0x04 - Barriers Breached

"Can I help?"

Balinor looked up from the mess of leaves and branches spread out on the table before him, gesturing her to sit across from him. Hunith picked up an untouched branch and meticulously began shelling it of its leaves, as she had observed him do. He finished the branch he was shelling, then gathered up the stripped branches and cut them into hand span long slips. He gathered these pieces together and tied them into a bundle, while she provided him with more stripped branches to repeat the process over again.

"You made these last Samhain, too," she observed curiously, placing a branch into the pile awaiting bundling. "Only closer to the actual date."

"I lost track of the days and had a late start last year," Balinor replied. "It's best to allow several days for the reeds to dry out. They burn more easily that way."

"Hmm," Hunith murmured, brushing the discarded leaves into a pile with her hands before reaching for another branch. "Did these have a special meaning to your people?"

It hadn't escaped her in the last year that Balinor always used the past tense on the rare occasions he mentioned his "kin", but she did not push for further answers. She would never forget how when she had first arrived back in Ealdor a mix of well-intentioned and entertainment-seeking villagers insisted on prying into all that she'd been through since they last saw her. That the recent loss of the couple who had taken her in during the worst period of her young life and raised her as though she were their own daughter was a constant ache like a phantom limb did not seem to occur to any of those wishing to hear the tales of those years of her life. She was eternally grateful to Gaius for getting them to leave her in peace to remember the good in her own time, when the ache had dulled so that the pain of the memories was sweet as well as bitter.

She could now speak of those times with ease, and had told him everything about them. She believed that given time to heal, he would do the same.

"It's an old custom," his voice had that hushed cadence which she loved, like the crackle of hearth fires and legends being sung by a bard. It was when he spoke thus that she remembered the fine cut of his clothes when he first arrived and wondered to herself how anyone could mistake a man like this for nothing more than a simple commoner. "It's said when the veil is at its thinnest on Samhain, the spirits of the departed can see our world as though through a mist from the shores of Avalon. Each of these will carry one candle, and the candles remind our departed loved ones that they are remembered still by those who remain."

The year previous on the night of Samhain Hunith had watched the man she recently discovered she'd come to love slip silently from the village festivities, fetch six odd-looking miniature reed baskets - only big enough to hold a single apple a piece - from their home and wander into the nearby forest. She'd gone home and waited for him until the candle burned low, wondering if she should follow but unable to bring herself to. Samhain was the day of the dead, and that year the number of untimely departed was beyond count. What right had she, who knew not even the names of the victims of the tyrant's perverted revenge, to intrude on such an intensely private moment for one of the surviving wronged? When he at last slipped through her door empty-handed the moon was high up in the sky, and wordlessly they headed to their sleeping rolls.

This year, she had known him more than a few months. Gathering up her courage, she asked the question she hadn't been able to the year before, "Would it be alright if I came along?"

His eyes crinkled with his smile, as the fire light dancing in them warmly. He looked as if he knew how long she had debated with herself over whether that was the right thing to say - her desire to comfort him at war with her desire to not broach potentially painful topics. As the months went on and a year passed since their meeting, the former desire grew stronger and stronger until it overrode the latter. She wanted to help him, even though the cure for a broken heart was beyond her knowledge. She couldn't bare the thought of him facing all the ghosts of the dead alone.

He took her hand, stilling it from the absentminded leaf pealing. The feel of his calloused fingers wrapped around hers still brought warmth to her cheeks. His hand perfectly covered hers like they were meant to be together. "Please."

She returned his smile.

Together, they continued making the reed bundles in the relaxed silence of two people at home with each other.

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Not since she had been a young child impatiently counting the days to festival night had Hunith in the days preceding Samhain been so aware of the coming celebration of the dead. Like a beacon signalling the passing days the bundle of reeds lay against her windowsill, their daily changing state a constant reminder of what was to come. They dried, were dipped in pine tar, dried again, were woven into a dug-out shape, and tarred again. The six baskets sat on her windowsill, waiting for the remaining days to pass.

