You don’t understand the meaning of a man giving you a clay pot?

The crowd was jovial and so was Allara. It was the first of Daeganum, the first day of the second month of autumn. Daegan XIII had decreed 30 days of celebration throughout the month in honor of his son Caedmyr Daeganus, The Thunderbolt.

The first of Daeganum was also Allara's fifth day as a free woman, a fact she still had a hard time believing. 'You're to be freed. His Highness Prince Caedmyr,' the disjointed phrases rang in her head and gave rise to feelings she still had a hard time understanding. She understood happiness. The rest were confusing.

She fingered the rectangular bronze tag hanging from her neck through her dress, the yellow one Clara had given her. She thought Clara would be honored if she wore it. She couldn't stop fingering the bronze tag. She didn't need to wear it everywhere. No one had even asked her to prove her status but she always wore it anyway. She knew what the bronze tag said. The details were seared on her mind:

W08/1198/308

NAME: ALLARA STEFANUS VINDELER

FATHER: STEFAN VADIMUS VINDELER

BIRTH: 289 RE

BIRTHPLACE: SALANDPORT, CHUMBIA

RESIDENCE: LANDSHIELD, PHARASANDRIA

CLASS: WAR

Sylvia was fingering her own tag under her dress. Allara knew what Sylvia's tag said too.

F08/10704/308

NAME: LYVIA BAKER

FATHER: N/A

BIRTH: 288 RE

BIRTHPLACE: SIIRUCH'S ROOST, RHEXIA

RESIDENCE: LANDSHIELD, PHARASANDRIA

CLASS: FREE

Allara had noticed a problem with her tag the same day she received it. She knew the class hierarchy. Everyone knew: Slave < Freedman < Tradesman < Farmer < Warrior, Priest. Sylvia didn't notice because Sylvia couldn't read. Allara was afraid she was committing class fraud, a serious crime. "Wait here," she had told Sylvia.

Allara showed the priest at the citizen registry her tag. "Mukhlun, there's a problem with my class designation. I am supposed to be a freedwoman."

"There's no problem," the priest replied after checking some records. "We received instructions to enroll you into the warrior class."

"Instructions? Instructions from whom?" Allara asked.

"His Highness Prince Caedmyr."

Allara had spent days puzzling over why he would do that. Even Baenarites born in the lower classes were not promoted to warriors until they completed five years of military service. In between learning the ins and outs of Pharasandria with Corvinia, Allara worried about it. She worried about it when getting assessed by Nicanor, designing her curriculum, reading in Landshield's extensive library, praying, bathing…

"They're coming!" Corvinia, Sir Parnyrl's wife, shouted, interrupting Allara's worries. The advance units of the Khwisakul appeared in the distance to their left marching down the wide Temple Boulevard.

Allara and a handful of Landshield servants had an excellent vantage to observe the parade: the first-floor balcony of a wealthy merchant's house that overlooked The Golden Temple. The merchant was a friend of Sir Parnyrl and had been eager to admit them all onto his currently crowded balcony.

The balconies and roofs of the other surrounding houses were similarly crowded. The merchant's servants served them sweetmeats, meat pies, exotic fruits, and spiced wines. Allara found it graceless to eat the food of a man whose name she didn't even know but ate anyway. She was sure she had heard someone mention it but the merchant had one of those common forgettable names and Allara couldn't say which one it was if her life depended on it. 'And now it's too late to ask,' she thought ruefully.

Sir Parnyl sat with the merchant, the merchant's family, a selection of his neighbors, friends, acquaintances, and some senior members of the Thunderbolt's household on the leftmost edge of the balcony, sipping wine and engaging in what seemed to be a serious discussion. These included Rita, Amran's mother, a woman Allara had been surprised to find out was actually a cook. Allara had thought the squire was some highborn lordling but The Thunderbolt was full of surprises.

Rita's official title was head cook but her power extended far beyond the confines of the kitchen. Sir Parnyrl was the titular Master of Landshield when The Thunderbolt and his wife were away but Allara had found Rita to be the true mistress of the castle. She had been The Thunderbolt's wet nurse and it was whispered that even he never dared cross her.

Fourteen years her husband's junior, Corvinia preferred the company of the younger servants. She stood on the right edge of the balcony alongside Allara, Sylvia, a handful of maids, guards, scribes, and Nicanor.

Landshield had a staff of hundreds but only two dozen were on the balcony. Corvinia's favorites, all of them. Those who fell short of her lofty standards, which appeared to be everyone who wasn't young, pretty, or liked by their masters, had to watch the Kwhisakul from the battlements of the castle back in the Royal Quarter.

The procession that had snaked through the streets of Pharasandria for the better part of the morning finally came into view. They had set off from the Siwanj Aesandrius (Aesandria's Field), the racetrack south of the city, and marched through the lower city, across the bridges spanning the canal into the upper city, and through the royal quarter. The parade would terminate at The Golden Temple in The Gods' Quarter.

The first person to come into view was Amran, flying The Thunderbolt's banner on a 20-foot pike. The banner fluttered in the gentle breeze, a silver thunderbolt on a field of purple. Amran wore a fine suit of plate armor from neck to toe with silver detailing that shone brightly even in the soft autumn sun. A black cloak with a blue stripe down the middle hung from his shoulders. Rita cheered lustily when she spotted her son. The rest of them joined in. Amran smiled, dipped his pike towards them, and continued up the street and onto the temple plaza. Two squires, one carrying the king's banner and the other the Baenarites' banner, flanked him.

Behind Amran came trumpeters in the striped red and black cloaks of the Baenarites. They carried no weapons but polished chainmail glinted from beneath their robes, competing with the blinding shine of their polished brass trumpets. They trumpeted loudly as they turned the corner and marched up the street toward the temple plaza.

This appeared to be a signal. King Daegan emerged from the temple, flanked by Prince Pharas and nine Purple Shields. To loud cheers of "Long Live The King!" from the gathered crowd.

On the king's head was The Purple Hat. The Purple Hat was no hat. Even calling it a crown would be an understatement. A name for whatever it was hadn't been invented yet. It was a flaming column of purple, red, and golden flames that rose over a foot above King Daegan's head. The Subaephyr's very head appeared to be on fire but Daegan XIII looked unbothered.

A rebel king at the beginning of the Lost Millenium had attempted to crown himself Subaephyr with the Purple Hat with disastrous consequences. The crown scorched him into a cinder block measuring six inches across.

