II

The Will of God is the cause of things.

–Saint Thomas Aquinas

The Sisters slowly withdrew pale visages as dawn broke in magenta splendour over the low western hills behind Courroi several ninedays later. A light mist crept from cool glades; deep, vibrant hues ascendant belied mid-spring morning chill. In the shallow vale below, the tiny residence offered little to daunt the restless mass of foot- and horsemen cresting the surrounding hills. Less so the two riders at the force's head. One, Henryc LeClerc, Seil de Payens, sat his platemail-barded mount atop one moderate slope, contemplating the apparent inactivity about the square tower and mist-enshrouded precincts.

"It is too quiet," the paladin murmured to his companion. "Surely the king must know we are here, hein – and why? Where could he be?"

Tendrils of early sunlight rose, burnishing metal armour that almost totally encased knight and destrier as the heavy steed shifted its weight, enamelling steel plates and links as if in blood. Like its master, the warhorse evinced disquiet. Yet, also like its owner, its training and experience betrayed no unease to any but the most astute observer – or closest friend.

The stocky dark figure riding a lop-eared mule beside the nobleman returned easily, "'Tis not so especially quiet, Henryc. Nothing to worry about, I am sure." The black-robed priest's own mount, naked but for saddle blanket, wasn't averse to displaying its own unease: it pawed the ground, tossed its head, brayed in short, low coughs. Yet, like his friend of over three ages, Father Lucianus Novum was also a veteran; neither did the hawk nosed Aquileian cleric visibly react as a lifetime's memories all at once played across mind's eye:

It felt always thus, when the breath of the dragon blew hot on one's neck...

Henryc's tonsured, un-helmeted golden head hadn't turned to look at the holy man; neither did the warrior-priest immediately acknowledge his companion's reassurances as gaze continued to rove up and down the length of the platter-shaped valley, trying to discern any sign of activity – or ambush. Twisting in his high-backed, plain saddle, soft metallic clink of steel-on-steel didn't quite muffle the creak of oiled leather. The Knight of the Faith regarded his friend thoughtfully from eyes bluer than the azure displayed in his device: a pennon fluttering above and behind him on the end of a lance borne by a squire, bearing arms of a closed fist holding a Cross of the True Faith; the same insignia decorated surcoat and steed's cruppers. Though the handsome middle-aged man's full lips bore a smile, those eyes revealed troubled thoughts. Canting his head, Henryc ran the mailed tips of gauntleted fingers down each side of his face, over the short, silver-shot golden beard armouring chin and cheeks. Solemn, Gallic-accented voice asked, "What do you think we should do, Sîan?" He used the middle syllables of the priest's full name as a diminutive, derived from the dubhe language of Hibernia.

Though he already had a plan, he'd never felt convinced of his ability to make wise decisions, despite being frequently reassured that he'd never let down his friends or any others who looked to him for leadership. After all these years, he remained diffident – partially because he knew that 'never' was an exaggeration. Mayhap a simple search for consensus determined him to turn to companions for advice – even though following such never sufficed to assuage the guilt that ensued on the occasional, erroneously chosen path. For his mistakes had already cost too many lives...

For that matter, so had his successes.

Lucianus smiled knowingly. "Verily," he suggested, "if I were you, Henryc, I should send a scouting party down there to look over the situation."

Henryc nodded. "That is juste what I was thinking. I believe I will do that, hein?" He smiled, a gesture that almost never failed to disarm, mollify, or appease, depending on the circumstances. Sometimes, as now, it simply brightened the early dawn as if the sun had just risen; even nearing his seventh age of life – sixty-three years – the paladin remained magnetic.

Thus he required few words to dispatch scouts in one direction and a message regarding the enemy's disposition – or lack thereof – to their commanders, who remained behind the advance party with the bulk of the army. Although the Domard de Lorraine and a handful of other higher-ranking nobles ostensibly led this quasi-diplomatic mission to force the King of Franconia to terms, owing to his greater experience – not to mention incontestable leadership skills – all observed a tacit understanding that the Seil de Payens would be their spokesperson. Yet, Henryc's premier duty, at least for the nonce, was to safeguard his charges from any sort of trap; thus, two squads of light cavalry moved in opposite directions, pincering down into the valley to discover and thwart such. For the moment satisfied with his decision, Henryc observed his learned friend as the cleric commenced his supplications.

