Chapter Eight.

'Good morning, cousin,' said Faleron cheerfully as he strolled into Roald's office, hands in his pockets.

'I'm busy, Faleron.'

'I'm sure you are.' Faleron picked up a little china statue of a bird, examined it and then replaced it. 'I've come to make you an offer you can't refuse.'

Roald hesitated. Faleron wasn't one to play games- he had a no-nonsense head on his broad shoulders, a mind meant for politics and law. He understood that the Crown Prince had to work and work hard and he wouldn't needlessly waste Roald's time.

'Yes?'

'In return for a small amount of your precious time, you do me a favour, grant courage to an old friend, and we both win points in Gareth's good books: you for taking a break, and me for giving you the reason to.'

Roald watched his friend. Finally, 'I'm surprised by you: you don't make a very persuasive case.'

Faleron shrugged, picking up the bird ornament again. 'I don't have a lot to work with.'

'Who is this "old friend"?'

The knight grinned. 'As an appeal to your poor sense of curiosity, you'll only find out if you agree to my generous offer.'

Roald rolled his eyes. 'What does granting him some courage involve?'

'Just talking.'

'How long is "a small amount" of time?'

'That all depends.'

'On?'

'On how successful it goes. I would say an hour at the minimum should be sufficient.'

'I'd hardly call that "small".'

'Then we merely have varying perceptions, cousin. Do you agree?'

Roald sighed and stared out the window, contemplating. He burned to ask one other question but there was no way he could put it without getting an inquisition in return. After Lianne's talk of rumours yesterday he knew he was going to have to watch his step even more than he had been.

'So- who does this include? Just you, me, and this mysterious "old friend"?'

'Correct. Nobody else.'

An "old friend" wouldn't be his wife.

'Very well,' he said, standing. 'An hour.'

Faleron beamed. 'I knew you'd see it's for the best.'

'And you were the page with the best mind for politics? I've seen Scanrans with better persuasive skills than you.'

'Dear cousin, I've been practically living among Scanrans for the past eighteen months. When you're living like barbarians it's rather hard to keep hold of the finer points of diplomacy.' Faleron led the way through the palace.

'Well you're obviously speaking from experience; I'll take your word for it.'

Faleron clapped his cousin on the shoulder, stopping before a door. 'Very wise of you, my prince.' He opened the door and gestured for Roald to go in.

'Is this some kind of poor jest? There's no-one here.'

'He'll be along shortly; give him a chance. Sit yourself down, have some juice, and relax.'

Rolling his eyes, Roald did as he was told and was presented with a glass of fruit juice and a plate of warm rolls. They sat in pleasant silence for nearly ten minutes, munching on the currant-filled bread. Roald's eyes began to droop. If he didn't keep himself active, the tiredness started to kick in.

The door opened and a young man jostled confidently in. Roald looked him over in surprise.

'Owen…'

The last time he had seen the "old friend" seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been that night at Fort Mastiff when Kel had been there, and Neal too. Owen had seemed altered then; now he was changed.

Gone was the look in his eyes of childish, unwavering enthusiasm for absolutely everything; gone was the undying, unconditional joy of anything- regardless of how dangerous it might be. Gone was the boy. This was a man. A man that had seen war, held the Kraken in the palm of his hand and fought her off with the blade of his sword, the knife of his bravery, the sharp edge of his determination. This was a man that knew the depths of mortality and the depths of human bravery, cowardice and terror.

The war seemed even to have quickened his features too: his round, young face had developed into a shapely jaw and well-defined cheekbones. He had added a few inches to his height and his shoulders fit his tunic better now.

The young man beamed. 'Roald!'

Well, perhaps he hadn't lost all of his enthusiasm. Roald stood up to receive the hug Owen seemed determined to throw on him. Faleron was laughing.

'I met our young friend here arriving a short while ago, when I went down to see Starling. I thought it would be nice to get together for a short while.'

'How are you Roald? I've come back for my Ordeal. Can't say I'm entirely excited.'