With The Purple Hat on his head, Daegan The Good wasn't an old man anymore but a god among men. Everyone in the square, on the temple plaza, and on the street dropped to one knee. Tens of thousands of people went down at the same time. Allara didn't know when she got down to one knee or even when she made the decision to do so. She just found herself there. It was as if an external force was controlling her body.

King Daegan raised his hand and they all rose as one. Once again, Allara didn't feel the motion, she just found herself doing so.

The Purple Hat was so bright that it outshone the dim autumn sun obscured by clouds in the sky, making it look like a flailing candle. The flames twisted and turned, ever-shifting, never still, and seemingly growing brighter by the second. It bathed the entire area around Aemlilon's temple in brilliant light. The golden dome above the king caught the light and reflected it even more brilliantly.

Allara finally understood what the phrase "Light of The Purple Hat'' actually meant. There were tales of kings illuminating battlefields with the Purple Hat at night. Pharas The Builder used it to illuminate the Wasp's Waist during the digging of the canal so that the laborers could work through the night. After crushing and beheading one of his rebellious vassal kings in battle, Baenar The Beheader crowned a defiant prince with The Purple Hat to see if he had what it took to be a Subaephyr. The young man was turned to ash in minutes. Only a man with the blood of Aemlilon in his veins could wear The Purple Hat.

Behind the king and his heir came the rest of the royal family: his wife Queen Diopetha, his mother, the shriveled century-old Dowager Queen Xaena, the visibly pregnant Princess Caecilia, wife of Prince Pharas, the unmarried and reportedly wilful Princess Aemilia, and the King of Kings' elder brother Baeon Pharasus, formerly the Subaephyr Baeon VIII, called The Bard.

The appearance of Baeon The Bard caused an excited murmur. He looked suitably eccentric. Unlike the rest of his relatives who were adorned in glittering gems and garments in all colors of the rainbow, the black sheep of the House of The Smith wore a simple shin-length robe as white as his shoulder-length hair and belly-length beard.

Baeon The Bard had reportedly lost his mind when his fleet floundered on the underwater rocks off the coast of Trevantum during a storm and both his sons drowned. He had locked himself inside his palace, refusing to see anyone for years. He ceded the throne to his brother Daegan, who had been ruling the realm throughout the four-year period of the king's isolation.

Daegan The Good had ruled for the past 31 years. Baeon the Bard took to composing ballads, traveling the A Hundred Realms in disguise, and singing sorrowful ballads in taverns and on street corners. The retired king's secret came to light after he was beaten senseless by a rowdy crowd at Makan Ridge, a small town 200 miles south of Pharasandria.

The crowd had been incensed by an old man with his hair and beard dyed blue telling them they were illiterate hillbillies who were too stupid to appreciate his profound music when they booed him off the stage. As they jeered, the old man turned, lowered his multicolored trousers, and flashed them his bare behind. The crowd went wild. They pelted him with their ale horns and boots. Someone found a crate of rotting cabbages and Baeon The Bard ended up half-buried under them.

When the identity of the bard in question was revealed a day later, the entire town of 3,000 emptied out overnight. The townspeople only returned to their homes when King Daegan announced a blanket pardon. Mournful hymns became markedly popular in the A Hundred Realms following the incident at Makan Ridge.

Seemingly aware of the crowd's thoughts on him, Baeon The Bard smiled and pumped a fist to loud cheers. Trumpets blew and a convoy of wagons rolled up Temple boulevard. On the wagons were mounted huge oil paintings telling the tale of the northern wars in vivid imagery.

The paintings on the first dozen wagons told the tale of Pharas The Fair's doomed campaign 40 years ago. In a bid to destroy the barbarians once and for all, King Daegan's father had taken 70,000 men across The Drapes and into the wild lands beyond. The campaign was an unmitigated disaster. Most of the army was destroyed and Pharas XII was taken captive, in no small part due to a betrayal by his cousin Tauren IV, King of Trevantum.

The second set of twenty showed wagons told the tale of the recent barbarian invasion, starting with the Night of 300 Poisonings, when barbarian prostitutes wormed their way into the confidence of the garrison at Lion's Maw, a fortress guarding a major mountain pass in The Drapes, then poisoned them all and threw open the gates for their brethren to pour in. This sequence ended with the Battle of Lilaur Gorge, where The Thunderbolt trapped the barbarians with their backs to the canyon and slaughtered them to a man.

The third series of paintings told the tale of the conquest of Trevantum. This started with the Battle of The Causeway of Corpses, where The Thunderbolt filled in Trevantum's canyon with a million barbarian corpses and then used them as a bridge. His army advanced grimly across the causeway in the face of a literal cloud of Trevantene arrows in a scene that looked so vivid that the crowd took to cheering the Baenarites and urging them on even though it was just a painting.

This series of paintings was less bloody than the preceding two. The conquest of Trevantum involved only two battles. King Audemar lost both battles and fled the field each time. These flights were depicted in painstaking detail to taunts of "Audemar the Coward!"

The rest of the paintings showed Trevantene castles and towns surrendering to The Thunderbolt, culminating in the surrender of Audemar II himself. The last painting in this series showed The Thunderbolt pouring the ashes of Tauren IV, King Audemar's grandfather, into a sewer. This was greeted with cathartic roaring and cheering, led by Baeon The Bard.

Behind the propaganda paintings came the spoils of war. The endless herds of cattle, sheep, and horses Allara had seen on her march south were conspicuously absent. Instead, it was the spoils Allara hadn't seen that were on display. Wagons upon wagons upon wagons filled with jeweled swords, gold-plated armor, exquisite goblets, plates, jars, and countless coins of silver and gold. Allara tried to count them all but lost count. The sheer scale of the wealth on display elicited gasps of awe from the crowd.

Behind all these treasures came the idols of the barbarians. Exquisite statues of horses, wolves, bears, snakes, and other animals wrought in gold. Some were made of wood and studded with gems.

Then came the animals. Monstrous bears with fur whiter than Baeon The Bard's hair and claws as black as night snarled from behind iron cages. There were wolves as big as cows, mountain lions, other strange birds, and beasts that Allara couldn't name. She just oohed and ahhed along with everyone else. The most fawned-over animal was a magnificent white hart so gentle and graceful people started singing lullabies to it as a Baenarite marched it up the street.

Finally came the most valuable treasure of all, the body of Pharas XII, called The Fair, King Daegan's father. His embalmed body rested in a shining glass sarcophagus, looking as pristine as if he had died just that morning. It was hard to believe that he had been dead for over twenty years. The sarcophagus was borne on a golden chariot pulled by four stately white horses. A Purple Shield held the reins of the horses. Gregory.

