The Royal Palace, Cria, Galla

Earl Dmitri of Sinjë, unofficial ruler of Galla, moved through the dark halls of the palace, surprisingly silently for a man of his size. A powerfully built warrior, he stood over six feet tall with hair as dark as a raven's wing and eyes the colour of winter skies. He stopped in front of a heavy wooden door and knocked before turning the handle. "Mother?" the tall man called questioningly.

The room he entered was well lit with candles and a fire blazed warmly in the hearth. By it sat a plump, old woman with crinkled blue eyes, wearing a fine green silken dress and warm woollen shawl. Next to her a plainly-dressed maid sat sewing. At the sight of her son she beamed warmly. "Ah, would you give us privacy, my dear?" she asked the girl kindly. The mousy young woman nodded and tucked away her sewing, curtseying to Dmitri without meeting his eyes and thenleaving the room.

When the door closed behind the young woman, the elderly lady's sweet demeanour dropped away instantly like a mask. "Well?" she questioned sharply. "Is it done?"

Dmitri reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden seal, the personal seal of the King. "It was done yesterday evening." The gold glittered in the light and a satisfied glint entered the old woman's eyes.

"And the guards?" she questioned shrewdly.

"The guards?" the man repeated, appearing puzzled.

She stood up smoothly, a movement that seemed too flexible for a woman of her age. Stalking towards him in manner that could only be described as predatory. She glared at him. "There can be no witnesses, you fool!" she hissed.

The tall warrior seemed to shrink under her gaze. "...But Mother!" he protested "...the men are loyal to me, they won't say a word."

Her gnarled fingers plucked the ring from his grasp. "They won't say a word! Not until they have too much ale in their bellies or they blab to a pretty face about how they did away with the mad, old King and his family!" Her voice had risen to a screech and her fingers had curled into a fist around the seal.

Dmitri squirmed uncomfortably where he stood and his mother stalked away, pacing in front of the fire. "I will not have all m- our plans ruined by your...squeamishness. We have come too far to fail now." The tall man opened his mouth to protest but was cowed by a stern glance from his mother. She wheeled around and stood in front of him again. "Have all the guards killed, leave no survivors," she stressed the last three words in a low voice.

"I'll see it is done immediately, Mother" Dmitri promised quickly, hoping to calm her outburst.

The harsh lines in the old woman's face softened slightly and she nodded her approval. "You're a good boy, a fine son, and soon a fine King." Her withered hand pressed the ring into his.

"You will announce the tragic deaths of the King and his family tomorrow. The work of assassins, of course, and in five days you will hold the finest funeral Cria has ever seen. There will be a period of mourning and then you shall assume the throne and bring Galla out of its terrible grief." She fixed him with a triumphant smile.

The Earl of Sinjë nodded obediently. "I shall send the heralds out tomorrow and start preparations immediately." He slid the seal onto his finger and admired it in the candlelight.

"But see that anyone involved is disposed of," she warned. "You will not remain darling of the Gallans for long if they find out your treachery. It'll be straight to traitor's hill with you, boy."

"I'll see it is done Mother, I swear it!" he said hastily, a sheen of sweat glimmering on his forehead.

Walking over to the seat, the plump old woman moved to settle down next to the fire once more. She looked to all appearances like a kindly grandmother. "If you see her, send Anna back please."

In the room next door, the mousy haired maid hurriedly closed the small gap she had made in the wards. Her doe-brown eyes were glazed with horror as she tried to comprehend all that she had just heard. She waited, trembling with fear as the Earl Dmitri footsteps disappeared down the corridor before she walked as calmly as she could to the palace roof.

In the chill moonlight she wrote on creamy parchment with hurried, untidy strokes. From her bodice, she pulled out a small wooden whistle and brought it to her lips. The noise it made was beyond her human hearing, but in the distance a white shape swooped though the night.

The owl perched patiently on the roof whilst the maid tied her coded report around its leg. She shivered slightly at its uncanny behaviour but prayed the gods granted it speed in its flight.

***

Goldenlake Keep, Tortall

It was curiosity more than anything that led Jasson to the sunlit rooms of the hospital wing. His visit to Goldenlake had been decidedly less eventful than he had imagined when he had requested to join Baron George in a desperate attempt to escape the social season. He had been acting as little more than a clerk and errand boy for several weeks.

From the walls of the keep he had seen the Queen's Riders approach and recognised the stretcher between the horses for what it was. Trouble? If that was the case, why hadn't the Riders called for help? He ran a hand through his jet hair, a habit he had picked up when something worried him.

Ducking into a ward he walked over to where an old healer, whose back was bowed with age, was tending to his latest patient. The mage gave Jasson a respectful nod as he approached but did not falter in his work on the girl who lay as if asleep on the bed. The younger man, knowing not to disturb a healer at work, kept silent until the grey blaze of his power retracted back into the healer's palms. "Is she a Rider? What's wrong with her? Can she be healed?" he questioned, flushing slightly when he realised he was acting like an over-eager child.

The healer's face was grim. "She was brought in by the Riders but she's a traveller. She's already been seen to by the Lioness and in truth I can see no medical reason why she should not wake."

Jasson frowned at the prone form of the girl. "Then why is she still unconscious?"

The old man gave the younger one a tired look. "There are times when it is up to them if they ever wake up. I've seen it countless times on those brought from battle, sometimes the world is just too full of dark places for them to bear."

Jasson stared at him stricken touched the girl's hand briefly. "So you won't do anything?"

The aged healer sighed. "I cannot." He gave Jasson a regretful smile. "It is not that I do not care, it is just that there are refugees who need my time a great deal more." He began to gather up his things and put them in the healer's pouch attached to his belt. "Talking to them helps, and if you can dribble some warm milk and honey into their mouths they usually swallow automatically."

"You surely don't expect..."

The mage fixed him with a glance. "I've got patients to see," he said in a firm voice "Patients I know I can help," the healer added and then continued as though he had not been interrupted. "Warm, mind you, not hot. Like a babe's milk, test it on the back of your hand first."

"I..."

The old healer gave Jasson a short bow before hobbling from the sunlit ward, leaving the young man alone and exasperated with his new patient.

"Ah, hello," he murmured as he sat down next to the girl. "I'll be looking after you, I suppose." He glanced at the healer report. "Elena. That's a pretty name."

***

The sun burned low in the sky when Baron George Cooper, stepped into the healing ward in search of his wayward assistant. In the far corner he spotted him sitting beside an occupied cot.

"...I ended up being thrown from my horse. My brother Liam laughed so much he was nearly sick."

"Lad," the spymaster said by way of greeting, pulling up a chair to sit opposite from the sapphire-eyed youngster.

Jasson tried to look apologetic for shirking his duties, but a twinkle in the Baron's eyes showed he didn't believe it for a moment. "Looks like you've got yourself a project," he said nodding to the comatose girl.

"I'm sorry for disappearing on you like that," the young man apologised quickly.

"Sneakin' ain't for most folk. I'm grateful you stuck at it this long, t' be honest." George replied easily. "Me an' Fiona will cope. The Gallans aren't givin' us anything new anyway." There was a slight hint of frustration in his voice.

Jasson breathed a silent sigh of relief; he had been acting as little more than a clerk for weeks. A warm hand settled on his shoulder and he looked up to find the Baron's face closer to his. "Just don't get attached, Lad," he warned Jasson. "I spoke to the healer and he says her chances ain't good."

"I can't just leave her to die," he replied stubbornly. "It isn't right."

George sighed and stood. "Don't stay up too late." He began walking away from the ward.

In a low voice Jasson said, "We'll prove them wrong about you, Elena, I promise."