The Archbishop of the Church of the True Faith at Anvers – a friwic, or free city, on the River Escaut between the semi-independent Seildoms of Arton and Flandres – murmured prayers and made gestures over the moving men. One more time, Henryc wondered what his friend's early life and apprenticeship must have been like to have become the victim of such cruelty as Lucianus obviously had: Both the cleric's hands were aught but malformed lumps of twisted, broken bones and skin, now long healed over but apparently – deceivingly – forevermore useless. The odd, gnarled digit protruded from the fused mass, and Lucianus' wrists were both permanently bent inward, causing deformed members to curl in upon thick forearms and give the impression of a man with two grim, fleshy-barbed hooks in place of hands. Habitually hidden inside folds of voluminous black robes, they returned thence following the cleric's prayers.

Yet, in all the summers upon winters they'd known each other, the darkly handsome, sturdy priest had told Henryc little about the cause of his disfigurement save that it had been 'just punishment' for handling a weapon during his days as an acolyte. Henryc had great difficulty accepting such treatment as any sort of justice, though, for, in addition to the permanent physical scars the treatment had left on his friend, he also knew that the prelate retained a psychological inability to wield any sort of object with the intent of harming another living creature. Whether or not a good or bad side effect was moot, he supposed, but despite the handicap (or mayhap because of it), Lucianus Novum possessed otherwise astonishing proficiency to manipulate objects in general, moreover blessed with a miraculous power to heal almost any living thing, even of the most grievous injuries or afflictions – death included.

Some might interpret the prelate's phobia as squeamishness or even cowardice, but Henryc knew the cleric feared next to nothing; only inadequacy; lived in dread that he should fail in his ministry to the collective souls of the world, betray his calling to the One True God. Withal, to the chevalier, his friend's sense of deficiency appeared wholly unjustified.

Now, however, a look that Henryc could interpret as naught but anxiety, mayhap even a trace of fear, flashed across the heavy-browed features of his confessor, advisor, and oldest friend. The paladin all at once realised that something seemed to have been bothering Lucianus ever since they had been recruited to lead this expedition to King's Court. He searched his mind for a possible explanation for this feeling, but, even as he was unable to determine one, he nonetheless acknowledged its presence.

"Lucianus," he probed, "what trouble you, hein?"

The priest's usual demeanour of calm assurance all at once returned; Lucius' time-and sun-worn face creased into a tanned map of life. "Nothing, Henryc. I am simply worried about the men... What will happen with the king. I do hope he will come to his senses and be reasonable, before..."

Knowing what he meant, Henryc nodded. Over the past few seasons, King Gaiseric had, inexplicably, become more and more tyrannical in his administration of the small realm of Franconia. Although never a particularly wise or able ruler, neither was Gaiseric a despot – up until about two winters ago. Since then, among other things, taxes had steadily risen, serving to push the already impoverished state of Frankish peasant – and not a few nobles – into destitution, or near enow. Repeated pleas for the alleviation of such burdens went unanswered. Indeed, of late no one even managed to see the king, let alone hope for a hearing in a civil dispute or any other matter. Thus had the desperate nobility approached the renowned Seil de Payens with a request to back them at the head of an armed 'escort' as they made their way to Courroi for a personal audience with their sovereign.

If nothing was done, they said, the peasantry would revolt. Henryc, himself a landowner, found this argument believable; although he always strove to be fair, he'd heard rumbles of discontent from his own tenants, for lately he had had little choice but to pass at least part of the new tax burdens onto them as earnings from his long-past adventuring days dissipated like dawn mist.

And if the king would still not hear them out...

Peering through fingers of dispersing vapour twining about his steed, Henryc closed one bright blue eye, peered at nothing with the other whilst the corner of his mouth creased; a mannerism into which he was wont to lapse when faced with uncertainty. "Lucius, pray that it will not come to..."