Allara and Nicanor exchanged a look. Then she joined the crowd in singing the Warriors' Dirge:

Paapa Faraasih kakendaa (Father Pharas' taken a walk)

Papa Faraasih kakenda (Father Pharas' taken a walk)

Aah uuh! Kakendaa (Aah uuh! He's walked)

Kakonaa (He's slept)

Kakekendaa (He's walked)

Kapurukha (He's flown)

Kecha koolaa (He's arrived)

Mwiikulu (In heaven)

Kanyola (He's met)

Welemumu (Aemlilon)

Kamuwa (Who's given him)

Esiimbo (A quarterstaff)

Khupa bhikoone (Beat 'em dead)

Bhisienoo (Demons)

Khupa bhikoone (Beat 'em dead)

Bhisienoo (Demons)

Aah uuh! Bhisienoo (Aah uuh! Demons)

Bhisienoo (Demons)

Bhinyangarikaa bhya (Minions of)

Omusiku (Aemousikour)

After the late king came a second golden chariot, this one bearing only one item, the flaming sword Sunsliver which had been lost when Pharas the Fair was taken captive. The sword shone almost as brilliantly as The Purple Hat.

Then came the prisoners of war. Barbarian captives with elongated heads, pale hair, and bushy beards watched in horror as a small army of priests and acolytes built a giant funeral pyre out of the idols of their gods in record time on the temple plaza. The priests broke apart the idols and stacked them so high they had to use a winch to get Pharas The Fair's body onto the top of the pyre.

"They actually look like that!" Corvinia exclaimed. "Bloody demons!" she cursed. Nearly two-thirds of the barbarians had elongated heads. Along with their pale skin, pale hair, and pale eyes, they made for a queer sight. Allara had seen them before but she still found their conical heads deeply disturbing.

"How do they have heads like that?" a stablehand asked. "Are they cursed?"

"No," a scribe answered. "They bind the heads of the children when they're young so they grow up like that with elongated heads. It's a status symbol."

"Bloody barbarians," the stablehand spat.

Behind the barbarians came their four kings. The high king wore a crude crown of gold and golden chains so heavy he only managed to shuffle along. The three lesser kings wore similarly crude crowns of gold and lighter chains of silver. Fifty Baenarites marched behind them, prodding them whenever they stopped moving to ogle at the sights. Allara spotted Hamyr, his arm still in his sling, Daryl, Petron, and half a dozen other familiar faces. She knew Bogdyr wouldn't be allowed to march in the victory parade as he hadn't seen combat but she still looked. He wasn't there.

After the barbarians came King Audemar, in full royal regalia wearing a golden crown studded with the rarest of jewels. The centerpiece of this crown was a gleaming blue sapphire illuminated by its internal light. The Trevantene king sat atop a massive golden throne. The golden throne was mounted on a cart pulled by 64 donkeys with golden bells around their necks and bardings of silk and gold. The sight of donkeys elicited laughter and hoots of derision from the crowd.

Someone started chanting "Donkey King! Donkey King! Donkey King!" and the crowd picked it up. Behind Audemar II was his family and his leading noblemen, all on foot. The Trevantenes were a small group, only a couple of hundred. They were also unshackled, unlike the barbarians. Allara spotted Saurena Treavantbhurg in the procession behind her father. Her face was even more sour than usual. Allara wished she had brought a rotten egg to lob at the princess.

Unlike his daughter, Audemar Trevantbhurg was completely unbothered by the crowd's ridicule. With a front-row seat to the barbarian kings being marched barefoot through the streets and flogged by common soldiers, he must have felt incredibly lucky. He reveled in the chants, raising and lowering his hands like a choir conductor, encouraging the crowd. They chanted even louder in a futile attempt to annoy him.

Chants of "Donkey King!" were soon replaced by those of "Thunderbolt!" as the man of the hour, Caedmyr Daeganus Aemlilonus Rhexbhurg, finally came into view.

The Thunderbolt rode on a golden chariot pulled by four lions with manes as white as snow. Gold dust sparkled in the lions' manes. There were no reins to control the lions. They moved as if by divine command, stalking along the street to gasps of awe and whimpers of fear.

The Thunderbolt wore trousers of a purple so dark it almost looked black. He wore a breastplate of sichumradi over a quilted doublet that matched his trousers. The most striking feature of the breastplate was a thunderbolt wrought out in twinkling purple sapphires that started from the neck, ran for half a foot down his chest, then diverged into two branches with kept splitting and diverging until the thunderbolt tapered out on the edges of the breastplate. The backplate had Siiruch wrought out in gold with rubies setting out his four eyes.

The Thunderbolt's wife, Lady Ermina, an exceedingly beautiful woman with dark eyes and flawless olive skin, rode with him. She wore a sleeveless dress of gleaming scarlet silk that resembled flowing blood. The silk was bordered with gold and embroidered with glittering gemstones around the sleeves, waist, and hem. A string of diamonds adorned her slender neck. Multicolored jewels shone from a tiara in the middle of her waist-length hair which looked like a river of shiny black ink.

She had both her hands wrapped tightly around her husband's left arm. Lady Ermina smiled pleasantly at the crowd and kept glancing at her husband with a look Allara knew well. She was utterly besotted with him.

The Thunderbolt's face was its usual unreadable mask. He waved periodically at the crowd but showed no signs of joy or any other emotion for that matter. He returned some of his wife's affectionate glances but none of the smiles.

The most jovial passengers on the chariot were the two children: Princess Xaena and her cousin, the five-year-old Prince Daegan, son of Prince Pharas. The young prince and princess waved excitedly at the crowd and basked in the adoration with glowing smiles.

As The Thunderbolt came closer, the chanting intensified. Everyone on the balcony chanted lustily, "Thunderbolt! Conqueror! Thunderbolt! Conqueror! Thunderbolt! Conqueror!" His gaze turned to them as the chariot pulled by and he waved. Allara's heart skipped a beat. He had looked directly at her, his mouth twisting into a half-smile. Or so she thought.

"Oh! He smiled at me," half the women on the balcony gushed.

"No. It was me," nearly all the men disputed this. An argument soon broke out on exactly whom the Thunderbolt had smiled at. Then Nicanor asked if he had even smiled in the first place and it became a whole other argument.

Behind The Thunderbolt came his victorious army. Allara heard them before she saw them as the air filled with the sound of 100,000 footfalls. The officers and commanders, on fine horses, came first.

Behind the officers came ranks upon ranks of Baenarites with spears and polished armor glinting as it caught the sun. In their neat marching columns, they were a river of steel stretching out as far as the eye could see. Allara found something oddly hypnotic about their synchronized footfalls. Their arms and feet rose and fell in perfect unison.