Roald sat down again, feeling ten years older than his energetic friend. Owen helped himself to a mug of warm spiced cider, topping up Faleron's near-empty mug.

'Owen, I'd be worried if anybody was excited about their Ordeal,' replied the Prince dryly. So that was why Faleron felt this old friend needed courage. 'How are things up north? How is everyone holding up?'

'Oh, much the same.' Owen stretched his legs out, kicking his boots off. 'They all discuss in great depth all their wonderful plans and tactics and then invariably end up doing something completely different.' He shrugged. 'But there you go. As ever, the healers' tents are full, the supplies are thin and the men and horses alike are weary.

'But I don't want to talk about the war, I've done nothing but talk about the war for as long as I can remember and this is my holiday. What have you been doing here?'

Faleron and Roald looked at each other and then looked back at Owen.

'Working for the war,' replied the Prince thinking that, perhaps, Owen hadn't matured quite as much as he appeared to have.

'How grim. Isn't there any exciting news? It is nearly Midwinter.'

Faleron made a face. 'My mother will be joining me by the end of the week for Midwinter and the young women it will bring; I hardly find that "exciting".'

Owen laughed and even Roald had to chuckle. 'She's still valiantly struggling to marry you, eh? Why don't you just pick a girl and make them both happy?'

'Because, Owen, my mother will never be happy in so simple a way and I want to make sure I have a wife I can actually stand to live with.'

'But you're an easy-going guy, Fal. That should be easy for you,' replied the squire.

Faleron smiled a little. 'Even so, since I've got the element of choice I'd like for it to be my choice. Just wait until your mother starts pestering you.'

Owen's cheeks coloured and he began to play with his mug; Faleron's eyes went wide as he sat up straighter in his chair.

'Owen, what have you done to your mother?'

'Nothing!' he cried.

'Then what?'

'I rather think,' said Roald quietly, 'That our Owen will not have to endure his mother's "pestering", as you so delicately put it, Fal. I rather think Owen already has his eye on someone.'

Owen bit his lip, his expression a mix of consternation and excitement. 'Is it that obvious?'

Ignoring his question, Faleron demanded, 'Who is she?'

'Oh, she's lovely. Just wait until you meet her, Faleron, you'll-'

'Yes, but who is she?'

'Oh.' Owen cleared his throat. 'Margarry of Cavall.'

Roald and Faleron gawped.

'Wyldon's daughter?' demanded the latter. At Owen's nod, Faleron burst into laughter. 'That's too brilliant, Owen. You- the Stump's son!'

'I know, won't it be jolly?' Owen was grinning and Roald had to smile back.

'Lord Wyldon is a fine man.'

'Oh, I know, Roald. And you should see Margarry: beautiful curls, beautiful breasts-'

Faleron howled with laughter again.

'-and she's got plenty of spirit, too. Not as stuffy as her Pa by half.'

'I'm happy for you, Owen,' Roald said. 'And I'm sure Faleron isn't trying to be rude.'

'Oh, that's fine,' smiled the younger man. 'I'm expecting it. Just wait 'til I tell Neal.'

'Oh, he'll love it,' commented Faleron, having recovered from his mirth.

'Just- don't tell anyone yet, please?' Owen's face was anxious. 'Only I haven't even told her I like her yet and I don't want the Stump to hear by gossip. I don't think he'd likely let me marry her then.' The others gave their word and Faleron refilled their mugs.

'Well,' he said as they settled back in their chairs once more. 'It seems I am to be the only one of us left single.'

'Just pick a girl and marry her, Fal,' said Owen again.

Faleron pulled a face. 'It's just…'

'You're the eldest son, Fal. You need some heirs.'

The older man scowled at Owen. 'I know that. Just…' He sighed. 'Marriage seems so… restricting. I don't want to marry the wrong girl.' He took a long swig of his cider.

'Restricting? I think marriage would be wonderful.'

'You would,' replied Faleron glumly. 'You think everything's wonderful.'