Her friends in the village were not pleased when she told them she would not be coming to the community bonfire.

"But it would be your first time roasting nuts on the hearth!" Betrys protested each time they saw one another. "And I have a bet with Catrin about the shape of your egg whites!"

Hunith always gave a strained smile, ignoring several more attempts to tempt her with the lures of the night, and replied that she and "Keith" wanted to hold a private ceremony for "cousin Marcus". Her friends were never satisfied with that response, and she thanked her lucky stars they would be too preoccupied on the night itself to bother her. Ever since "Keith" had first arrived Hunith had been subjected to nudges and giggles from her friends, who were all married with children. When she and "Keith" had openly entered a relationship, the attention became smothering. She suspected that it was not pure happiness for a friend that drove them - years away from the romance of courtship themselves, they were living somewhat vivaciously through their one untied down friend in her first love.

Nevertheless, her friends had children to mind and families to be with the night of the festival, so she was confident they would not try to waylay or follow her.

The morning of, Balinor pored a small pool of wax in each basket. She carefully stood a slender white candle in the center of each pool, and then they went about their daily tasks as the wax dried. When the sun dipped below the horizon and the other villagers began to congregate in the street, she and he gathered the baskets and walked out into the growing dark.

The forest of Essetir had been her playplace as a child, but in the falling light the dark shadows seemed sinister, alive even. This was the night the spirits roamed, yet she'd never believed that so fully as she did them, when she walked along a path she could barely see while to all sides of her was the whispering of the bush. A strange animal call from her immediate right startled her, and she jolted away from the foliage.

"Leoht," Balinor whispered, and a tiny flame was cupped in the palm of the hand nearest her. The flickery orange glow did not illuminate much beyond him and her, but just its presence in the hands of her beloved made her feel safe.

The half-moon was peaking over the tree tops when they stopped. The gurgle of water she could hear in front of them was thrown into visible relief by the cupped flame. Judging by the breadth of the stream, it was the River of Essetir, the largest body of water near Ealdor.

Balinor set the baskets he held in the long grass of the bank, and she bent down to do the same. The brittle dying fall grass tickled her cheeks, and all around her - unseen - was a chorus of insects with the occasional bullfrog solo. He laid the baskets out in a circle in front of them, and raising his hands above the middle intoned,

"þrēo biþ ān. Mægþ ond ácennicge ond ealdcw." Like painted by an invisible brush, three symmetrical swirls spun outwards from the central candle of each basket. "Ān béo þrēo." In the free space between each swirl grew an identical design, overlaid with the first so that six swirls grew out from the center.

"The Double Triskelion is the symbol of my kin," he explained softly. "Two peoples connected as one, each composed of three clans."

Placing his hands on one of the baskets, he intoned, "Gewritu Azi," and then moved his hand to the next, continuing and touching each basket one after another, "Gewritu Taninim. Gewritu Luhng. Gewritu Charmicael. Gewritu Menion. Gewritu Numinor."

He removed his hands, and runes encircled the rims of the baskets, different combinations on each one. Hunith could only read common, so not knowing their meanings she could only observe the design itself. The runes were composed entirely of straight lines, no curves to be seen, which bent or met smaller lines to compose shapes that held a simple elegance to them.

"The runes mark the name of each clan," Balinor explained, knowing she couldn't read them. "My people's clans were Charmicael, Menion, and Numinor. My brother kindred's clans were Azi, Taninim, and Luhng. There's one basket for each clan."

He extinguished the flame in his hand and with a whispered word of magic, the candle of the basket closest to the river flickered alight. Balinor held it up to the night sky, "A light for the clan of Charmicael. May it comfort them to know they are not forgotten by those who remain."

Placing the burning basket gently in the water, he removed his hands and let the current take the tiny winking light away. "May it reach from these shores to the shores of Avalon, bringing peace to those whom the veil divides. May this light reach the dearly departed of Charmicael: Allanon, Tarhunt, Hattusa, Hendel, Tyrsis, Dayel, Panamon, Brona, Shirlin, Ari, Atalanta, Moloth, Entia, Rednal, Kirisin, Erisha, Ailie, Simralyn, Arlen, Catalya, Meike, Tragen, Basselin, Frae, Terek, Kael, Tanekil, Evren, Ymugi, and Kylie."