As the Baenarites marched, they sang, mostly bawdy circumcision songs, wedding songs, and original off-key verses mocking their commander. On any other day, they would lose their tongues for half the stuff they were singing but mocking commanders was an honored Khwisakul tradition.

It was the one day a common soldier could insult a king and get away with it. On Khwisakuls, The Beheader's soldiers used to call their fearsome leader a one-armed usurper who couldn't wash his own behind and Baenar The Beheader would laugh harder than anyone else.

A few verses mocking The Thunderbolt stuck with Allara:

Hide your daughters

Hide your sisters

Hide the pretty women

Thunderbolt sees them

And he runs. Away!

O' here he comes

A'lion he rides

Ferocious one-eared bastard

He slays a million foes

But still flees from whores

The verses elicited widespread laughter. Even the king smiled. Lady Ermina eyed her husband admiringly and caressed the straight edge of his half-severed left ear. The Thunderbolt was completely unbothered. The Baenarites could observe that the hair on his head was black and get a stronger response.

The Thunderbolt's chariot stopped at the steps of the main shrine. He disembarked with his wife, daughter, and nephew in tow, taking the steps two at a time without giving the grooms struggling to lead away his suddenly-restive lions a second look.

The king embraced his son and then raised Prince Caedmyr's right arm to deafening chants of "Thunderbolt! Thunderbolt! Thunderbolt!" The Thunderbolt greeted all his relatives and then assumed his position on the left-hand side of the king. Prince Pharas held the position of honor on the king's right-hand side. He graciously offered the spot to his brother who in turn declined, kissing the crown prince's hand in token submission. Daegan XIII watched this exchange between his sons with quiet pride.

King Daegan gestured and the chants died down. It got so quiet that Allara could hear the whistling of the wind and the singing of the birds. Archmukhlun Daenis, the high priest of Aemlilon in Pharasandria stepped forward. He had on flowing red robes trimmed with purple. Around his waist was a golden belt. A towering stiff hat crowned his head. On it was a golden sun, the symbol of Aemlilon.

The Archmukhlun led the crowd in a short prayer. Then in complete silence, he walked down the steps, picked up the sword Sunsliver from its chariot receptacle, and marched it back up to the king. King Daegan raised the sword that Aemlilon gifted Bhai Andi to deafening cheers. "So my son can defend himself," the God of War had said.

"Sunsliver is back home," King Daegan said in a loud clear voice when the cheers died down. "A sword like this deserves to be wielded by a proper warrior. Sadly, I'm an old man. I don't expect to see another battlefield before I die. But we have such a man here." He placed an arm on The Thunderbolt's shoulder.

"Caedmyr!" the king roared.

"Thunderbolt! Thunderbolt! Thunderbolt!" the crowd roared back its approval.

"Wield this in my service, son, and I will be the happiest father on Aeduia's great earth," Daegan XIII said as he handed the sword to The Thunderbolt. The king tapped the crown prince's shoulder. "And when your brother ascends to the purple, you will continue doing so."

"I will, father," the Thunderbolt promised. Then he dropped to one knee, tapping the flat of the blade on the feet of both his father and brother. Then The Thunderbolt rose and sheathed the sword. A little light went out of the world.

The king gestured and Archmukhlun Daenis stepped forward once more. The crowd quieted down. "As much as we're here to celebrate," the high priest began in a loud clear voice. "We're also here to release the immortal soul of Pharas Baeonus Aemlilonus Rhexbhurg from its mortal prison. To send him to Mwikul so can join his fathers and feast with Aephyr."

As the high priest spoke, a second priest was raised by a winch to the top of the pyre where he conducted the final rites.

Allara worried about how the late king's soul would be released when his heart had been eaten by the barbarians in a grisly ritual. Nicanor explained that some barbarians ate the hearts of their enemies in order to absorb their strength. Pharas The Fair had lived the final years of his life in captivity. The barbarians had refused all ransom offers from his sons, reportedly preferring to leech his golden blood for their spells. When the captive king finally died, his captors fought a war over who would get to eat his heart.

Allara's worries were addressed when two of the barbarian kings and half a dozen other captives were trotted forward. "These are the men who ate the heart of Pharas Baeonus," Archmukhlun Daenis announced.

"Kill them all! Kill them all! Kill them all!" the crowd roared in anger. Priests tied the eight barbarians to the base of the massive funeral pyre made out of their smashed-up gods. After a short prayer, the pyre was lit. For a while, Allara thought the fire might spread being so close to the temple but the flames pointed straight up, never swaying from side to side.

For over an hour, nobody said a word. It was taboo to speak during a cremation. The only sounds in the air were the screams of the eight barbarians being burned alive but even those soon quieted down. Even the barbarian prisoners were silent. Allara could only see the backs of their heads but she assumed their expressions to be those of impotent anger. Or terror. She couldn't make up her mind.

Priests walked quietly around the pyre for the duration it burned. As the fire burned, additional priests, acolytes, and Baenarites quietly set up massive steel-frame wooden gallows in the temple courtyard among the barbarian prisoners. Allara counted 100.

After an hour, the pyre was reduced from a towering inferno to a pile of glowing red embers. As the fire died down, Daegan XIII gestured. The two surviving barbarian kings were trotted out in front of the other prisoners, unchained, and offered swords. They seem to have been briefed on the custom for they plunged the swords into their hearts without hesitation.

King Daegan gestured again and Baenarites put nooses around the necks of the other barbarian prisoners. The ropes were thrown over the gallows. At this signal, the Baenarites standing shoulder to shoulder in the temple courtyard parted ranks and thousands of volunteers from the crowd charged into the gaps, jostling for the ropes.

"Arrrgh! We're too far!" Corvinia cursed. From the look of things, everyone on the streets below had tried to get in on the action. The Baenarites had to close ranks again, lock shields, and send the disappointed would-be executioners back.

As this happened Allara wondered if the people of Salandport would have been as eager to put her father to death if Smandan Salandbhurg had given him a proper execution, as decreed by The Sitabh.

In the temple plaza, the men and women from the crowd pulled on the ropes on one side and barbarians rose on the other. The barbarians were soon suspended ten feet above the ground, slowly strangling as the volunteers held steady to the ropes. The Thunderbolt beckoned Audemar Trevantbhurg.

With a thousand men twitching and dying above his head, a fearful Audemar II slowly made his way across the temple plaza and up the steps to the king's platform. He knelt, took off his crown, and offered his crown to the King of Kings. Daegan XIII accepted the crown and passed it to his son Pharas.