Owen made a face. 'No I don't. War, for one, isn't. Neither are grass snakes or apricot jam.'

'Grass snakes?' repeated Faleron, incredulously.

'Yes,' Owen replied with a shudder. 'Horrid things. But I would think marriage would be jolly. To wake up beside a special girl every morning and know that she's yours, and that she'll look after your home for you.'

'You're too idealistic, Owen. And you, Roald, are too quiet. You're married- tell us, what is it like? Is it all beds of roses and sunny skies as Owen thinks? Or am I right? Is it a disappointing restriction?'

Roald picked up his mug and watched the colours twist as he swirled the juice around. He had to watch what he said.

'I don't think I'm really the right person to be asking. I haven't been married for very long.'

'You've been married for six months, isn't that long enough to get a good impression?' demanded his cousin.

'I think, Faleron, that you should marry a lady that you like because, as you said, you will have to spend the rest of your lives together.'

Owen sniggered. 'Or you could just send her to Court, or spend your life travelling on your knightly duties.'

Faleron grimaced. 'Well, perhaps this year will be the magic year. Perhaps this Midwinter I will find that special lady and please mother.'

Striving to change the conversation, Roald asked, 'Will she be staying all of Midwinter?'

'Mother? -Yes, it's too risky for her to try and travel back once the weather sets in. She'll be bringing Tatty and Hann up, too.'

'I had wondered why they weren't here,' Roald replied.

Faleron grimaced. 'They're not best friends with someone else.'

'Ah.'

'Who are we talking about here, or is it secrets of the realm?' asked Owen.

'Tatty and Hann are my hounds.'

'And who is this special someone they don't get on with? Are you telling me that after this whole conversation you're courting a lady and you didn't tell me?'

'No, Owen.' Faleron sighed. 'I have a new… pet, of sorts.'

Roald stepped in, wanting to make up for the bad decision he made in the past regarding Faleron's "pet". Wanted to help him out where he could. 'Faleron discovered an exotic animal that was being kept illegally. He recovered her and returned her to full health, but he needs must continue to look after her until the Wildmage can examine her.'

'Mithros, do you know who was keeping her? See Fal, exciting stuff does happen to you!'

Faleron rolled his eyes and- once again ignoring Owen- turned to Roald. 'Try telling my Ma that. She wants Little Gem gone by the time she gets here, hence why she's bringing Tatty and Hann up.'

'What are you going to do?' asked Owen.

'Perhaps I can speak with the Menagerie Guardians,' offered Roald. 'Maybe I can have something arranged for you.'

'No, thank you, Roald. After the way they behaved when I spoke to them before about Little Gem, I don't like to trust them with her. At least, not until Daine has visited, which hopefully won't be too long now. Perhaps she'll come home for Midwinter. Until she does, I'd feel happier keeping Little Gem with me. Tatty and Hann will have to get on with her.'

'I'll look after them for you, if you like,' Owen suggested. 'My Lord taught me a lot about dogs.'

'Thank you,' said Faleron warmly.

Roald barely heard their exchange. His stomach burned with guilt. Faleron still thought the Wildmage was coming, coming to help. He didn't know the request had been rejected- by no-one other than Roald himself.

'Well,' said Owen cheerfully. 'I've enjoyed our chat.'

'Me too,' Faleron replied. 'We should get together again, sometime during Midwinter week to remember all our friends that are still stuck in the war.'

There was a moment of silence as the three remembered their time spent north- and their fellow knights still there. Kel, Neal, Merric- these and more were still battling away.

'I wonder what kind of festivities they'll even have,' commented Owen. 'My Lord suspects there will be a big attack on Midwinter Day when everyone's busy rejoicing.'

The others winced.

'How have the attacks been since I left?' asked Faleron.

Owen shrugged. 'Same as ever, really. We're holding our own, but you know what it's like. Even without the killing devices some of the wounds are horrific.'

An image flashed across Roald's eyelids: blood on white sheets, shrivelled flesh and damaged bone, haunted terrified eyes.