He repeated this ritual with each basket, sending them down the river one by one accompanied by the names of the dead and a prayer for peace. Hunith felt a lump grow in her throat with each name. She'd known that Balinor had lost many loved ones in the Purge, but she hadn't quite grasped just how many until now, crouched by his side in the dark listening to the seemingly endless strings of names which now were nothing but the memories of one man and a tiny candle burning one night a year.

Some of the baskets carried more names, and some less. Some of the names sounded like they belonged in a bard's song rather than as a person's name - majestic, powerful names like "Kilgharrah" or "Nidhoggr" or "Illuyanka". Hunith wondered what the people they had belonged to were like, whether if she'd seen them in person such grand names would have suited their appearance. She tried to imagine them, these people Balinor had loved and lost, but it was like grasping in the dark.

At long last he placed the last basket in the water, concluding his speech with the final list of names, "...Teshub, Fafnir, Zimej, Puruli, Ahi, Vritra, Yggdrasil, Naga, Landvaettur, Yilbegan, Kulshedra, and Ejderha."

As the current carried away the last candle boat as it had the others, he uttered what sounded like a prayer, "Grið fæstne mid þisse tintregian sawle."

They sat their in silence for a moment, watching the small light become progressively smaller, until they couldn't see it in the distance. Hunith reached for Balinor's hand, giving it a comforting squeeze - an insufficient gesture in comparison to the long list of names which together made up around the number of people who lived in Ealdor. Hunith had suffered the loss of her parents - twice, counting her adopted parents as well as her natural - and she couldn't imagine how she could have continued on if it were not just them, but all of Ealdor that was struck down with the plagues which had claimed their lives. What would she have done if she was left truly alone in the world, with everyone she loved dead at the hands of a grief-driven madman?

"Thank you for being here," his low voice broke the stillness of the night. "They would have liked you, if you'd met."

What could she say in response? "I'm sure I would have liked them as well."

He didn't reply for a moment, then said in an unexpectedly wry voice, "You know, you never ask questions. A stranger turns up at your door and you take him in, fabricated life-story notwithstanding. A few months later said stranger makes misshapen reed boats, disappears into the night with them and reappears at an ungodly hour empty-handed with no explanation, and you don't say a word. Even tonight, you never once asked me where we were going or what we would be doing once we got there."

"I find it makes life feel more worth-while to decide to trust in the good intentions of others unless they prove to be unworthy of that trust," Hunith said simply. Sometimes it was harder to keep to that decision - that awful first week of living together came to mind - but if she couldn't help her feelings she could at least help the way she acted on them. "And after all this time I know the kind of man you are. One day, I know you'll tell me everything, when you're ready."

"What if I'm ready now?" he put an arm across her shoulders and pulled her close to him, so that they were leaning against each other on the riverbed. "I've never known anyone like you, Hunith. You're the most selfless, kind person I've ever met. I can't imagine what would have become of me if Gaius had directed me to another's doorstep - I lost everything, but now I have a new life, here with you. It'll never be like the one I lost... but I'm happy, when I didn't think I ever could be again. And all because you shared everything you have with me - your home, your food, even your heart. I want to do the same. No more secrets."

Hunith's heart was beating fast. "So then... questions..." She knew next to nothing about Balinor's past. She knew of the places he'd been, and he'd told her about his parents, but anything more recent or sensitive they hadn't treaded on yet. To her, it was almost as if his life began the day he turned up at her house and gave her a fright. Before then was veiled in a mysterious shroud so heavy she wasn't sure how to begin to lift it. Her mouth felt dry as she admitted, "What if I don't know what to ask?"

"Then I'll begin, and you can ask as I go."