The captive king took off his royal vestments exposing a simple white tunic beneath. He threw the grand garments down the steps and kissed the Subaephyr's feet.

"Divine Daegan, Son of Aemlilon, Earthly Regent of the Almighty Aephyr, King of Kings, and Lord of all Men," Audemar Trevantbhurg began in a loud clear voice. "I am your noble cousin Audemar. Son of Gaudric. I am descended from the Subaephyr Pharas The Eleventh, through his daughter Vaelaena. You through his son Aevard The Seventh, King of Kings."

The crowd grumbled but remained quiet. King Daegan said nothing. "He's lying," Corvinia whispered. Allara knew he wasn't. Princess Vaelaena, daughter to Pharas The Pious and aunt to King Daegan's father, wed Gaudric II of Trevantum a century ago. It was the couple's grandson, Tauren The Treacherous, who would betray his first cousin once removed, Pharas The Fair, to his barbarian enemies six decades after this marriage. Nicanor explained as much.

"We all know what my grandsire did to your royal father. It does not bear repeating. I also styled myself king in the lands west of the Lilaur Gorge in defiance of your authority as Aephyr's regent of the whole earth. For that, Divine Daegan, I beg for your forgiveness," Audemar II said. Daegan XIII still said nothing.

"I have seen the error of my ways, Divine Daegan. I repent all my treasons. I shed all my pretensions and I renounce all the titles I so foolishly bequeathed upon myself. I present myself to you as no more than all I am: a humble subject of The Purple Hat. As do all the people of Trevantum. They shall forever be your loyal subjects. We bow to the light of The Purple Hat. We wholly and unreservedly submit ourselves to your infallible judgment, Divine Daegan."

"You're forgiven, Audemar, son of Gaudric," the Subaephyr spoke up at last.

"If you will have me, Divine Daegan, me and mine vow to serve you and yours until the end of our days. To submit to your word and your will. To be your sword and your shield. Friends to your friends and foes to your foes. To live and die at your command. To rise and sleep as you will it. To obey you in all matters great and small, temporal and spiritual, in this life and in the next, until you release us from our vows," Audemar Trevantbhurg said the words of the old oath of loyalty.

"I swear by the Almighty Aephyr, guardian of my immortal soul, that I will uphold my oath. I swear by Aeduia and Aembaur, the earth and the sky. I swear Aemlilon and Ameia, the sun and the moon," Audemar Trevantbhurg finished.

"I will have you, Audemar Gaudricus," the King of kings accepted the oath. "Me and mine vow to serve you and yours as loyally as you serve us. You will find our words soft and our will fair. We too shall be your sword and your shield. Your friends will be our friends and your foes shall be ours. You shall live for as long as we can help it and only die when Aephyr wills it. We vow to listen to you on matters great and small, temporal and spiritual, in this life and the next, until you release us from our vows. I swear by the Almighty Aephyr, guardian of my immortal soul, that I will uphold my oath. I swear by Aeduia and Aembaur, the earth and the sky. I swear Aemlilon and Ameia, the sun and the moon."

King Daegan placed a hand on his new vassal's head and intoned. "Rise, Audemar, son of Gaudric. Rise as Audemar Trevantbhurg. Rise a Knight of The Order of The Purple Hat. Rise a deputy of The House of The Smith."

Trevantene noblemen made a similar oath as a group. After the bonding ceremony, King Daegan gave select members of the Trevantene nobility, including Lord Audemar and his son, eight seats in the Conclave of Elders, the assembly that confirmed new kings and advised sitting ones.

Daegan XIII also demoted Trevantum from a kingdom to a province and appointed its deposed king as subrhex of the southeastern province of Volscionu for a three-year term. For any other Bhaandini nobleman, this would be a highly desirable posting but not for Audemar Trevantbhurg. For the former king, this was an exile in everything but name and everyone knew it. His new governorship would put him 2000 miles away from home.

Trevantum's most powerful noblemen were similarly dispersed across the A Hundred Realms. This system was invented by Aevard The Peaceable as an antidote to rebellion. His great-uncle and predecessor, Baenar The Beheader, preferred beheadings.

"We have to go," Corvinia whispered urgently as the king left and a herald began making announcements about arrangements for the feasts the king was throwing for his subjects throughout the city. Allara wouldn't be as lucky. Instead of feasting, she would be serving at one. But the feast was in the throne room so she was excited just to be there. Corvinia had pulled a few strings to get some of them admitted to the royal palace as servers.

It was a long walk to the palace but Allara enjoyed it. She walked with Corvinia and Sylvia, talking inanely. The wealthy, the powerful, and those influential enough to be invited to the palace feast galloped by on fine horses and rolled around in elaborate carriages. So many rich people together looked out of place in the Gods' Quarter, a place more famed for its hordes of barefoot pilgrims, but once they got to the palatial Royal Quarter, the extravagance became just another feature of the landscape.

There were to be feasts in temples all across the city. King Daegan had extended his largesse to everyone, even slaves and foreigners. But the feast to be at was the one in the throne room. The King of Kings would be feting his commanders and the common soldiers who had won medals in the northern wars.

That hadn't stopped non-soldiers from trying to get into the room. Corvinia had told Allara of a merchant prince from across the Khars Sea who had offered her husband 50,000 silver stallions in exchange for an invitation. It was a mind-boggling amount of money. While Allara's new wages were generous, she would still have to save every penny she earned for eleven years just to accumulate that kind of money. The thought of anyone spending that much on a single party invitation struck her as insane.

Sir Parnyrl had refused to sell his invitation out of a combination of honor and fear of The Thunderbolt but as Allara watched the silk-swaddled horses and carriages, she wondered how many of their occupants had bought their invitations from some impoverished nobleman or palace functionary.

Allara walked past Landshield and then on towards a side entrance of the House of Purple. The grand palace had been built on a large cliff overlooking the Sechia Sea. The side entrance she used only led to the kitchen, a large outbuilding of common stone rather than the porphyry used on the rest of the buildings in the palace complex. Allara was surprised to find it was already four hours past noon. This day must be in a hurry to end, she thought.

Allara's assignment turned out to be less pleasurable than she had hoped. Instead of exploring the palace as she had dreamed, she spent the entire time running around with platters of food and jugs of wine and water. The cooks screamed at her and the Baenarites yelled. A half-drunk one even tried to grope her until his colleague pointed out that getting handsy with the king's servants was not a wise idea. The soldier had sobered up instantly.

