fingers interlaced. She met Melina’s mismatched eyes. “How many mothers do you have?”

Melina reached out and took the kettle, filled her cup and no one else’s. “I do not think that a mother is a possession to be had,” she said. She set the kettle back in the center of the table.

“So how many mothers have called you their child then?” Rellana asked. She leaned forward to brace her elbows on the table. “Even if one can’t possess a mother, I think it harder to argue that a mother cannot possess a child.”

“But I cannot answer for another,” Melina said. She smiled–more a smirk–and raised her cup to her lips. She blew on the hot liquid gently, then sipped. “Thank you for this tea,” she said, lowering her cup once more.

“But you can answer to what you have heard,” Rellana pointed out. Triumphant, she smirked back at Melina. “So how many mothers have called you their child?”

Melina laughed, clear and bright. “One.”

Rellana, satisfied, poured herself a cup of steaming tea.

Rennala herself made no move towards the kettle. She let her cup remain empty. She did not want any distraction. Rellana was far too distracted for the both of them. “And what is the mother who has called you her child like?” she asked.

“As stubborn as my father,” Melina said.

“Your family are all very stubborn,” said Rennala.

“I am to consider you family now,” replied Melina. Again, she raised her cup, blew, sipped–utterly at ease.

“Your brother did not take kindly to that,” said Rennala.

Melina shrugged. “He is easily upset.”

“It does not upset you?” Rennala asked.

“Should it?” Melina asked in reply.

Rennala arched a thin eyebrow. “Does propriety dictate your emotions?”

“No, but it does dictate my answers to probing questions,” said Melina.

Rellana, apparently delighted by Melina’s response, raised her cup of tea in a mock toast. Before she could drink though, a commotion broke out nearby, interrupting. At once, Rellana shoved back, away from the table, slamming her cup down at the same time, and turned, reaching for one of her swords.

Rennala, not as swift to react as her sister, merely turned her face towards the disturbance. About thirty paces away, a trio of Carian knights blocked Messmer from approaching Rennala and the others. With a word, Rennala could order the knights to stand down and let Messmer pass. But she would not set that precedent. Voice raised, and every word frigid, she asked, “What seems to be the problem?”

“It seems that there is a tea party to which I was not invited,” Messmer drawled.

“Is that a problem?” Rellana needled. Condescension oozed from her voice. “Have your feelings been hurt?”

“I have no interest in your company,” Messmer replied. Both his snakes turned their baleful eyes on Rellana. One of them flicked its forked tongue at her. “I merely thought I should rescue my fair sister from your awful prattling.”

Rellana smirked at Messmer. “She came to us.”

“Oh, I have no doubt,” said Messmer disdainfully. “But only because she did not know what a bore you are.”

Rennala took the tea kettle in the center of the table and refilled Melina’s cup, then finally poured for herself. Melina nodded her thanks.

“It is terribly rude to presume that your sister lacks the agency to come and go as she pleases,” Rellana said nastily.

Melina sighed. “It is terribly rude for both of you to act as if I am not here, listening,” she interrupted. “Messmer, does your presence mean that Radagon has returned?”

“Yes,” Messmer said, grudgingly. His shoulders slumped by a degree. “And he inquires whether Queen Rennala will call upon him.”

Rennala paused before answering. A hasty answer was rarely a good one. Then, after a long moment’s consideration, Rennala said, “I will not. It is his turn to seek an audience. You may tell him so.”

“You refuse him?” Messmer asked, pointedly.

Rennala said nothing–her sister would answer for her.

“Are you deaf?” Rellana asked.

“I am no more deaf than you are dumb,” Messmer muttured. He glared at Melina. “How do you tolerate this asinine fool?”

“The same way that I tolerate you,” Melina said to her brother, quite pleasantly. Then she sighed and stood. “Thank you for your hospitality, Queen Rennala. I have enjoyed our time together. I think though that it is time that I take my leave. I hope that I will continue to be welcome at your table.”

“Of course,” Rennala said, inclining her head politely. Her blue eyes flickered for a moment from Melina to Messmer, but then they came to rest again on Melina. “You are, after all, now family.” Without waiting for Messmer to find some retort, Rennala stood and swept away towards the tent that the other Carians had set up for her and her sister the previous night. She did not make unseemly haste, but she did move quickly enough that no one had any opportunity to detain her. Though Rellana and Melina had distracted him, Messmer might again press her refusal to call upon Radagon–but he could not argue with her if she was not there.