The moon rose high overhead as he told her of dragons and their lords, of soul brothers who could speak without words and call to one another no matter how many leagues lay between them. He spoke in his mesmerizing way that brought life to mere words, and she interrupted only rarely with the briefest of questions. She learned of the decline of a mighty race, brought to the brink of extinction by the ignorance of man, and how their kindred clans strove to garner an understanding between the two people only to be repudiated themselves. She learned at last the reason for his journeys since childhood - his parents had been searching the known world since before he was born to find a place that would accept both the dragonlords and the dragons, only to be disappointed time after time as the fear of the unknown stopped people from welcoming powerful creatures of magic into their midst.

That had been the purpose of his trip to Camelot upon Uther's enthronement, which he vaguely told her about in their earlier days. The eldest member of each of the six clans, which included him since his parents had recently been killed protecting a young dragon from shepherds who believed it to be preying on their flocks, had gone to offer tribute to the new king, hoping to build goodwill with him that might someday bring their people peace.

Of course, all their hopes were to be dashed by the occurrence of the Purge. Due to their social isolation, they'd first heard rumour of the war against magic several months after it began, and immediately the six clans had gathered at the breeding grounds to discuss what they should do. Balinor and the elder of the Taninim clan, Kilgharrah, were sent off to seek news. While they were gone an unimaginable tragedy occurred: a force of Camelot's knights found the breeding grounds through means Balinor was unsure of and slaughtered those who were gathered there, smashing even the unborn eggs in their nests. Only a few older children of the dragonlords were spared, captured and taken to Camelot to be tortured for information.

Balinor and Kilgharrah felt the dying screams and in sorrowful anger threw caution to the wind. Balinor commanded the dragon to stay outside the city, not wanting to involve the townspeople in the conflict. Then he forced his way into the citadel, bursting into Uther's throne room with all obstacles thrown out of the way of his unexpected intrusion. He demanded to know why the had been attacked unprovoked.

The king of Camelot acted shocked, and assured Balinor that his grievances lay with the High Priestess Nimueh and he had given no orders regarding the dragons. He told Balinor his war was solely against those who supported the Priestesshood of the Isle of the Blessed, which had proven itself to be an enemy of Camelot with the assassination of his queen. He said that for the most part rumours of his witch-hunts were exaggerated versions of his hunt for supporters of Nimueh, though it was true that sometimes his men in ignorance of the differing groups among the Old Religion misunderstood his orders as a blanket sentence on all who practiced magic, and that that must have been what happened with the dragons.

As the king pleaded his ignorance and assured Balinor it was all a horrible misunderstanding, that he would punish those responsible and release Balinor's people - who he claimed had been brought to him as supporters of Nimueh - he seemed so sincerely distraught that Balinor believed him. The king asked for Balinor to call the dragon, so he could explain and ask clemency for his people from his rage, begging him to let no more innocent blood be shed in ignorance. He said once the dragon was calmed he would release the captured children of the dragonlords if they swore they would not seek revenge against his people for the grievous wrong that had been done to them. He told Balinor that nothing could make up for what had happened, but they had an obligation to save the living, not seek revenge for the dead.

So Balinor had called the dragon under the cover of night, not wanting to alarm the city with the sight of it, believing he was bringing an end to the bloodshed and earning the release of the captive children. It was not to be, for he had been deceived, and those he hoped to save were killed that night. For his "aid" he was granted one night to make his peace with his death, and would be publicly executed in the morning.

He told her of Gaius's part in his escape, and how he had fled from Camelot with nothing but the vague promise Ealdor offered.

It was a tale of heartbreak and betrayal, culminating in the luring false promises of a dishonest king that brought everything to an end in the most tragic way imaginable. She held him close as he spoke, offering her support in the only way she knew how. Words were too paltry to express her horror and sympathy for what he had been through.

When all had been said and no secret lay between them they did not move, sitting together in the dark listening to the calls of the night intermixed with the hum of the river. The low rush of running water was soothing, like a balm to the hurts of the heart. Her heavy emotions drained from her as though the mere sound washed them away, until all that she could feel was the peace of the night air and the ever steady flow of the river.