The priest displayed a confident smile. "It shall not, my friend." Placed a gnarled hand upon the cavalier's steel-jacketed thigh. "I am certain of that. But pray with me nonetheless."

The knight met the steady gaze of his friend. A different kind of guilt roiled inside of him: Many years ago, Henryc had been an acolyte in training for the priesthood himself. Although he had been resolute in his beliefs – even if he did not hold quite as fervent and consuming a faith as did Lucius – he found the prospect of life as a cloistered, or even worldly, cleric unappealing. Thus, Lucius suggested he become a Knight of the Faith.

Both completed their respective apprenticeships simultaneously and chose to go to Outremer, the Holy Land, on what was supposed to have been a noble heryth – a crusade. There, they witnessed such barbarity and deprivation, all in the name of 'faith', that Henryc's religious outlook became more and more cynical – which might explain why he was seldom able to produce even the least sort of arcane miracle, although he should long ago have been able to routinely do so.

Yet, what juddered Henryc's theological tenets to their foundations were the acts of chivalry – infrequent though they may have been – shown to the misguided souls of the Peasants' Crusade (as the first and most miserable effort was known) by the very people whom the Faith branded the enemy: those 'blasphemers and vile heathens', the Saracens. As their prisoner for a brief time, Henryc had even met the Saracen leader, Sul-al-d'hin, and he grudgingly acquired a great respect for the man; he had difficulty reconciling the obvious contradictions evinced in this sworn enemy versus the prevailing attitudes about his people. He just didn't know...

Henryc nodded, tried to match the cleric's self-assured smile. "Bien sûr."

Bowing their heads over the necks of their respective mounts, the two intoned a few words ere a staccato of hoofbeats interrupted them. Henryc's head jerked up to see one of his scouts returning alone.

Alone? Instantly a feeling of dread gripped the seil as the young rider skidded to a halt, mount's breath billowing, steam rising from sweaty horse. Yet the look of fear and horror Henryc expected was nowhere in evidence. Instead, the youth beamed, eagerness mixed with not a small measure of disbelief, as he began to blurt his report.

"Mon Sieur le Seil!" the young man wheezed, speaking Gallic. Turned briefly toward the prelate to acknowledge him in heavily accented Brythonic, "Your... Grace! C'est... c'est impossible... The... the castle... le roi..."

"What is it, lad? Qu'est-ce que ç'est?" Henryc calmed the boy whilst dismissing a further pang of guilt: How can I excuse recruiting children...? "Tell me what is the trouble, hein? Dit moi, what have you found?"

The youth reined in his excitement. "Le roi... The king, Mon Sieur, ees... absente... disparu! There ees... none armée... Le chateau... déserte, les portes... open..." As Lucius handed the boy a waterskin the messenger went on in a confusion of the two languages betwixt draughts, but Henryc's thoughts had already turned.

Incomprehensible that Gaiseric would not react to what amounted to a treasonous force. Yet, the palace deserted? Where could everyone have gone? Why? Not in fear of this small force, surely – but mayhap just so, as armies, friendly or not, large or small, were wont to despoil everything they encountered. Although this one would not, the paladin having his way.

Nonetheless, attempting to make sense of it from up here would be pointless; he had to determine for himself what chanced. Thus, the chevalier left the army and its commanders behind with a suggestion – readily accepted – that he and Lucius investigate with but a skeleton force. Anon, accompanied by a few of his fridegn, or 'free warrior', mercenary countrymen, Henryc and the priest descended the valley's green slopes; rode easily across the fetlock-deep creek at its floor; clopped through the yawning gates of the motte-and-bailey fort. A sense of foreboding intensified. The yard surrounding the small keep – called, somewhat presumptuously, Courroi Castle – true to the scout's report, appeared nearly devoid of life. Aught but a mangy hound, perhaps taking advantage of the little shade afforded beneath a single spindly, denuded apple tree in what promised soon to become a warm day, sprawled near the well. At first, the knight thought the animal dead, till he espied its eyes slit open to lazily regard the passing company ere closing once more. Otherwise, the place appeared as lifeless.

