"Twenty thousand?" Marlboro Viscenti asked Bishop Braumin. The two of them stood at Palmaris' southern wall, looking out over the farmlands and the many campfires that had sprung up this night, the fires of King Aydrian's army.

"Perhaps," Braumin replied, as if it did not matter. Indeed, the numbers seemed hardly to matter, for the bishop had taken Jilseponie's advice and had built a soft wall of resistance. Most of Palmaris' garrison was gone now, along with a large percentage of St. Precious' hundred brothers, slipping out to the north in the hopes of catching up to Prince Midalis as he executed his inevitable march out of Vanguard.

What a difficult decision that had been for Braumin! To surrender Palmaris, with hardly a fight.

He looked around inside the city walls, to see the bustle of preparations. He had given the remaining residents the option of joining in the resistance to the new king and his march, or of simply hiding in their homes, with no repercussion and no recriminations. He was surprised at how many had chosen the way of resistance.

Surprised, and a bit saddened, for he knew that the armies of Ursal would run them over.

Led in spirit and resolve by the five thousand Behrenese of Palmaris -  most of whom had come to the city only recently, in the years since the plague - the remaining citizens had decided to lock the gates and offer no hospitality to this usurper named Aydrian. The depth of their commitment to stand beside the line of Ursal and the Abellican Church of Bishop Braumin made Braumin wonder if he had chosen correctly in sending nearly a thousand warriors away.

Or perhaps he should have sent all the soldiers away, and all the citizens who would join them, as well. Leave Palmaris deserted before the advance of the usurper and the wretched De'Unnero! The bishop chuckled at the impracticality of it all. The fall would soon enough come on in full, and winter arrived early in those areas north of Palmaris, the only escape route from the advance of Aydrian. If Braumin had led the folk of Palmaris into self-imposed exile, he would have been sentencing a good number of them - the majority, even - to certain starvation and death from exposure on the harsh road. And those who did get to Prince Midalis would hardly have bolstered the prince's cause, but would have dragged him down beneath their dependent weight.

So a partial withdrawal and a partial defense.

For Braumin, there would be no withdrawal. He meant to fight Aydrian -  or more pointedly, fight De'Unnero - to the bitter end. Before sunset, word had come that the Ursal fleet was shadowing the army up the Masur Delaval, and would likely seal off the river before the morning.

"You need to leave once more," Braumin said to Viscenti.

The skinny man turned sharply toward him. "I stand with you!" he insisted.

"You stand as witness," Braumin corrected. "From across the river. You will bear witness of the fate of Palmaris and St. Precious to our brethren in St.-Mere-Abelle."

Viscenti seemed to be trembling more than usual. "That is the duty of Bishop Braumin. You, and not lowly Master Viscenti, can go to St.-Mere- Abelle and force Father Abbot Bou-raiy to strong action against De'Unnero."

"Father Abbot Bou-raiy will need little prodding in that direction,"

Braumin assured his friend. "My duty is here, to the people of Palmaris."

"Palmaris will not stand long against King Aydrian."

"But Bishop Braumin will hold true to the end," Braumin explained. "I will serve as a symbol of hope and defiance for the common folk of Palmaris, and for my brethren as they prepare for the long struggle against Marcalo De'Unnero. As Master Jojonah led the way for us, so I shall take up that beacon and help to guide our people through the long night of Aydrian."

Viscenti shook his head through every word of the dark and prophetic speech. Jojonah was a martyr, having been burned at the stake by Father Abbot Markwart. The image of Jojonah had indeed led the way for many of the younger brothers of the Abellican Church: the way to Avelyn, the way to the Miracle of Aida.

But that didn't change the fact that Jojonah was dead.

"You go and I will stay," Viscenti insisted.

Braumin turned his gaze over the man, the bishop looking every bit of his fifty years. "I am not just the abbot of St. Precious," he quietly and calmly explained. "I am the bishop of Palmaris. As such, I have sworn my loyalty to Father Abbot Bou-raiy and to King Danube and Queen Jilseponie.

And mostly, to the common folk of Palmaris, Abellican, and Chezru. I am staying, Master Viscenti, and I am ordering you across the river, this night, before the fleet can close the way. You will bear witness to the fall of Palmaris, the fall of St. Precious, and the fall of Bishop Braumin. You will go to St.-Mere-Abelle and tell them, and you will hold strong the course against Marcalo De'Unnero above all else. There are few I would trust with this most important mission, my friend, my ally. Only because I know that you will carry on do I have the strength within me to do as I know I must do." Viscenti started to argue but Braumin draped his hands over the man's shoulders and held him firm.

