As he smelled the intermingled scents of sea salt and vanilla he was taken back to the time he had visited his uncle's farm on the island of Sam Cruix. There among the bustling life and the ranks of orange trees spanning out across the rocky hills as men at arms at muster he had discovered love at the age of thirteen. It was then only to a peasant girl, perhaps ten years older than he; a woman really. But in her weathered face and gentle smile he had found the love that was missing from him in his childhood. Denied from him by a distant pious mother and an absent father. Both he had known as specters. But in that three year summer at the domain of Dom Pierou, his uncle he had found that love which he missed. And it had transcended that maternal absence. It was strong and passionate, physical. He was awakening then as a man and came to be one in the peasant woman's arms. Then as suddenly as he had gone there, he left it.

As he smelled those sensuous pleasures once again years later his imagination drifted back to those days that he just left, maybe six months ago. His father was dying, and now he had died. He had not thought how much such a near memory would return in bitter sweetness. Sweet in that it was life. Bitter that in this moment it was in death. The cold and pale corpse of his father, the king Leon of Troubesville lay still in his casket. His skin having lost the color of life resembled creamy, leathery parchment in its paleness. His eyes were covered by volcanic stones washed up from the beach. His body limp and stiff as the corpse slowly began bloating in the heat and humid wash of the sea. The body's surreal stillness flustered the young prince. There was a cold pit that opened in the bottom of his bowls and he felt himself grow sick and feverish looking down at his father. The old round face, once beaming with the light from heaven itself as he had charged into and out of his life in episodic fits.

In its still repose it was mystifying for him to see his father lying so still. Last it had lived it had flown across the kingdom by horse and by yacht. A man of consummate action. Sociable, well loved. A renowned hunter. He had never known him, these were only things that he had been told. A poem was once written about how far he could throw a spear, and how accurately the throw was. But it had never left the court. Seeing him dead here, it was sure the poem would never leave. But as he had lived outside of the bounds of court and castle, so had it lived inside of the castle and court.

“I am sorry you had to return on such short notice.” a single and imposingly tall figure had stepped up alongside the prince. His tall physique was not hard to miss among the other heads of the kingdom and foreign delegates who were in attendance. But his steps were light and well placed and he moved like a breath of cold air. “But illness had taken him faster than we thought, Maximilian.”

Prince Maximilian, stunned to his bones quietly shook his head. The man, Almarando Ruge looked down at him. His long hawkish face pulled long by the way his brow rolled back with his long graying hair. From a dark face of earthly clay a pair of equally dark eyes looked down at the young prince from behind a turnip of a nose. “I'm not sure anyone told you yet, but your crowning begins the day we bury him.”

“Ah- yes, sure...” Maximilian began, stunned. His words felt numb on his lips until he realized, “But that's tomorrow.”

Almarando nodded. His head fit on his neck like a pelican's, and a gesture so normal on other men was rendered completely alien by him.

Prince Maximilian felt frozen as he shook his head. Almarando, the master of the royal estate sighed, “No bother, it will happen whether or not. The realm needs a king, it's never waited.” he said coldly. He bore the badge of resigned indifferent on his tongue. His language was cold on the ears and it stung the small grieving spirit in Maximilian.

“Everyone is already here who would ever need to attend.” he added, turning and pointing the prince's attention to the assembly of old men huddled around the base of the chapel's pillars. In their long gowns and white mourning costume they resembled shades at the edge of existence, standing in the shade of the layered, twisting marble pillars as if they were allergic to the sun that came in through the towering windows behind and over the alter and where the former King Leon lay in state. His body surrounded by cuttings of vanilla flowers and the dried beans that had been broken open and scattered over his dark tunic. Other fruiting flowers had been laid about, to aid in the masking of the death stench.

The chapel was a private building, but none the less a tall building. Its high ceiling was lost in the darkened light that reflected off the polished stone floor, leaving the candles that hung in their pewter chandeliers to hang like stars in an ill tempered aether that consumed everything that rose up to it, and shone only where it mattered. From the high vaulted ceiling the immense masonry roof was held aloft with great ribs which held the whole mass of its arched ceiling, the red stone above giving the impression of the cavity in a great whale. The entire mass itself held up by pillars of red and white marble patterned one on top of the other as they ascended in a corkscrew. And looming down from the vaulted red night of the ceiling loomed the face of the third face of the White Mother, the crown. Her face gilded in gold leaf as silk sheets fell from her face as a veil that ruffled in the breezy ocean wind. Like wise her visage, eyes closed hung over the great doors of the chapel, the gold leaf brightly illuminated by the sun and the silk headdress falling in great waves down from the crown of her head.

At the head of the sanctuary, where the corpse lay the walls were cut and open to the air and the weather through tall cavernous windows. Arched and decorated with colored stones and ceramic tiles. Vines had come to grow there, and their out reached fingers wormed up the pillars framing the great open windows and into the chapel itself. Their heads sending out shoots that bloomed with broad emerald leaves or small vibrant flowers of ruby and sapphire colors.

