Moonshadows

by StrawberryCatBeans

Two countries have been enemies of one another for centuries, carrying on a vicious cycle of hatred and prejudice. One country finally conquers another, and the princess of the defeated country is taken as a prize by the conquering prince. However, things are not always what they seem, and Princess Sialen finds true freedom at the hands of her captor.

6. Chapter VI

VI

o0o

Jocosa blinked as she stepped outside, a basket containing several empty sacks slung under one slender arm.

"There's supposed to be more variety than last time," she heard her aunt tell her mother as the two women came up to her side.

"How generous," Mother replied acidly as the small cluster of girls and women fell into step, leaving the small apartment that was shared by two families, that of her own and the one belonging to her aunt and uncle.

The last time food had been distributed, they'd only gotten beans, barley, and onions. Her mother and aunt had acted graciously enough in the marketplace, taking their rations without protest, but behind the closed door of their temporary home, there'd been plenty enough griping about the Thamonese, Viruchids, Dakulians, and Yngsians – referred to by her father and uncle as slanty-eyes, mud-skins or mud-people, and blood-traitors respectively.

Little wonder that Father and Uncle should say such things, when these invading armies had camped out in the valleys and plains around Whitecastle, squatting in the hovels and huts formerly occupied by Araithalen farmers and their families, pitching tents when said meager dwellings overflowed with these invaders, and eating up the crops offered by these fertile farmlands while the people within the city went hungry. She knew she would never forget the sight of the camps from the city walls and the flags that proclaimed their origin – flashes of Thamonese black and gray, Viruchid gold and teal, Dakulian red, and Yngsian green, blue, and white fluttering when the wind caught them, visible to sharp eyes such as her own.

It'd started in the late fall. At first, the bare trickle of people that came in from the southwest had been just that, and Father dismissed them as cowards, assuring his family that Lord Fiori and his bannermen, and the soldiers they commanded would be easily able to rebuff the Viruchids and Dakulians, and the people they saw on the road were merely acting rashly. But as the winter and spring wore on, the trickle became a steady stream, with increasingly dire news, and it was the news of Lord Fiori's surrender that made Father finally decide that his family should join the other refugees in Whitecastle.

They'd loaded up their cart with their meager possessions, their chickens, and all of their food stores and what they could harvest, Father and her oldest brother, Cedric, pulling it. Mother and Erme, Cedric's wife, carried their babies, and the rest of the siblings bore baskets and sacks filled with food and other assortments. To say that they carried their lives on their backs was not much of an understatement, especially with the heat of long, late spring days beating down on their heads. Bringing up the rear were Gramma and Granpa, and Father's sister, Auntie Gert, who was simple-minded, and who had been placed in charge of the young pig and goat the family had traded for a couple of months ago.

Jocosa had never been in the city and compared to the town that her family went to when they wanted to trade or observe a festival day, Whitecastle was crowded.

If not for the fact that Father's brother worked as a watchman, Jocosa and her family might have had to seek out a bit of space in one of the city churches, or its convent. As it was, these places were already overflowing, with whole families camped against the walls of those as well as other buildings, ramshackle tents and partitions housing an increasingly hungry – and hostile – populace.

Eleven people had come to join the six people already living there, and it did not take long for Jocosa to miss her home. True, she was from a poor farming family, with her grandparents, aunt, father, mother, brother and sister-in-law, two other siblings, and a toddler and infant in a small cottage, but if she wanted fresh air, she had but to step outside onto the straw-roofed veranda, or go further into the fields that her family lived off of, feeling the thick grass under her bare feet.

Here, the world beyond the door of her current home meant refuse-strewn alleyways, a sludge- and waste-lined canal, and a miasma of unpleasant scents hanging in the air that was magnified by the sun that beat down on the city with seemingly no mercy during a summer that almost seemed to not end.

Despite the residents of his apartment tripling in number, Uncle Henrik was happy enough with the influx of food and supplies that his older brother had brought with him.

However, between all the mouths that had to be fed, what had seemed almost like a mountain of food met its inevitable demise. The pig, goat, and chickens were butchered to save what was left of the crops for the humans, the cart was broken up for fuel for cooking, and the yarn and thread so carefully spun by the women of the family were used up or traded.

The plague had torn through the city, and with people living in such close quarters, its noxious spread was inevitable. Had it been cooler, and the invaders not tampered with the flow of water into the city, it might have been easier to deal with.

