"For a moment and more, cousin," Ruarc replied almost sleepily, tilting his head to one side and scratching at the stubble of his beard. He held a tankard loosely in the slight curl of his left hand and his eyes belied his stupor. The bastard Loroughe was melancholic by nature, to be sure, but there was a steel behind it. This steel was imparted by Gorin Hinn, a hard working farmer and strict father; he had taught Ruarc long ago that all men were snakes. Ruarc, through his time, had learned that snakes were often beheaded and left to wriggle.

Is my cousin a snake, he wondered, hissing in time with his mother?

It was a bizarre thought and one quickly shirked. He forced a smile, for the sake of himself and the Stolen; bringing the tankard to his lips briefly. Certainly what he had heard was out of the ordinary, but he was uncertain as to the nature of the second voice; it was quiet and labored, as though the speaker were unaccustomed to their own words. Perhaps it was a maid, or some lass Grey kept as his own, came the niggling doubts, but these, too were pushed behind the steel in him. He hated the northmen and their bloody ways and the thought of his half-sister living amongst them was atrocious.

No, Ruarc corrected, she will live as one of them...not merely among them. She will be a mother to northern children that will some day inherit the throne. Yet, here I stand...natural son of Piervue Loroughe, bearing a different name and no claim.

"I've seen more of the feast than I can stand," he said lazily, as his cousin was accustomed to, perhaps a bit more thickly than he had intended, so slighty slurred had his speech become, "and the fucking northerners at that." Ruarc moved the tankard as though he were conducting an unseen orchestra, for a moment, before allowing himself another drink. Then, he relaxed, finally, seeking how best to hint to his cousin that he had heard at least a little of what was said.

"It is good to know your mother still eats, despite her condition," he cast his eyes to the door, for a moment, "I pray for her as often as I pray for you. Gods be good, she may yet recover." His smile was purely Hinn, then, all tooth and cheek, as he lifted his tankard to his cousin. "And with her," he whispered, "perhaps Warrhon can recover."

Ruarc Hinn knew what he wanted, then...and he had an idea of how to get it.

Griah Sandwysper stood in the center of a defeated camp, windblown sand buffeting her face; the wind always followed her where ever she went--a sun-warmed breezy reminder of her connection to the Great Worm. Bodies lay swollen in the desert sun, picked by vultures and a feast for the lesser worms. Many of them were half-buried in sweeping sand. Sandstone bricks were scattered, crumbled and burned. Whatever--or whoever--had passed through here surely had a great source of power. The Stormcaller and her followers--cultists of the Great Worm--began to search the bodies, but all of them had been looted. Only the rotting bodies themselves served as testament to their struggle.

She covered her mouth with a light linen scarf. "Create a funeral pyre for the bodies. Offer them up to the Great Worm."

-------------------------

Brom had already supped his fill. He was drunk and over-full, and the young prince had grown tired of listening to his brother flirt with Seralle, his brother’s bride-to-be. His drunken haze had affected his manners, and Brom propped his head up on his hand, both of his elbows resting on the table.

“Mmfph, I thought the Southerners were supposed to be great entertainers,” Brom Arten muttered to himself. “But I’m tired of their songs and I’m sick of their honeyed foods.” He pushed his plate away and stood up. Brom bowed to Seralle, and then to Brogan. “I’ve grown tired from all this merriment… I think I’ll test out the craftsmanship of these Southern beds!” He laughed drunkenly at his own joke before excusing himself from the feast.

The younger son of the Kingbreaker stumbled through the castle, lost in his thoughts. ‘I can’t believe Seralle actually likes my brother!’ He sulked. ‘The way she laughed at his jokes… And she finds him smart?! Unbelievable! …If only I had the chance to spend time with her alone… I could convince her-… Convince her-…’ Brom shook his head, appalled with himself. ‘What am I saying? Brogan is rightfully king—my family, my brother! He deserves to marry Seralle…’ The sounds of hushed voices roused him from his lovesickness.

‘Is that… Grey the Stolen? Who is he talking to?’ The northern prince stopped and leaned against the wall, eavesdropping. He could barely make out what they were saying.

“You know as well as I do that he’s not fit to rule. Something has to be done. Talking to him isn’t enough; he’s far too thickheaded for that… You know how royalty is. So sure of themselves… So positive they’re right… He needs someone to… Remind him what the important things are.”

There was too much truth to his cousin's words. Ruarc nodded by way of affirmation and briefly turned his head, casting a half-lidded glance to each end of the long, stone hallways; eyes catching on the distant, quivering lights cast by wall-mounted torches near the other royal chambers. He lowered himself to a crouch, running his fingers along the surprisingly warm edges of his tankard, brow arched in consternation.