Through the windows the ocean breeze passed in and out and soft breaths. The air moved with the soft passionate breathing of a giant. Swaying back and forth it ruffled and moved the silken banners of the old White Mother. Drawing in an out like a rising and falling chest, the chapel felt alive.

Looking back down the nave, Maximilian saw the crone's face over the doors, beyond the noble men who stood stoic and deathly in their shade's robes and he felt as though her closed gold eyes were moving to watch the men and women there. He could not tell what she may think of them. If they were good, if they were bad. If the connived in darkened hallways or honored the broad day light and were not afraid for everything to be public, because they could do no wrong. “Are they good men?” the prince asked, seeing them.

“They are loyal, and they followed your father.” Almarando said.

Maximilian doubted that. After all, he had felt loyalty and love in the arms of a simple peasant woman. What could he find in the cold glazed expression of the nobility?

But what Maximilian felt he had to ask, is if they were good men. If they were capable of goodness. But he could not find the words. They hung lodged at the back of his throat and the silence he stood in was read as a sign of acceptance by Almarando.

“You will have time to meet many of them in person. But for the day ahead, you should be ready.” he reached out and touched Maximilian with the tips of his fingers. What he felt with that touch wasn't that of pure or genuine comfort. He felt as uncomfortably cold as the corpse that lay there in state. Maximilian stiffened in response. He held his breath.

Almarando headed for the door. His steps short and timely. He didn't make haste. Neither did he look back. He simply walked, arms crossed ahead. Eyes forward. Lost and alone at the sanctuary he stood in the light of the windows. He watched Almarando walk with pensive uncertainty. Twiddling his thumbs together under the heavy sleeves of his funerary robes he made the uneasy decision to leave, and followed after the old house keeper with uneven staccato steps.

---

Later that night, Maximilian stood at the open windows high in the old castle, Mon Jamais. The once warm orange-red stone of the walls cooled with the dewy imprint of evening mist. Below, the city of Jamais itself glistened and glowed a citrine yellow in the fog that enveloped it. Distantly the sounds of music drifted out from the narrow and winding cloistered streets of the town below. Leaning out over the window Maximilian looked down at the tiled court at the bottom of the cliff the keep of the castle stood on. Winding gardens conformed to the curvature of the court yard, forced between carved rock and plateau spaces before the ground fell out just on the other side of tall walls. In torch light guards paced along the walls. There was an eerie serenity. A solemnity unknown from the day. High above the city, the castle stood high as a silent and quiet brooding monastery to the music wiles of the city nestled as its feet.

Maximilian stood and thought about the city he had known before he had left for his uncle's estate. It had changed much then. From the towers and bastions of the castle the whole city marched out along a rugged stretch of land that stretched out like a long finger from the mainland. The rocks gave way to steep slopping hills to white ivory beaches. The shore, particularly on the inside of that finger pointing towards land were the bristling spikes of the piers and docks of the shipyard and port where a hundred ships traveled in and out. Through the late night mist that hung over the city the solemn light house that served as a beacon and a herald to ships making their way to port shone through the fog as a fierce star awash in a space of smokey white, and glower with a nebulous light. Likewise the smaller stars of the ship lights drifted along faintly visible in the night mist.

On clear nights the port at night would still be a circus of sharp pin pricks of light as ships were rowed to shore on inky black water, or later night sailors set out to sea. Filling the waters too would be the late night revelers of the merchants on their boats. Or the minor nobility, who having demesne far away but no inclination to live the social life of the capital remained in their yachts and in the glow of amber and golden flame went out onto the water and held private concerts or drinking parties. Both launching from the relative safety of shore-side estates or apartments where both classes lived respectively.

Looking down at it, Maximilian felt a pang of sadness and the gnawing of terror. All of this was his now. Though he could not say it was unforeseen, for he had lived all his life that he would come to rule this. But he looked at it all realizing it was his to rule but he had never received instruction from his father, who was so missing to carry out his own business. He didn't know where the first step was. He felt he was enclosed in a foggy mist like the rest of Jamais, but without the comfort and the terrible joy of nightly revelry and torch lit streets. He felt alone in his own darkness, having never been told what was expected as being good, or bad. That while he had been taught, he only ever learned what was expected of him as a prince. As a king in the making, but never a king that would be pulled from the fire and cast so soon.

He trembled with the tought. And sleeplessly he walked back to the bed. His light night gown brushed smooth against his nakedness as he sat on the heavy down sheets. What was he supposed to do alone? Could he do it alone? The next day they would bury Leon, and then he would inherit the crown. A sweeping movement, burying the old and bringing out the new. And what then? A cold shiver came at the thought.