"Go," he bade the diminutive master.

Tears welled in Master Marlboro Viscenti's eyes as he crept out the back door of St. Precious soon after, rushing with his escorts to the Palmaris long dock, where a group of Behrenese fishermen were waiting to ferry them across the great river.

As dawn broke across the eastern horizon, the spectacle of the force that had come against Palmaris was revealed to the townsfolk in all its splendid glory. A line of soldiers stretched the length of Palmaris' southern wall and more! Their banners waved in the morning breeze, showing their various legions, or, for the Allhearts, their noble family crests, and one design flew above all others: the bear and tiger rampant, facing each other above a triangular evergreen. How significant that banner seemed to Bishop Braumin, a perversion of Danube's own and the Abellicans' own! Danube had ridden under the bear rampant. The Abellican evergreen flew above the guard towers of St.-Mere-Abelle. Aydrian had taken both as his mantle, and had added the tiger - the tiger for De'Unnero, Braumin understood.

The Allheart Knights centered that line of Kingsmen, in their gleaming magnificent armor, the best in all the world, and astride their solid and unshakable To-gai pinto ponies. And in their center sat the grandest spectacle of all: young King Aydrian in his shining gold-lined armor, sitting astride the legendary Symphony, the horse of Elbryan the Nightbird. That stallion, draped in armor plating and a red-trimmed black blanket, seemed on edge, stomping the ground repeatedly.

Trumpets announced the dawn and the arrival of the young king of Honce- the-Bear.

To Braumin Herde, standing on the parapets near to the city's southern gate, those trumpets heralded naught but doom.

A trio of riders came out from the line, trotting their muscular ponies toward Herde and the southern gate. When they stopped before the gate, the rider in the center took off his great plumed helm and shook out his curly black hair.

"I am Targon Bree Kalas, Duke of Westerhonce, former Baron of Palmaris,"

he announced.

"You are well known to me and to the people of Palmaris," came Braumin's reply, and only then did Kalas seem to take note of the bishop. "Under King Danube, we were allies, Church and State joined in harmony for the good of the folk of Honce-the-Bear."

"Bishop Herde! I bring you greetings and great tidings!" Kalas said with sudden enthusiasm.

"That King Danube is dead," said Braumin.

"Rest his soul, and long live the king!" Duke Kalas responded, and he swept his arm out to the side and behind him, back toward Aydrian.

"Why do you come to the gates of my city with such an army, Duke Kalas?"

Braumin Herde asked, his tone suddenly a bit more demanding.

"We are the escort of the new king, the rightful king by Danube's own proclamation on that day when he wed Jilseponie," the duke explained.

"Behold Aydrian, the son of Elbryan, the son of Jilseponie! Behold Aydrian, the king of Honce-the-Bear!"

Braumin Herde glanced up and down the line at the puzzled expressions worn by the defenders of Palmaris. This was a bit much to ask of them, the bishop felt at that moment. Kalas was speaking truthfully, and yet Braumin was asking the folk of Palmaris to deny this heir of their two greatest heroes. And that, on top of asking these folk, these brave folk, to stand strong against a trained and outfitted army without the bulk of their own garrison to support them.

And yet, here they were, shoulder to shoulder, manning every spot on the wall.

"Tell me, Duke Kalas," Bishop Braumin began slowly and deliberately, "what words from Prince Midalis on the ascension of this new king? From obscurity has he risen, a name that few north of Ursal had ever heard mentioned, I would guess. He is the child of Jilseponie and Elbryan, and yet, Jilseponie had no idea that he existed before the fall of King Danube."

"Then we should be glad that God has given us this gift that is Aydrian,"

Duke Kalas replied. "To lead us through the dark times."

"And upon whose wisdom does this young king rely?" asked the bishop. "On yours, of course, and rightly so. And pray tell us, who else? Who is it that sits astride his horse right behind the young king?"

Even from this distance, Braumin Herde could see Duke Kalas' face grow very tight.

"Might it be Marcalo De'Unnero, Duke Kalas?" Braumin Herde pressed, slamming home the critical point to the assembled Palmaris folk, and indeed, he heard De'Unnero's cursed name being whispered up and down the wall. "The same De'Unnero who once ruled Palmaris? The same tyrant who terrorized the folk of Palmaris in the name of Father Abbot Markwart?"

