WARNING!!! This chapter contains some fairly explicit scenes of torture and near-rape. Violence and angst abound. If you are offended by this, feel free to skip this chapter, or at least the dark parts, but it does contain information vital to the plot.
But be warned – this is one depressing chapter.
Also, keep in mind that this chapter is not designed to stand alone. There are plot twists in there that will not be explained until at least the next chapter, if not later. If you have any particular questions, leave me a review and I'll be sure to cover it in later chapters. Thanks for your patience! Enjoy.
Peace of Mind
ISOLDE…
Early 443 A.D.
The next three weeks passed quickly. I spent several hours of each day at the emperor's palace, entertaining him with my frank comments. Every night, he invited me to his bed, and every night I turned him down in newer and more creative ways. However, I was growing restless. I had yet to fulfill my purpose here – or at least, the purpose Arthur had sent me for. I had made some progress on my own mission.
While I was at the palace, I gathered information. I had, through discreet questioning, narrowed the list of officers who might have been responsible for the decimation of my tribe down to three. Of those, one had been on leave to return home. The other two were unaccounted for during the time it would take to ride to Sarmatia, lay their fake trail, kill my family, and return to Rome. I had found that one of those two liked to frequent a whorehouse in the eastern half of the city.
So it was that I found myself traipsing through the rather squalid area in which that house was located. It was easy to distinguish – the tavern was filled with roaring drunks entertained by scantily-clad women from age twelve on up to middle-aged. I, myself, was disguised as a young Roman soldier. I would have simply worn a common stola, but a young woman entering such a place would have occasioned some comment, and the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself. My prey must not know that it was hunted.
Not to mention, it was much easier for a male to make his way through this crowd. As a girl I would have had to break some fingers, maybe even a few heads, which would also be an undesirable situation. I made my way to the madam of the house, who thriftily bit a coin and, satisfied, dropped it in the pouch at her waist.
The woman looked me over and said, "Three coppers for this one, and an extra two if you want an exotic girl like Atiya here."
I pitched my voice low. "No, madam," I flipped a coin to her. "I come for information, nothing more." The brunette she had shoved at me pouted and went to greet the next customer. "There is more where that comes from, if you would care to step into yon private room."
She looked at me with a measuring gaze and smiled, apparently concluding that I might be worth her while. "Follow me," she said.
I fell into step behind her, trying to ignore what was going on in the shadows of the common room. I had thought Britain was a place of loose morals… Rome was a scene of perfect debauchery!
The room was cheap and gaudy, and stank of perfume, sweat, and something I didn't want to name, but when she closed the door it was fairly quiet.
"You call me Mother Claudia," she directed. "Now, what do you want to know?" She sat at the table in the center of the room, and I followed suit.
"You know the man Manius Acilius Celer?" Her gaze flicked downward to rest on her empty hand, and I slid another coin to her.
"He's a frequent customer." I admired her skill at dealing in information. She gave me only what I asked for and no more than that. I could tell she intended to make me pay through the nose for everything I wanted to know.
"Six years ago," I gave her another coin and a warning glance, "he was gone for several months near the end of the year. I want to know where he went."
She seemed to consider her options, and I allowed her to see some of my growing annoyance. She looked down nonchalantly. Good – now she knows that my generosity has limits. She was experienced enough to know that I could always take my questions – and my coin – elsewhere.
"Let me think," she tapped her chin, and her face brightened. "Ah, yes, I do recall something he said… you understand it was a while ago… but it stood out in my mind because he was particularly reluctant to reveal the information to me, although anyone could see that he was bursting to tell someone how important he was, going off on a special mission for his good friend Marcus – Marcus Tullius Merula, you know." I dug my nails deep into my palms to contain my rage. "Yes," I gritted out. "I do know."
She glanced sideways at me and I cursed myself for letting my anger show. I must not draw undue attention to myself, if I was to survive my revenge.
"He was always conspiring with Marcus and another man, his second-in-command." She thought for a moment more, and sighed, shaking her head. "I'm afraid that is all I can recall. It was quite a while ago."
I lifted a small pouch from my belt and slid it across the table to her. "I understand, Mother Claudius. You have been most helpful." I nodded to her and left the building, pushing away a whore who rubbed up against me, one breast fully exposed. When I was away from the place and clear of people, I walked over to a wall and slammed my fist into it. I relished the pain that flashed up my arm as my knuckles split, expressing my near-uncontrollable anger with a primal growl.
"Your time is over," I prophesized to my demons. "Mine has come, and you will pay for what you've done."
The next day I was called to the palace for the purpose of this whole trip – an audience was arranged with the emperor, the Pope, and the emperor's advisors. It was not to be a long or involved affair, but I did deign to fuss a bit over my appearance. Just because my idea of "fussing" involved polishing my boots and weapons and taking an extra five minutes to braid sections of my hair didn't mean that I didn't care. Besides, I reasoned, I'd even tied an ornament in my hair that depicted Khors, the sun god, and shined Tristan's ring. By my usual standards I was positively spiffed up. And now I was late.
I galloped through the gates of the imperial palace and slowed to a trot. By now the guards recognized both me and my horse, and I wasn't even asked to identify myself. I paid no attention to this but swung out of the saddle before Simargl had even stopped. I tossed the reins to the head horse-handler. My vicious beast had made quite a reputation for himself here, but the man hardly flinched. He'd hit it off with my big gelding right away, and now was one of the few who had nothing to fear from him. One other who had earned that right was Farah, who, being a slave, couldn't ride him… but as my maid while I was here, she was obliged to go wherever I went, was she not? And I couldn't help it if my horse needed attention. But without skirting around the issue, Farah loved the big warhorse and he was, to my great surprise, immediately fond of her as well, and she was a big help in caring for him.
I strode through the halls, lifting a hot bun from a tray without notice. In earlier days I might have run to make my appointment on time, but the present-day me was not one to be rushed, and so I arrived in front of the audience chamber several minutes late.
I was admitted and my name announced to the hall, although most who were present knew me already. I didn't need a looking-glass to know that my hair was slightly mussed and my cheeks flushed, and that my eyes shone from the excitement of the ride. No doubt I'd made myself some enemies, barreling down the street that led to the palace, but I didn't pay that any mind.
"Your Imperial Highness," I greeted Aëtius cheerfully, adding a teasing twist to my smile as I bowed low and pressed my fist to my chest. I always greeted him formally, and every time he insisted I call him by his first name. It had become a joke between us. Like my rejections of his advances, his threats of punishment if I did not comply became more and more creative.