Looking aside at the bed side table he looked at himself in a gold mirror. There he was, a young man. A boy really. His smooth face had known nothing but the softness of an afternoon sun and the coolness of an evening moon. Round, infantile. He was less a man and more a boy. He had not grown any beard, and his thick black hair curled on his head in naturally tight nests, course and bushy. His flesh was dark and unblemished, browned by the air about him.

He lay down, laying out spread eagle across the sheets of the bed and looking up at the plain red canopy over him. Mosquito netting encapsulating all sides but the one. Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep. But the pervasive anxiety that invaded him forced them open and he soon awoke and lay listening to the air about him. He listened to the whisper of the wind across the high tower windows and the distant lapping of ocean waves.

Like a moth to the flame he walked back to the window and looked back out. How long had it been? In the time he had laid down the light had gone out, save for the constant beacon of the lighthouse. He rubbed his hand along the stone pillars in the window, feeling the dew that was collecting there in its cracks. The wind blowing from the ocean feeling cool against his skin. He shivered as goosebumps bloomed up and down his skin and he gave out a long sigh.

He felt alone. But looking down at the still patrolling watch he at least knew he would not be the only one not sleeping tonight.

-----------------------------
The Territories, Rashidun
-----------------------------

Pain was her companion, from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, her limbs felt like they were on fire, her chest felt as though she were being crushed, her breath came in ragged gasps and sweat stung her eyes, leaving trails in the dust that caked her skin. She was oblivious to the strong breeze that was blowing in from the mountains and strong scent of spice that came with it, the sweet inviting smell that had destroyed so many lives in the little town below her.

One foot in front of the other. She kept repeating it over and over again to herself as she ran, eyes focused on the narrow goat track in front of her. Her long black hair seemed to float behind her like a dark cloud despite an emerald green clasp at the back of her skull. One hand held a short spear, the other a light shield, and she wore only a thin white robe for protection from the thorny branches that tore at her as she passed.

Birds burst into the air screaming in protest as she tore through a small clearing, her footsteps loud as they echoed back from a small rock face decorated with a shrine to some local deity. She glanced up. The summit was nearing, one more bend and it was a straight sprint to the top. She tucked her chin down, summoned all her courage, and picked up her pace.

Her legs were screaming at her, every fibre of the muscles that rippled through her shapely body seemed ready to burst at any moment but she could not, would not stop. Her shoulders ached from carrying the shield and spear. Her feet hurt, bruises already well formed on the soles. Even her abs felt as though they simply wanted to give up. She gloried in it. The pain meant she was getting stronger.

The final bend dropped away and she found herself on a straight section of path. It was flanked on either side by short grass and small purple flowers that grew in abundance throughout the mountain meadows. Ahead of her was a small pool, no more than a table in size, with stones that stood about it like a wall. She had built that wall to give herself to have a bit of privacy when she exercised and now, as she saw it, she poured the last of her energy into a headlong sprint.

The remaining distance seemed to fall away in a flash as she powered through her last few strides. She passed the outer edge of the wall at a full sprint, almost tripping relief as she dropped the spear and shield with a clatter. It took her several yards to come to a complete halt, her breath coming in desperate gasps as she nearly toppled onto the ground. She steadied herself on the wall and took deep breathes in through her nose, aware for the first time of the spice. It was a faint but still pleasant scent that mingled strangely with that of her own sweat. She wiped at the moisture running down her face and managed only to rub dirt into her eye. She cursed and rubbed at it some more, still gasping for air.

Dirt somewhat under control, she straightened her back, pulled off her sweat soaked robe and tossed it to one side. The breeze, ignored until now, felt wonderful on her naked skin as she stood, arms spread, face to the sun, taking deep breaths to calm her body. She stood that way for several minutes, eyes closed, her breathing slowly returning to normal. When she felt sufficiently recovered she began a stretching routine.

At length she opened a pair of midnight black eyes and looked around her. She was on the top of a small mountain that rose above her village. It was no name, it was simply a smaller part of a much larger peak behind her. She could see small figures moving about between the houses below and she fancied that at least one of them might have seen her but she didn't care. She didn't plan to stay for much longer.

Beyond the village the long range of mountains marched into the hazy distance. A great forest carpeted the lower slopes and only a handful of sparsely inhabited villages were betrayed by the small curls of blue wood smoke that rose above them. The folk here were a simple lot, raising sheep and pigs, harvesting wood to sell in the lowlands, but only enough to get by. No one here had much ambition. The world seemed to stand still at the best of times.

But not for Aharish. She was her parents only daughter and she wanted to fight. Even as a little girl she had sought out conflict with the boys her age and, though she took some beatings, she quickly began to win. Her parents, like most of the locals, had been impressed. Was the Queen's own guard not filled with such women? They had encouraged her and her father often gloated about her fighting ability.

To Aharish it was only natural, the desire to be the fastest, the strongest. She had not even been aware of life beyond her little valley until she was old enough to witness the arrival of the Heralds. The two, for they always travelled in pairs, had come to help settle a land dispute. They attended the remote regions like hers every several months to mediate disputes, pass judgements, and bring news from the Queen.