Those questions brought murmurs and shouts of discontent all along the city wall.

"King Aydrian's ascent was the doing of King Danube, who in his wisdom - "

Duke Kalas began.

"Who in his ignorance that Jilseponie had ever given birth, errantly referred to a child of his own loins with his new queen, should that event ever come to pass!" Bishop Braumin interrupted. There, he had said it: an outright denial of Aydrian's claim; an obvious, intended resistance to this march of the young would-be king.

Bolstered by his own recognition that now it was out there openly, Braumin Herde plowed ahead. "We of Palmaris will accept the sovereignty of King Aydrian when and only when Prince Midalis of Vanguard offers his blessing. We bid you return to Ursal now, with no threat from us, until such time as Prince Midalis, the brother of King Danube who had long been named as rightful heir, can come south from Pireth Vanguard to place his claim to the throne or to condone the ascent of Aydrian. Only then will we of Palmaris swear fealty to the crown."

"I, we, did not ride here to secure an alliance, Bishop Braumin Herde!"

Duke Kalas roared back. "You..." He swept his arm out dramatically to encompass all of those listening. "You all have sworn fealty to the crown of Honce-the-Bear. We have ridden north in a time of great celebration, in announcement that the crown has passed, in accordance with King Danube Brock Ursal's own wishes and words, to King Aydrian Boudabras. Open wide your gates, Bishop Braumin, and cease your treasonous proclamations. Your king has come to visit!"

"Go home, Duke Kalas," Braumin Herde replied without the slightest hesitation. "We have heard your words, and Aydrian's claim to the throne, and we are not moved. Especially so when we consider the theft of the Abellican Church that is even now commencing."

"Open wide your gates and greet your new king with proper respect," Duke Kalas warned.

"When Prince Midalis arrives, he will be greeted accordingly," Braumin replied.

Duke Kalas stared hard at the man for a long while, then scanned the length of the wall, his eyes narrow and threatening. "Is this the decision of Palmaris, then?" he asked, and his reply came forth as a volley of jeers, telling him to go away.

"So be it," Duke Kalas said to Bishop Braumin. "Do tell your grave- diggers to stock up on extra shovels." He replaced his great plumed helm on his head, then brought his horse about suddenly and galloped back to the Ursal line, the other two Allheart Knights in tow.

"Ye did well," the man standing next to the bishop of Palmaris remarked, and he patted Braumin on the shoulder.

Braumin offered a grateful nod in reply. He wondered, though, if that man would feel the same way when Palmaris' walls came tumbling down.

"Jilseponie is behind this treason," Duke Kalas spat when he returned to his place beside King Aydrian. "You underestimated the power of the witch, and now before us, the gates are closed!"

"Perhaps we should thank her, then," Marcalo De'Unnero remarked, and the duke and the others stared at him curiously.

"If all the kingdom willingly joins with King Aydrian before Prince Midalis can move south out of Vanguard, the war will be over before it ever begins," the duke reasoned. "Better for us all if - "

"Do you so fear a fight?" De'Unnero interrupted, cutting short the man's argument. "Perhaps Palmaris will prove a valuable lesson for the rest of the kingdom. Perhaps it is time that we show the people of the land the price of denying the truth of Aydrian Boudabras."

That brought a few nods from those close enough to hear, and Kalas let go of his argument and turned to Aydrian for his orders.

Aydrian's blue eyes bored into the man, reminding him of his encounter with death, reminding him of his journey to the dark realm, when Aydrian had literally pulled him back to life. Those eyes told Kalas profoundly that this man, and not the pitiful Abellican Church, held the secret to life after death, held the secret to immortality itself.

"March to the wall, Duke Kalas," Aydrian commanded. "If they do not open the gates, we will tear the gates down."

The duke nodded his obedience, then spurred his pinto away, gathering up his commanders, organizing the first charge.

To the side, remaining quiet, but watching intently, Sadye took a good measure of Aydrian. She could see the strength of the young king. She could see the vision of the man. He was so beyond those around him, De'Unnero included, so enwrapped in a journey of greater glory that he feared nothing at all. Truly, he was king, of Honce-the-Bear and beyond.

Truly, all the world should bow before him, for he was... above them.