Pressed close as they were, she could feel him reaching into the pocket of his jacket.

"Here," he pressed something roughly the size of an a chicken's egg into her palm. "I made this for you."

The back lay smooth against her palm, the texture of unpolished wood on the sensitive skin there, and a leather chord came off it near her thumb. She ran the pads of her fingers experimentally along the front, taking in the grooves there, cut deliberately and smoothed so her touch did not result in slivers. The surface rose and fell in a pattern of even bumps like the skin of a snake. The shape began small at the top and then widened into two symmetrical ridged semi-circles which formed a shape unmistakeable as anything but that of a pair of spread wings. The bottom narrowed into a spiked tail, curling up on itself in a loop.

Knowing what she now knew of his past, it was easy to tell that it was a dragon. "Thank you."

He lifted it from her palm and hung the chord around her neck, his fingertips brushing her face clumsily in the dark. The wooden token hung about her chest, the weight great enough to be noticed but not so heavy that it would bring her discomfort. She ran her fingers along the gift, marvelling at how well-made it felt. It meant more to her than she could express in words that he had given her the image of his very heart, something so deeply personal it felt as though a piece of him was resting against her breast.

So she chose not to express it in words.

She didn't have to lean far to connect their lips.

The kiss was slow and sweet; after all, everything lying between them had been stripped away and this was their true beginning. They had all the time in the world. Her arms drifted around his chest, and his hand rose to the nape of her neck, pulling her in closer. When at last she pulled away to breath their embrace didn't end. Rather, his body followed hers, and as though they had both planned to they found themselves lying together in the grass, still holding one another.

The scratch of dry grass against her exposed skin was barely noticeable in the all-consuming heat migrating from her innards to every fiber of her body, keeping at bay even the chill of the autumn night air. Her heart thrumming in her ears drowned out the muted sounds of the night when his lips found hers again. She closed her eyes, and lost herself in the bliss that was him and her, gently exploring each other with every barrier between them slowly slipping away, until there was nothing left separating him from her as they came together.

The moon continued on its journey through the night sky, but they remained by the river side. When the moon disappeared under the horizon and the first rays of the sun rose in its place, they were still there, two entwined bodies holding each other where they lay.

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The sunny November day shone over the citadel of Camelot with unseasonal warmth, entering through the throne room windows with a cheery yellow glow. Gaius could not appreciate the fine day, however, because of the words of the peasant boy kneeling before Uther's throne. Up on the dais, Uther leaned forwards, looking truly interested in the peasant's story for the first time.

"You are certain of this?"

The boy nodded eagerly, "Yes, Your Highness." A charred reed basket was deceptively innocently between them on the red carpeted floor, laid out by the peasant in front of the king's throne as evidence. "This was the last of them; the other ones were swept away by the current before we could haul them in."

"Gaius," Uther motioned him forwards. Reluctantly Gaius went, his heart sinking to his dragging feet as the peasant boy handed him the damning bundle of reeds. He turned the basket slowly, taking as long as he dared to examine it while he fruitlessly searched his mind for a way out of this situation. Meanwhile, the boy continued talking,

"My friends and I saw them go by last year on the River of Essetir, but the current is so fast we didn't dare go in after them in the dark. They gave my little sister nightmares for weeks - she thought the Villia were angry with our village - so this year we brought a rope, and tied it around my friend's waist when he went in, and..."

"Yes, thank you," Uther cut him off, "your loyal assistance in the fight against magic will not go unrewarded." He nodded to his chief of staff, who stepped forwards to escort the boy out the room and - presumably - fetch the customary number of gold coins given to those who reported magical incidents. With the boy no longer providing a distraction, the eyes of the entire court rested on Gaius's bent head. "Well, Gaius? What can you tell us about these markings?"