The tent was large, one of the pavilions used, in times of peace, during festivals of state like the harvest fair or celebrations of the solstices. Unlike the mundane tents used by common soldiers, or even the likes of Radagon, this tent used sorcery in its construction. Rather than wood tent poles and canvas, it had tall, gently glowing glyphs scribed in the air to support a ceiling of loosely woven cloth that let light in easily. On a good day, being in the tent was like being in the solar of a well-appointed manor. And in inclement weather, even a child could work the glyphs to make the structure watertight.

With a thought, Rennala conjured an armchair for herself and dropped into it. Then, with another thought, she shifted the thousands of interlocking blue sigils that made up its cushions to have more give, to be more comfortable. She always forgot to do that part before she sat down. Only a bare moment later, Moongrum entered the tent carrying the teapot and Rennala’s abandoned cup. Rennala gestured, and a table, also made of sorcery, flicked into existence by her chair.

“Melina has left, but Messmer remains,” Moongrum said as he set the cup and kettle down. 

“I am surprised that they can find always find new things to say to one another, Messmer and my sister,” Rennala remarked.

Moongrum shook his head. He spoke softly. “Your grace, respectfully, you were not there. Messmer’s treatment of Liurnian towns and villages was often crueler than even war justifies. You may see Rellana’s insults as childish, but you’ve foreclosed all other avenues for her rage. She cannot fight him, she cannot ignore him, she cannot forgive him. Trying to cut him with words is all she has, but this is not the kind of elocution that she is trained in.”

Rennala frowned. She valued Moongrum’s counsel, and she knew that he would not speak on how she treated with her sister unless he felt strongly. “I wish that she would ignore him,” Rennala at last said.

“As you do?” Moongrum asked. “It is much easier for you to do, in your position. And you can only ignore him because she does not.”

At this, Rennala shook her head and sighed. “I do not like being rebuked on such a personal matter, old friend,” she said. “But I fear that you are not wrong.”

Moongrum chuckled. “You also do not like cold tea,” he said. He prodded Rennala’s cup towards her. “And at this rate, by the time you drink it, it will be very cold indeed.”

[] [] []

Radagon assented to seek Rennala out rather than ask that she come to him.

Around sunset, he arrived where the Carians had pitched their tents. With him came also his guards and a whole gang of servants with tables, benches, and a hot-cooked dinner, enough for a small feast. Notably though, he did not bring either of his children.

Rennala raised an eyebrow as he approached her. “I asked that you attend me,” she said. “I did not also ask for gifts.”

Radagon shrugged. As he was apparently wont to do, he again wore an open robe so loose that it nearly slipped from his shoulders. The shrug drew attention to his well-formed upper body. But he moved so naturally, so unselfconsciously, as to give an impression that he did not notice what effect his body language might have.  “I am given to understand that this is how Liurnians expect to be wooed.”

“Is that what you are doing?” Rennala asked, raising her other eyebrow. She made a point of meeting Radagon’s golden gaze directly.

“It will be a long-suffering marriage if you and yours continue to resent me and mine,” Radagon replied.

Rennala now looked away from Radagon, turning her eyes to the food that his servants had brought and were now setting out on the tables. “So you bring us your spoils from our own land?”

“No,” said Radagon. He too turned towards the tables. “I understood your remark last night. We did loot your land. We still eat your food. But this was taken from our supplies from Altus. It is not as good. I hope, though, that it will not cause offense.” He raised a hand, palm upturned, offering it to Rennala. “Will you dine with me?”

Rennala considered Radagon’s hand. While the back of his hand was dark from the sun, his palm was not. Despite all his thick calluses, something about his palm seemed softer than the rest of him. Vulnerable. There were some who claimed they could read fates in the lines crisscrossing a person’s palm. Rennala was not one of them. Only the stars showed fates. But she did wonder–what did Radagon’s palm say of him? She took his hand. “I must dine,” she said. “I see no reason why I should not do so with you.”

The two of them took bench seats across one of the tables from one another, at a table end. Rellana took the seat to Rennala’s right. A stony-faced Leyndell knight took the seat to Radagon’s left. The Leyndell knight did not offer his name. Indeed, he said nothing. And while he picked at the food laid out for them, he hardly ate. He had not come to entertain. He had only come to guard his master. In keeping with her normal manner, Rellana left the knight be and paid him no mind at all. Instead, she passed her time quietly glaring at Radagon, and, so distracted with her glaring, terribly over-chewed her food.