Aharish had been spellbound as the two riders, clad all in white and riding white horses, had rode into town. As was custom the Heralds had been fed by the village Headman and then a long table was set before the small temple. The Heralds sat behind it while the villagers brought forward grievances, real or imagined. Aharish did not remember what had been discussed that day but she had never forgotten the awe she felt when looking upon the Heralds. They were both women, superbly fit, and clad, she discovered, not in white cloth, but fine white leather armour, specially crafted to fit them individually, taken from rare beats that lived deep in the Caliphates interior.

Aharish had been to shy to approach the pair but they returned again six months later and her mother had pushed her forward to speak to them. Her mother had hurriedly explained how her daughter was the toughest child in the village and they had laughed but one of the Heralds, the taller of the two, had taken a knee to speak to the little girl. She had hair like Aharish, jet black, and her cream coloured skin glowed with the warmth of the days late sun. She had been beautiful to Aharish.

The little girl and the Herald had spoken for some time. Aharish learnt more in the short time about the world beyond her valley and from that moment on knew that she was going to be a Herald one day. The other children had laughed and teased her but as she grew older and her body developed she began to train, and train hard. Once a week she travelled to a nearby Temple where a Priest, once a soldier, trained her in what weapons he knew. To her delight, and his admiration, she was a natural born fighter.

Now, as she turned and walked toward the small pool, she could feel all the aches and pains, the bruises and broken bones, that she had suffered in the twelve years since she first saw the Heralds. She could feel the burning in her lungs from all of the running she had done. She could see the scars on her arms and legs suffered during any number of activities. But most of all she could feel the burning desire deep down inside of her, the desire to be the best.

She dipped a toe into the pool and smiled to herself. It was warm. The black rock that formed the mountains in this region were volcanic and many small pools like this were heated by water coming from deep within the earth. She gingerly lowered herself into the pool, the heat instantly relieving some of her aches. The bottom was smooth, though covered in small rocks, but nothing else grew in the water. She had wondered if it was unsafe but a travelling Chemist had assured her that it was simply heavy copper deposits in the mountains that, once leaked into the water, proved poisonous to plants. Though he did advise she not drink any of it.

She lay back until her whole body was submerged save for her face, her black hair floating around her like some strange cloud. The sky above her was a shocking blue colour, completely devoid of any smoke or clouds, a pure and stunning colour. The Heralds would be returning in the next month and when they came she would submit herself for examination.

This meant a physical inspection and the Trials. The Trials. They had no other name but they were legend throughout Rashidun, and a closely guarded secret. Every Herald or Maiden, the Queens elite guard, were required to undergo them before even being considered for the actual selection tests that took place in the capital, Rashidun. Those who failed died.

Rashidun, there was another unknown. Aharish had never left the valley, rarely even her village save for the Temple. She had heard of Rashidun of course, the capital. A million people. A million! She couldn't even begin to fathom the number. She had seen flocks of sheep numbering in the hundreds, those had seemed a large enough number for anyone.

She closed her hands into fists and then stretched her fingers out, letting the warmth ease the tension she felt in every fibre of her being. She closed her eyes and began to relax. She would be ready when the Heralds returned.

On an island small and remote, once the peak of a dead empire's smallest mountain and now barely more than a wind-swept sandbar, a knight sat nude eating a crab. But this was no ordinary knight, as you will see; he stood at the height of one-and-a-half men, and had the hair of several more, with a beard befitting a castaway of his tenure. The crab, on the other hand, was ordinary as it was raw, as the wild knight sat cross-legged, licking and biting at the cracks in the crustacean's shell, his longsword protected from the crab juice under his arm. As his yellowed teeth snipped away the morsels of flesh they gathered, the crab's red shells further cracked under his fingers, allowing the grease of the raw corpse to drip down his wrists before being caught by the nude man's ravenous tongue.

It was a day typical in the life of the castaway, one which he had grown accustomed to in his year of abandon. Behind the beast was his shelter of shipwreck and tree parts, as was his makeshift stone firepit, though he had forgotten the civilized custom of cooking with small meals such as the crab in his hand. In fact, the routine nature of his consumption, combined with his hunger, made it so only something far, far out of the ordinary would make him forget the slippery meal at hand. Today, it took the form of a caravel bearing the flag of Caetia's Order coming into the view of the clear, blue ocean.

---

It is a proud moment for the sun when the people of a city are forced to notice the heat of his shine, and on this day, the sun would feel rather accomplished were it not for a young priestess on a lonely sailboat. This priestess, who's parents deemed it suitable to name her Fe, was far too occupied with a bucket of fish and the encroaching pod of dolphins to pay heed to the machinations of whichever deity was deemed to have the domain of the sun, for she knew which deity she served, and hers was Lady Caetia.