However, many of the canals that fed off the river running through Whitecastle had gone dry due to the drastically-reduced water levels, forcing many – including her own family – to make a considerably longer journey for buckets of water. Then, to make it safe for consumption, Water Mages had to use their magic to purify it, but only limited quantities of water could be worked at a time, costing energy for magic-users. A fair amount of Araithale's mages were already employed within the army, and what remained were mostly women with a handful of men. The White Mages, despite their best efforts, could not hold back the plague.

How Jocosa wished that she had even a touch of magic, especially when she became sick. However, she'd fared better than her grandparents, who'd died from it, or her young nephew, who'd predeceased his great-grandparents by just a day. Her two youngest cousins joined their grandparents and cousin a sennight later. Erme had survived – just barely – but the child she'd been carrying slipped from her body like so much else.

Erme was still weak, so she remained behind with Gert and two young boys while the rest of the family's women and girls went to the market. Uncle was back on the city wall, though there didn't seem to be much purpose to that now that the Thamonese and their allies had won. Father and Cedric were elsewhere in the city, looking for work.

The days were becoming shorter and somewhat cooler, and the air felt fresher without the stink of plague, sewage, and rotting flesh hanging in the air. The river was back to its normal flow, though most of the canals were not quite flushed out yet, so people still avoided drinking from them unless a Mage had worked their magic onto the containers of water brought to them. As the group approached the marketplace, they saw a good number of foreign soldiers, which was a normal sight since King Heliert had surrendered his throne to a woman.

The group joined one of the lines, and her mother and aunt started chatting with their neighbors in the queue. The early morning sun cast sharp shadows from the buildings that surrounded the open space, most of them ranging between two to three stories high. As the lines moved forward, the shadows grew shorter, bringing sunlight and heat to her scalp.

Some of those who had received their food allotment passed by Jocosa on their way back to their homes, whether these residences be temporary or permanent. There were beans and barley again, but this time, Jocosa was relieved to see tomatoes, leeks, and carrots in the baskets. And she knew that her mother and aunt were not ignorant to this, and doubtless were thinking of what they would do with these items that had previously been written off as a loss.

At the counter, where nuns handed out food under the watchful eye of Thamonese soldiers, Mother and Aunt presented their vouchers, which had been calculated according to the number of people in their families. Father and Uncle, as the leaders of their families, had been the ones to collect the vouchers when they submitted to the head count that had been conducted by their new superiors. After weeks of starvation, or near it, few people had the strength to argue.

These vouchers were guarded like they were gold coins – at least it seemed that way in Jocosa's eyes as she had never actually seen a gold coin – and had marks on it which made them understandable even to those who could not read, which was true for her entire family. Reading was for the nobles and the monks and nuns, though the average commoner did know basic maths so they could count their bushels or other units of produce, or heads of livestock, as well as counting the days and sennights.

There were several more marks on the voucher than there were mouths to feed in the families, though. Father had counted the dead members of his family as well as the living, and he was not the only one to do so. Between the plague and the overcrowding, it would be impossible for the Thamonese to have a truly accurate count of the Araithalen citizens in the city, and although the Heavenly Father said that lying was a sin, the flesh-and-blood fathers – and mothers – rationalized that surely their deity would not condemn a lie to a foreign enemy, especially to feed their own children.

Mother and Aunt quickly slid the vouchers back under their tunics as various food items were counted or measured out, and Jocosa took her share of the load.

A murmur rippled through the marketplace as a small group of Thamonese soldiers climbed the wooden platform that was set in the middle of the clearing. Though Jocosa had not witnessed it, living in such close quarters with so many others made it inevitable that she would overhear things. So when several monks resorted to violence to keep Thamonese soldiers from confiscating the White Monastery's stores of wealth, the response from the new overlords was swift and brutal.

Jocosa wondered if this monk and nun had something wrong, and were going to be publicly punished as an example to others who might be considering rebellion since the platform had often been used in the past for just that – albeit it was the monks who usually rendered punishment. Many pairs of eyes fixed upon the monk and nun and their companions, and the girl could almost feel the nervous anticipation in the air, filling her nostrils and lungs as she felt her aunt tense beside her.