Henryc halted his party before the main entrance located in the base of the castle's fore-building, a two-storey wooden structure housing the entrance vestibule, kitchens, and another all-important well. Four offset towers, one at each corner of the squarish stone edifice, rose three more stories each, or about four-and-a-half rods. The donjon itself showed a sorry state: In many places on walls and battlements, the fine grey stone used to face its basic flint concrete had loosened and fallen out; shutters either missing or hung awkwardly from darkened, high windows; even the front doors gaped wide. Not a breath of life stirred about the place.

Or so it appeared.

The paladin turned to give the order to dismount when suddenly a scream burst from the main doorway, followed by a human form and then another. The next instant saw the warrior-priest dismounted, greatsword swept from scabbard strapped to his saddle and echoed by several others – though they proved unnecessary, at least at first. The first figure, that of a woman – girl, really – barefoot and in a torn and filthy linen shift, plunged shrieking, headlong over the single broad step. Stumbled down the sloping entrance-ramp, fell, scrambled up with a fearful backward look, tore across the short stretch of yard to hurtle into the massive chest of Henryc's heavy destrier. The well-trained animal barely flinched as the girl dropped, dazed, at the beast's huge shaggy hooves.

The second, pursuing figure turned out to be a light horseman of a small Sächsenais fridegn company hired to bolster the Frankish army. The soldier nearly fell, skidding to a halt as he recognised the figure all at once confronting him. Abruptly replacing the flushed, eager look on his face with one of surprise and apprehension, saluted – a fist thumped across leather-encased chest and lowered stiffly to one side – before stranding still. Henryc remained motionless, weapon held two-handed horizontally in front of him. Without adjusting his glare, from the corner of an eye noted Lucius seeing to the fallen girl.

"You!" he spat at the cavalryman, complexion matching the angriest sunset. Vitriol further accented his words. "Wair you nay warn'd there to be nay looting whatsoevair? No mattair what?" Henryc altered the cant of his battlesword; point winked a handsbreadth from the wide-eyed mercenary's throat. "These may not be your people, salaut, but they are mine!" Glared into the sweating, stubbly face of the trembling soldier, the stink of fear and unwashed flesh oozing from the rough leather of the man's kit. Wondering if the fridegn could even comprehend him, switched to near-fluent Teutonic. "Where is your lieutenant, filth? Tell me, before I lose my patience and draw-and-quarter you where you stand!" The mercenary, trembling slightly, to his credit did aught but close eyes in acceptance of the deathblow he evidently expected at any instant.

The paladin felt a hand on his shoulder; ere reflex took over, realised to whom it belonged.

"Henryc," Lucius placated. "No harm was done. Leave him be."

"No harm...? I do not care—I should say, I gave orders!"

"I know, Henryc, but you cannot punish him like this. Place him under arrest. But what is more important is to stop the rest of it."

"The rest...?" Not taking his eyes from the soldier, Henryc realised what his friend suggested: One pillager likely meant more!

Sure enough, a salacious guffaw dropped from a small window high above their heads, another scream – abruptly curtailed – emerging behind it. Henryc, springing from beneath Lucius' deformed hand, knocked the trembling mercenary aside, lumbered in heavy armour through the entrance into the outer vestibule. Requiring almost no time to orient himself in the dim, unfamiliar castle, turned right through an arched doorway, emerging into a circular stairwell. Regularly placed arrow-slits ascending the outside of the stonework admitted weak sunlight at the bottom, widening as the tower rose. Passing the entrance to the ground floor storage areas and dungeons, Henryc, despite their steepness and depth, age and encumbrance, took the smooth, winding stone steps two and three at a time until he reached the first-floor landing.

The body of a soldier clad in the familiar cuir-bouilli leather breastplate of a Teuton fridegn lay in a pool of blood. Henryc stepped over it, sought the source of trouble he knew awaited on the second floor above. Entering the large, rectangular great hall on the third level of the keep, noted the dead fireplace – highly unusual at virtually any time of year. Sufficient bright sunlight crept through high, broken shutters to gather amongst cloying dust, revealing in deep shadow the heavy beamed ceiling bisected by a sturdy stone arch. Did naught, however, to alleviate the interior's chill, nor the close, depressing atmosphere.