Of course, Fe had company on the sailboat, but none which captured her interest. There was Sir Ivan, a knight kept as a retainer to the Priestesses, as well as the closest thing the boat had to a captain, who at the moment was leaned against the mast, hat tipped so as to avoid the sunbeams. And there was Eta, an acolyte of the Temple who Fe was supposed to be teaching but both thought would be better if she learned in silence. As the dolphins gathered round, Fe tossed her fish to the sea, quietly reciting a prayer in the language of Caetia's faithful, a language thought to have it's origins before the rains. As this routine continued and the contents of the bucket grew lower, Eta grew impetuous while she squinted in the bright sunlight.

"Might I try and feed them?" she asked curiously. She was but a child, eleven years old but with the stature of a girl even younger. Fe, a girl of twenty, with the strength of the kink in her hair reflecting the faith in her heart, at first said nothing, and wished to continue the trend of silence but knew the girl would probably speak again.

"You do not know the proper orations. Think on the nature of order while you watch me." Eta was unsatisfied with the answer, but fell silent, with which Fe was content, and the feeding continued. Each dolphin clacked hungrily while they waited to be fed, but did not fight over the food, for they knew each of them would receive their share. Eta turned and looked at the land behind her, the citadel of Vilayet. The towers and walls of the knights loomed heroically above the white buildings and tight streets of the city below. Close to the harbor was Caetia's Temple and Fe and Etas' home. Today was market day in Vilayet, or as they knew it in Palamara, the 'Day of Feeding', when the families of the city would go into the marketplace and buy whatever food they would need for the week to come, as well as the only day of the week when the urban families of the island would typically pay for a meal rather than cook at home. It was a day that Eta sorely missed, as it was also the day when the dolphins of the harbor would be fed, and when the Temple's soup kitchen would be active, so the priestesses, including Eta since her family turned her over nearly a year ago, were always busy.

Feeding the dolphins was Fe's favorite part of the job, though she enjoyed it more when she could do it alone. She didn't quite mind Ivan's company, she guessed, since he was usually quiet and respectful, unlike the young acolyte at her side. The priestess smiled, as a new dolphin came upon the group gathered, one which she recognized by the slight scar on his snout, and she threw him a sardine, which he happily caught while the others clacked jealously. When she reached into the bucket again, she found it was empty.

"Alright," she said as she turned to the knight behind her, "take us around, Ivan," and Ivan nodded, shifting to take them to a different side of the island, where they would feet a different group of Caetia's servants. His muscles flexed as he unfurled the main sail, and Fe bit her lip, something which Eta picked up on but said nothing. Does Fe like Ivan? she pondered, but quickly dismissed the thought. While it was no longer forbidden for priestesses to marry, and marriage between knights and the clergy was rather common, a retainer could get into trouble for even looking at a priestess lewdly. When the boat began to move away from their spot, the dolphins followed after them for a bit before dissipating, and Ivan went to the rudder while Fe went to the bow. Eta was stuck in the middle, and decided to go back to the knight.

"Hi," she said, to which Ivan boredly nodded. She sat next to him, looking down as they cut the water beside them, before looking again to the man. "So," she began, "Why'd you start serving the Temple?"

He sighed. "Wasn't much of a choice." He paused before continuing. "But, the priestesses are nicer than the Knights." She nodded, pretending to understand what he meant, since every knight she's ever met has been extremely polite.

"Wouldn't you rather be off fighting pirates, though?" The usually stoic knight chuckled at that, while Vilayet began to disappear in the distance.

"Nah, leave the fighting to the men with a death wish." He looked over to Fe, who smiled back at him. "Some knights have something to live for." He looked back to Eta. "Besides, if the temple ever gets attacked, I'll have my share of fighting." The acolyte seemed to tense up at the words.

"Is that..something that happens?" She asked.

"Not recently, but used to happen all the time." He smirked, remembering why it was he went to join the knights from his far-off homeland. "When the knights came 'round, the attacks stopped."

"Oh," Eta replied meekly. She looked back to the water. Ever since she moved to the temple, it seemed all everybody could ever talk about aside from Caetia's justice was history. Fe approached the two, seeming both nervous and irritated, something which if you knew Fe wouldn't surprise you at all. She nervously tapped her fingers as she looked between the two. Somehow, this eleven year old girl had gotten Ivan to say more in the past couple of minutes than Fe had their entire time knowing each other.

"Is she bothering you?" She asked, referring to the acolyte, to which Ivan shook his head.

"No, no, just talking about the knights and such," he said, while Eta looked at Fe, smiling assuredly.

"Oh...of course," Fe replied, "I am...so, so grateful for the Knights..." She blushed, embarrassed, but the color in her cheeks flushed as they turned the corner.

---

The castaway knight was promptly washed and dressed in adequate clothing by the ship's crew before being deemed presentable to what the ship was transporting; a host of Caetian nuns, or, at least, future nuns, on their way to a convent on a small island owned by the Order. Throughout the entire ordeal, he remained silent, and seemed adamant that the sword remain by his side. Below deck, he sat at a wooden table while the young nuns gathered before him, and the group eyed him carefully while he eyed them back, neither sides speaking. The difference was that while they stood in fear, below his bushy eyebrows were two eyed stalwart, determined, and stoney. One nun was not afraid, however. She was far older than the rest, and was clearly experienced in her profession.