Sadye caught herself with a deep breath, hardly believing the thoughts that had flooded through her. She studied Aydrian carefully, his intense blue eyes peeking out from the golden rims of his helm, his blond hair showing all about the edges. She looked at his armor, the most magnificent suit in all the world, and she knew even beyond that, that the man beneath those metal plates was more magnificent still.

She did step back from her own fluttering heart to note something else about young and strong Aydrian though, something that she could not miss in his eyes. A twinge of regret, perhaps? Then the trumpets began to blare, and the thousands of Kingsmen infantry took up their determined march toward the city.

Sadye took up her lute and began to play, a song of battle.

Bishop Braumin watched the approach with a heavy heart. There was no turning back now, no more speeches to give. He had told the people of Palmaris the truth as he had honestly measured it, and they had made their decision to resist this young king. And now the resistance was put right before them.

The soldiers advanced methodically; behind the line, the Allheart Knights, nearly a hundred strong, assembled their ponies in the center of a larger line of cavalry.

A few arrows went out from Palmaris' wall, falling far short of the still-distant force. Bishop Braumin began to call for a halt to the ineffective fire, but changed his mind. They were nervous, he knew.

A few balls of burning pitch soared out from Palmaris' tower catapults, to more effect, but still falling far short of the needed defense to deter such an army as approached.

Braumin turned left and right, scanning the wall. The brothers of St.

Precious who had remained behind had been given specific gemstones and specific tasks in aiding the defense. Braumin had strategically placed them for maximum effect.

To kill as many attackers as possible.

That realization brought with it tremendous guilt and regret, and old Braumin, no stranger to war and conflict, had to work hard to keep the waves of despair away.

The march progressed in orderly fashion, but then the soldiers entered the area close enough for effective fire. Lines of arrows reached out from Palmaris' wall, slashing into the long ranks. The first blood stained the field outside the city that morning, and the first cries of agony rent the air, and tore at Bishop Braumin's heart.

The march broke into a full charge, the Kingsmen roaring out their battle cries and coming on hard. But for all their pomp and presence, for all their glory and military strength, the group that had come to Palmaris was not really prepared to assault a walled city. They had no ladders with them, no ropes with grapnels, no siege towers or battering rams.

They came on, shouting and cheering, and with their armor protecting them, the ranks were hardly thinned when they at last reached the city walls.

But then what? Many spears went up over the walls, and volleys of arrows went at the city's defenders, and many did fall.

But with the support of the magic-wielding monks, the return fire was far more effective, archers leaning over the walls to shoot down into the milling throng.

Kingsmen herded about the strong and fortified city gates, trying to press them open, to no avail! The Allheart charge came on then, and was nothing short of spectacular, the thunder of hooves shaking the ground.

And Braumin's gemstone-wielding monks replied with a barrage of lightning and fire, concentrating on the area about the gates, jolting the soldiers about.

One monk leaped out from the wall, calling the name of Avelyn, and as he landed amidst the throng, he released the power of his gemstone, a ruby, and blasted a fireball in the midst of the attackers, consuming himself and them.

Flaming men ran out of that conflagration, waving their arms and screaming pitifully.

Bishop Braumin turned away and blinked hard against his tears.

From across the field, Aydrian watched the events with growing trepidation. His conscience assailed him, demanding of him that he stop this battle, this march, this war - demanding of him that he find a way of peace.

They are the cattle! Screamed a voice in his head, so suddenly, the same voice that had guided him across the Mirianic to Pimaninicuit to retrieve the gemstones, the same voice that had led his way across Yorkey County to Ursal, the same voice that had shown him the way to destroy King Danube. It was the voice from the mirror, the voice of Oracle, the voice that had shown him the lie of Dasslerond and the promise of his inner strength. They stand before you because they fear you, it told him. They deny the truth of you because they fear the lie that is their ridiculous faith! Aydrian unwittingly argued with that voice, feeling as if he was a second shadow in the same mirror, like one of the two blurry forms that he used to see at Oracle, which were always at odds. One had told him to listen to Dasslerond, to accept the wisdom of the elves as a gift, while the other had denied that course.

That latter voice, the voice that was now talking to him, had brought him so far from Andur'Blough Inninness, and at all but these crucial and painful moments, it seemed to hold Aydrian heart and soul.

But in light of the scene before him, against the assault of gruesome and horrific images, against the cries of pain, Aydrian's other voice could not help but question his course and his desires.

That confusion held him in place for many seconds, and showed no sign of resolution. And then a third voice, a physical voice, entered the conversation suddenly and with surprising clarity and certainty.