For his part, Radagon seemed entirely unaffected by Rellana’s ill-temper. He kept his eyes on Rennala, barely sparing her younger sister a glance. An act, surely. He knew she watched him, waiting for the slightest excuse to deepen her mistrust and her grudges. And, a consummate diplomat, he knew how to avoid giving her any excuse.

Should Rennala help Radagon avoid antagonizing Rellana? Or was it better to remind Radagon of the fragility of the peace with Lilurnia? But regardless of how Rennala stacked the deck, if Radagon could not play the cards he was dealt, he was not fit for his titles and his command. And if he was fit for his titles and command, he would bend things to his liking, and Rennala would see the shape of them.

“My lord Radagon,” Rennala started. “Say–why is Leyndell so intent on conquest?”

With a spoonful of boiled greens halfway to his mouth, Radagon hesitated. After the brief pause, he lowered the spoon back to his plate, morsel uneaten. “Why do the seasons change?” he replied. “It is the order of things.” There was nothing of boasting or other bravado in his voice. He spoke only truth, as he saw it.

“It’s the order of things that Leyndell conquers?” Rellana challenged, sensing a quarrel and rising to it. Her sharp azure eyes bored into Radagon. “So your actions need no justification save that you have done them?”

Radagon regarded Rellana. His body language remained calm. “We do the will of our god.”

Rellana snorted. “Your Marika is a woman,” she said. “No less, but no more.”

Pensive, Radagon tapped a thumb against the edge of his plate. His golden gaze previously fixed on Rellana, flickered to Rennala for a moment, but then returned to Rellana. “She is a woman,” he said. “As a woman, she wants. She desires. She has ordered conquest. Does that satisfy your demand for justification? Are your own wants and desires not enough justification for all that you cause?”

“I champion Caria,” Rellana snapped.

Radagon inclined his head to Rellana. He had said his piece, and Rellana’s rejoinder had fallen flat.

“It is egocentric to suppose that everything of a person is their own will and their own desire,” Rennala observed. Having eaten all that she was inclined to, she folded her hands within her sleeves, guarding herself from the chill settling in with night. “What of instinct? What of force? What of fate?”

“None of those justify choice,” Radagon replied.

“You did not put forward choice as a reason for Leyndell’s sins,” Rennala said.

“No,” Radagon acknowledged. “I proposed order and faith. But faith, at least, is a choice.”

Rellana drummed her fingers heavily on the wood of the table. “You use your choices to strip choice from others.”

“Are you and your sister not here by choice?” Radagon asked.

“We are alive,” said Rellana, scowling. “But many of our countrymen are dead.”

“I am sorry,” said Radagon.

Rellana blinked, taken utterly aback. After taking a moment to recover, she challenged, “You will not defend yourself?”

“It is done,” Radagon said quietly.

Rellana shook her head. “I can’t believe you and Messmer are related.”

A ghost of a fond smile tugged at the corners of Radagon’s mouth upon the mention of his son. “He is not entirely thoughtless,” Radagon said. “But he has many burdens.”

Rennala was about to make a dry remark, but then she recalled what Moongrum had said of Messmer earlier. There was a darkness on him that she had no right to make light of. There was no profit now in speaking more of Messmer. So, instead, “Melina called upon us today,” Rennala said. “She has a sharp wit.”

“She is her mother’s daughter,” Radagon said. Now that the conversation had found its way back to less serious things, he lifted his spoon of greens up again and finally resumed eating. Rennala supposed that he probably had to eat a great deal to maintain the bulk of his form.

“I have never had occasion to meet Marika,” Rennala said. “Will I?”

Radagon finished chewing his greens, swallowed, took a draught of wine from his cup. Then he met Rennala’s gaze. “If you like,” he said.

“She did not come to the wedding,” Rellana pointed out.

“There are forces which keep her in Leyndell,” Radagon said. “But if ever you went to her there, she would not refuse you–either of you.”

Rellana gestured towards the dark shadow of Stormveil, looming on the southern horizon. “For now you have us to heel here. For what? You seem not to need us.”

Radagon’s eyes flickered between Rennala and her sister. He had no way of knowing what Rennala had or had not told the other Carians, nor her motives for doing so. He found a way forward though. “We do,” he said–and said nothing more.