'I know,' said Faleron quietly. 'In one of my last fights before I headed home, the soldier next to me took an arrow through the leg and was then stamped over by his own men advancing on the enemy. He couldn't move; he couldn't get out of their way.'

Roald's memory presented him with another picture; there were the white sheets again, and the haunted eyes, but this time the hands were raw and blackened, burnt by crude Mage fire. And in the background was the screaming. He shivered.

'My Lord Sir Raoul took an arrow in the shoulder,'continued Owen, both he and Faleron oblivious to Roald's discomfort.

'Poisoned?'

'Yes, and his sword arm too. He switched hands and fought on like some indestructible force, but by the end of the battle he was delirious.'

'Mithros, was he all right?'

'Yes, luckily. The healers were on him in a trice and Neal and his father were there too.'

'Thank Mithros for healers,' Faleron muttered.

'Although they often have the worst of it,' commented Roald suddenly.

'What?' asked his cousin.

'They are the ones who have to come behind you and fix you back up. They have to deal with all the after effects of war.'

'But the warriors,' said Owen, 'are the ones out there on the front line. They are the ones that might die. They're the ones that have got to have the courage to face the enemy.'

'And the healers are the ones that have to watch the warriors go out there- their friends, their family- and know they may never see them again. They have to have the courage to let them go, and to be ready for the wounded. They have to have the courage to ease a dying man on his way to the Black Lord's realm and the courage to look at horrific wounds and tell the patient he's going to survive. They might die in trying to heal all the warriors, and they can't get out there and die honourably in battle.'

There was silence for a few moments as the others considered the Prince's words.

Finally, Faleron quietly replied, 'There is no less honour in dying while trying to save someone.'

'There is very little honour in dying by overreaching yourself for poor reasons.'

'What, healing a man is a poor reason?' demanded Owen.

Roald sighed. 'If healing a man that has little chance of survival causes you to overreach yourself to a fatal stage, then yes, it's a poor reason. It may seem harsh to not heal that one man, but that mage can then go on to heal more warriors with more likely chances of survival.'

Owen shook his head. 'Perhaps you are right. Us fighters, at least, don't have all these moral arguments to consider.'

Faleron snorted as he gulped down the last of his spiced cider. 'We just follow orders.'

Picking at the tabletop, Roald saw a world far removed from the little room in the palace. His voice was eerily quiet. 'Believe me, I've been on both sides. I've been the warrior and I've been the healer. The healers have it worst.'

---

All afternoon his thoughts were haunted by what that morning had stirred up. The war, the war. It was driving him crazy. He wanted to do something. He wanted to be there, fighting and healing and doing what he could for his country.

He hated sitting at this desk, doing paperwork.

'Roald, are you coming for dinner?'

The Prince glanced up at Gary. 'I'll catch you up,' he lied.

'Have you had a good day?'

Great, Uncle Gary was trying to make small talk with him again. 'Unproductive,' replied Roald.

'Oh yes, I saw you went off with King's Reach. No fun?'

Roald shrugged. 'Unproductive, really. One of our old friends has returned for his Ordeal; we were just catching up.'

'And that's unproductive?' Gary's eyebrows were arched. 'Don't lose your friends, Roald, for whatever reason.'

Roald sighed and said pointedly, 'I'll see you at dinner, Uncle?'

Gary grunted. 'I'll see you in ten minutes.' Roald watched until his uncle rounded the corner and was out of sight. He heard Gary welcoming someone: his wife. Lady Cythera had obviously coming looking for her book-bound husband, not wanting him to miss his meals.

At least Shinko doesn't come looking for me, thought Roald. He had a lot of paperwork to get done and he wasn't hungry in the slightest. Skipping dinner would give him plenty of time to get through some of these piles, and still get to bed at a reasonable hour.

---

Roald looked to his left: men, as far as his eye could see, on horseback and on foot, lined up ready for battle. Roald looked to his right: the same.