"You outshine them," Sadye said to Aydrian, moving her mount right up beside Symphony and putting her hand on his arm. "You are the path to glory and greatness! Let not the cries of the flock deter your course!"

Aydrian looked at her, surprised.

"The people, of Palmaris and of your own army, are already dead!" the woman insisted. "They have been dead for most of their lives, though they simply haven't realized it!"

She held Aydrian's gaze a few moments longer, then nodded toward the city walls and the continuing battle.

Aydrian spurred Symphony to leap ahead. He took up his sword, Tempest, with its set gemstones.

A blue-white glow surrounded rider and horse, and then it, and they, were lost in the sudden, explosive burst of fire. That fiery ball dissipated almost immediately, but the flames did not, and on charged Aydrian and Symphony, rider and horse aflame! Bishop Braumin, along with everyone else, defender and attacker alike, could not ignore the spectacle of the charging Aydrian Boudabras. Braumin wanted to call out for a general focus of the defense against Aydrian, wanted all of his archers and all of the brothers to concentrate their attacks on that single target. If Aydrian fell, would not all of this become moot, after all? Before the bishop could begin that call, and with many arrows already reaching out toward Aydrian, he felt something, a buzzing in his head, something he could only describe as a white noise.

Confused, the bishop took up his graphite, holding it forth and reaching for its powers to loose a lightning blast at Aydrian.

But he couldn't quite get there, couldn't quite find his focus in the stone, against that buzzing white noise.

Braumin opened his eyes to see Aydrian, no longer aflame, astride Symphony behind the main tumult at the gates. The young pretender king held Tempest aloft and seemed deep in concentration.

Braumin understood. In Tempest's hilt was set a sunstone, the stone of antimagic, and Aydrian was using it now to send out the white noise, the antimagic. Braumin had seen such things before, but what stunned him was the realization that Aydrian's antimagic wave had not been targeted at him, but rather, at the length of Palmaris' wall! The young man was denying all magic use by the defenders and was stealing the strongest advantage that he and his brethren held against the armored soldiers of the crown.

"It cannot be," Braumin muttered. He glanced down the line, to note the confusion on the faces of his brethren as they stared at their gemstones as if they had been deceived.

Without the supporting magic, the tide soon turned against the defenders.

The Kingsmen abandoned their tactics of trying to break through the gates, and turned into defensive squares, protecting their archers with their armored bodied and great shields, while those archers increased the barrage against the walls.

The more skilled soldiers, with their stronger bows, began to turn the tide.

And still the antimagic wave held strong. Another brother, apparently misunderstanding, leaped over the wall, ruby in hand, apparently with plans similar to his charred brother. He hit the ground hard, but no fireball erupted from his hand.

He was still working at the gemstone, still trying to bring forth its magic, when the soldiers fell over him and hacked him down.

"It is not possible," Braumin muttered, and he looked from his gem-stones to Aydrian, to the son of Jilseponie. The woman's warning about his strength echoed in Braumin's ears at that desperate moment. Jilseponie had told him that Aydrian's power was beyond him, was beyond them all.

As if recognizing the amazement mounting within Braumin, Aydrian opened his eyes and looked up at the bishop, and even flashed a slight smile.

Then, suddenly, Aydrian started into motion, dropping Tempest in line with the city gates. The white noise disappeared from Braumin's thoughts, but before he could even register that fact, a tremendous blast of lightning exploded from the gleaming shaft of the magnificent elven- forged sword that Aydrian held so deftly, bursting out in a sudden flash to smash against the Palmaris gates.

Metal melted under that searing heat, and supporting stone pillars split apart, and in the flash of an instant, the great city gates were gone, replaced by a pile of smoking rubble.

Braumin's eyes widened in horror.

The Allhearts led the charge into the city.

The defense broke apart, the folk and brothers running for cover.

And in denial of any possible countering strike, the white noise returned.

Bishop Braumin stood in the front gatehouse of St. Precious Abbey, looking out over the main square of the city, now occupied by the army of Ursal. The fighting had gone on, in pockets of resistance, throughout the day and long into the night. But now, the morning after Aydrian's assault, the city was quiet once more.

Braumin could only imagine how many had died out there in the fighting.

He had heard that the Ursal soldiers were offering little quarter to the dark-skinned Behrenese. He felt profound guilt for retreating to his abbey, along with many of the remaining brothers. He should have been out there among the folk, fighting to his last.