Today he only smiled, silently promising that he would get me later.
I faced the Pope and bowed, although I did not make the customary cross over my chest. I knew I walked on thin ice, but I was not a Christian, and damned if I was going to act like a groveling Roman. Besides, with no mention of my pagan status and with the esteem of the emperor in my favor, I stood little chance of being arrested as a heretic or some such thing.
"Your Eminence," I addressed him, then turned to the advisor and nodded. "My lords."
"Isolde Belera," Aëtius addressed me. "Let us address the situation in Britannia."
I described the patterns of the woad attacks over the past five years, and then reported the status of the town and the multiple encounters with a mixture of woads, Britons, and renegade Romans.
"I, myself, was injured in one of these attacks," I told them. "Branor, one of our best knights, led seven other knights in the defense of the fortress at Vindomora, successfully beating them back until the rebels were forced to surrender."
One of the advisors leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table. "Were there any casualties in this battle?" he asked. Another asked, "Where was Artorius at this time?"
"Arthur was called away to deal with another military matter," I answered the second. "He left Branor in charge to clean up what seemed to be a small band of rebels. As for casualties," I said, annoyed by his offhand manner, "One dead and two wounded, myself included. One of our counterattacks before the siege, though initially successful, backfired on us. Marrok, a Sarmatian, was felled by two arrows. I was shot by a woad, who was then killed by Galahad, one of our youngest knights. We were stranded in the forest, for by then the rebels had laid siege to the fortress and we had no way of finding help for either Marrok or myself. We were forced to make our way back to Hadrian's Wall on foot, with Marrok tied to my horse."
The man looked skeptical. "You were shot, and yet you walked from Vindomora to Badon Hill? That must be at least four or five days!"
I raised my chin. "I survived," I said. "That is more than I can say for some."
I continued my report, omitting Gatalas' visit to Britain.
"What we really need, your Highness, is more trained warriors, particularly those with some experience both in the field and on the training grounds. There are many promising Britons who would likely augment our forces very well, if they had more skilled instructors there to guide them."
I told them of my training group, my troops who were both reliable and spirited. The Romans expressed some derision toward my Britons. "They are good fighters," I defended them. "However, I am only one, and there are many more willing to fight to protect their land. Although I feel I must advise you, if I may… they would comply much better under the command of Sarmatians than Romans."
"And why is that?" Another advisor spoke up, sounding rather miffed. "They are under Rome's rule. Are they not obliged to obey Rome, and by extension, Romans?"
I was beginning to become truly irked. Of all the self-righteous, superior things to say!
"No," I declared, taking pleasure in the shocked expression that crossed many of their faces. "They consider themselves free people, and the Romans invaders who occupy their land for a time. And those who do accept your rule as permanent have just as much reason to hate Romans as I do."
Muttering broke out, and I enjoyed turning the room on end, as I always did. It was so much fun to provoke them, provided I did not do irreparable harm with my jibing.
"Many thanks to you all, my lords," I nodded, "Your Eminence," I bowed, "Highness." I once again pressed my fist over my heart. "May you all, in your infinite wisdom, decide upon the best course of action for Britain, based upon the information I have given you today. Good e'en to you."
And with that I turned on my heel and left. I didn't bother going to the stables. I was to attend supper here within the next three hours. It wouldn't be practical to make my way back to the townhouse, stay for an hour or so, and return. Instead I turned in the direction of the practice grounds, a haunt that I had only recently discovered.
There was only one person there, practicing his archery. I decided that archery sounded like a fine idea and doubled back to grab my bow and quiver from my packs.
When I returned, the man was retrieving his arrows from the target. He turned and saw me readying my bow, and started back.
"Are you sure you can even string that monster, darlin'?" His voice was pleasant and lilting, but cocksure, the voice of a womanizer. It reminded me of Lancelot, to my amusement. He saw me grin and swaggered over to me.
"Now, why don't you put that down and talk to me a bit, sweetheart, before you hurt yourself?"
He was really fairly good-looking, and I tried not to show off as I swiftly strung the bow, set an arrow to the string, and drew it back past my ear. He also happened to be in my line of fire. He backed off to the side, eyes very wide as he stared at the wicked point that had been aimed straight for his chest. I would never have shot him, of course, but I wanted him to know that I could have, if I'd wanted to. I flashed him a smile. I do love to keep people off-balance, I thought.
"Who are you?" He inquired with some amazement. I sighted on the target and loosed, the bowstring twanging softly against my leather wrist-guard. I put another arrow to the bow and aimed before I answered.
"Isolde, daughter of Beler of Sarmatia," I let go of the string and smiled in pleasure when it split my other arrow in two – even though it meant I would have to fashion another soon. I slung my bow over my shoulder and turned to him. "Knight of the Round Table and second-in-command to Lord Lucius Artorius Castus of Britain." I rather liked all of my titles lined up like that. I ought to have a plaque made, I thought humorously.
The young man's eyebrows shot up. "A knight? What is this, then? I've never heard of a woman knight before. And never tell me you're serious when you say you're second to Artorius Castus."
I ignored his disbelief and took hold of my bow again. My next two arrows clustered around the broken arrow and the one that split it. When I went out to retrieve them, I was glad to see that the arrowheads were almost flush with one another. Excellent. I pulled them out and returned to where the man stood.
I glanced at him. "Are you still here?" I noticed he had recovered his cocky grin.
"How can I be elsewhere when there is such an intriguing piece of work as yourself here?" I lifted one eyebrow.
"Intriguing?" I said. "Surely not." I punctuated my remark with another solid shot from my bow.
"If you are as good with a sword as you are with a bow," he interjected smoothly, "then I should say intriguing is the least of your qualities, for you are beautiful and charming as well."
Struck speechless, I cuffed him lightly and walked away, chuckling. "Beautiful and charming," I mocked. "What a ridiculous thing to say."
With that I pulled out my arrows and slid them into my quiver, then left the training grounds. Over my shoulder I called, "Although if you'd like to test your theory as to my skill with a sword, you'll meet me at the palace gate at dawn. I'll show you how a real warrior fights."
There, I thought. He won't be able to resist that barb to his masculine pride. He'll be there.
This would be fun.