He was sitting on his own horse, fully kitted out in plate armour. He was hot, despite the autumn chill. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades, mocking him: you can't get me, you can't get me.

Everything seemed oddly silent, even though he was aware of the raucous noise of thousands of soldiers. They were all waiting on the crest of the hill. Looking down into the valley below. The vantage point. Waiting. Waiting.

He almost felt detached from it all.

Roald glanced over his shoulder: his standard bearer was there. The young boy smiled tremulously at him, but the flag he held was steady. Roald's gaze moved upwards. Blue. Bluer than the sky, bluer than the sea. That rich, Royal blue. Silver crown, silver sword. His birth, his duty.

'Better helm up, sir,' said the young boy. He smiled again and put his own helm on. Nodding, Roald closed the visor on his own helm, narrowing his field of sight to a mere slit.

It began as soon as his visor slid into place.

The horses charged down the hill; living thunder. The earth was tossed back into the faces of the foot men. They ran valiantly behind, screeching their lungs out.

Roald found his sword was in his hand just as he needed it. They crashed with the enemy and his protective circle of guards was cut away.

Roald fought. Up with the blade, down with the blade, thrust with the blade. It was as simple as breathing in this state of mind. Still, he felt slightly detached.

And then the screaming began.

The bodies began to fall around him. They reached for him- save me, save me! Their fingers clasped and slipped. Their eyes, staring up from their helms; their eyes were terror-filled.

Roald began to sweat more. Fear-sweat. The screaming rang in his ears. He couldn't see the enemy, only the dying. His eyes locked with theirs as the gormless bodies fell to the muddy earth.

And then the helms were gone and the bodies were falling with full faces exposed. Now he could see the terror in every line in the face, in the mouth as well as the eyes. He could see the screams as well as hear them.

And now as they fell back, they fell not onto the red-brown earth but onto the crisp white sheets of the healers' beds.

Roald panted, heavy and hot in his armour. Still clinging tightly to his sword; it would save him. Around him the bodies continued to fall, even though he could no longer see the enemy. They fell on to the white sheets, screaming and writhing, empty eyes staring at him.

And now they were dressed all in white and the armour was all gone.

And now they were not so definitely male. This one looked female- but the white gown was too baggy to tell for sure.

Roald pivoted and another fell. He couldn't help but peer at it. The face was pale and the eyes were dark. He frowned. Was it a woman? He couldn't say. The skin looked too soft for a man's and the eyelashes too long, but the cheekbones were high and sharp. He stepped closer, gazing, wondering. He was filled with horror at the thought that the wounded body might not be male.

Something thudded into the back of his legs. He fell. Dropped his sword. He had to find it, it was his lifeline. Scrambling around on the floor, he couldn't find it. Finally gave up, turning on his knees, heart thumping.

He suddenly realised he was back on the battlefield and the noise and the blood and the gore reverberated around him. The screaming- which had momentarily abated- rung in his ears once again.

He clambered on his hands and knees to the body that had fallen into him. It was the young standard bearer; Roald knew that even though the boy lay on his front. The flag- ripped from its pole- was wrapped around the armoured arm.

As if he was wounded himself, Roald laboured to pull the boy onto his back. The fighting crashed on above his head. The screaming continued.

With the boy's head half in his lap, Roald pulled off the helm.

Black hair flowed over his lap like water. Pale skin was even paler with death. Almond eyes stared vacantly up at the sky.

The screaming reached a high, tremulous pitch.

Roald found he couldn't breath and his numb fingers ran over and over his breastplate. But there were no buckles, no points. The armour fit seamlessly onto his body. He couldn't take it off. And he couldn't take his eyes from the face of his dead wife, her body in the standard bearer's armour.

And then- although he'd been watching her continuously and had seen no change- he suddenly realised she was not Shinko any more. Now the black hair had a slight curl to it, the skin was rosier, the eyes were shut.

Kalasin.

He couldn't control the sob that wrenched from his mouth. Dear Kalasin. Her perfect skin was spoilt with the bloodstains. He realised she held something; in her arms was a dead baby girl. Her child.

