Little things.

Everybody notices the huge events that envelop entire countries in the changes they demand. The little things that creep past unnoticed can slowly gather in number until, years later, people finally detect change, yet cannot pinpoint its origin.

Those changes were stirring in Tortall. A whisper, a scrawled note, a secret meeting that nobody spoke of again. Hope given to those who had lost it. Hope returned to Tortall.

All the changes were due to one person, sitting tailor fashion at the bottom of a tree. He was surrounded by hastily written letters, declarations of help and advice and his eyes were beginning to grow sore from trying to understand the letters – not all the writers were entirely literate or able to write in comprehendible Common. A grin slowly lit the boy's face as he reached the end of the final piece of parchment. His luck was beginning to change. Carefully, he piled all the letters together and bound them with a blue ribbon. He stuffed them into a large bag.

"This is for you, Kally. It's all for you."

*

The sound of footsteps echoed in my ears as I jerked awake. I struggled to work out if they were remnants of my dream, or if they belonged to the present and my beautiful prison. They puzzled me, I had been dreaming of a boy filled with happiness after so much sorrow. No footsteps had entered my sleeping mind. There must be someone in the room with me.

But who? Ozorne hadn't visited me and I hardly saw him bothering now. The servant who brought my meals had come perhaps an hour ago. The passing of time was hazy to me; it all merged together eventually and became insignificant. It must be somebody else, but I couldn't think who would trouble themselves to visit me, the disgraced traitor of traitors, unless...

I didn't dare to even breathe, but I found myself taking quick, shallow breaths regardless. I was as good as dead anyway, what did it matter if I went today by an assassin or in a year by the gallows?

My body stiffened as I felt cold steel press against my wrists. This was it. If death didn't matter, why did my stomach clench in fear? I tensed, waiting for that fatal blow. I was ready. I was ready for death.

I felt the bonds around my hands loosen and fall away. Bewildered, I stared at my hands, unable to comprehend their freedom.

"Hello," a voice said icily. It belonged to a boy, perhaps a year older than me. His appearance was unkempt, but I didn't have time to dwell on that. The glimmer of metal at his side drew my eyes instinctively and I leaned backwards. "I don't believe we've met."

*

"It's lost."

Murmurs of agreement pressed in from all sides. All was lost, why bother with it anymore? Already they had wasted too much time on it – and what had come of that? Leave the mortals to sort it out alone.

She could see their reasoning, understood that if it had been any other country, she would have felt the same, would have joined her voice to the masses and abandoned the denizens to fend for themselves. But it wasn't any other country. She couldn't desert them, not now, probably not ever.

Emerald eyes swept over the room. "No," she said softly, coldly. A hush swept over the room as the attention fixed on her. She continued in the same frosty tones, "You do not decide what happens to it."

Somebody laughed, harshly. "That's typical." She strained to see who spoke, striving to retain the same cool air as she did so. "You're always the same. Won't lift a finger to help anybody else's country, and have the cheek to decide when to dismiss issues, even when you hold no authority over them."

She dropped her gaze, fighting for an aloof tone. Anger would not help her now. Anger would let them see that they had the advantage over her. "If you care to remember, it is this country that has helped us in the past."

"She's right," croaked a new voice. The Graveyard Hag. Her intervention was usually not sought after – all remembered what had happened to her country. But in this case, it may be precisely what Tortall needed. If the Goddess had breath, she would have held it. "I say we help them." A clamour arose at this, but the crone held up a gnarled finger and it silenced, instantly. "Once more." Heads nodded, satisfied.

The dark-haired immortal opened her mouth in protest, but closed it abruptly as the old woman hobbled over, peering up into the Goddess' face. "Once," she repeated. "No more."

Reluctantly, she nodded. It would have to do. "Fine," she whispered. Then, raising her voice so those collected could hear, she announced, "But I get to choose how and who we help." Not waiting for a response, she swept out of the room.

*

The boy sat astride the bough of the tree as if it were his throne. In fact, that was exactly what he was pretending it was. He leapt down, brandishing a twig as though it was a sword.

"Ozorne!" he called in a deep, affected voice. "I have come for you!"

Switching voices, to a high falsetto (admittedly because he had no idea what Ozorne's voice actually sounded like, but it must be fairly girly, he reasoned, remembering the tales of the old Emperor's face paint fetish), he squeaked, "Oh no! What are you going to do to me?"

He paused for a second. What was he going to do to Ozorne? A brief flashback to one of his sister's many novels gave him his response. "I have come to avenge my family," he said grandly, and then poked the stick at where "Ozorne" was standing. "Now, uh..." He trailed off, waving the stick in the air as though it would give him inspiration. "I condemn you, uh..."

He decided to move on, figuring that the ends of the sentences would come to him on the spur of the moment. Heroes always had the right words to say. It was the villains who stumbled and stuttered, their plans thwarted at the crucial moment. "Oh no, please don't, I'll do anything!"

Then Ozorne dissolved into a messy puddle and the palace servants mopped him up. He envisioned being raised high on the shoulders of the crowd, all who praised him and adored him for freeing them of this tyrant. Roses would be flung at him from adoring girls, and handkerchiefs would be stuffed into every conceivable place. The practicality of this was questionable, but Lianne had informed him that this was standard treatment for a hero.

And what a hero he would be, when he reduced Ozorne to a cowering wreck, and –

"Liam?"

The boy, who had begun to climb up the tree again, instantly slid down the trunk, searching around frantically for the owner of the voice. "Mother?" he asked tentatively, although he knew it couldn't be her. It was impossible, but, oh, he wanted to see her again so badly that it must be her.

"In a way," was his reply, and he could hear amusement mixing in with the harsh throb her voice made in his ears.

He eyed her cautiously, and then bowed low to her, murmuring, "Lady," for her high peerage was obvious to anyone with eyes. Besides, he had been raised to offer respect to everybody. He felt the pressure of her fingertips, icy as snow, on his chin as she raised it so he was looking directly into her eyes. All the breath left his body at the power in her gaze.

She obviously saw in his eyes what she wanted. "Yes," she whispered, and in her tone he heard triumph mingled with pain. "My son, I require your help."

"Anything," he said breathlessly, meaning it with all the passion of his young years. Thoughts of victory were discarded, nothing mattered except her will. Had she declared that the only way he could help her would be to throw himself off a cliff, he would have soared off the nearest one.

Warmth filled her green eyes. "You bring me hope, little one." A smile crossed her face as he bristled, considering himself almost grown up. "And I have longed for hope for months now."

Solemnly, he accepted this. "What can I do?"