The city was still quiet when I rode up to the gates, fully armed and armored. Luckily, the young man from the night before had anticipated that we would be standing on ceremony – he, too, wore full armor and a variety of weapons. His destrier was about a hand shorter than my own gelding, a fact that I noticed with some amusement. I clasped his forearm and turned Simargl with my knees, leading the way out of the city, to a field that was often used for weapons and horsemanship training. I took him to the far corner of the field and dismounted, sliding easily out of my high saddle. The sky was clear and the thin crusting of snow on the ground was beginning to melt under the warming sun. I removed my helm and tucked it under my arm, regarding my companion.
"So," I began, "What would you like me to teach you first?" I grinned at his offended air.
"If you mean to ask what weapon I choose," he said with his nose in the air, attempting to maintain his dignity, "I'd like to see what you can really do with that bow."
I unhooked my bow from behind my saddle and strung it. "Name your target," I said.
He walked out to a tree that was, in my opinion, insultingly close. "No good," I told him. "It's too short a range." I had wasted enough arrows the night before, showing off. I wasn't about to shoot at a solid target at that range – my arrow would be irreparably damaged.
He picked a new target, still well within my range but not so close that my arrow would be obliterated. "All right," I said. While he fixed a scrap of cloth to the tree, I retreated almost twice the distance and turned with an arrow already on the string. I drew my bow and drew a line from my arrow to my target. Noting the wind, I made the necessary adjustments, lifting my point of reference to several inches above my intended target.
The man turned and saw me standing twice as far from him as he thought. I made a mental note to myself to find out his name… I might as well know who I'm beating. He began running toward me, but I ignored him, concentrating on my shot. I loosed, and watched the flight of the arrow with pride, certain of my success. It was like that, sometimes. The elements would come together, the stars would align, whatever you wanted to call it – everything would feel right with a long-range shot and it was like magic. You just knew it was right, and that was how I knew now. I heard the distant thunk of the arrow hitting the tree.
I trotted back to where the nameless man crouched, hands thrown over his head. "Are you quite all right?" I asked him. I suddenly felt bad about showing off. Dammit, Isolde, I chastised myself. You know that's bad form. Why did you have to push it?
He climbed to his feet and looked at the target. The cloth still fluttered around the tree, punctured now by the black shaft of my arrow. It reminded me of the tiny black slivers that the woads used, and that we had tried and failed to reproduce. They would penetrate the skin, so thin that at first we couldn't tell what was wrong. It was an eerie feeling, as though the air itself was attacking us.
We'd collected a small supply and divided these amongst ourselves, for emergencies, I supposed. I drew out that pouch now and selected one of the little barbs.
"Here," I handed it to him carefully. "Watch out – it's wickedly sharp." He handled the little thing gently, with respect. "The Britons call them elf-darts. The woads – natives of Britain – make them. We gathered these from a camp of woads we defeated, about a year ago. They're dead useful if you want to spook your enemy." I winced at my choice of words. "Believe me – we lost two good men to them."
I cocked my head at him. "What is your name, anyway?"
"Titus Pellius Lepida. I'm a legionary, under Centurion Marcus Tullius Merula." Khors, would that damnable man follow me everywhere I went?
"Can I give you a word of advice?" He nodded. "Get out of his Century. I… knew him, once. He is not a good man, and he's an even worse commander." I could see he knew this already. "I do have some connections. Centurion Brennus Tullius Lupus, his nephew, is a reliable man. He also happens to have one of the most brilliant military minds I've ever encountered. If I vouch for you, he would likely be happy to have you fight for him – he recently suffered substantial losses on his last mission."
He nodded again and I could see a shadow of relief behind his eyes. He must have seen something to make him aware of the wisdom of this, I thought. Any man under Marcus must turn world-weary at a young age. "I would appreciate it, Isolde." He started to hand the wooden dart back to me, but I held up my hands. "You keep it," I said. "To make up for scaring the daylights out of you. I just miss that."
"What?" he asked, wrapping the elf-dart and tucking it safely away.
"The thrill, I suppose. The surety of having an enemy in your sights and knowing that you can take them down, and maybe keep more of your brothers alive by doing so. Killing like that, though… it's very clean. It's even easier than killing with a sword or lance or knife – especially with a knife. It's too easy not to discriminate when you're not looking your opponent in the eye before you take their life."
He was looking at me strangely. "You really meant it, didn't you? When you said you were Arthur's second, that you were a knight… it's not just a game to you. It's real, isn't it?"
"Just as real as this, standing here… more, even. When I'm out there, in Britain, I have to keep my brothers alive. I am a scout. If my senses fail me in any way, they die. If I allow myself to get distracted even for a moment, they die. If I am killed…"
"They die." He nodded. "I begin to understand. It's different here. In war, when you fight with an army, there is always someone else to take your place. Always another man to fight if you die. If you lose a battle, there will be more men to join the ranks and fight, and die, the next day."
I sighed. "The men I fight with…" I struggled to find the words, feeling a lump in my throat. How I missed them! "There is no one to replace them. They are my family. All the family I have left. They might even be the last of my people. Sarmatia is dead. It has been so since our forefathers signed away the lives of their sons and grandsons, to fight for a foreign cause, slaves to an indifferent Roman master."
"Is it so very bad, fighting for Artorius?" He asked curiously.
The corner of my mouth lifted in a half-smile as I thought of my commander. "No," I said. "Arthur is British, to me, although he idolizes Rome. Not as it really is," I added quickly. "But as he thinks it is. He sees it as a land of intellectuals, of men speaking out, fighting a verbal, ethical war to make all mankind free. When I return, I don't know if I will have the heart to tell him that it is a lie. He is such a philosopher, is Arthur. He loves the knights as his brothers, and me as his sister. I know he is part Roman, but he would die for us, and I would happily sacrifice myself for him. There is no bond stronger than that."
That night at supper in the palace, I announced my imminent departure.
"Perhaps we could reach some agreement, Isolde," the emperor coaxed. "I could arrange for you to live comfortably throughout your service… even terminate your service permanently." I sucked in my breath. I could be free of Rome. Free of a servitude that I never chose, in which I was forced to kill those with whom I had no quarrel.
Any other day I might have considered it. Khors, I might have accepted. But today of all days, with the thoughts of my brothers and my commander so close at hand, I knew I could not. I couldn't leave my friends to fight without me. I could never leave them.
Aëtius must have sensed that he had lost that battle, but he refused to give up the war. I couldn't blame him. The company he had to keep was duller than a forty-year-old blade. If there was one thing I had realized during this journey, it was that even the choices available to emperors had limits. Even the most powerful ruler had to follow the laws and customs of the land.