The two servants to the Holy Father looked to be in late middle age, and were dressed in the usual fashion of those of their rank, in plain ankle-length tunics of light gray, with light brown cowls that split along the sides from the shoulders to terminate around the knees, the hoods lowered to their backs. Their sex was distinguished by the thinning hair on the monk's scalp that was complemented by his sandy-yellow beard, and the nun's gray-and-brown braid was draped over her shoulder.

Neither of them was restrained, Jocosa noted, and as she examined them further from her vantage point, she realized that neither of them looked worried or fearful.

"Good morning, fellow citizens!" the monk called out as he looked over the crowds that were waiting for, or had just received, their rations. "Let us take joy in the Mother's mercy! There is no denying that the recent months have been an ordeal, and we have shared many trials, but as the Way of the Light reminds us, life is not without its tribulations."

"The Heavenly Father knows we have had enough of those," she heard her aunt whisper angrily.

"However," the nun said, picking up where her companion paused, "the Way of the Light also tells us that life is not without its blessings. The Mother loves her children and is always ready to welcome them to Her bountiful bosom and comfort them. Where the Father acts with a firm hand, the Mother prefers a gentler touch, and She has touched the hearts of our new leadership. Her generosity is already manifest in the fact that our people are being fed, and we are given further mercy by the release of our farmers to their homes and fields, to ensure that our bellies remain full!"

Excited murmuring tore through the crowd, and Jocosa let out a sudden breath, not realizing she had been holding it in during the announcement. She would be able to feel the grass under her feet again and could take comfort in the quietness of the fields and orchards.

"The Emperor and the Governor-General are not ignorant to the difficulties that we have been through. They would like to thank you for your patience and generosity in allowing them to temporarily reside on your farms, and as your reward, you will not have to pay any taxes for the following year," the monk stated.

Father would certainly be glad for that, Jocosa thought. She barely heard the rest of the announcements due to the excited chatter of the crowd, especially with the shocked murmurs that met the statement that compulsory seithes would be illegal.

It was the duty of ordinary Araithalen citizens to support those who ministered to them religiously and sometimes medically. For after all, as many members of the clergy were wont to remind, their path in life was a sacred duty. They meted out advice, oversaw the application of justice, and brought the word of the Holy Father to those who could not read. They performed the marriage ceremonies, consecrating the couple with the blessings of the Heavenly Father and Mother, and the naming ceremonies that made babies an official member of a family. They were called upon to memorialize the dead and accept confessionals from those who believed themselves near that dreaded threshold.

So Araithale provided. Monasteries and convents of varying sizes and qualities peppered the country, most of them commissioned by the Oronac family or other wealthy families. But even the poorest farmer or laborer was expected to pay his dues. The seithe was but another tax to be paid and the Holy Book did say to pay your dues, so farmers like Father had to dole out what little money they had – or a portion of their crops – to whatever noble family governed the province, and further reduce the coin or the crop – by supporting those who went into Service.

Father respected the clergy, and always fed and hosted the travelers that came to his house. Hospitality was among the tenets held sacred to the Heavenly Father. But with so many mouths to feed and safely shelter already, several extra mouths – for the Sacred Travelers often traveled in groups of three or four – could feel like an undue burden.

It wasn't all bad though. Last year, they had a pair of monks stay with them for several days, including a Holy Day, so services were held next to one of Father's fields, the family and some of their neighbors seated on the warm grass while the elder monk held a sermon. Afterward, he had a prayer session with Father and blessed him and his family for their generosity, reminding them that the Heavenly Father would eventually reward all those who had served him faithfully, regardless of how rich or poor they were.

Then they'd left, to make their circuit through the countryside before returning to their home monastery, and other monks and nuns would take their turns doing the circuit.

Jocosa listened to her mother and aunt talk for several moments before looking around, seeing that the monk and nun were walking through the marketplace, their path bringing them o where there were only several people between herself and the quietly dignified personages. The monk and nun did not seem upset about the loss of seithes, but then it was entirely possible that they were masking their anger, like many other Araithalens.

A monk had come to say the final words over her grandparents when they'd been dead for only a few hours before their bodies had been carted away. A nun had remained for almost an hour at Erme's bedside as the young woman struggled with the after-effects of the plague as well as the miscarriage. Simple as they might have seemed, Jocosa saw the effects that a kind word or touch of the hand had upon those in need of spiritual succor.