She didn't get a moment's rest from the time she started. Her feet hurt from all the standing and endless walking between the kitchen and the throne room. The sun had long set but the hallways and courtyards of the palace were so brightly lit by lightning lamps that she had no idea what time it was. There was music and dancing and joyful conversation but Allara found herself far from joyful. She blamed no one but herself. What did you think serving meant? Her inner voice mocked.

Allara had been assigned a table of twenty Baenarites, all common soldiers who had won various medals for bravery. Apart from the groper, they were all pleasant men. She was surprised at how much they ate.

Allara served course after course of oysters, lobster, lampreys, lamb, suckling pig, sweetmeats, pies, and cheeses, clearing the table after every course. She peeled and diced fruits, sliced meats and pies, shelled nuts, poured wine, and served foods that she couldn't even name. They all smelled delicious but she didn't taste a morsel. If anything, she felt full from all the smells swirling around her stomach.

Allara refilled the soldiers' wine cups every other minute and topped up the one-gallon wine jug so many times that she lost count. How can twenty men drink so much wine? Where is it all going? she wondered. Once she stopped worrying about the soldiers' drinking capacity, Allara started envying the merchant who had sold the king all the wine. It was a superb vintage: full-bodied, deep red, shiny, and fragrant. It was the kind of wine her father would reserve for his best customers.

After hours, Allara's Baenarites finally slowed down. They stopped eating and drinking as much. One passed out on the table. Some others went off to dance. The lull allowed Allara to finally survey the room. The throne room was a large circular room. It held the 5,000 Baenarites the king was feting plus several hundred dignitaries with room to spare.

The room was so brightly lit by The Purple Hat that it didn't need any other light source. The circular throne room was crowned by a dome carved out of a single block of porphyry. Allara knew how magnificent it looked from the outside but the interior was far grander. Silver stars mirroring the night sky itself twinkled against a black background. She identified the north star and a few constellations. From the inside, it appeared as if the throne room had no roof. There was just open sky above.

The seating had been segmented at the beginning of the feast but those divisions had faded as the night wore on and people moved about to socialize. The back of the room hosted the men and women who were important enough to be invited but not important enough to be seated near the king. This was the most vibrant area of the room with rowdy singing and scandalous dancing. The guests in this section appeared to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.

The middle of the room, where Allara had been stationed, hosted the very people the feast was about: the heroes of the northern wars. Common Baenarites with striped black and red cloaks, half-drunk and enjoying themselves almost as much as the civilians in the back of the room. These groups mixed freely and the dividing line between the soldiers and the civilians was fading by the minute.

Closer to the front of the room sat Khamsiners (fitymen), commanders of the fifty-man units of the army in their striped red and blue cloaks. These were soberer. Their dancing was energetic but not as scandalous as those of their subordinates and civilians.

Further ahead were the Erobhers (quartermen), commanders of the chirobho (quarters), the 250-man army units. All these men held the rank of knight and wore cloth-of-silver cloaks. Their tables had women and even children. These were soldiers of a high enough rank that they were allowed to bring up to four guests each. Their tables were pleasant, mostly family affairs. They still mingled and seemed to enjoy themselves but kept their dancing dignified

Ahead of the quartermen were the thousandmen in cloth-of-gold cloaks. Further ahead of them, closest to the king, in purple cloaks, were the Lord Commanders, men who held life and death power over each of the 5,000 soldiers in their regiments. Each of the three dozen lord commanders present had a table to himself and his guests but it was the most subdued section of the room. Most of the singing and dancing was done by the children and the younger guests of these commanders.

At the very front of the room was the high table, seating the royal family and a handful of select dignitaries. Purple Shields cordoned it off, filtering guests who wanted to pay their respects. Small Willy, newly elevated to Lord Drapebhurg of Drapes' End sat here. As did Audemar Trevantbhurg and his three children. Besides the royals, Small Willy, and the Trevanbhurgs, Allara didn't recognize any of the other faces on the high table.

Allara focused her gaze on Saurena Trevantbhurg, freshly demoted from princess to lady, deep in conversation with Lothar Vaechbhurg, Queen Diopetha's father. Allara made a rude face at Lady Saurena only for The Thunderbolt's eyes to meet hers across the room, giving her a small fright as she scrambled to avert her gaze and look innocent.

It was only when The Thunderbolt got engrossed in a conversation with one of the high table guests that Allara turned her gaze to that section of the room again. Audemar Trevantbhurg kept throwing worried glances to his right. Allara followed his eyes. She had deliberately avoided looking at that section of the room but she knew what kept Audemar Trevantbhurg so worried even before she saw it: The Amber Throne.

The Amber Throne was perhaps the most fearsome thing in the throne room, second only to The Purple Hat suspended above it. Such a benign name, Allara thought of the throne. Everyone called it the Amber Throne yet what was inside the amber was rarely mentioned. But everyone knew.

The Amber Throne was built by Baenar The Beheader. It was made of amber cubes with sides of two feet. The cubes were stacked to form the throne. Inside each cube was a head. The preserved heads of the kings who had fought Baenar The Beheader, 28 in total. The 29th head belonged to Smandan Salandbhurg, the same man who had proclaimed himself king of Salandria and killed Allara's father.

When Audemar Trevantbhurg died, his would become the 30th head added to the Amber Throne. Or the 31st, depending on whether Theovald Priestbane, the former high king of Khwhefia, died before Lord Audemar. The Beheader would never have bothered to wait for Audemar Trevantbhurg to die of natural causes but Allara still felt sorry for the poor man, his head destined to be frozen in amber and sat upon until the end of time.

The throne made for a fearsome sight, reminding everyone who looked upon it of the power of the King of Kings. It was overpowering. And terrifying. Allara had never felt as small as she did in that moment.

Allara collapsed onto a bench and poured herself a cup of wine. She downed it in one long gulp and poured herself another.

The next thing Allara remembered was Sylvia shaking her awake. A thousand hammers were pounding against the inside of Allara's head, all competing to see which one broke her skull first. She was in her bed at Landshield and her room was flooded with light. The pain made her groan but she wanted to scream.

"Shhhh," Sylvia soothed her. "You drank too much."

"I did?" Allara asked with a blank look. She didn't remember much of anything.

"What time is it?"

"Almost noon."

"Gods!" Allara cursed.

"Wait here," Sylvia said and left. With a hangover so bad that moving felt like a beheading Allara couldn't do anything but wait. Sylvia returned a few minutes later with a smelly concoction in a cup. It tasted even worse than it smelled. Allara tried to spit it out but Sylvia made her swallow every last drop. That took a while but Sylvia was nothing if not tenacious.