I spotted Titus, my swaggering archery target, on my way to the stables. He sat around outside the barracks with a group of fellow soldiers, talking and drinking. Titus laughed at something one of the others said. He spotted me and called me over.
"Isolde! How are you? Not too sore from the morning's exertions, I hope." The others raised their eyebrows as I came over and greeted him warmly. I heard a low whistle but ignored it. I could tell he was basking in the glow of his comrades' envy and decided to play along.
"I'm fine, although I admit it has been a little while since I drew my bow. You, however, are not bad with your own bow. Maybe one day you'll be as good as me." I couldn't resist throwing in that little barb. Otherwise he might let it go to his head.
He flushed, but bowed gallantly. "This is the girl I was telling you about, lads. She has an uncanny accuracy at nearly twice the normal range!" I allowed myself to preen only a little, pulling out my smallest knife and digging the point under my fingernails to clean them, though it was mostly just for something to do.
"Please, Titus, I'm not that good. I lose to Tristan, one of our best knights, all the time. We have a running bet going. He may best me at archery, but I still beat him with the sword at least six bouts out of ten." I didn't usually hold with false modesty – I knew I was that good – but I didn't want to appear a braggart. I just happened to be particularly proud of myself when Tristan lost to me, for a change. He was, I admitted, better at just about everything else.
"Nonsense. I'd never seen the like. You Sarmatians make beautiful bows," he winked at me, "as well as beautiful women." I flicked my fingers at him as if to brush off the absurd compliment.
"So is it true? You're really leaving?" He asked me a moment later. I nodded.
"I've completed my purpose here in Rome. Arthur needs me back in Britain. I should be leaving in a week or so, I'm not entirely sure when."
"Then it's a damned shame," said Titus. "That you and I didn't meet sooner. I would have liked to get to know you much better." He wiggled his eyebrows at me and I was forcibly reminded of Lancelot when he was in his cups. I giggled at the thought.
"I'm sure you would have," Though you wouldn't have a chance, I thought. "Gentlemen," I excused myself. "It was nice to meet you all, but I really must go. I have much to do in the next few days, and I believe I shall start tonight."
I turned to go when Titus grabbed my hand, spinning my around to land in his arms. While I was still reeling from the motion, he kissed me and my senses rioted. He really was very good at this. He released me and I heard his fellows hooting and hollering their approval. I tried to force down the blush that rose to my cheeks in an attempt to preserve my dignity.
He smirked at me. "It's not everyday I get to kiss a lord's second-in-command, especially when the lord in question is as renowned as Artorius Castus."
Well, I thought, his reputation was made. I fluttered my fingers at him in a mockery of a wave. "Don't get your hopes up, boy," I told him to the delight of his comrades. "I don't expect it will be happening again anytime soon." With a grin, I left them.
As I walked away, I heard the others gather around Titus. "Did you say she was second to Artorius Castus? The famed defender of Britain?"
Men, I thought loftily, and headed for the stables. I had much to do this night.
The next day, the city was buzzing with the news: Manius Acilius Celer had been found murdered in his own bedroom. There was no sign of struggle or crime except for the bloodied corpse, a black feather, and a note that was pinned to the body, bearing one carefully formed word.
Justice.
Two days later, Manius' second-in-command woke to find a similar note, accompanied by another feather, laid upon his pillow. It read simply, "Judgment."
By that time, all anyone of any station could talk about were these two consecutive incidents. Who was the mysterious person who was carrying out this apparent vendetta? How did they make their way in and out of the houses of the nobilis undetected?
Some concluded that the two men must have committed some grievous injustice and were now being punished for their misdeeds. They were neither of them well-liked, and in fact had a reputation for being ruthless men. After the first cold murder, many considered the second man lucky to be alive.
In the marketplace, a strange woman in men's clothes appraised the speculators with a calculating gaze, listening to the rumors taking flight, and smiled.
I placed the last of my possessions carefully into my saddlebags, making sure that everything was safely wrapped. I had a small gift for each of my brothers, as well as double rations for two weeks of traveling. I planned to buy more as I traveled, or work for it if I had to. I had to be careful how heavy my packs were if my plan was to work.
Farah had been quiet for several days – since I told her that I was leaving, in fact. She came into the room now, a small bundle under her arm and a package in her hand. "For you," she said, passing me the package. I took it and thanked her, but she shook her head. "That one isn't from me," I unfolded the cloth that covered the gift and reverently touched the contents, an exquisite pair of matched knives.
"They're beautiful," I breathed. "Look at that! Look at the balance…" I set the blade of one on my finger, right above the hilt. It hardly wavered. I launched it up into the air and watched it flip end over end, flashing mirror-bright. I caught it easily on its way down. There were even new wrist sheaths to go with them, made of soft, durable leather. The note, written in a strong, simple hand, said only, "In our company, you will ever be 'friend'."
I hugged them to my chest, delighted. Bren. Bren sent me these. I regretted our last encounter, awkward as it was. I would make a point to seek him out when I visited the palace for the last time, I decided. It wouldn't do to leave him without saying goodbye.
Farah looked at me with exasperation. "Only you would go all doe-eyed over a weapon," she said, hiding a smile.
I ignored her tone and peered at the other item. "What's that?" I asked. In reality I was thinking, I love gifts!
She handed it to me, looking down shyly. "It's from me. As thanks for your kindness… and… andIwanttogowithyoubutIcan'tandpleaseohpleasetakemeawayfromthisplace!"
I blinked. "Eh?"
She seemed to shrink in on herself. Over the past weeks I had drawn her out of her shell somewhat, but now she had retreated again in anticipation of rejection.
"You know I am a slave. I have nothing to look forward to in this life except for existence as a drudge – less than that, a possession, something to use and throw away once I live out my usefulness. I was once the daughter of a high-ranking man among my people. I cannot live like this any longer. I bore it before, but meeting you changed that, and now I have been given back my identity, and I can never repay that debt, but I must ask you for one more favor. Please, take me to Britain with you, I can sneak away, I'm very good at not being seen… I should be; I've been doing it long enough."
I tried to get a word in, but she ran over me as though she were afraid to stop. "And I can be helpful, I can cook and keep your things clean, I wouldn't mind doing it for you, by choice… I can even learn to hunt, I already know how to use a bow, although Mistress doesn't know. I only need to get to Britain and then I can make my way, I know enough from what you've taught me about the country and their customs, I could get work as a barmaid or elsewhere, and then I would be out of your hair and you never have to hear from me again if you don't want to."