He turned the basket over to try and buy himself more time, but he keenly felt each second the impatient silence stretched on. The idea of deflecting the attention by saying he needed to consult his books flitted through his mind, but he knew it would do no good. Uther had seen this mark only a little more than a year ago, and if he didn't remember its significance then one of the other members of the court surely would. Gaius would be doing no one any favours by evading answering. Resisting the powerful urge to swallow, Gaius made his voice perfectly even when he said, "The mark it bears is a Double Triskelion, sire."

Uther's hand curled into a fist, resting on the hard lacquered rosewood arm of his throne. Gaius hastily added, "We do not know for sure who made this. The symbol itself is easy to replicate. It may be a hoax, sire."

"We cannot take the chance that it is." Turning to the first knight, Sir Cleges, Uther ordered, "Dispatch knights to scour the settlements along the river upstream from the boy's village. If you find the dragonlord, you are to kill him on sight. I want you to leave at first light. You are all dismissed."

The gathered members of the court slowly trickled out the room, leaving behind only Uther, Gaius, and one other man - Lord Gorlois, visiting Camelot to commission a supply of sleeping droughts from Gaius for his wife, Lady Vivienne, whose unrelenting night terrors ever since she'd had to surrender her healing bracelet at the start of the Purge had their manor physician tearing out his hair in frustration. Uther remained as he was on the throne, and Gorlois stepped forwards, briefly catching Gaius's eye but looking away before Gaius could make out what look he had been given. "My lord, if I may speak?"

There was a time when Gorlois had not hesitated to give Uther what was on his mind, but as happens sometimes when boys became men and assumed separate responsibilities they drifted. Nevertheless, Gorlois was still the closest friend Uther had, even though he now lived leagues away and seldom made the journey to the capital unless to report to his king. Uther nodded his assent, and Gorlois began in a voice that was trying so hard to be even that it shook. "The boy is from one of the outlying villages. Go any further up the River of Essetir and you'll be in Essetir itself. Your peace talks with Cenred are hanging by a thread; if you send troops to trespass on his lands you'll be jeopardizing all your efforts to make a treaty with him. He won't take kindly to Camelot's knights crossing the border and carrying away one of his taxpayers."

"Antagonizing Cenred is not my intention, I take no pleasure in this. It is regretful, but necessary."

Gorlois stiffened, his words sounding as though they needed to pass through a strainer before exiting his mouth. The strainer seemed to be cracking the more words rolled off his tongue, until at the end it seemed ready to burst. "Do you plan to abandon all hope of peace with Essetir? To set back everything you've done by years? To risk reigniting the fires of war - condemning hundreds of your people to die - all for the sake of pursuing one fugitive?"

"He practiced magic," Uther said flatly. "He is too dangerous to be allowed to live."

"His magic was in commanding dragons!" Gorlois argued hotly, all attempts at keeping calm discarded. "What dragons are left for him to command! What exactly is a dragonlord Lord of if there are no dragons? He's just a man now, stripped of all power - like a cripple! Like a defanged snake!"

"But a snake nonetheless," Uther insisted, his own admittedly short temper rising in retaliation to being questioned. "And like a snake even if the poison is gone from his bite, he can still crush his prey! I will not allow that to happen! This land will not be safe until he is dead!"

"None of this would even be a problem if you had just honoured your word in the first place!" Gorlois exploded. "How can you speak of the corruption of magic - of how it breeds liars and cowardly killers - when you yourself were content to use it, to kill no less! This dragonlord was merely a vessel - you, Uther Pendragon used magic to summon the dragon through the most underhanded, deceitful, dishonourable means I have ever -"

"ENOUGH!" Uther thundered, rising from his throne and striding off the dais towards Gorlois. "I am your king, you will show me some respect!"

"Then you would do well to act like one! You cannot demand no one practice magic and then employ it yourself! This man's only crime was to carry out a request that he believed you were asking in good faith when all the while you planned to stab him in the back like a cowardly barbarian! And for this - for this crime you would sacrifice the lives of your own men in a war that is not the least bit necessary?"

Uther's face was twisted and nearly purple with rage, and Gaius hastily interrupted before the two men - who were supposed to be friends - could tear into each other any further. "Sire, Lord Gorlois, please, fighting amongst ourselves will not help matters."