Making her way through the crowd, she came within the line of sight of the nun. "Blessed Sister, I wonder if I might speak with you?" she asked hopefully, realizing very well that they might be on their way elsewhere to repeat the announcement.

Jocosa envisioned the look of guarded happiness on Erme's face as the nun held her hand and prayed with her. Or the solemn acceptance on Father's face as the monk prayed over the remains of his parents. She also remembered how tired they had looked, and she knew that some of the monks and nuns had died, too.

"Yes, you may," she heard the monk day. "What is it, child?" she heard the nun say as she focused on the woman's face.

"We have all been through a lot and… um." Jocosa found herself at a loss for words to describe everything she was feeling. Or to describe just want it was she wanted. This spring and summer had tested the people of Araithale harshly, and there was scarcely a person who came out of the war's end that would have any fond remembrance of those days.

"We have been," the nun said, placing her hand on Jocosa's shoulder. "What is your name?"

"J- Jocosa, Blessed Sister."

"Jocosa, a fine name. When I was little, I had an older sister named Jocosa." A flicker of sadness passed through the nun's face before she offered a small smile. "You had something to ask us?"

"I was thinking of perhaps becoming a nun."

"Blessed is the heart and hands that give themselves to sacred service," the monk quietly intoned. Jocosa had heard it a few times before and knew that it had come from the Holy Book.

"But it is not an undertaking to go into lightly," the nun added. The monk nodded.

"The Way of the Light is blessed, but fraught with trials that will cause some to strengthen their character, but not everyone can resist the temptations of the Dark Sister."

Jocosa nodded. Unless a girl was an orphan who had been raised in a convent, girls generally did not take the full vows until they were beginning the fourth phase of their life – adulthood at the seemingly – for her – ripe age of twenty-one. However, a girl could move into a convent before that, as either an acolyte or a ward, and experience much of the cloistered life that a nun submitted to.

Such a life seemed forbidding to some girls, but as much as she loved her family, Jocosa was not sure she wanted that for herself. Many a night lately she would lay awake on her designated spot on the floor atop the blanket she shared with two other girls, listening to others breathe or mutter in their sleep, or the occasional huff when some rolled over or tried to make themselves more comfortable. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, cooking, and unwashed bodies among other things, and she thought about sitting in the shade under a tree or splaying out on fresh-grown grass, feeling the sunlight on her face. But life on the farm was not without its difficulties. Illness, injury, a bad harvest, the rigors of the childbed...

"Life itself is not easy," Jocosa replied politely. The nun reached out, placing the tips of her fingers under the girl's chin. Jocosa allowed her face to be tilted upward as the older woman studied her features. A couple of moments, and the hand dropped.

"You are well aware of that at such a tender age," the monk commented.

"Not everyone is so blessed as others," the nun said as she looked at him. "These are… strange times, and we must keep our faith strong. And that includes sharing it with others."

"I stand corrected, Sister Rosemary," the monk said with a slight bow of his head. He looked back at Jocosa.

"A willing spirit pleases the Heavenly Father greatly."

"A willing spirit is the first step to any fruitful undertaking," Jocosa replied.

o0o

Arvin, with his accustomed silence, collected the coffee cherries from the lower branches of the trees that had been planted in rows, dropping them into the large basket that was strapped to his front. He could almost do this task with his eyes closed, having done it every year for nearly as long as he could remember. Like his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, and going back to almost time immemorial, his people had harvested coffee for themselves, and eventually, the people responsible for the near-extinction of his race.

It was not the only thing that was harvested here, but the lords of Araithale referred to this region as the 'coffee bowl' because the mountain-hugged region had some of the best soil for growing coffee, which the Araithalens had been quick to adopt when the first of them made their way down to this region over half a millennia ago.

The Hgngu were a proud people, and that pride had been instrumental to their undoing. They were divided into cities and tribes, with anywhere between a dozen to a hundred princes at odds with one another for the most – and best – territory to control. There were times of peace between various factions, and then one day, some grave insult or misunderstanding could erupt into a war.

His tribe settled down here, far enough from the rich lands of what the Araithalens called the Green that they could avoid being drawn into various conflicts. By the time the first Araithalens found this remote Hgngish village, whispers had rumbled through the various connections that tied the conflicting factions together. These pale-haired demons according to the few that had managed to escape the Araithalen onslaught, had a seemingly unending thirst for blood. If they did not destroy villages by their sword, disease often followed them, decimating what was left of the Hgngish in those areas.