"Well, if you shall not speak," she began, "I will. I am Sister Gelena, of the Sisterhood of Duvara. And you are?" She paused to see if he would stop. He did not.

"I see," She continued, clearing her throat. "Well, if you choose to remain silent, so be it, but at the very least listen." She gestured to the young girls arranged behind her. "We are transporting our new sisters to our convent on Il Sulo. From the looks of it, you've been alone on that island for a long time, so I understand if you are cautious."

At that moment, a young sister approached the knight with a bowl of soup, which he snatched from her hands with a wooden spoon and hungrily began slurping. "Look at me," Gelena ordered sternly, and after a brief moment, the castaway reluctantly placed down his bowl and angrily looked up, before she continued. "I understand your...current behavior. But the moment you become a threat to my sisters, do not think I will hesitate to put you back on the island we found you on." His eyes squinted with annoyance. "Is that understood?" After a brief moment, he slowly began to nod.

"Good," said the old nun, and the sisters walked away.

---

The tide was washing away the blood which stained the Palamaran beach, as Fe and Ivan uplifted the victim who was the source of the redness; an old fisherman, who's son stood by idly with his face flushed. While the priestess and the knight lowered the body of the fainted old man onto the sailboat, Fe began to treat his wounds, and Ivan turned to the younger man, stepping off the boat towards him.

"You his son?" He asked, and the young man swallowed and collected his thoughts.

"Y-yes, this is my father, s-sir knight. We...we were out, fishing, alone of course. The rest of the fisherman are in the market, so my father thought this would be the best time to do it, when there was no competition." Ivan now stood close to him, and the son seemed to tense up, averting the knight's gaze.

"Relax, man, I am only a retainer of the Temple, but I am still a knight. You are safe now." The man took a deep breath, and suddenly a look of anger took hold of his face, and he looked Ivan square in the eyes.

"Well that's the thing, isn't it?" He began, "It were the knights who've done this."

---

A while later, the castaway stood on the deck of the ship, sword and sheathe still close at hand, though now leaned agains the ship's fence. He heard footsteps move behind him, but he said nothing, nor did he turn.

"I trust you've found your sleeping quarters up to your liking," Gelena said. "Much better than a desert island could offer." She was greeted by silence, save for the light crashing of waves against the side of the ship. "It was not my choice to take you on, you know. But the crew insisted, and once they saw that sword on you, the one or two knights among them refused to leave you ashore." She paused, thinking her next words carefully. "Of course, having the sword of a knight on you doesn't make you one." At this, the castaway turned around angrily, fist clenched.

"You don't like that?" the nun said in response. "Say something then." He thought for a moment before turning back to the water. She waited. "Fine then. If you refuse to say who you are, I will simply have to report you to the Order's authority. Perhaps they will have answers for me." She turned to leave, when she heard a voice, gruff, low, and scratched by sea wind.

"Wait," said the knight. "I am...I am Sir Anton, Captain of the Knight Guard."

It had never been empty before. The street, a long and twisting python climbing up the gentle slope to the castle butte was still and empty. The few pedestrians who had made it out on the promenade were held back by armed guards, who with their all shields and short swords formed a barrier between them and the browning white bricks of the central street. As a trickle of soldiers came forward with their heads low at the weight of their feather crested helmets, armor gleaming. Blood red dublets flashing the silver embroidered coat of arms for the city. These were wealthy men, soldiers of means brought up from the merchants and minor nobility, their second or third sons. They could afford the plate, the helmet, the embroidery. And they were mean and they were brutal.

As they come up the road so too did the sound of bells follow as a column of criers marched down. Their wide brimmed hats shading their faces from the late morning sun as they swung polished brass bells that chimed and flashed with brilliant light. The young boys watched them, from the empty frame of a doorway above the head of the onlookers, in the second story of a three story apartment, above a shoemaker. Pressed tight against a low mortar wall the common crowd was held back by the men at arms, held fast to where they were standing as the procession came down like cattle. Their gawking expressions and the curious expectant way they turned their heads down the street, like lazy animals made the gang of boys curious as they leaned over one another and the moss covered wooden railings to train their gaze best they could to see. But the corner of the building, with its flaking pink mortar stood in their way as the bells grew louder.

The criers after all were not uncommon. They were seen before, ringing their alarm at the head of a train of a noble family residing outside the capital. Or standing in the squares, at the temple, at the wells shouting out the proclamations, declarations, and news of the day. Their red and orange velvet tunics and their high black boots were no stranger to any of them. Nor were their wide brimmed caps at long illustrious feathers, that shone and shimmered in the sun, colors dancing about like a fairy between emerald green and sapphire blues and light turquoise.