No, he shouldn't have, he reminded himself. When the gate had fallen, when the soldiers had charged into the city, the general battle was ended, the outcome a foregone conclusion. If all the folk of the city had taken up arms and charged back at the Allhearts and the Kingsmen, they would have been slaughtered to a man, woman, and child. And so Braumin had called for, and had followed to the letter, the predetermined plan.

The defense of the city was never considered plausible for any length of time, and so the bishop had never called for that. If the wall was taken, so went the order, the people were to flee back to their homes.

The fight had come quickly to St. Precious, as Braumin had known it would. He had hoped that his resistance would be stubborn and very costly to the invaders. He had hoped that he would strike a profound and devastating blow to the ambitions of the young usurper Aydrian.

But now that the soldiers had finally closed about the abbey, now that they were at last within range of Braumin's fury, the white noise had accompanied them, denying the magical response.

And they had come prepared, Braumin saw. They had taken the artillery from Palmaris' wall, dragged it to the corners of the square, and reassembled it over the course of the night.

The bishop winced as the first bombs smashed against St. Precious' wall.

He looked across the square to Aydrian, who stood resolute with Tempest upraised. He looked to Aydrian's side, to Marcalo De'Unnero, who stood calm, staring back at him.

"Braumin has ever been a stubborn one," De'Unnero explained to Ay-drian and Kalas, as the bombardment of St. Precious continued around them. "He will not surrender, and will willingly die for his cause. He was like that when he stood beside Elbryan, your father, against Father Abbot Markwart."

"Is such strength of character not to be commended?" Aydrian asked.

De'Unnero nodded. "Braumin is a fool, and misguided," the monk explained.

"He followed Jojonah and Avelyn and helped to create this ridiculous imposter of a Church."

"Nearly as ridiculous as its imposter predecessor Church," Duke Kalas remarked.

De'Unnero shot him a glower. "The people here believe in Braumin, and deeply," he went on, speaking to Aydrian and trying to keep his gaze away from Kalas. "If we tear down St. Precious and kill him in the process, they will remember, and it will not reflect favorably on the man who would be their king."

"You just said that we could not turn him," Duke Kalas remarked.

De'Unnero had no answer.

But between them, Aydrian merely smiled.

Bishop Braumin felt a sense of relief as he finally managed to loose a bolt of lightning at the attackers sometime later, as the white noise finally diminished somewhat. Apparently, there was a limit to Aydrian's strength and stamina, though that limit seemed far beyond anything any other mortal man or woman had ever achieved! So now the monks could use their magic again. But apparently the attackers had anticipated such a turn, for the square was all but abandoned, and the bombardment continued only from afar, with catapults launching their bombs from behind the cover of adjacent buildings.

Braumin knew that the end was fast approaching. St. Precious was in shambles, with fires burning in several places, and the integrity of the walls and the strong gates seemed in question. And Braumin understood that Aydrian, if he so chose, could smash down those gates as easily as he had breached the city itself.

But he had not, as yet.

Braumin had no answers. Only twenty brothers remained inside the abbey with him, and they had abandoned all futile efforts to bolster the failing defenses or even to put out the fires. They were assembled in the main chapel, praying, and, like Braumin, waiting for the end.

The bishop moved past them, offering reassurances that God was with them, and then continued out of the room to the back side of the abbey.

At the back wall of the abbey, Bishop Braumin looked out over the rolling waters of the Masur Delaval, and across the towering masts of the Palmaris warships that had closed on the docks as Aydrian had taken the wall. His dear friend Viscenti was out there, he knew, looking back at him.

Braumin clutched his soul stone closer and fell into it. He sent his spirit out, rushing across the waters. St. Precious was lost, he knew.

Palmaris had fallen. But there was a lesson here that had to get to St.- Mere-Abelle. There was a measure of Aydrian that would prove invaluable to the brothers who would defend that great abbey, that greatest fortress in all the world, when Aydrian Boudabras at last came against them.

Braumin's spirit did find the weeping master. He went to the man, knowing that he could be no more than a warm feeling to the confused Viscenti.

Markwart had once used the gemstones for actual communication across the miles; Jilseponie could do so, to a degree, as well - but not Braumin. He had never been very powerful with the stones, and so all he could do now was approach Viscenti and concentrate with all his heart and soul on that which he had witnessed, hoping to impart some sense to the master of the power of this enemy Aydrian.