The ones that had come to the village seemed peaceful enough, and the members of the Peacock Feather Tribe wondered if the stories they'd heard were mere rumors, from rival tribes to stir up trouble. These visitors, said to have hair as blonde as the sun's light, stayed for some time and left.

Weeks and then months passed, and nothing happened. The Peacock Feather tribe lived on as it always did, enjoying their life in the mountains, harvesting their crops, and tending to their animals and families. Then an army of those with pale hair arrived, and the village was torn between surrendering and fighting, given what they'd heard of regarding the fate of other Hgngish villages and even cities.

However, the Peacock Feather tribe's kindness to those long-ago scouts was not to be met without at least some modicum of grace. The village could surrender and accept an Araithalen lord as its master, and would in exchange be left to live in relative peace.

Even if it had been just a trick, what other choice did the tribe have? The people of Viruch, living on the other side of the peaks, had refused to answer any calls of aid, but then the Hgngish and Viruchids did not have the best of histories together, either.

In the end, the Viruchids would come to regret that decision because once the lands of the Peacock Feather Tribe came under the control of Araithale, the army moved south, well-rested and fed after their time in these stolen lands. The Araithalen army would come to conquer the rest of the Gray Reaches. Though the land was not always very good, there were sources of gold among other things amidst the crags and canyons of the Gray Reaches, a resource the Viruchids would not get back without Onshae Thamo's help.

So since that day so long ago, an Araithalen lord ruled those sweeping meadows and slopes, collecting tribute for himself, the King, and Service. He or his agent would mete out justice as deemed fit, ensure that the local Hgngish followed the Way of the Light, and on occasion, tup a Hgngish girl or woman.

The Viruchids had marched by here late last fall, on their way to fight Araithale. Arvin could almost hardly believe it, but he did not have much reason to want to see either side win. The Peacock Feather Tribe was bound to lose at least something, regardless of who won.

It had been mostly quiet since then, though. Upon news of Whitecastle's surrender and the ascension of the Dark Hand in Araithale, the Viruchids had not done much of anything in this area. Still, the tribe waited with bated breath. They went on about their ordinary lives, planting, harvesting, manufacturing textiles, and sharing meals with the family. However, there were no more Holy Days, as the monks had fled the region. And it was nice not having these miserly old assholes around.

As Arvin turned to drop off his now-full basket of coffee cherries, he saw a Viruchid man on a horse at the edge of the field. He stiffened for a moment but knew he had been seen, for his son stood near the edge of the field in conversation with the newcomer before turning around and scanning the field, pointing in his father's direction.

So it comes. Our ancestors believed that the first Araithalen men had no evil intentions behind their placid faces. Is history to repeat itself? Arvin mused as he made his way down the slope, one arm loosely slung across his basket.

The horse was a dark gold-roan color, and even though there were not many horses here, Arvin could immediately spot its quality. He tilted his head back, seeing the other man's face for a moment under the straw hat he wore. Quickly adjusting his hat, Arvin regarded the newcomer with a bow, same as he would have the former lord come down here.

"Would you be Arvin, son of Alvin?" the man asked in a Viruchid accent, heavy on the v's.

"I am he, sir. How may I be of assistance?"

"I am the surveyor of your new lord, Lord Agupti. You may call me Khavari."

Arvin nodded briefly. There hadn't been much fanfare over the expulsion of the former lord and his family, the tribe had simply been told to go about as they always did. And the tribe did just as asked, though this did not mean they would be complacent. They were ever watchful, waiting for the first signal to take what they'd packed for such a contingency, and flee into the hills.

"I see that even with the war won, it seems like nothing's changed here. Even the church."

There'd been talk of tearing down the church, naturally. Especially as no monks remained to minister to then, all Araithalen and driven out by the Viruchid invasion. But then, that victory could be short-lived, and the family heads and council elders voted to leave it up for the time being,

"It has its uses," the farmer offered neutrally.

"I suppose it does. Well, I'm also here to extend an invitation, courtesy of Lord Agupti. All your family leaders shall have the honor of making themselves known to his lordship. As a gesture of goodwill, and for prosperity between our peoples, he will be holding a banquet for you in three days hence and requests naught but your presence."

Arvin blinked. On the surface, it seemed like a gracious gesture. But paranoia against outsiders had been deeply ingrained into what was left of the Hgngu.