“Soudrei Mon,” cooed one of the youths, his voice cracked by adolescence. He had grown faster than his cloths, and his trouser legs hung far above his ankles, his feet bare. He brushed his long dirty hands across the tight breast of his shirt, pulling at it uncomfortably as he tried to beat the feeling of it choking him. Soon he may have to cut the collar to loosen it, “Who do you think it is they're leading?” he asked, pursing his thick fishy lips.

“A king of kings?” asked a young girl, her long black hair thick with oil and mud as it fell across her graying blue blouse. It was all she had. She too was barefoot.

“There is no such thing.” another child said, “If were, then the king would be no king!”

“Wait, they're coming!” said the young adolescent, and they stood silent hanging onto the railing as the head of the first horse passed the corner of the building. Bedecked in fine white linens, it rose its head proudly as the tassels woven into its mane danced freely. Its clean body shone with a muscular perfection in the sun. On its back was its rider, draped in the pure white lacy mourning cloth. It covered him from head to toe, hanging from the crown of his head and shoulders like the robe of a ghost. His gauntleted hands gripping the mane of the proud pony as it pranced along, oblivious to the meaning of it all, its legs rising high in its jaunty gate.

Following the rider were mote. Knights with white capes and veils over their helmeted heads as they rode in parade. One held a banner, a blue field with a white seal gripping a shield of red with diagonal yellow lines. “Who is that?” asked the young girl, looking up at the youth that stood over her.

He ran his hand through his thick curly dark brown head of hair. “It's the DeMosagnes!” he said, with a snap of his fingers, “The Doms of the south, Vemous and Dermos!” he exclaimed, more happy he could remember.

Making up the rear was a large bear of a man, riding proud and with his head held high. A thick raven's black beard fell down to his chest as his horse slowly trotted by, low and lumbering like the warhorse it was, ready to explode into a charge. “And that is Luise DeMosgane.” the other kids ooed and awed at his shimmering pride.

Following next were a new set. A full family under a green field and a large white bear being struck by an arrow in a red shield. Chief among the entourage was a surly and energetic young man dressed in all white and gold, a silken doublet over his armor with a golden heart. “The Generes,” the youth said in a flash of memory, “And he must be Avmon.”

The same gasps of wonder.

The parade continued, calling out all the nobles of the land as they passed through. Or their honorary delegates. The youth could not name all, but he knew well the families and where to find them. The Chrigones, the rustic men of the hinterlands who lived in marbled hills. The Mamets, poorer still but no less pulling out all the stops they could; they presided over a ruddy province of marsh and timber; Dyon-lun-tombre. The Casiers, Grosgrillards, and the Pochets. The cadets of the royal family; the Peruis-Troubes-Songremon, the Peruis-Samoixgard, the Peruis-Sussard-Alledre, the Peruis-Arlondimousard, and the Casson-Lieugard-Periuis-Siouxlar.

Each name called illicited a gasp of rapt wonder, even as on and off the splendor of the noble houses waned in comparison to the first of them, or the one before. But now and then it would become beautiful again. This though was not a parade to show triumph or celebration, this was not a carnival of devotion or honor and things were muted under the auspicious ghostly whites. But they were not the only high chiefs who rode through the street, foreigners were among them. Men who the youth could not name for himself, but who had a vague notion of kingdom or island he was sure was not part of the kingdom that the others believed was the whole world. Their view, their perspective was so widened at the thought they felt uneasy and shrunken. There was far more beyond the city than just the exciting and rich nobles who had been trickling into the city in the weeks preceding the old king's passing.

“Who are they?” the girl asked, as strangers began to pass before them. The youth could not name them all, and he blundered and mulled intensely to even come up with names. The truth be told, no one had taught him who they were, even by accident. Though the flags and banners of a small number reminded him before they passed.

There were the priestesses of Caetia, and their retinue of knights. Representatives of the monastic order and her community's scattered among small islands. Many of their delegation were women, shrouded in the customary white mourner's garb of the Jeweled coast. Their heads bowed respectfully. He heard among the clatter of hooves and the marching of feet what sounded like a mute prayer. But he did not know the words.

There was too the Rashidun. Many of the guard women, not having to change their outfitting much for it was all still white. Their golden dragon head's banner flying above the delegation as it moved along above sullen horses and stiff riders. The children looked on in awe. Rarely had they seen so clearly their delegation leave their residence in the city.

Hanging out over the rails or under they watched the tail of the procession pass. And with it the guards holding back the throngs departed with them. The street filled back up, sparse as it was, and as the clamor or foot and hoof passed so did the sound of life in the street return.

---

It was late in the afternoon as things drew to a close. Under the sound of chimes and mournful silence the body of the old king, draped in silken white cloth was carefully entered into his tomb in the breast of the old stoney plug that shot out from the surrounding forest. The Cap veRoyelle, the ancient resting place of the old kings. A massive white and black mass of hardened rock crowned with a cap of verdant green yet untouched by the hands of man. But someday, as kings died and died over the centuries mankind would reach those summits as they mined into the rock to build the vaults to store the bodies of the kings for eternity.