"It is true," the Hinn allowed, "my father is a stubborn man. That does not make him a feeble ruler, as you well know, and he is well loved by his subjects. I have attempted to speak with him before about this 'union', this..." he pressed his teeth together and sucked air through them, begrudgingly as he continued, "selling of Sera and, in time, our lands and pride to the northern horde." Ruarc lowered himself further, pressing his back against the cool stone, silently thankful for the chill that slowly made its way up his spine and into his neck. Some of the tension left him and he lowered the tankard to the ground, looking up at Grey; his eyes sliding slowly to their fullest.

"But...if we are to do this, we must be cautious."

Good Gods, came the nagging, worrisome thought, I am plotting against mine own father! He who sired me...is that not a sin in its self? If I slay him, I will be a monster in the eyes of the divine; a creature unworthy of peace after a life of hardship! He shifted, slowly standing, making certain to retrieve the tankard as he once again cast glances about. No. He is not my father, not even in name. Not once during my childhood did he appear before me. Not once has he spoken a word of love to me. Norrin Hinn is my father. Would he approve of this madness? This treason?

His instinct told him that his father, his adoptive father, would find the very thought disgusting; but Ruarc was not his father...he was not a craven king, nor a heavy-handed farer. He was Ruarc Hinn, bastard of the royal court and protector of Seralle Loroughe. Too long had he lived under the whims of royalty. Too long had he held his tongue in the presence of the vile northern barbarians and too long had he feared for his kingdom's safety. Change was in the air, thick and potent as freshly shed blood; some part of him relished the thought of change, of revolution. He nodded, again, at his cousin and steeled his heart for the days to come. He was no schemer nor was he possessed of a particularly potent tongue. However, there was one thing the Hinn had that Grey did not. A strong sword arm.

What use is there in this world for a king who fears war, or a bastard that fears to change?

"He will come to see reason, dear cousin. Or so I hope. Time is drawing short. Sera's wedding will be soon. We can only hope he opens his eyes, before this tragedy comes to pass."
- - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Do you know, the secret of crows?
Black feathers falling, where the wind of war blows!
Do you know the song of death?
The haggard hymn of a man's last breath!
Do you know the ways of love?
Smiling and blushing beneath the eyes above!"

Pyrra sang in a whisper, her quiet, sweet tones drifting through the breeze of the open courtyard. She had left her brother moments before, a message from her father left safely in his hands. Now, she simply sat, her eyes cast to the sky above. Countless stars lingered over the world, she had been told long ago, each an omen in its own right. She was no sage, or master of the stars' arcane portents; yet they were still beautiful to gaze upon. The world was full of mysteries, of the heart and mind, of gods and monsters, of words and wiles. Some she knew well and others she knew as she would know a passing stranger. What she knew best were songs and it was what she was known most for.

All around her, things were changing. Seralle sat in the company of her new husband, in the Warrhon's hall, while her king celebrated the union of two long embittered families. Soon, it seemed, that things would be changing further still. Pyrra remembered the assemblage, the mingling of two kingdoms in one hall. She thought of Brogan and Brom and their oafish companion; then of the Quinns. Each face she had committed to memory, not at the king's behest; but because each was a threat in their own right. That was what had brought her here, sitting among the countless flowers and scattered petals...bathed in the fragrance of change and an uncertain future. While her mood was not darkened by the arrival of the northmen, an uneasiness had rolled in with them like a winter storm.

Slowly, she stood, her mind focused on the young prince; a handsome, intelligent man that had come trailing behind his brother. Her steps were silent, but alacrity demanded she move quickly; her presence would be expected, soon, in the feasting hall; where she would be asked, almost certainly, by her lord Piervue to sing a song about the wedding

There was a sadness to his eyes, like a man bereaved.

Her fingers trailed to her side, slowly unlatching the lute. She cradled it in her arms, idly tracing her fingers over the frets and strings; a timid melody dancing into the night air before fading into silence. Pyrra Salt lifted her gaze, once more, to the distant moon. Clouds lingered before it, hiding its fullness. It, too, had a melancholy cast to it; lonely as it seemed, surrounded by smaller, less potent stars.

Soon, she found herself back amidst the din of revelry; the sounds of three different songs drifting through the room. Piervue motioned for her as she entered and she obeyed him, smiling broadly as she approached; dancing around dancers and sliding through small pockets of those who had abandoned their tables.

"Pyrra," the king exclaimed, throwing his hands up, "you have been absent for too long!"

"I am sorry, m'lord, my father-"

"It is no worry, girl! Come, come! Sing for my daughter and her betrothed! Lift their spirits and unite them in love!"

Redness was apparent on his cheeks and nose, but the king was still very much articulate; though his mood was obviously lifted by the wine. She could not turn away such a command. Pyrra smiled, bowed and turned to those who had gathered. The other singers, knowing well that this was a song meant to be heard by all, were suddenly of sour countenances; envy plain on their faces as the wispy Salt girl lifted her lute and began to sing.