That night, he talked about it with his wife and parents, and there were similar discussions within nearly a dozen other households. The Peacock Feather Tribe had enjoyed months of peace, and none of them knew it could last forever. They could only hope that the Viruchids were at least marginally better than their former masters.

The eleven clan headsmen came to the town square with their chosen companions. Each headman had been given leave to choose five additional guests. Arvin had chosen his wife and parents and after much deliberation, two of his nephews. Ever aware that the lord might be holding the banquet to take his measure of potential foes, Arvin felt that his sons would be better off at home, where their boisterousness would be of less potential consequence.

Giving the occasion its most solemn and sincere regard, Arvin and his peers dressed in their best, which might or might not be seen as overly modest to their host and his associates. The men wore knee-or calf-length cotton tunics, and the women wore more elaborately-woven ones that terminated at their ankles. Jackets, over-tunics, or aprons were woven from hemp, and dyes of green or blue were often applied, giving personal items of clothing flair.

The tribe did have some precious metal and jewelry, but they'd carefully hoarded them from their Araithalen lords. The same prudence was practiced here, necks and arms absent of anything more than hemp with carved beads of wood or kiln-fired ones of clay.

The town square, which sat south of the church, had been set with several tented pavilions, the richly multicolored canopies protectively hung over long, low tables with an assortment of foods – many of them quite foreign – surrounded by cushions.

Though most of the dishes were covered with lids, the scent of spices was still heavy in the air. The large hearth in the center of the square provided an excellent place to roast a pig. The Viruchid soldiers nodded as he approached the main pavilion, where the new Viruchid lord sat, receiving his guests.

"Many blessings upon you, my lord. My family is deeply grateful for your generous invitation," Arvin said before the lord nodded approvingly, and he and his companions were led to an empty section among the tables, placing them a little closer than halfway to their host, giving him a good view of the room. Though some of the spices were unfamiliar to him, the scents that wafted up from the dishes on the table had his stomach grumbling in curiosity.

"I do not believe that hot food should go to waste while people wait for flowery words, Eat, eat and be merry!" the middle-aged Viruchid called out, waving his hand expansively before servants slid out of seemingly nowhere to uncover the dishes, and carving up the pig.

Arvin exchanged glances with his wife. Could this be a test? If they ate right away, would they be seen as impulsive or rude? On the other hand, this gesture was a relatively minor one of goodwill, and could be genuine – perhaps Lord Agupti was simply hungry?

"Ah," Lord Agupti breathed, licking his fingers after having a choice cut of pig offered to him.

Slowly, Arvin started placing some of the fruits and vegetables from the communal platter on the broad leaves that were common in use for such occasions as this or to ferry food out to workers in the field. He did not much agree with the way Viruchids cooked their chicken with all that searing, but the candied peaches were delicious. Coffee and wine were served, the Viruchid coffee having a somewhat lighter and sweeter taste than what the Hgngish grew. The wine was a deep red, and quite dry compared to the golden wine that the Peacock Feather Tribe brewed for itself.

While the Hgngish conversed among themselves, though ever alert to any attention from their host, Arvin chewed his food thoughtfully, keeping his gaze guarded as he would glance at Lord Agupti now and then. The lord had a paunch, but still appeared robust enough to lead a fairly active life, broad shoulders snug under the elaborately-woven mauve and gold tunic he wore, a clean long-sleeved linen shirt under that and setting off his swarthy complexion and thick black heard.

Murmurs of surprise and appreciation rippled down the tables as a trio of Viruchid women danced around the fire, gold baubles at their hips clinking pleasantly. The firelight caught the sparkle of gold elsewhere – the shiny thread woven into their veils and skirts, the bangles on their arms, and around their necks. The fabric swished as they danced, deep and brilliant colors arcing through the air in hues that the tribe had not imagined could exist in dyes.

The Hgngish sat and watched politely as was their custom – did the Viruchids share that in their social mores – and when the dancers bowed, Lord Agupti clapped his hands and praised the dancers. The other Viruchids with him clapped as well. Taking his cue, Arvin clapped firmly, and many others fell in, clapping quietly or loudly.

o0o

Sialeni turned from the parapet, hearing the waves lapping against the walls of the canal that led the river along the western side of the palace before it wound into the city. Looking at the flow of water, it was almost impossible to believe that the river had been little more than drying-out mud a month ago. In her twenty years in this world, Sialeni remembered several quite long and hot summers, but even then, keeping true to its namesake, the Sweet Sisters River had been a steady source of support to the city in more ways than one. Several smaller rivers from the north and west fed into the Sweet Sisters, lending to its name and reinforcing the image of the daughters and sisters of a family supporting the unit much in the same way as the river supported the city.