Allara's headache started fading almost as soon as she emptied the cup. She shook her head slowly. "What was that?"

"One of Rita's secret concoctions. I don't know what's in it but it works. Almost everybody has had one of these," Sylvia explained.

"How did I get here?" Allara asked.

"We carried you. Corvinia and me. You couldn't walk."

"Was I that drunk?" Allara asked in horror.

Sylvia suppressed a smile. "Yes."

"How much did I have?"

"You shouldn't drink on an empty stomach, didn't anybody teach you that?" Sylvia asked. "You drank four cups of wine, stood up to dance, and collapsed immediately. It doesn't take much to knock you out."

Allara cringed. "Ouch."

"You need to get ready," Sylvia said. "His Highness is expected back any time."

"Expected back for what?"

"The oath, Alla. Did the wine scramble your wits too?"

Of course. The oath. "Why didn't you wake me earlier?" Allara asked accusingly.

"I only just woke up myself," Sylvia said. She didn't look nearly half as bedraggled as Allara felt.

"Did he see us?" Allara asked fearfully. "Did we make fools of ourselves?"

"You didn't have your legs under you long enough to stand straight let alone make a fool of yourself," Sylvia said. "You did laugh a lot on your way home though. What was that all about?"

Allara shrugged. She didn't know either.

"You didn't get in trouble with Rita?" Allara asked Sylvia. Allara didn't have any duties at Landshield yet while Sylvia had to be up at the crack of dawn.

"She can't yell at everybody. Everybody got drunk last night."

Allara smiled. Sylvia helped her out of bed. They went to the bathhouse together. Sylvia told her Rita had dismissed her for the day. In the bathhouse, there was a smattering of women lounging around the pools in various states of undress.

Allara liked the bathhouse. Besides the library, the bathhouse was the one place Allara had spent the most time in. The pools were large enough to swim in and the water was always warm. She and Sylvia started in the steam room. Allara felt herself getting more refreshed as the sweat poured out of her skin. Sylvia told her the highlights from the previous night that she had missed.

From the steam room, they took a leisurely swim in the large warm pool. These days Allara didn't bathe as much as she swam. She swam until her fingers got pruney before leaving the water. By the time she and Sylvia got to the servant's dining hall adjoining the kitchen, the lunch crowd had cleared out. They were maybe two dozen men and women scattered on the benches. Allara and Sylvia said their hellos and went to find what there was to eat.

Lunch was bread served with a creamy fragrant soup. The bread was a luscious brown on the outside and a soft white on the inside. The feeling of bread tearing quietly instead of cracking like rotted wood still discomfited Allara. It felt wrong. She knew it was insane but she used a little too much force to tear her bread and was always startled when there was no sound.

The mushroom soup was so thick it was almost solid, a far cry from the brownish-grayish tepid water that passed for soup at The Roost. Allara sighed with pleasure as some spice she couldn't name tickled her tongue. She had to give it to Rita. The woman had to be the goddess of cooks. Must be why The Thunderbolt has kept her for this long.

By the standards of The Roost, Landshield was heaven on earth. Ordinary daily food at Landshield was better than feast day food at The Roost. Freedom felt good but the food was even better. Being a tutor with no student, Allara had spent the past week in the library, the bathhouse, the dining hall, and the markets of Pharasandria. The past five days had been the happiest and most leisurely of her life. The only dark spots were the times she ran into Nicanor.

As they ate Allara and Sylvia reflected on how much their lives had changed in the space of a month. She had her own room, even larger than the one had back home in Salandport. There was enough space for a bed, table chair, dresser, and even bookshelves. Her window opened into a vibrant garden. Sylvia had the room next to her.

Sylvia was just as deliriously happy as Allara was. Sylvia had been born at The Roost and spent her entire life there. "This must be heaven," Sylvia had kept saying ever since they got to Pharasandria.

A young man, a gangly scribe named Melyrn interrupted them. Melyrn had the pasty complexion and weak physique shared by many of The Thunderbolt's scribes. Melyrn's fingers and clothes were uncharacteristically unstained by ink. He had a nervous smile on his face. Allara liked him. He had been very helpful to her, recommending the most entertaining books in the library and which scribes had the best handwriting. In his hands, Patryrn held a clay pot by two handles around its neck.

It was a medium-sized pot, capable of holding maybe a gallon of water. Beautiful figurines carved into the clay decorated the body of the pot. Melyrn seemed to be struggling for words but his intentions were clear. The clay pot was an embodiment of all the gods: made with earth and water, dried in cool air, and hardened with fire. There was only one reason for a man to offer a woman a clay pot.

Allara had never been attracted to Melyrn but she couldn't help feeling flattered. She smiled encouragingly, unsure of what to do or say. 'Maybe it can work,' she thought.

All the people in the hall turned to look at them. Finally, Melyrn stuttered the ancient words, "Will… Will you cook for me… " After a small pause, he added, "Lyvia?"

Allara felt a sting of envy. She had thought he was asking her. Melyrn had never even talked to Sylvia. The smile slowly faded from Allara's face. She hadn't been interested but not being asked stung. It wounded her pride and made her want to find a corner and hide.

Beside Allara, Sylvia sputtered and food came flying out of her mouth. "I… I… " Sylvia stumbled over her words.

"Where are the new servants?" a guardsman burst into the dining hall and broke the tension. Allara and Sylvia raised their hands.

"You're keeping His Highness waiting. Hurry!" the guardsman barked. Allara and Sylvia ran out, leaving Melyrn's question unanswered.

The Thunderbolt stood in the central courtyard of Landshield. Around him were a smattering of servants and strangers, numbering around fifty. Allara and Sylvia were the last to arrive and received some unfriendly looks from the others.

There were scribes, maids, stablehands, one of Sir Parnyl's assistants, and Marlon The Merciful. Allara was surprised to see the charioteer. There had been a rumor that The Thunderbolt had hired a new chariot driver for his racing team but nobody knew who. There were some three dozen strange men that Allara hadn't seen before.

The Thunderbolt was flanked by Sir Parnyrl leaning on a crutch, and Mukhlun Gregory. The Purple Shield barely spared Allara a second look. Behind the Thunderbolt was his wife, Small Willy, a strange purple-eyed woman Allara had seen at the king's table the night before, and Hamyr, out of his Baenarite cloak and dressed in the livery of The Thunderbolt's household guard. Hamyr's hand was still in a sling.

