The breeze carried within it a sweet smell, every breath a new mix of perfume. The horizon was painted in a rainbow of colors, all born of different kinds of flowers. Some could only grow here, their roots imprinted into this soil; others were more common, flowers that could grow even in stables, feeding on horse dung—yet in this valley, they were as beautiful as roses.
The now missing storm came and went. Leaving the ground smelling. Nature true smell.
Dionic's inner thighs ached, his legs shaking every time he shifted his weight in the saddle. The Crowsless King seemed to be in a hurry, and with good reason. If this marriage came true, the countless men and supplies that could be saved might be the difference in taking the great citadel of the Ventre.
"How close do you think we are, my Lord of Castell?" said Sir Jeremy Grandfe, with a crooked smile that never seemed to leave his face, a parasite of the Ivory knights.
"No more than a pair of leagues. If Darkness is good and the storm doesn't come back, we should be there before Soothing Yellow," replied Dionic, trying to sound as friendly as possible.
"Before Soothing Yellow—I like the sound of that. I miss the taste of good wine and the heat of a woman. May your words come true, my lord."
The knight galloped ahead of Dionic, plate clinging and clattering as his courser gained speed.
Now Dionic rode at the back of the few men the Crowsless King had chosen. Only six: one from each of the great four houses, and two of his personal guard. There was a purpose to it, Dionic knew—something more than simple haste or bravado.
Five banners swirled in fury against the wind. The speed at which the horses carried them strengthened the five fields of honor and pride of each house. Two tall crimson spires on a sea of blue marked House Costal, the greatest house of Tricous and renowned in trade. Dionic hated them.
A greatsword thrust into a castle crowned with gold, standing over a valley of green—House Castell. The oldest of houses, once part of an even older legacy, remounting back to Stering, something Dionic took pride in.
A spear held high by a man dressed in farmers' attire, surrounded by Bright Red in defiance—House Dragonsbane. A newer house, yet as prideful as the older ones; a band of lesser men who believed themselves greater than they truly were.
And then there was the banner of the now King of Tricous, in stark contrast to that of Dragonsbane. A large dragon with wings spread as if in flight. From its jaw fell Bright Red, and around it a light gold reminiscent of the sky, overshadowed by onyx scales—House Caeli Incensi. Yet among these great houses, the one that made him shiver was different still: a pale world, and at its center a dark orb, weakened and small—the banner of the Ivory Knights.
Dionic still wondered why the prince had made this brotherhood part of his army. A foolish move, his father had said. The Ivory Knights were a group of men all knighted by Lord Francis of Thunderspark—a lord in name only, with no land—yet one who had somehow managed to seduce the prince.
That single action had made the brotherhood popular among farmers and boys who knew no better. But to the more knowledgeable, they were little more than frauds: believers of the religion of Creation. Few followed it in Raumhant; Stering was where the faith had begun. Those who believed in the Everdark despised them for it—the traitors of Stering who had left their allies unprotected.
And to choose two of them. An unpleasant choice Dionic could not respect, and he hoped Lord Prado would feel the same.
The road felt ominous, and fear rooted itself within Dionic. It must be a knight's duel, he realized. A knight's right. Six men to duel one, to trial his honor and theirs. Who could it be that the prince wanted dead? It mattered not—by the look of things, Dionic would be one of the six regardless.
Dionic struck his mount, speeding up, yet stayed just behind the rest. It's for the best, Orlin muttered. This bunch doesn't trust the likes of me.
It had been a cycle since they had caught Frederick. How it happened, he could not say—everything moved so fast it felt like a tangled cord. Only through his own deductions and theories did he arrive at something more believable than the tale Sir Kareem Costal had been vomiting to the men.
The banner he carried cracked as a powerful gust passed them. The half-wit Frederick had been betrayed by his Ear. Not a true betrayal, though—the little wench never belonged to him. She had been a gift from the Crowsless King, something he never told anyone. Words came and went through that Ear, secrets from Castell, information delicate to their cause.
And only Darkness knew what the prince truly knew—what game he was playing, what he was scheming. Frederick, of course, had been punished, sentenced to death by the High Lords of Tricous—half of them dogs, rabid dogs ready to bite their master.
The prince's words still flowed, carving their path through Dionic's memory.
"I would rather kill a wolf that bites than betray the trust of ten dogs who obey."
And the sword fell.
Dionic had wanted to laugh at that, but his fear had been greater—wondering when his turn would come. Multiple heads had rolled that Light. Whether because he was of the main bloodline or simply lucky, he did not know. Either way, he was thankful to still live.
The seven men stopped beside an old sentinel tree. Its body looked rotten, leaves no longer growing from it, each branch twisted and bent, their bare ends pointing outward. A sinister contrast to the life and beauty surrounding it.
Prince Ezekiel remained seated on his saddle, gazing at the endless sea of color.
"They will meet us here."
The seven of them spent some time resting by the road, talking among themselves—except for Dionic. No one dared speak to a Castell. Dionic had come to like that, though.
He would rather not say something that could get him in trouble. His father had always been a hard man, quick to anger and quicker to hate. The Light Prince Ezekial had killed a number of men from Castell. Furious would be an understatement—if his father could fly, he would have already gone to war, raining chaos like the fighting thunder of songs.
Thankfully, Dionic's uncle, the head of the house, was calm and smarter, and stopped the madness.
And yet Dionic was still left here, planted to witness the prince's campaign of conquest. Three cycles he had spent here—three cycles too long—if not for the cowardly king, fearful to kill his own blood, something relatively normal in Castell.
Dionic saw Sir Alonzo Dragonsbane show Sir Koen of the Ivory Knights a small flame at the tip of his finger. The fire burned mostly orange, but the tip was already yellow. The third fire had started, and soon it would be Soothing Yellow. How much longer must we wait?But Dionic's worries were for naught.
Like a crack in a mirror, the horizon shifted, breaking and tearing. From what looked like inky fog, a gatherzone appeared, banners bared—the Flower of the Dead set at its center, its soft yellow dwarfing the grey around it. House Barone.
Longbows and quarrels, instead of being drawn full of arrows, were adorned with roses, each a different color, bordered by dark purple. House Prado's men marched proudly, heads held high.
And at their front, a full black banner of the Everdark—the symbol of the Church, and the symbol of peace.
Prince Ezekiel galloped forward to receive them, Orlin and the others behind him. The prince had been escorted deep into the host upon their arrival, yet still allowed them through. A few glares were thrown toward Sir Jeremy Grandfe and Sir Koen, dressed in all white. Dionic kept his distance from them.
"Hey, you," he called to a young boy—a squire, most likely, judging by his attire. "Is there a whorehouse in Lord Prado's castle?"
The boy looked around, unsure of what to say, when a man walking nearby answered
instead.
"Aye, there is one—the best whorehouse by the Empty Sea. Pretty, all of them. I wouldn't mind guiding you there, m'lord." The man was long-nosed, missing several teeth.
"You would do that. How much would it cost."
"What m'lord finds generous." The man rubbed his hands together, nails long and dirty.
Marching with the enemy of my enemy, Dionic only hoped these peasant-made whores were as pretty as the man was ugly. Darkness knew he needed a break—and what better way to learn a castle than through its women.
And the smell of the flowers was gone, replaced by that of swety men and horses.