They were buried with no treasures, naught but the clothes they wore in death and the makeup they were adorned with to hide their withering flesh. They might go in with a sword, as did Leon Peruis the Gentile on that day.

As the doorway was sealed with rock and cement, the royal delegation turned down the side of the cap and back the way they came. Priests to the Great Mother holding aloft a large bell which rang with a slow solemn chime as they went. The sides of the mountain were packed with all the men of the realm, and perhaps many of the world. The sea of banners a gulf of colors from red to blue to white and green. As the soon-to-be-King Maximilian trudged down the mossy steps of the great cap, following the priests of the Mother and their bell, the mourners walked and followed, falling in a train as they had come to the horses at the base of the silver butte.

They rode through the forest that surrounded the butte, along cobble stone roads. The hooves of horses tapped against the mossy stones as sun light through the tended branches dropped clean pure ribbons of light against the ground. This was a royal forest, tended throughout the years. More of a garden than a hunting ground, the floor for miles around kept clear by the arduous work of wardens. Sometimes with ax, sometimes with blade, other times with fire to drive away the unwanted growth of shrubs; clearing the ground for delicate blades of grass and vibrant flowers.

Through the wooded hills they rose up a gentle bank and the smell of grapes and citrus was swept fresh and sweet on the light breeze as they came out to look out across orchards of sun-bright oranges and vineyards of blood red grapes. The air was thick with the aroma as men and women went about their works in the great royal fields. Much of what would be drunk later, would be vintage and produce from these plantations.

The walls of Jamais rested in the distance, buttressed by great red bastions and the great fang of the castle mount. A splendid sight in better times as the light gray smoke of a thousand houses rose into the air behind the great walls of the city. But dour and anxious Maximilian looked upon it not with the awe and reverence the sight ought to be; but with the terrible knowledge of a life changed and the weight of it all hanging from his heart strings. How ever would he survive it?

As they trotted up again through the city, reaching the gates of the castle and beyond, he did not feel warmly attracted to the great red palace that was to be his home; was once his home. There was a looming sense of dread as it rose above him, proud and indomitable with all the strength of its garrison out on display on the ramparts. The towering blood red shields of the guard held up and out in salute, the white mourning capes having been cast aside for the bright blue of regular dress. This moment was not one for sadness, but one for joy and pride! But he did not feel it.

As he was taken up to the front portal of the castle, the delegation from home and abroad were taken around back. Maximilian tried to keep face as he walked up the high steps to the doors and through, but he was trapped in a feeling of not being up to task. His body was tense, and as the doors slammed shut he felt his body drop further than he believed he had been holding himself.

Almarando was there.

“How was the ride?” he asked friendly enough.

Maximilian looked up at him and away. “It was fine.” he answered, his voice hollow and weak.

The steward looked worried. Waving at the servants who had gathered he began ushering the young soon-to-be-king through the great foyer. Their footsteps echoing in the great vaulted room. The walls were dominated by twisting pillars, supporting balconies and walkways along its course. It rose a full two and a half floors above them, its great fresco ceiling dark in the faint torch and candle light that burned.

“We will have to get you out of the mourner's wear.” Almarando began as they shot up stairs and through halls, “Then in your new court robes. They may be big, new dress will need to be fitted in the coming days. I made a summons for the tailor.” he continued, “We have to be in the back garden soon for the crowning...”

Almarando went on. Maximilian followed. He cast a long weary glance through windows as they passed them and through doors and passages. His mind was adrift, and it all felt like a dream. He was sheparded into a room to the side, where servant women stripped him naked and threw over his body the ceremonial dress. White tufted trousers, with black boots. The tail of a doublet coming down in a half skirt, it was a light sapphire blue. A polished cuirass with a golden knight embossed in the breast went over that. There was a cape too of a deep, almost purple hue. It all felt big, it all felt choking. His head went naked, and his thick curly hair was combed and tamed. It all felt like it went by so fast.

And with the same enthusiasm as he had been ushered in, so too did he go out. He wasn't given time to protest, even if he wanted. But truth be told he was not listening to Almarando. He was too deep in his own thoughts, his anxieties. His heart fluttered in his chest.

He was taken through ball rooms where he had played, kitchens and interior small courtyards where the castle cut itself away for the light to shine down on them. In the rear foyer he felt the pressure in his chest grow, and the guards reaching for the great doors. As they creaked open, and a brass fanfare filled the air he felt the sun burning his flesh, his spirit. An entire sense of self being melted away, and he was frozen by its magical brilliance. In the moment, he felt as a man dispossessed and he lingered in the blinding white brilliance of the new life ahead, and captured by it was compelled to move ahead. Filled by it own wants. Would there be escape?