“So tell us what you want–I grow impatient to end this venture and return to our holdings,” Rellana demanded.

“Stormveil must fall,” Radagon said. “There are greater sorcerous defenses closer to the fortress that prevent us from bringing our siege engines forward to assault the gate and walls. Tomorrow–will you come with us to see?”

Rennala nodded, once. “We will.”

[] [] []

Especially during the waning days of the second war with Leyndell, Rennala had spent more time than she ever would have liked in army camps and surveying battlefields. Part of her had thought, had hoped, that with the truce…

The approach to Stormveil ran uphill, and the merest glance told Rennala that thousands would have to die to win it.

But Radagon and Leyndell had thousands to spare.

The builders of the ancient fortress had placed it squarely blocking the only land route between Liurnia and Limgrave, and they had built it to be nigh impregnable. The only way to cross between the countries was either through Stormveil itself or by a narrow cliff road east of Stormveil–but the road ran directly along the base of the fortress for over half a kilometer, so a traveler still could not avoid the Stormveil defenders. As the fortress could be supplied from Limgrave, there was no way to put it to siege without sailing a second army from Leyndell, around the craggy coasts of Belurat, to the bays along the northern edge of Caelid, then marching west for over a month.

In better days, Rennala had visited Stormveil in peace–before Stormveil’s old lord had fallen to Godfrey’s axe in the bitter war between Leyndell and the dragons.

She knew the walls to be several meters thick and at least fifty meters tall. Crenellations and walkways with murderholes ran along their tops, allowing soldiers to shoot spells and arrows from safety, and to hurl all sorts of abuse down on anyone who attempted to scale them. The enormous main gate of the castle was made of several layers of timber with iron fittings, each layer offset against the grain of the last to better distribute the force of a ram, and ensorcelled against fire. But the main gate was practically ornamental–the holders of the castle rarely opened it, instead forcing any visitor to use the wicket gate, which was only just wide enough for a single man to pass at a time. Then, anyone who made it past the outer fortifications still had to contend with an inner wall that ran concave to the outer wall, creating overlapping angles of fire to mow down any attacker.

And all that was to say nothing of the labyrinthine corridors, counterclockwise spiral staircases, and other hazards of the keep itself.

Stormveil was a fortress meant to never be taken by force.

But to take it by force was what Radagon intended.

And for the sake of peace, Rennala would help him do it.

Rennala sat astride a white horse far out of range of the fortress’s defenders. Rellana and their Carian escort, all also mounted, accompanied her. So did Radagon, Messmer, and several of their generals.

To Rennala’s keen eye, the road up to the fortress, and all the land on either side of it, was covered in the sorcery of the Nox. Quicksilver glyphs stretched over the ground, shimmering like the surface of a lake. To an untrained observer, it might look no different than any other field. Rennala would not know–she could not help but see the ebb and flow of shifting power waiting to annihilate anyone stupid enough to cross unprotected.

The horses certainly felt the danger. They shied well away from where the workings began.

“We could blast the earth to disrupt it,” one of the Leyndell officers suggested, voice gruff. He had caught Rennala’s attention on the way to their current position, as he was of the silver-skinned albinauric race rather than human. Due to their physical infirmities, they rarely traveled, and even more rarely fought. Special leather bindings fixed this one in his saddle, as he wouldn’t have the strength in his legs to otherwise remain mounted. Still, he carried himself as if he had no disability at all, and the rest of the Leyndell contingent treated him with respect.

Rellana scoffed. “These spells are not tied to the earth. They’re mercurial, with only the vaguest connection to spatial anchors. You can sling dirt about all you like, but even if you rammed up a causeway, the spells would flow up to reach anyone who tried to cross it.”

“So do you have a better proposal?” Messmer sneered.

“If you throw your horde at it, eventually their deaths will wear it down,” Rellana replied coldly.

Messmer’s single golden eye narrowed. His snakes seethed in agitation. “And if I throw you at it, I’m sure you’ll improve on that plan.”

Rellana’s horse shook its head forcefully and it stamped the ground, reacting to its rider’s mood. “I dare you to try it,” she growled.

Radagon raised a hand, silencing Messmer. He turned his face to Rennala. “Queen of Caria, do you have any suggestion for us?”