Viscenti reacted to the presence of Braumin by standing up suddenly, his eyes going wide.

Braumin called out to him and focused on those images of Aydrian's exploits.

He held the connection for as long as he could, though he had no idea of how much added information he had offered to Viscenti in the one-way exchange.

A voice broke his concentration.

Braumin turned suddenly, and then nearly fell over, for there before him stood Marcalo De'Unnero, wearing a wry smile, and wearing, as one arm, the limb of a tiger, its end bloody.

"And so we meet yet again, Brother Braumin," De'Unnero said.

"Ever enduring is evil," the bishop replied.

"Ever enduring is your folly," De'Unnero replied with a laugh. "Need I tell you that the king of Honce-the-Bear has seen fit to relieve you of your duties as bishop of Palmaris?"

Braumin started to answer, but truly had no reply, and so he just stood there, shaking his head.

"You know who he is, of course," De'Unnero continued. "You know that Duke Kalas announced him honestly. Jilseponie came through here and told you."

"Told me the truth of this monster, Aydrian," Braumin replied.

"The truth?" De'Unnero mused, and he moved inside the doorway and stepped to the side. "That is a curious term. So many truths are bantered about, are they not? The truth of Markwart. The truth of Avelyn. The truth of Father Abbot Fio Bou-raiy. Abbot Olin might not agree with that last one."

"It is not his place to disagree with the College of Abbots."

"An infallible body indeed," said De'Unnero. "Here is your truth, Brother Braumin. Aydrian, the son of Jilseponie, the son of Elbryan, is king of Honce-the-Bear. The noblemen support him. The army supports him. The Church supports him."

Braumin stared at him doubtfully.

"Oh, not the imposter church of Father Abbot Bou-raiy and misguided Braumin Herde. The real Abellican Church, rising once more from the disaster that was Avelyn. Aydrian is king of Honce-the-Bear. That, Brother Braumin, is the truth."

Braumin steeled his gaze at the hated De'Unnero.

"It is a pity that you cannot see that," De'Unnero went on. "We are enemies only by your choosing."

Braumin nearly choked at that remark.

"I do not hate you, brother, though I know you are misguided," said De'Unnero. "I offer you now a chance to reassess your actions, to see the light of the former and greater Abellican Church."

"Spare me your lies!" Braumin interrupted strongly, and when De'Unnero laughed again, he added, "And your mercy!"

Braumin started forward then to attack the monk, though he knew that De'Unnero would surely and easily dispatch him. He stopped short, though, as another figure entered the room.

"Meet your new king," remarked De'Unnero, who had not even flinched at the charge.

"Greetings, Brother Braumin," said Aydrian. "I have heard so much about you."

"Save your soft words for those who do not understand the truth of Aydrian," Braumin countered as strongly as he could manage, though he was surely shaken by the spectacle of the young king in his shining silver- and-gold armor, at the gemstones glittering across his metal breastplate, at the familiar sword strapped at his hip. "How dare you come here in conquest?"

"How dare you deny me entrance?" Aydrian calmly asked.

"If you are the rightful king, then you have nothing to fear from us, for when Prince Midalis accepts you as such, the people of Palmaris - "

Braumin stopped, unable to breathe, as an invisible hand clamped upon his throat. He could hardly believe the strength of that magical grasp, denying him breath, even lifting him up to his tiptoes.

Braumin surely thought his life would end then and there, but Aydrian's magical hand let him go. He nearly fell over, his hands going to his throat.

"Brother Braumin," Aydrian began, slowly and deliberately, "the people of Palmaris, the people of all Honce-the-Bear, will accept me as their king, or they will be put out. It is that simple."

"Murdered, you mean," Braumin managed to gasp in response.

"A king defends his kingdom," said De'Unnero.

"But you can help to prevent that tragedy," Aydrian said to him. "It need not lead to violence and death."

Braumin looked up at him, the now-former bishop's eyes narrowing. "You wish to manipulate me into approval, in the hopes of securing Palmaris against the doubts that will grow when the rightful king marches south from Vanguard," he reasoned, spitting every word with utter contempt. "I will say nothing to aid the usurper Aydrian!"

Aydrian smiled and looked at De'Unnero, then back at Braumin. His smile only widening, the young king held up a gray stone, the same color as the stone that Braumin held in his hands.

"Or perhaps Bishop Braumin will say whatever Aydrian wants him to say,"

the sinister De'Unnero replied.