"That's all of them, Your Highness," Sir Parnyly said after Allara and Sylvia arrived. The Thunderbolt gestured and they all knelt, reciting in unison the old words they had memorized:

If you will have me, Caedmyr Daeganus,

I vow to serve you and yours until the end of my days

To submit to your word and your will

To be your sword and your shield

Friend to your friends and foe to your foes

To live and die at your command

To rise and sleep as you will it

To obey you in all matters

Great and small

Temporal and spiritual

In this life and in the next

Until you release me from my vows

I swear by the Almighty Aephyr,

Guardian of my immortal soul,

That I will uphold my oath.

I swear by Aeduia and Aembaur,

The earth and the sky.

I swear Aemlilon and Ameia,

The sun and the moon

"I will have you," The Thunderbolt accepted the oath. He recited the old response:

Me and mine vow to serve you and yours

as loyally as you serve us.

You will find our words soft and our will fair

We too shall be your sword and your shield

Your friends will be our friends

And your foes shall be ours

You shall live as long as we can help it

And only die when Aephyr wills it.

We vow to listen to you on matters great and small,

Temporal and spiritual

In this life and the next

Until you release us from our vows

I swear by the Almighty Aephyr,

guardian of my immortal soul,

that I will uphold my oath.

I swear by Aeduia and Aembaur,

The earth and the sky.

I swear Aemlilon and Ameia,

The sun and the moon.

With the oath complete, Mukhlun Gregory wrote it down on a sheet of paper. They all pricked their index fingers and one by one dabbed a little droplet of blood onto the paper. Red dots soon lined up in neat rows. When the servants were done, The Thunderbolt pricked his finger, dabbed it on the paper, and when he raised it, there was a glimmering golden dot in a sea of red. Him of the blood of gold.

The servants exchanged knowing looks. Allara had heard all about golden blood but had never seen it until then. The other servants were just as mesmerized, eyeing their master with fresh eyes filled with awe. Lady Ermina and Small Willy both left red dots. The purple-eyed woman was the last one to dot the paper. She left behind a second golden dot. She received curious looks and heads swung between her and The Thunderbolt trying to find similarities.

After she dotted the paper, the purple-eyed woman stepped back into Small Willy's outstretched arms. She was pretty tall for a woman but only reached the giant's armpits. She looked up at Small Willy and smiled. It was a smile Allara knew well. A smile she had smiled herself. A smile full of promise and love and tenderness. But it made Allara sad. The men she had smiled it at hadn't loved it as much as Small Willy loved his wife. In fact, they hadn't loved her at all.

Allara thought of Nicanor with mounting rage as she watched Mukhlun Gregory burn the sheet of paper with all their blood droplets on a silver plate. He mixed the ashes of the paper in a jug of water, consecrated it, cupped his hand, poured some of the water onto it, and took a sip.

The warrior-priest then passed the jug to The Thunderbolt who did the same thing: cupping his hand, pouring a little water into it, and taking a sip. Lady Ermina similarly took a sip. Small Willy and his wife took a single sip. Both of them drank out of his massive cupped hand, smiling sheepishly at each other while Lady Ermina watched with plain envy as she threw suggestive glances at her own husband. The Thunderbolt only had disgust for the couple, a feeling Allara shared with him. How dare they flaunt their happiness in front of them?

After the masters the servants took their sips one by one, making the oath binding. Allara felt a profound sense of purpose after she drank the sacred Kamech K'khwichubh (oathing water). I am The Thunderbolt's woman now, she thought.

The Thunderbolt pointed at half a dozen of the strangers and Allara. "You, you, you, you, you, you, and you. See me in my study after this."

Allara felt a familiar apprehension as she followed the half dozen men to The Thunderbolt's study. She dreaded her new master. She could stand him in crowds just fine. Up close and alone, the fear came unbidden. Her stomach tightened, her heart thudded, and her ears buzzed.

Allara fidgeted with herself, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she waited anxiously outside the study. One man after another went in and out of the study. She kept watching the carved oak door. As the numbers dwindled, the apprehension mounted. Finally, there was only her.

"Allara Stefanus," the last of the men called as he exited. "He's waiting for you."

She slowly shuffled forward, knocking timidly, and only letting herself in when she heard the command to enter. She closed the door slowly, not daring to bang it. The Thunderbolt sat behind a massive semi-circular table of gleaming ebony. The semi-circular tabletop rested on a pair of intricately carved wings. The legs of the table were shaped like those of an eagle, complete with curling talons and alternating scales of silver and gold.

As Allara entered, The Thunderbolt stood. There were less than five people in the whole world Caedmyr Daeganus Aemlilonus Rhexbhurg was expected to stand up for when they entered a room. Allara wasn't one of them. The vein in her neck throbbed like it was about to burst.

"How do you like Pharasandria?" The Thunderbolt asked.

"I… I like it very much, Your Highness," Allara answered, confused by the small talk. She stopped a few feet from him.

"I'm very glad to hear it," he said. He didn't look glad. He looked terrifying. His face was a granite mask, his purple gaze unflinching. Allara felt those eyes bore through her. "Um…" The Thunderbolt paused, showing the first hint of uncertainty ever since Allara had known him. His gaze momentarily dropped to his feet but he straightened himself quickly.

The Thunderbolt cleared his throat and coughed. "I did have another motive for bringing you down here, Allara Stefanus," he finally said.

Allara looked up, directly into his face for the first time. Half terrified, half-curious, her heart throbbing so hard she could hear the blood in her ears. She just looked at him, not trusting herself to say anything.

"I have something for you," he said and reached for something behind his desk. When he turned back around, he had an ornate porcelain pot in his hand, decorated with silver carvings of birds. It was a toy pot. It fit in the palm of his hand. He held it out.

Allara took it slowly, taking care not to drop it. "You… Your Highness… I… I … don't understand," she stammered.

"What don't you understand?"

She held up the small pot in response.

"You don't understand the meaning of a man giving you a clay pot?" he asked.

"I do," Allara answered timidly.

"Then what do you say?" The Thunderbolt looked directly into her eyes and Allara's knees buckled. Suddenly, she couldn't look away.

Allara didn't know what to do. Her heart was beating so hard that she could feel her body vibrating. Her arms were shaking uncontrollably. She feared she would drop the pot. She knelt at his feet and bowed. "I am ever your loyal servant, Your Highness. Your wish is my command," she said with as much courage as she could muster while trying to stop her teeth from rattling. It felt like the correct response.

"Get up!" he ordered with an edge in his voice. Allara hesitated. "GET UP!" he roared.

Allara stumbled to her feet, too frightened to even worry about what she had done wrong.

"Go," The Thunderbolt said. It was a simple word but it felt like a slap. Allara obeyed, practically sprinting away.