Debris littered the rush-strewn stone floor, as did three more corpses; a small, naked one of undetermined sex sprawled grotesquely below the gallery; two more – leather-plated – lay prostrated roughly in the centre of the hall. A few large rats and a feral hound already worried at the bodies as a cat stalked the former through the filth. Above the corpses stood another, live man, holding a bloodied sword. By his kit, Henryc identified a Frankish fridegn lieutenant – injured; blood ran freely down the torn mail of one arm, dripped into the desiccated reeds.

Henryc presented his weapon en garde. The officer did nothing as the seil demanded, jaw clenched, "Are you with me, or against me?"

The wounded soldier blinked, sweat dripping from the nasal of his helm to commingle with the blood in the rushes on the floor. "Mon... Mon Sieur...?"

In his native tongue of Gallic, Henryc warned, "If you have been looting, I will kill you."

The lieutenant dropped his weapon, presented hands, palms out, close to chest, a gesture that could display supplication, surrender, loyalty, or any number of these in consort. Dropping to one knee, spread arms wide, bowed his head. Dispelling any further doubt, avowed, also in Gallic, "I am your liegeman, my lord."

Convinced of the man's obeisance, Henryc canted the broad blade of his espadon, balancing it one-handed over his left shoulder. In two strides, retrieved the lieutenant's sword with the other hand, presented it to him hilt-first; bade the man rise. "What is your name, sieur?"

"Pothiér, Mon Sieur le Seil." The man's accent, Silurian, the northern dialect of the Frankish language, only slightly different from Henryc's own Ripuarian extraction, presented no difficulty. "Lieutenant Gerard Pothiér at your service once more."

"'Once more'? Ah... Oui. Yes, I know you. You were in my service before. On our first expedition to the Emerald Isles."

"Yes, my lord. But, begging your pardon, I was there on the second voyage. I had not the honour of accompanying you and your Band to Hibernia the first time."

Henryc studied the man. A brusque, greying veteran, as far as Henryc could recall Lieutenant Pothiér had been trustworthy. Further, as a Frank and a nationalist (a rare political mindset in any land) his liege felt no surprise that the man took a dim view of the violation of his sovereign's seat of authority – present state notwithstanding. As he turned to the fallen nude body – a boy of barely half an age – in a lighter tone as he examined the injured child, Henryc continued, "Maintenant, what has happened here, Pothiér?"

"Looters, monsieur. The Teuton squad surprised my own. Regrettably, I'm all that is left of either party. I... took the liberty of dismissing these last two foreigners from the Domard's service. I shall accept any punishment monsieur requires for my disgrace..."

Henryc tried not to smile – found it not hard, for the boy had several broken bones at best, doubtless due to a fall from the gallery while trying to evade rapists. Gnarled hands stripped of mailed gauntlets hovered nearly motionless over a bloody piece of bone grotesquely protruding from the child's left elbow as he began to murmur words of supplication.

"If it is true – and I do believe you, Lieutenant – then I am sure there will be no faulting you." Although he had no difficulty picturing recent events, asked, "Withal, tell me what you found here, hein?"

Pothiér described how the youngster – as it turned out, the younger sibling of the girl they first encountered – had indeed fallen from the balcony whilst trying to escape the two soldiers the Silurian officer had just 'dismissed'.

The lieutenant gasped as a pale blue glow limned Henryc's hands and, growing brighter, sizzled quietly with arcane power. Blood retreated from the wound and nearly evaporated from surrounding skin as shattered bone shrank back into flesh; the gruesome wound knitted, skin gradually reacquiring healthy hue whilst the astonished ranker watched. With a tiny flash and a faint snap, the light vanished; no longer any trace of injury save smears of blood.

Sweating copiously and murmuring solemn thanks to his deity, Henryc crossed himself while the soldier knelt in awe, hands hovering over the still form as if hesitant to touch the child. Pulling on his gauntlets, the paladin stood just as Lucius entered the great hall; Henryc beckoned him over. Still seriously hurt, the boy would  not be for long once the cleric began to work more efficacious miracle-magic than the paladin could manage.