"Farah," I made another attempt. No such luck.
"And I swear I won't talk too much like I am now, I just have no other choice, no options left to me…"
"Farah." I took her by the shoulders and she quieted. Finally, I sighed, lifting the garment I'd laid out beside me and holding it up to her.
"Yes, I think that would fit quite well." I set it down and stood.
"Well? Put it on!" Confused, she did as I directed and donned the stola.
"Wonderful. Now, it would be good if you were to go missing today, in about… an hour or so. Stay close, though – I'll meet up with you around-"
"Isolde? Are you saying you'll take me with you?" She sounded as though she hardly dared to believe it.
"Well, of course I am. Did you think I'd leave you here, alone?" My breath whooshed out of my lungs as she flung herself at me in a fit of pure joy.
I took my leave of Appia, Tiberia, and Vibia, all of whom I believe were quite happy to see me go. We had had little interaction since my arrival, as I passed much of my day at the palace or in their stables with Simargl and Farah. Speaking of which, the household was in turmoil since the young Parthian had disappeared. I had to act as though I were disappointed that she was not there to see me off, as it was a commonly-known fact that Farah and I had become particular friends during my stay. I believe she might have even been disciplined for her familiarity with me, but that was behind us, now. She would not be beaten again, if I had anything to say about it.
I found Bren just where I had thought to find him – in the barracks with his men. He saw me and stopped in midsentence to join me.
"I hear that you are leaving," he said, his face a mask of studied indifference. "I wish you well on your travels."
"Oh, Bren," I took his hands. "Thank you for the knives… they're wonderful. I've never seen their equal."
He looked down at our entwined fingers. "I've never seen your equal," he said simply. "Besides, I couldn't have you going away thinking I hated you for not returning my feelings. I know I've avoided you since that night…"
I touched his cheek. "You needed time to heal. You will be fine. You'll find a girl who can be to you what I cannot. You deserve that much and more."
He seized my face between his hands. "Listen to me, Isolde," he said. "Be careful. I know I may never see you again, but I would like to think that you are all right. All I want is for you to find happiness… even if it's not with me."
He kissed me with fervor and longing, and I felt a tear roll down my cheek. Apparently he felt it, too, for he wiped it away with his thumb and pulled me into a bone-crushing embrace before putting me away from him.
"Go now, Isolde, for I don't know if I will have the strength to let you go if you do not."
And so I left him, and I knew that what he feared was true – I would never see him again.
The emperor was unavailable, called away to an emergency meeting with his advisers, I was informed. I was genuinely disappointed to hear this. I had determined from the beginning that Aëtius was unaware of Marcus' actions six years before, and so had felt free to develop, if not a friendship, then at least a companionship with him over the past month. In a very short time, I had become one of Aëtius' most trusted acquaintances.
"Very well," I consented. I fidgeted. I could not wait any longer.
"Would you fetch me parchment and a quill?" I asked one of the footmen, whose face was familiar. He returned within a minute with the requested items.
I wrote quickly and folded the parchment. I picked up a taper and let the wax drip onto the note, using the ornament that I had begun to tie into my hair as a kind of makeshift seal. The result looked official and I passed it to the man who had turned me away.
"Give this to the emperor," I said. "He will know what it is." I walked away from him, and from Rome.
The message?
I rode Simargl toward the gate, turning back only once to take one last glance at the palace I had confronted only a month ago.
"Lady Knight." A man bearing the crest of an imperial messenger hurried toward me, clutching a scroll to his chest.
"Lady Isolde Belera?" I nodded briefly.
"What is it, messenger?"
He held out the scroll. "Your letter of safe conduct," he said. "Your freedom."
I sat astride Simargl, frozen with something between shock, elation, and fear. It couldn't be true.
"I'm not staying," I warned him, with nothing else to say. "Not even for this." He looked as though he had expected me to say that. My freedom. I reached out with shaking hands to take the precious document.
"The emperor sends the message, 'If the wind cannot be tamed, then it cannot be owned.'"
Tristan groaned and rolled over – or tried to. A sharp point digging into his neck discouraged movement, and Tristan stilled, opening his eyes and trying to recall what situation he'd gotten himself into this time.
The blinding ache in his head slowed to a dull throb, and he began to take stock of his surroundings. Three men dressed in unfamiliar armor stood before him. One particularly unfriendly stranger pressed his spear point further into Tristan's throat, breaking the skin. Another barked at the man in a tongue he didn't recognize, in an obvious reprimand. So they wanted him alive, at least. For the moment, he added pessimistically.
The one who appeared to be the leader came to stand in front of him. He said something to the man with the spear, who muttered but put up his weapon. Tristan glared at him and struggled to his knees – something made more difficult by the ropes that bound his hands behind his back.
"Why are you here?" The leader asked in accented Latin. His words had a strange sound to them, as if he swallowed his vowels. Tristan insolently stared up at him from under his fringe, saying nothing.
"Speak!" The angry one kicked him over. Tristan fell face-first onto the ground and struggled upright again, glowering at him. The leader shouted something at him and the others left.
Tristan considered the leader. He seemed as though he might be a fair man, but Tristan didn't want to give the stranger any reason to mistrust him.
For a moment he thought it might be too late as the other man drew a knife from his belt and leaned toward him. Tristan was bracing himself to lunge forward in an attempt to knock the blade from his grip when the man sliced through the bonds that secured his hands.
The Sarmatian sat back on his heels, rubbing his wrists to return the circulation. The leader sheathed his knife and appraised him with coolly collected eyes.
"I am Cerethreus," he said, "of Gaul. You are in my camp, among my people." Tristan said nothing, waiting for Cerethreus to continue. "Our band wanders throughout Gaul and the Roman Empire, finding work as entertainers, warriors…"
"Thieves?" Tristan spoke for the first time.
Cerethreus shrugged. "We thought you were Roman. We are not partial to Romans."
Tristan scowled. "I am not a Roman, and I'll thank you not to call me one. You and I have that in common, I think."
The Gaul was already nodding. "One of our number was once a legionary. He confirmed that your manner of dress is not of Rome. Neither is it Gallic, or British, or any other style we have come across in our travels," he prompted.