Pensive, Rennala frowned. The sorcerors of Nokron were skilled and powerful, and they had spent weeks, perhaps even a month, setting the defenses around the approach to Stormveil. It would take weeks, or even a month, to unpick them. That was not the answer that Radagon wanted.

Did it matter what Radagon wanted? Rennala was not bound to excel for him.

“Rellana’s approach is sound,” Rennala said. “It will be simpler to exhaust this working than dispel it. But that need not require lives, only a lure and the ground.” In her peripheral vision, Rennala saw some of the other Carians nod, understanding. 

“And how will you do that?” Messmer asked. Though he still managed to sound arrogant and abrasive, his voice also contained a note of curiosity.

“Have you ever heard of a lightning rod?” Rennala asked.

Messmer shrugged, defensive. “No,” he muttered.

Rennala ignored his demeanor. Ignorance was only a sin when the sinner did not admit it, and Messmer at least showed willingness to learn. “During great storms, lightning strikes high structures,” Rennala said. “It is ultimately seeking the ground, but the structures bring the ground close to the skies. The wardens of Raya Lucaria set up rods on top of the spires of the academy, and then run metal wires directly to the earth. The lightning hits the rods, and then travels the wires. This diverts its force and protects the buildings.”

Messmer frowned. “How does that matter here?”

Rellana grinned nastily at Messmer. “You use a person as the lightning rod.”

It took Messmer a moment, but then he understood. He glared at Rellana. “So you are volunteering?”

“This isn’t my war,” Rellana replied. “Don’t you want to be a hero?”

Rennala turned her gaze on Radagon.

For a while, Radagon said nothing. Eventually though, he answered the unspoken question, “I will need you.”

“You will have us,” Rennala replied.

Radagon wheeled his horse, a splendid blonde stallion, about, away from the fortress. “Summon the commanders of the battalions,” he ordered his generals. “The army must be ready to advance as soon as the way is clear. They do not expect us yet and there will not be a better opportunity.”

[] [] []

That night, the horrible weight of coming battle smothered the entire camp.

Many of the soldiers of Leyndell were veterans. That only meant that they knew what awaited them in the assault on Stormveil. The Carians also knew war. Rellana had personally chosen the knights who accompanied Rennala now. She had chosen only those who had won her trust over many engagements against the men and women they now had to consider allies.

In the tent that Rennala and her sister shared, Rellana had sunk into a focused stillness, a stark contrast to her usual bluster. She sat on the ground with her back straight, her legs crossed, and her hands resting lightly on her knees. Her eyes were closed. Like this, she looked peaceful, as she had before Leyndell, rapacious, had finished putting down the giants in the far mountains and turned its attention south.

Rellana looked so peaceful that when she spoke, Rennala started. “You are staring at me,” Rellana growled, without opening her eyes.

Having paused near the entrance of their tent to, yes, stare at her sister, Rennala gathered herself and strode over to her bed. She did not dignify Rellana’s remark with a reply.

“What are we doing here, Rennala?” Rellana asked. This time, she did not growl. She sounded tired.

Moongrum’s words echoed in Rennala’s thoughts. Rellana had rage, but she needed something more than rage to sustain her. “We are changing with the world,” Rennala said. “We are fighting for a future.”

“Our future?” Rellana asked. The soft light of the tent’s glyphs cast strange shadows over her face. “Or theirs?”

“A shared future,” said Rennala. She sat down on her bed, and she folded her hands in her lap.

“You trust him,” Rellana said flatly.

“He spared my life.”

“For a price.”

Rennala shrugged. “Nothing is free.”

“Olivinus and Karolos wanted me to replace you,” said Rellana, voice no louder than a murmur. 

Rennala was silent. She waited.

“What a horrible idea. I can’t believe their conspecti made those buffoons deans. If we could not defeat Leyndell united, we would never defeat them in the midst of a civil war,” Rellana continued. “And you are my sister.” Rellana let her eyes close again, as she sank back into herself. “You’re welcome,” she said.

Despite everything, Rennala smiled.

Notes:

hi thank you for reading hope you enjoyed! the plan for this fic is that it will have three arcs. the first arc covers the immediate aftermath of the second liurnian war, the second arc covers the lead up to the divorce, and the third arc addresses the shattering. within an arc, chapters will be posted hopefully once a month. time between arcs will probably be several months. (this is because i try to write most of an arc before posting anything. i already have about 55k of the first arc written, but getting that far took eight months. if you were with me while i was doing Residua, then you know how this goes)