"Lieutenant," Henryc addressed the soldier.

Pothiér remained kneeling, gloved fingers of one hand not quite touching the place on the boy's arm where the wound had been even as Lucius worked almost atop him. Glancing from his commander to the unconscious child and back again, slowly rose, crossed himself devoutly, made as if to reach for the seil's hand. Even having accompanied the Band of Nine and surely witnessing it before, such magic seldom became routine; certainly not for the pious, withal.

Henryc reddened, dismissing the homage, stowed his sword in the scabbard slung over his back. Taking the lieutenant's elbow, they withdrew a short distance to let the healer-priest work. Still shaken, Pothiér related to Henryc how they'd found next to no one about the castle, only a few servants and starveling serfs who'd taken refuge from their poor, crowded hovels to claim squatters' rights in the inexplicably abandoned keep.

"If I may say so, Mon Sieur le Seil," Pothiér ventured, gesturing about the dingy interior of Courroi's great hall, "I do not see how men could be moved to sack this unhappy place."

Whilst Henryc voicelessly agreed with him, added aloud how many men craved more than material wealth. Reminded of the wife left behind at his estate in Payens, he suddenly wanted Lianys with him. Soon, though, would be home.

Upon rooting out and questioning several terrified domestics, Henryc discovered that Queen Jeshira had long-since disappeared – lost, and, if the stories were to be believed, no doubt dead after wandering off one day in a supposed state of catatonia. They further gathered that well before that day a castellan had been virtually governing the kingdom, the precise amount of Gaiseric's input during this stewardship uncertain. Strangely, this caretaker, named Hamai, of whom none in the party had heard, also seemed to be missing along with the rest of the royal household.

Most importantly, Where was the king?

A listless former stableboy showed Henryc and Lucius to a tiny, windowless alcove inside a thick wall on the ground floor. Upon a filthy, lice-infested straw pallet lay a nude, gaunt old man, barely recognisable as Gaiseric. The stench of illness, unwashed flesh, and various body excretions created a palpable miasma.

But... This cannot be the king! Outraged, Henryc turned from the noisome place. Leaving Lucius to administer to the obviously sick and likely dying sovereign, he ordered a room in best condition cleaned and aired for their ruler, likewise the rest of the castle, whilst organising a search for this Castellan Hamai and other courtiers. Turning to an idling pair of army officers, instructed that they ask anyone with skills as a carpenter, stonemason, or the like, to report to him immediately for assignments. Both looked askance.

"I do not care what the men think," the chevalier declared, knowing the their minds. "Soldiers or not, they shall do as I say. Tell them they will get full pay – with beute, though there was no battle. But only if they cooperate in seeing this... palace put into some kind of order."

At the promise of 'loot', the captains brightened, saluted, left.

Just then, two more soldiers came by carrying the inert form of Gaiseric. Lucius, sweating, doubtless due to recent magical exertions, accompanied them. Advising the men to proceed upstairs with their patient, the cleric paused before the paladin to ask, "H-Henryc. W-Where do you suppose the boy is?"

The seil remembered there should be a crippled mute boy, the king's surviving son, about whom everyone had heard even before the lad had inexplicably tried to kidnap his newborn brother, the elder prince nearly dying along with his sibling. Yet, Lucius' anxiety seemed... different. To have diverted his thoughts from the dying king... It seemed out of character. Henryc ascribed it to his friend's compassion. "No to worry, Sîan, he will turn up. I have heard he is a strange boy, not right in the head. He is probably—"

"He is not addled!" Lucius shot back. The priest seemed to immediately regret his outburst and apologised. Laying a hand upon the paladin's shoulder, admonished, "But you should not prejudge anyone, Henryc." Smile once more in place while still accompanied by something of a haunted look in dark eyes.

Henryc, rather taken aback at the vehemence of his confessor's protest, wanted to ask what really bothered him, what made him so certain about the missing prince's state of mind, but the priest swept up the stairs after the litter-bearers. So, the chevalier accosted the next officer he saw and ordered another search, this time for a lame, mute princeling.