Tristan was silent for a moment. Cerethreus had shown substantial trust in him, especially when he revealed that his people not only operated somewhat outside the law, but also that they contained persons wanted by Rome, such as deserters. Perhaps it was time for him to show some faith in Cerethreus as well, although he was not a trusting person by nature, and frankly was not very fond of prying people. However, something about this man identified with Tristan and he found himself telling him about Isolde, and relating the bare bones of her story.
Cerethreus said his band hadn't come across her, but as theirs was a nomadic community, Tristan was not surprised. It would have been easy for them to miss each other.
The other man tossed a roll, a hunk of cheese, and a flask to Tristan and just before leaving said, "Don't try to leave just yet. You are not a prisoner, but my men don't know they can trust you. I'll confer with them tonight. Thank you for being honest and trusting me."
The scout nodded curtly to him, and with that Cerethreus ducked out of the tent and left him alone.
Tristan followed the Gallic leader's suggestion and kept to the tent for the day. By dusk, however, he was growing restless and agitated. He was only about week away from Rome, and Isolde. He had to move soon, before Isolde did something stupid and got herself killed before he could arrive.
I watched the change of guard from the shadow of a tree, my weapons sheathed to prevent any reflection from the torchlight on my well-polished blades from giving away my position. The only way in that I could see was to scale the wall and take out the guards before they could alert the others. It would be somewhat tricky – I must not allow the alarm to be raised. I couldn't fight off three dozen guards by myself, and so I must rely on stealth. Luckily, stealth was my specialty.
I glanced back the way I had come. I'd left Farah and Simargl in an alley a safe distance away, where we could make our escape if things went sour. I had given her instructions that if I did not return by dawn, I would likely not return at all. She had all the gold I had at my disposal, and I told her that if that were to happen, she should ride north as fast as she could, and make her way to Britain, and Arthur. She would be safe there, I told her. She had agreed reluctantly, unwilling to leave me but too practical to argue.
After half an hour of watching and waiting, I began to move. I winced as a cramp worked itself out in my calf. It had been long enough, I determined, for the new guards to have lost their wary edge. I knew from personal experience that a watchman begins his shift with a keen sense of things, but after a short while, the rustle of leaves in the wind becomes less suspicious. A truly good scout will learn to develop a constant state of awareness, so that this disadvantage did not apply.
I reached the shadow of the wall easily, although my nerves twanged with restlessness. The wall was not particularly well-made; designed more for its aesthetics than for defense. I had no trouble finding handholds and footholds between the stones. As I drew level with the top of the wall, I could hear the whisper of cloth and the scrape of armor – a guard was stationed on the walk, right on the other side of the wall.
I fished out a tiny pebble – more of a chip of stone, really – and tossed it onto the walk, away from my goal. While the guard was looking for the source of the sound, I quickly and silently heaved myself up on the wall, perching carefully on the top before drawing my knife and cutting the man's throat. His lifeless body I left propped up against the wall – it looked as though he merely slept, if one ignored the blood that soaked his dark jerkin. His head flopped down onto his chest.
I made my way down the stairs and across the courtyard, moving from shadow to shadow as though I were a part of them. I felt a feral grin stretch my face in a mockery of amusement. I had always loved the hunt.
Strangely enough, I met with only one more guard before I reached Marcus' quarters – it was easy to find, as it was the most prominent room on the second floor. I dispatched the guard, lowering his body to the ground and leaving it. It wouldn't do for the sound of a falling body to alert anyone nearby.
As it happened, I needn't have been so cautious. They were waiting for me.
Just as I reached the door, it burst open and soldiers spilled out. I'd felt a twinge of instinctive warning a moment before and had drawn my sword – an action that probably saved my life, I reflected as I blocked the first downswing. I swept my sword up and sliced across the man's belly. I didn't wait to watch him fall and I turned to catch the next onslaught. I sensed something solid at my back and realized I had backed up to the wall without realizing it. Good. Now no one could come at me from behind.
I had the sinking feeling that the precaution would not help me. There were many soldiers in the hall – too many. My skills, however well-developed, were not equal to the sheer numbers presented to me. I slashed horizontally to fell multiple opponents at once, and quickly realized that the longer reach of my sword made fighting in close quarters far too awkward and slow. The others seemed to reach that conclusion at the same time as I, and they surged forward. I dropped Kiji and drew my knives to jab at them. A blow to my left arm numbed the limb and made me drop my dagger. A moment later my other blade was wrenched away, buried in someone's ribcage.
I was weaponless in the hands of the people I despised the most. If I could not have my revenge, I decided in that split second, I would at least have an honorable death. I raised my chin and charged, screaming a wordless Sarmatian war cry.
I caught one man in the face with my spiked gauntlets, tearing away half his face. I immediately realized my mistake with a lurch of despair as they caught my arms and slung me to the ground. They didn't mean to kill me after all. I writhed in their grip, but to no avail. By the disdain in their faces, they would just as soon kill me as look at me, and that they did not meant they were under orders to leave me alive. Given the house in which I had been captured, I knew who must have given those orders.
I growled an insult as I was patted down none-too-gently, and with a definite lingering on certain aspects of my anatomy.
I was awarded for my cheek with a sharp, stunning blow to the side of my head. Light, amused laughter reached my ears and I snapped around to face Marcus as best I could, narrowing my eyes with concentrated hatred that focused solely on the man in front of me.
I tried to stand, so that he wouldn't think he had power over me, but was forced once again to my knees by a hard boot stepping on my leg, just behind my knee. I sucked in my breath as the man put weight on my legs, effectively holding me down with bruising force.
"Look at you, my beauty," said my nemesis, the man I had spent six years of my life hating. "I knew you wouldn't leave Rome without saying hello. Especially after you left those charming messages. What was mine to read? Retribution?"
"Something like that," I snarled.
His cold, gray eyes took in the many soldiers whom I had killed or wounded, and his mouth tightened in annoyance.
"You didn't bring company, did you?" He asked. I spat at his feet and was rewarded with a sharp yank on my hair. I thought of the first man who had grabbed my braid when I was captured, and his scream of pain when he encountered the spiked strap I wove into the plait. One of the spikes had gone clear through his hand. Of course, the strap had been removed from my hair, which now hung down in sweaty strands about my face. I smiled grimly at the memory. Stupid Romans.
Marcus, irritated at my insolence, stepped forward and slapped me sharply. "Sarmatian whore," he growled, pushing his face close to mine. "You're going to enjoy your stay here, bitch. I know I will."