As she made her way along the western wall, she would take an occasional glance down at the water before stopping at the arch that would admit her into the building, and the Thamonese men who stood guard regarded her impassively.

It had been more chaotic in the first few days after the takeover, but servants and guards, regardless of ethnicity, were settling into familiar patterns throughout the palace and its grounds, longtime residents adjusting to the newcomers and the newcomers adjusting to their surroundings.

Even later at night, the kitchens thrummed with activity, albeit with fewer people. There were stews and roasts to be tended to, and the smell of baking bread lingered in the air – a scent that had been rare during the long, hot summer.

Sialeni might not have much fondness for most of the crafts assigned to the female circles of Araithalen society, but she was a fair hand as a cook. It meant not having to strain her eyes or head with sewing, or her patience with memorization of passages from the Holy Book or writings that were approved for the few Araithalen women who could read.

Even if managing a household of servants, a proper Araithalen wife was expected to know the various skills that helped to ensure domestic happiness and comfort. That way, she could make sure the servants did as they needed, providing a happy home for her husband and children. And in feeding others, Mother was usually a little bit less critical of her daughter's ability to do that than with her embroidery.

She made her way along one side of the kitchen, registering the smell of spices, local and exotic, and the heat from the several hearths and ovens located strategically around the long room. Leading off the kitchen was a room that had been added to the palace around two centuries ago by a previous Queen when the buildings were being expanded. In most spaces devoted to prayer or worship, the Father was the most prominent figure, but here, in the modest but elegant Queen's Chapel of Feminine Virtues – the Mother and Daughter shared the dais, looking down beatifically at the ones who came to pray.

Shaped out of mahogany wood from the fertile forests of southeast Araithale by the skilled daughter of a wood-carver, The Mother and Daughter graced the small chapel for generations, their visage offering comfort to noblewomen and serving maids alike.

Time had left its mark on the wood, but the near life-size pair was still an impressive sight. The Mother stood tall, a hand-sickle in her right hand while her left held a basket to her side, and the Daughter sat next to her, a distaff resting against her shoulder, a spindle in hand.

The daytime brought illumination to the chamber through the masterfully-crafted windows, but at this time, two lamps had been lit in front of the altar. Sialeni turned and entered the room, glancing around. The corners were filled with shadows, and there was not much of a moon. She approached the altar but did not kneel, and stared at the two faces before her as the light danced over their carved features.

How often had she prayed to this pair, looking at the peaceful expressions of the Mother and Daughter so lovingly carved by that long-dead woodcarver?

Mother, please give me patience for sewing and embroidery, and please make my head and eyes not hurt when I take up a needle. If that pain was meant to be a test, like one priest had implied, then the Heavenly Father was a cruel bastard.

Daughter, please help me foster appreciation for my brothers and sisters. Though Estelleta was the only sister she'd had for several years now. Mother had given birth to her youngest son two years ago, but little Aelfric did not make it past several weeks despite the efforts of the royal physicians and mages.

Mother, please bless my mother and the child she carries. She has been through much pain just to do her wifely duty. Bless them with your mercy. Selestia did her best to present the image of a reserved woman in Court, sitting quietly and regally as her husband presided over the court, speaking only when the King commanded it of her. But every time a pregnancy failed to come to term, or the babe did not take its first breath, or when an illness or sheer ill luck plucked it from this world before it reached double digits in its years, Sialeni was all too aware of the pain that it caused, even if she had never had a child of her own.

Daughter, please give me the strength and temperament to master my magic so that I can actually help people with it. Next to white magic, water magic was prized in the healing arts, but Sialeni had never been truly able to guide her power in that direction.

Footsteps and the rustle of a heavy skirt met her ears, and Sialeni raised her head. The newcomer paused.

"Forgive me, my lady-"

"No. This room was built for the women here, whether it be a queen or a scullery maid. Come," Sialeni retorted gently as she looked over her shoulder, seeing the familiar visage of Laurel, one of the kitchen maids, and a Fire Mage.