The battlefield went hazy; the world span. He fought again to remove his armour so that he could breathe properly; his fingers skated over the perfectly shaped metal.

And when he could focus again Kalasin was both Thayet and Jon at the same time: his parents. That one, united, invincible icon. But they quickly faded and left Lianne in their place.

Her young blue eyes stared at him. Accused him. Her hair was shorter than Kalasin's, but as straight as Shinko's. Her skin wasn't as dark as her mother's. And now she was dead. She had never known love; she had never been given a chance to live. She was too young to die.

He gathered the body in his arms, rocking. The screaming was still there, but he was almost used to it now, however high-pitched it was.

This was what war did: it killed families, it destroyed lives. Mothers and wives and babies.

He was back in the healer's wing and the body was gone from his arms. The armour was gone from his body. The screaming was gone.

It was replaced by constant yelling.

'Your Highness, please, help me!'

'Help me, Highness!'

'The pain, the pain! I need someone- something!'

'My leg! Highness, my leg!'

He turned on the spot. He was surrounded by beds, all filled with patients. Everyone was crying out for his attention; everyone was dying and he was the only healer.

Beneath their insistent shouts was a continuous slow call, like the sea or a persistent bird:

'Roald, Roald, Roald, Roald, Roald, Roald…'

It was a soft voice. A woman's voice. It was Shinko's voice- no, it was Kally's. Or was it was Thayet's?

They were calling him again- the patients. They were beginning to scream. He had to stop the screaming, he couldn't stand their screaming.

He rushed to the first bed, looking for injuries. But he could see nothing wrong. And as he looked up to the face, he was sucked in by the eyes- how often he had seen those eyes. They were haunted, they were terrified; they were regretting everything.

The screaming was growing again. He had to stop it but the eyes… He couldn't move away. His knees buckled. He was hopeless, he couldn't do anything…

'Roald!'

That wasn't the slow bird-voice. That was a demanding plea. He looked around: where had it come from?

'Roald! Roald!'

The ground was shaking and he was caught by those eyes again, that terror. The body was in his arms: was it his wife, his sister? He couldn't see. Couldn't breathe.

'Roald!'

The ground was shaking so hard- was it an earthquake?

No, the ground wasn't shaking, he was.

Roald jerked awake, gasping, writhing. He felt warmth beside him and grabbed onto flesh. It was Shinkokami. He pulled her tight to him, shaking still, even though she had stopped trying to wake him.

She was trembling too. She ran fingers across his chest- the only part of him she could reach while he held her so tightly- and tried her best to calm him.

'Ssh, ssh,' she whispered. 'It's okay, you're safe now. It was just a bad dream.'

He continued to gasp and to shake and to mumble to himself. She tried desperately to work out what he was saying, but he was incoherent. Wiggling her arms free, she wrapped them around him, using one hand to stroke his hair. Later, she would relish the feel of their bodies so tight together, so wonderfully entwined, but for now he was a frightened child that needed comfort.

'Whatever it was, it's gone now.' Shinko wished she had the Gift to soothe him, or even to light some candles while she held him. Light had always dispelled her demons when she had bad dreams as a young girl. 'I'm here, and everything's going to be fine. It was just a dream, nothing more. It wasn't real. It's all gone now, my prince.'

There was a damp sensation on her shoulder where Roald had buried his head, and the wetness ran down over her chest. Roald was crying. Shinko felt icy cold. Roald- her Roald- was cryingover a bad dream.

'No,' he whispered, his voice hoarse and cracking. 'No it isn't.'

The nightmares were back. And this one had been worse than they had ever been before.

---

-

A/N: By "Midwinter Day" I'm referring to the fourth day of the Midwinter Festivities, after the longest night, when they exchange presents. As far as I'm aware, there is no specific name to this day but they must call it something. They wouldn't refer to it as "you know, the day we give presents". If anyone knows the correct name for this day, please let me know.