He chuckled, and then jerked back as I lunged at him, my teeth clicking together less than an inch from where his nose had just been.
The men holding me back brought me up short and threw me to the ground. They kicked at me and I curled up with my back to the wall to protect my kidneys. I vaguely heard Marcus walk away, but I dedicated my energy to fending off the worst of the blows.
Suddenly the barrage ceased. I felt rough hands removing my armor before I was lifted by arms and legs and carried, motionless. Then I was flying through the air, and I landed hard and rolled. My head struck the wall opposite the door and my vision went foggy and then failed altogether.
When I awoke, my body hurt. It was nothing that I hadn't felt before – it was the firm grip of the men holding me down that made me worry. The dull clank of metal against stone drew my attention to the activity behind my head. My shirt was torn away by one of my captors and I watched Marcus approach, an oddly triumphant gleam in his eye.
He touched my cheek tenderly and smiled, but there was nothing kind in his face. I saw the iron in his hand too late. The hiss of my burned flesh mingled with the scream of agony as he pressed the brand to my skin, just above my right breast.
I was not blessed with unconsciousness – no, I wasn't so lucky as that. I whimpered to myself, stranded in a world of hurt. The blows the Romans delivered to my prone body were almost disregarded when compared to the searing pain in my shoulder. Slowly I became aware that the beating had stopped. I laughed self-deprecatingly at my earlier thoughts of rebellion. Of course he had power over me. He owned me. He knew it when he captured me, and now he had made sure that I knew it, too. The door closed and I was left alone in the dark.
The dark was smothering me. I knew I wasn't alone, but I couldn't tell where the other person was. A flicker of pain across my stomach made me hiss. A soothing hand smoothed my brow as the knife lovingly traced my body, opening numerous lines in my skin, cuts that were designed to scar. Lips tenderly caressed my own and against my will, I felt my body respond to the touch, even as tears of pain and shame soaked into my hair. The invisible lips ghosted over my skin, chased by the bite of the blade, across my neck, my breasts, my sides. I couldn't breathe.
Tristan's face flashed before my eyes, by turns loving and accusing. I pushed it away, but as the lips found my own again, I found my will faltering. Go away, Tristan, I pleaded. I don't want this to be you.
More tears trickled down over my temples as I closed my eyes.
"Sleep, now," a quiet, comforting whisper commanded. "Sleep."
I curled myself up into a ball, no longer coherent enough to weep. The dark pressed in on me, condemning me, weakening me. Breaking me. I followed the voice's direction and slept.
Tristan slithered over the wall, his armor melding with shadows so that he seemed only partially there. This suited his purpose well. A sleeping guard fell to his thirsty blade, never to wake again. More would die, before the night was through, he vowed. Many more.
I woke suddenly as a weight settled over me. I cried out in mindless horror as he groped between my bare legs, pleading and begging him to leave me be… to let me die… to kill me. A fist slammed into my head and I lost consciousness.
Tristan bounded up the stairs, all need for quiet gone now that the alarm had been raised. He heard the racket as Cerethreus' men attacked from the front. A cry of desperation caught his attention and he pushed harder, pure black rage fueling him. The cry had been Isolde's, barely recognizable to his ears. He flung open the door, a tower of fury, much like an avenging angel but with bloodshed on his mind. What he saw brought him up short.
She lay pitifully on the floor, blood smeared across her naked form. The sight of that galvanized him into action, ruthlessly splitting a man in two before he could even raise his blade.
"Isolde!" he cried as he spun and ducked, felling the remaining guards with two simple, ferocious swings of his sword. "Isolde, get up!"
I swam out of the depths in which I was mired, recalled to the world by a familiar voice that cried my name.
No, I thought fuzzily. Tristan could not be here. Marcus could not have him. He was safe, away from here.
Tristan watched, inwardly terrified, as Marcus stood over Isolde, dragging her up by her hair. In his other hand he held a knife that sparked in the dim light. She swayed on her knees, eyes half-open, hardly registering her surroundings.
"You are Tristan," Marcus stated coldly. "I remember you. She called out your name, you know." Tristan tensed, red fog obscuring his vision. "Lay down your sword, now. You wouldn't want anything to happen to her, would you?"
Tristan leaned down, gently laying his blade on the floor and taking the opportunity to slip one of his throwing knives into his hand, keeping the weapon hidden from Marcus.
He straightened slowly. "That's better," Marcus gloated. "Now move over there." He jerked his head to one side. When Tristan failed to comply immediately, he drew the knife gently across Isolde's throat in a deliberate threat.
It was a mistake that cost him his life. Isolde thrashed suddenly, keening in remembered agony. She fell hard on one shoulder, and Tristan took advantage of Marcus' exposure, flinging his knife at the Roman. It took him in the throat, and no sooner had he fallen than Isolde was on him, clawing at the man's face while he gurgled in the last moments of his life.
My fingers found the hilt of his knife, the same knife that had marked me and broken me in the dark. Through the haze I knew only that he was mine, and I stabbed downward with all of my waning strength. Again and again I stabbed, until the wetness on my face was more blood than tears, and then I clutched my arm to my chest, having injured it in my fall. I rocked back and forth, wailing my pain and fear and triumph all at once.
I vaguely recalled that I still held the blade that a moment ago had nearly taken my life. I couldn't seem to let it go, and instead held it close to me like a treasured memento.
I shuddered and stopped crying, my tears spent for the moment. It was done. He would never torment me, or anyone else, ever again.
Tristan approached her slowly, carefully. He was almost afraid to touch her. It seemed as though no part of her body was unmarked, and he felt ill, looking at her.
Crooning softly, as he would with a wounded animal, Tristan unpinned his cloak and carefully wrapped it around her, picking her up and cradling her to his chest. He let out a breath, more sob than sigh, and rested his chin on her head. For a moment he just held her. He tasted salt and realized he was weeping. Tears of relief coursed down his face.
A shout alerted him to the fact that they were not safe yet.
"Wait." Tristan barely heard the whisper, but he set Isolde down where she indicated. With shaking hands, she reached out and used bloody fingers to write out a single word on the floor, beside the body of her most hated enemy.
Revenge.
Her message delivered, Isolde swayed and Tristan picked her up again. Tucking the ends of the cloak about her to preserve what remained of her shattered modesty, he carried her down the stairs to the waiting men.