Two pairs of heads snapped to Gaius in surprise, as though in the heat of their anger they had both forgotten he was in the room with them. Trying to placate them both into returning to the rational men he knew they could be, he said, "There is seldom an argument where only one side has merit. Sire, I understand your caution towards those who practice magic - " privately, Gaius added even if I do not agree with it, and made up on the spot, " - but Gorlois is more right than either of you know; for the dragon was the source of the dragonlord's magic. With its death, the magic has been draining out of him like a punctured water-skin. By now, he is no more a sorcerer than you are."

"Loss of ability does not mean loss of intent," Uther said, but the unheedful irrationality that burned in his eyes when confronted with anything magic had dimmed. "A murderer without hands to murder is no less a murderer."

"Yet you would not start a war over a crippled murderer," Gorlois rebounded instantly. "Other sorcerers have fled across the borders and you did not pursue them. I know you witnessed what this man could do, but it is just that - what he could do. He cannot do it anymore. You've taken the ability from him; you've already won. This man is beyond your reach. Let him go."

Uther was silent for a long moment, displeasure radiating from his every pore. Gaius did not doubt that their arguments had done nothing to dissuade Uther from his conviction of Balinor's guilt; in his mind, Balinor practiced magic, and therefore he must die. (That Gaius had once practised magic and was allowed to live was not something he wanted to remind Uther of if he could possibly help it, lest Uther change his mind.) The matter troubling Uther now was not whether or not he should kill Balinor - he wholehearted believed he should - but whether or not he should kill Balinor at the cost of fanning the flames of war between himself and Cenred.

Begrudgingly, as though he was forcing the words through his teeth, Uther called for the guards. Two identically uniformed guards walked through the door on cue, looking as bland and vacant expressioned as they always did. Though he tried to halt such thoughts in their tracks by telling himself they were unkind, Gaius secretly wondered if the reason behind that look was the mind-numbing tedium of standing around doing nothing for hours everyday, or whether only people with no other worthwhile talents were picked to stand at doors acting mostly as a deterrent.

"Send word to Sir Cleges that I've thought matters over and there's a change in orders. A search party will not be necessary." Gaius was amazed at how quickly Uther had come to see reason, but his next words sent a dart of ice through his heart. Belatedly, he thought that he should have known it wouldn't be that easy. "Instead, tell him to send for Halig, the bounty hunter. I have a commission for him."

/**

* You have no idea how difficult it was to come up with a half-way plausible reason for why Balinor might have trusted Uther's promises. Any and all holes in the logic I blame on Balinor's grief and desperation. He wasn't thinking clearly.

* And things finally begin to change.

* This is the type of thing I mean by give-and-take. Uther doesn't send a squadron of knights after Balinor, but instead he sends a bounty hunter. The effect of this will be coming up next, but you can bet he'll be much sneakier than a squad of chainmail clad red cloaked horsemen who are bound by things like a code of honour.

* Hunith's friend was referencing Samhain fortune-telling customs that predict whether a couple will stay together and how many children they'll have.

* And Gorlois makes a cameo. I have an plot bunny sitting around in my head about him called Uriah and his King that hopefully someday I'll be inspired enough to actually write. Probably the next time I get into a severe anti-Uther mood.

* I was going to have Gaius confront Uther, but Gaius is way too cautious to say half the things I needed him to say. So I picked Morgana's stepfather instead.

* I can't remember where all the names of the dragons and dragonlords came from. Some of them are from legends about dragons, some from the novel The Unicorns of Balinor, some from The Sword of Shannara, and some are foreign words for dragons. Just don't ask me which is which.

* The Old English is from an online translator. I have no idea how accurate it is. It's supposed to mean "Light", "Three is one. Past and present and future. One are three." , and "Write [clan name]" (I wasn't terribly ambitious with my spells). Then I copied the spell Merlin uses to send off Lancelot. I don't know if it actually fits, but since I know nothing about Old English its staying as it is.

**/