Prologue
Ice, jagged rock, untamed wilderness: the savage, beautiful features of a savage, beautiful land. A sky pregnant with grey clouds births a flurry of snowflakes that fall upon three hooded heads. The faces beneath bear lines prematurely carved by the blade of hardship, and which have now deepened with familial worry.
A tanned, calloused hand sweeps a hood back and its owner gazes skyward. These icy, bold firs, while not unlike those of her island home in appearance, she concedes, so lack the essence as to not bear any resemblance to them at all. These trees appear almost beastly: looming overhead with their needly appendages reaching out like thieves, and she frowns. The woman bows her head once more and tugs her cloak more securely around herself: more for comfort than to keep out the chill, to which her heritage and upbringing have assured she has a natural resistance. The icy flakes drifting from above rouses an even deeper homesickness within her for that lonely weather-beaten island a lifetime away.
But they have successfully crossed the border, however illegally, having picked their way through the mountains separating the two provinces several hours before. And that should be all that is important at this very moment in time, for the sooner they find him, dead or alive, the sooner they can leave this unfamiliar, unforgiving place behind.
The Breton man leading the trio seems to sense the grief pooling within the bellies of his companions, and he suddenly gestures about as if to distract them from their shared despair by silently introducing them to their ancestral homeland. The very implication makes the woman's stomach churn, and a glance toward her grimacing kinsman tells her the feeling is mutual.
She does not like this place, ancestors be damned. She does not like the way the rocks seem to have a demonic bite taken from them, how the trees loom like overseers, with those greedy, outstretched arms that seem so desperate to reach out and grab them...
They hear voices and halt their march within a clearing. Footsteps crunch in the snow, whispers carry among the rocks on either side. A man in a blue tunic darts past them, and then the greedy hands in question shoot forward and grasp the woman by her cloak. She is torn from her horse, hitting the cold, hard ground with enough force to knock the breath out of her lungs. An Imperial soldier manhandles her to her knees as she gasps for air, using her momentary disorientation to bind her hands in front of her. She calls out to her companions: Hargar, Mael. Her kinsman is in a similar position, with a blackened eye to show for his own struggle, and Mael has managed to elude capture and is rounding the area on his steed. Panic lines his face, and he makes eye contact with his companions in a silent plea for an impromptu plan. The woman shakes her head, and she is wrenched to her feet and led to a cart at the edge of the clearing.
"Mael," she cries. "Mael, go ahead! Find what you can about what's happened. Find Melbrigda!"
Mael opens his mouth to respond, but there are soldiers making their way towards him. With a final glance back at his captured companions, he rears his horse and darts away into the snowy mist.
They are thrown into a cart with three other captives. The woman locks eyes with Hargar beside her, who shakes his head. Something tells her that they aren't going to be able to talk their way out of this one.