His companions made way for him, staring at the pitiful bundle he carried. Isolde did not move, but shrank against him. Tristan kept his face stony, while inside he cringed with her. He mounted and set her in front of him, wrapping his arms around her once again.
Without a word, he kicked his horse into a gallop and led the way out the gate and away from that place. Flames rose behind him, and in their angry light, he smiled.
Tristan thrust his knife into the ground to clean it of the Roman's blood. They had made camp after riding through the night to clear the city and any who might try to pursue them. Although, he thought, no one in Rome knew who had killed Marcus, or where they were destined. But he was a cautious man – one reason of many that he was still alive.
He stood, turning the dagger in his hands. Every sense he had was trained on the tent behind him, where the healer with Cerethreus' band was tending to Isolde, who had slept throughout the night and most of the day.
A scream wrenched the air and in a moment Tristan was inside the tent, grappling with Isolde for the knife she still clutched like a lifeline. She fought him, her eyes wide and searching. He had the eerie feeling that she couldn't see him. Suddenly she folded against him, sobbing for breath.
"Shhh," he soothed her. "Shhh… I'm here, dear one, I've got you." He grasped her hand tightly and held it until the wild look left her eyes.
Tristan looked up at the healer, who appeared shaken, and no wonder. Silently he nodded to the man, indicating that he would care for her. He didn't think she would let anyone else touch her, in any case.
At the Roman's estate, he'd only had a few moments to notice her injuries. Now, looking at them closely, he felt sick as he imagined the Roman with her… hurting her.
She looked at him lucidly for the first time since he'd come upon her at the estate. "Tristan," she breathed. It was the first sign of conscious recognition she had shown. Tristan pulled her tighter to him, as if by doing so he could mesh their very bodies and protect her forever. "It's all right, Isolde," he murmured. "We're together. He'll never harm you again."
I looked up at my beloved's face and reached up to brush away a strand of dark hair that had fallen into his eyes. "Tristan," I whispered, and began to weep. For once I understood Arthur's devotion to his god. I'd been delivered.
He kissed my forehead and I stiffened against the memories this action conjured – memories of soft lips and sharp knives in the dark.
No. This was Tristan, the man who loved me. Nevertheless, I had to steel myself against his touch.
He seemed to understand, drawing away enough to give me space. I tried to move and groaned as the movement aggravated my shoulder. The brand aside, I could feel that something was wrong with my arm.
"Tristan," I rasped. "My arm."
He noticed the strange look of it and swore. "I'll have to push it back in," he warned, positioning himself so he could do so with a minimum of pain and effort. I clenched my teeth together. He lifted the limb, making me grunt when my strained tendons shifted. With one smooth motion he twisted my arm and pushed it up so that it slipped back into the joint. I shrieked with the sudden agony, sweat breaking out on my brow, but within a moment I sighed in utter relief. My shoulder still throbbed, but the feeling of wrongness had gone.
Tristan seized my arm, careful of the injured joint, and cursed vehemently. I closed my eyes and touched my fingers to the brand that he had only just discovered. The feel of the scabbing ridges sent shudders racing through me, and I fumbled for the knife, thrusting it at Tristan.
"Get it off of me!" I begged him. "Cut it off, I won't belong to him! I won't have his mark on me." When he hesitated, I brought the knife down to cut into my own shoulder. Before it could puncture the skin, however, Tristan took the blade from me and set it against the brand.
I held his wrist, guiding his hand. "Do it," I whispered.
I made no sound when he flicked the knife skillfully, shaving off a thick layer of skin and leaving a patch that bled freely. It was clean, untainted by him. It was the first step of freeing myself from him, I hoped.
I thought he would put down the knife, but before he did so he took my hand and, before I could utter a word, etched a slightly crooked T into the fleshy part of my palm, below my thumb.
He said nothing of it, but I knew that it was his way of saying that Marcus had no ownership over me. I was his, and even then I was free. I laid my bleeding hand behind his neck and brought his face to mine, pressing my forehead against his. He made no move to do more, but we shared a moment of understanding so complete that it beggared description.
I woke some time later. Tristan had bandaged the fresh wound on my shoulder, and the sharp pain of my dislocated shoulder had dulled to a distant throb. Seeing that I had awakened, he took up a clean rag, dipped it in the pitcher of water that sat beside us, and began to bathe the blood from my skin. When I clenched my fist in an expression of discomfort that had nothing to do with my injuries, he rinsed the rag and handed it to me, letting me finish. When I had, I set aside the scrap of cloth and Tristan handed me a bundle. I looked at him in silent inquiry.
"Clothes," he said. "Yours. Your friend Farah found us and told us what had happened. I sent her back with one of Cerethreus' men to join their band. We should meet up with them in two or three days. Assuming you're up to riding," he added. "Frankly, I was surprised that Simargl put up with her at all, but he behaved like a gods-loved angel."
I glanced up sharply. "Is he here?" I had worried for my horse when I was first captured, but since then I hadn't had the time or energy to spare him a thought. Tristan nodded. "You can see him tomorrow, when you're rested," he told me sternly.
One corner of my mouth turned up wryly. "Yes, Mother." He squeezed the hand he was wrapping, and I returned the gesture.
He tied off the dressing he'd put over his mark and reached for a long strip of cloth, fashioning a sling for my arm. I would have to keep it fairly immobile for the time being, I knew, and I wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon. My exhaustion aside, I dared not leave the tent. The very thought of going out among more than a dozen men, even with Tristan there, made me involuntarily cringe with fear. No, I decided. I would stay here for the time being.
I heard Tristan settle outside, heard the sharp singing of his sword as he stroked it with a grindstone. The unique shape of his blade made it a melodious sound, and it was oddly comforting. I laid myself down, allowing the fatigue that I had been pushing back for so long to cover me like a blanket. I pressed my face into Tristan's tunic and breathed in the scent of him, feeling the barest sense of safety that I had thought might be beyond me, now. Finally I lost myself to sleep.
My, my, Isolde does seem to get kissed a LOT. I noticed that she was fairly egotistical in this chapter, too… I only illustrate her the way I see her. This was, indeed, a dark chapter (at least the second half), but this is presents perhaps her biggest trial so far, as she struggles to come to terms with her days as Marcus' prisoner. Once again, I realize that it might have been confusing, but I expect to clear up some of the details in the next chapters.
Hope you all enjoyed it! I even went overboard and it's now about 12,400 words long – 2,400 longer than usual!
Read and please, PLEASE review!
Ribhinn