Not much later Lucius returned, telling Henryc that there was little more he could do: Gaiseric had in fact died some time ago.

The knight peered circumspectly at his friend. "There is no question... that you might...?"

The prelate's eyes widened. "No!" he responded, horrified. "I am not worthy."

"Perhaps not, Sîan," Henryc allowed, familiar with his friend's self-perceived failings. "But the king is most worthy, hein? The life of a kingdom, its people, depends on him. If there is any chance he might be raised—"

"No, Henryc." Lucius' lower lip trembled. "Verily, I f-fear his soul has too long departed withal. I would not be able to recall it should I even deem myself a w-worthy vessel to channel Our Lord's Spirit. What is more, Henryc, he would remain... ill. Like as not unfit to rule, such as he has proven recently – the reason we are here, no? Mayhap even worse."

Henryc doubted his friend's assessment of his own talents, but realised that if the cleric lacked self confidence then such a solemn undertaking had a low chance of success. Elsewise, regarding the state of mind of the king should he be brought back from the dead, ofttimes perfectly healthy souls regardless did not survive the transference, body and mind intact. Thus did bearded chin dip, wide shoulders sag slightly. Responsibility began to weigh upon the paladin. Looking again at the prelate, he murmured, "What am I to do then, Sîan?" This time he truly felt unsure, even as he tried to dismiss the persistent voice in his head emphatically charging him.

King Gaiseric's surviving son – young, physically infirm, probably mentally impaired as well, no matter Lucius' sentiments – would be patently unfit to take over. Moreover, should word drift to the various stuffed breastplates still awaiting word up in the hills, chaos might ensue as each tried to seize power for himself; if not almost immediately, then undoubtedly ere long.

Civil war!

Lucius offered the solution he would not himself admit: "You must take the regency, my friend." Placing a mangled hand on the knight's armoured shoulder, replicated the voice in Henryc's head. "No one else is suited, much less competent. You know as well as I—"

Henryc protested anyway, shrugging from beneath the disfigured hand that only added more weight to his already increasing burden. "I could never do such a thing, Sîan. It... It would be treasonous..." Suddenly fatigued beyond his advancing age, sought a chair or stool in the grimy great hall, found a small bench tipped on its side near one wall, righted it; gingerly, as if afraid it may collapse beneath him, lowered his considerable armoured weight onto it. Unslinging his sword by the baldric, laid it gingerly across his knees. Lucius remained standing.

"You cannot conspire against a dead king," the priest reasoned. "And do you honestly believe that any of those others would make a better ruler?"

Henryc waved a gauntleted hand. "That is not the point, Sîan. Should I simply claim the crown for myself, I would be no better than any other who might try, hein? Withal, I am not the ranking noble of the realm – those would be the Domards de Lorraine or Normandie. And what about the prince, hein?"

Lucius effected a fleeting, pained grimace.

What could be troubling the man...?

The prelate cleared his throat. "You would not be claiming the throne, Henryc, merely the regency. Until... Well, as you have indicated, the boy... the boy is probably unfit to rule, not to mention too young – even if we can f find him." Lucius gulped, swarthiness unusually pale.

Henryc's curiosity grew.

"Nonetheless," his friend went on, "there is a difference: You will have the support. Most of the army is yours, as I am sure you are aware. It has always been so. You need only say the word, or pay them off and—"

"I will not do it!" Henryc's attempt at indignance fell woefully short as the flimsy wooden seat collapsed under him the instant he made to surge to his feet; the knight fell into a steel heap, cloak whipping about to completely envelope his head. Lying amongst the dirty rushes on the floor, he tried to rise but found he was too tired... or too old... Or too something. Unwinding the azure cloak from his face, rumbled, "Well, do not just stand there laughing, you cursed old necromancer! Help me up!"

Lucius made no move to comply. Prevaricated, "I am not laughing. Despite your resemblance to a caparisoned tortoise."

Henryc withdrew a handsbreadth of naked steel from the scabbard he still managed to hold. "Did I ever tell you that I know at least nine ways to skin someone alive?" he enquired, losing most pique to self amusement.

The cleric feigned distress. "Where might you ever have learnt something like that? And with a battlesword?"