PART TWO DARK FINGERS NORTH AND SOUTH That voice was with me on the battlefield, guiding my hand - the same voice that I found in the mirror at Oracle.

I still do not know what it is! The Touel'alfar taught me that humans are not immortal. I am doomed to die, in flesh and in consciousness. I and all akin to me are doomed to nothingness. And yet, at the same time, the Touel'alfar taught me Oracle, that state of meditation where I could find my way in the darkness. At Oracle, I am supposedly guided by my forebears, by Elbryan the Nightbird, my father. But if Elbryan is no more, if his consciousness is gone, rotted with his body, then how do I subsequently contact him? Or do I? Is Oracle, perhaps, merely a place where I can more deeply see that which is in my own mind? This is what I initially believed it to be. Were my instincts correct from the very beginning? There's the confusion, for I know from personal experience that Elbryan's consciousness lives on. When I went to the grave of Elbryan and claimed Tempest and Hawkwing as my own, I reached that spirit and pulled it forth! I nearly pulled it completely from the realm of death, and believe that I could have done so, had I chosen to pursue that course! Is it that the spirit lives on, but is trapped in emptiness unless brought forth by a living person, such as at Oracle or on the cold field that day by Elbryan's grave? Do we become in death huddled and trapped blurs, shadows of what we once were, and wholly dependent upon another conscious, free-acting being to summon the power to temporarily break us out of death's bondage? It is an intriguing thought, for if that is the case, then is there, within the gemstones, a way for me truly to cheat death? To live on beyond the span of Lady Dasslerond's years? To live on forever? Is there, within the gemstones, a way in which I might offer eternal life to those around me? This is what Duke Kalas believes, and it is the only reason he follows me so devoutly. On one level, Kalas knows me as a usurper, as the one who stole the throne from the bloodline of his beloved friend and king. Kalas hates my mother and was no friend to my father - and the duke steadfastly believes - or rather, believed - that the throne of Honce-the-Bear must be reserved for the select few who are properly bred to be king. And yet, he is one whose loyalty I do not doubt, not for one instant. I hold Duke Kalas solidly in my court because he was dead, by my hand, and I gave him back his life! Duke Kalas, who long ago lost faith in the Abellican Church, who long ago lost all of his faith, now sees in me the promise, or at least the hope, of immortality.

He will never go against me.

Can I offer that which he so desires? Am I the way to eternity? I honestly do not know. Twice now I have waged battle with death, and in neither instance was I impressed by the netherworld's grasp on the departed spirit. And there may he something more, something tangible and physical - a joining of mind and body and spirit in a union untouched by pain and age. The shadow in the mirror has hinted of this, has told me quietly that I can achieve such a union through the powers of the hematite and that in that state, I will be beyond the reach of spears and disease and death itself. Perhaps I will find my answers, to my own immortality and to that of those around me. Perhaps I will find my answers, will find all the answers, within the swirl of a soul stone.

It is all too confusing, I fear, and all too distracting. Of one thing I am certain: only the great are remembered. Those people who stand above the populace, those people who stand above the kings, they are the ones spoken of as the years become decades and the decades become centuries.

It is my destiny to rule. I know that. The voice on the field, be it that of Elbryan or one merely expressing that which is in my own thoughts and heart, speaks truly. I prefer that my march be a peaceful one. I do not enjoy the killing. But I know I lead the world to a better place. I know that when Aydrian is king of all mankind, the world will come to realize greater peace and prosperity than ever before. And so the end result is worth the bloodstains of the ignorant. And so those who die in the name of King Aydrian are dying to create a better world.

It is in this knowledge and confidence that I am able to deny the screams of the dying. It is in this sense of destiny that I find my way along the road of life.

There was another voice on the field outside of Palmaris that day. When I hesitated, there was one beside me, reminding me.

Sadye has come to understand my march. Sadye, wise Sadye, knows the profound difference between mortality and immortality, between living and surviving, between invigorating excitement and deathly routine. She fears nothing. She shrinks from no challenge. She engaged Marcalo De'Unnero because he was the weretiger, not in spite of that fact. She exists on the very edge of disaster because she knows that only there can a person be truly alive. She is keeping me there, as well, herding my march along a straight and determined line. She is holding me on a precipice, and the stronger the wind that blows behind us, threatening to blow us over that cliff face, the wider is her smile.

Sadye knows.