"Almost a year captive amongst the Picts can teach you a lot, hein?"

Both half-grins faded as unpleasant memories once again surfaced.

Lucius smiled, offered a warped hand to the cavalier. Henryc, weapon stowed, took a grip on his friend's wrist without flinching or even so much as glancing at it; one became used to cruelty...

Suddenly an emaciated and grimy, nearly naked child hobbled from the far end of the great hall, heading rapidly for the other end; several shouting guardsmen followed apace. Employing a deceptively agile gait without breaking its awkward stride, it glanced up for but an instant at the wide-eyed pair by the wall.

Lucius, emitting a strangled cry, rushed to intercept the boy ere the soldiers could reach him. Wildly flailing arms, legs, teeth assailed the cleric. Henryc all at once felt a palpable heat seeming to emanate from the child, then saw his friend and veteran companion of many years close his eyes, jaw clench; evidently, he fought some sort of battle with the lad other than physical.

Henryc sprang awkwardly to help as did the guards. Yet the intensity of the wasted child's telempathy proved too much; as though they tried to make their way through an invisible inferno. Staggered and nearly helpless, Henryc could but stand and watch as the boy's wild struggles gradually slackened, ceased. The atmosphere of the large room cooled. Lucius' eyes remained closed, lined, dark features sweat-sheened, drawn, as if in great pain. Lips trembled; he seemed to be either praying or incanting a spell – or both. At last the skinny form clutched tightly yet tenderly in the priest's embrace relaxed, went limp. The archbishop straightened, lifted the boy in his arms.

All at once the child leapt from his grasp and limped out of the hall, followed by aught but silence for a few grains, though recapture was pitifully inevitable.

Realising the obvious – that they'd found the pitiful young Prince of Franconia – Henryc observed from inside the main entrance on the ground floor. A wry smile lifted one end of his golden moustache as he imagined Lucius' consternation at the boy's resistance to his magical becalming. Then the paladin's lower jaw sagged, aghast at what he witnessed his friend do next: Lucius released Waryn la Gaiseric. Dumbfounded, the Knight of the Faith and several retainers and soldiers stared as, after a moment's hesitation, as if expecting a trick, Waryn turned, hobbling doubtless as fast as he could through the gates betwixt a few backward glares. Abruptly, a gaunt roan destrier burst from the dilapidated stable whinnying indignantly and galloping after him. The cripple, halting his flight as the warhorse thundered by, swept astride in a movement hard to fathom; both anon lost to dust and groundswell.

Lucius remained on the road as if spiked to it, staring after the prince.

Shocked, and thinking he should yell for his own steed or issue orders for pursuit but unable to articulate words, Henryc made to lumber in the unconventional duo's wake. A mail-clad arm became caught in a strong grip as he passed the boy's erstwhile captor; turning, noted the cleric's dark face ashen. Henryc demanded, haltingly, "What...? Why...? Mais... Sîan, in all the Names of the One True God, qu'avez-vous fait? What have you done?" he repeated in several languages.

Lucius swallowed. "I w-was instructed by God." His dark eyes betrayed unidentifiable emotions. "I shall p‑pray for him."

The surprisingly strong grip on Henryc's arm advised him not to try to reverse the priest's inexplicable decision.

"What? Are you mad? Sîan, he will not survive – he has no chance, alone, crippled and mute. You must let me bring him back!"

"No, Henryc. He will not stay – there is no place for him here."

"What? Where will he go, then, hein?" Repeated, "Are you mad?" Shaking off his friend, Henryc turned toward his own mount. "I will fetch him back."

"Henryc. No." The cleric's face, no longer pale, had hardened. "He has... options... He will not be alone."

"How do you know, Sîan?"

"God told me. It must be so."

Consternation multiplied in the seil's mind, but Henryc had the feeling he did not want to know all the reasons the prelate had seen fit to turn a crippled, half-starved child out into the world; the political ramifications alone began to overwhelm him. Then a twinge of foreboding crept into the pit of his stomach, would not desist.

Turning again to his friend, intoned, "Pray for us all, then, Lucius. Pray for us all."