Two thick auburn braids draped along the front of Laurel's shoulders, and the flickering light illuminated the freckles that freely dappled along her cheeks and nose. The newcomer came to stand beside Sialeni, half a meter away.

"I hope it has been a good day for you, my lady," Laurel commented.

"There has been much to do. But I can say that good has been done," came Sialeni's reply. She turned her head to look at the familiar visage of her companion. "And how about yourself?"

"All things considered, I have to tell myself that if the Father has chosen to not act, at least the Mother does an admirable job in caring for her children."

Sialeni felt the corners of her mouth tug into a faint smile. Laurel had come from a family of modest means and had spent almost a decade in the Whitecastle convent before being released to work for the royal family as a kitchen maid. The reason for this unusual life trajectory was the touch of Fire magic that Laurel possessed. Without proper discipline, someone blessed with Fire Magic could, and did, cause inadvertent harm to themselves, their family, or buildings. As there were no mages among the living members of Laurel's family, the nuns provided her with the discipline to develop the self-control so crucial to those who were gifted with this particular magical bent.

By the time the nuns considered her sufficiently trained, Laurel was at the age where some young women would work outside of the home for several years before marrying. There was always a need for maid- and manservants in the households and estates of Araithale's more fortunate citizens.

Because of her magic, Laurel enjoyed a relatively comfortable position in the domestic staff, able to stoke the flames in the kitchen and bathhouse to produce heat beyond what conventional fuels could do. Fire Mages could also produce warming charms, infusing stones or trinkets with Fire magic to generate heat that could last for hours if not days, usable even by those who possessed no magical talent at all.

When the plague found its way into the city, then the palace, Laurel had been pushed to the brink of exhaustion working her magic to produce heat to boil water for drinking, for it was known that drinking clean water increased a person's chance of survival against the illnesses that invaded the body.

"In certain cases, the gratitude from a kind touch outweighs the fear from a harsh blow," Sialeni quoted.

"You were very kind to me when I was ill."

"You would prefer that I struck you while you lay ill in bed?" she asked lightly. Laurel scoffed at that, biting back a smile as she set her face in a calm expression.

"We should not tease or laugh here," the younger woman admonished. She was a pleasant enough companion when the two had spent time together, but her years in a convent had left their stamp on Laurel. Sialeni lowered her head in a slight bow as they folded their hands in front of themselves for prayer.

"My apologies. It is truly nice to see you again. I am glad to see how well you have recovered."

"Thank you. How is your family?"

"Doing better than any of them would have expected under these circumstances."

"That is a feeling shared by many, myself included, but I am certain you know that already. It almost sounds like something from a fable, though. You were kind to Kuojin and his mother many years ago, and now you have reaped the benefits of that kindness."

"I am not the only one to benefit," Sialeni reminded the other woman.

"Yes. That is true. I have been given much to think of as of late." Laurel was silent for a few minutes, appearing as if she were silently praying to the pair that looked down at them. "My parents, they follow the way of the Light, as yours do. And then I lived in the convent, where the ways are more strictly adhered to. And then I came here, where I have lived for the last two years. I am nineteen, and last time I visited my family, my father spoke of arranging a troth for me. I am going to visit them next sennight and…" She sighed quietly as she looked down at her hands. "I don't think I want to be married. But I don't want to be a nun, either."

Sialeni let out a short, sympathetic hum. It would be easy enough to say that under Thamonese law, no one could be forced to marry against their will. But the fact remained that much of the population of Onshae Thamo's newest province was Araithalen, and traditions that had been practiced for centuries would not be so easily eschewed. It was an Araithalen father's responsibility to guide his children into a suitable marriage, and often, "guidance" meant outright choosing a husband or wife and working out an agreement with the father – or obermon – of the other family. Her father had chosen three noble brides for Solan. The fact that none of these troths had ended well was of little import as long as Heliert was the king of the country and obermon of House Oronac.

"There are several things I could say, but ultimately, you have to decide for yourself. You have lived in several different places and your experience gives you some knowledge about what you could do later in life. Think carefully about what makes you happy, and also whether it'll contribute to that in the long run."

There was a similar sentiment in the Holy Book, but instead of considering one's own happiness, followers were told to think about what would make the Father happy.

How much unhappiness had been wrought following that command? She looked up at the face of the Mother. In the Way of the Light, there was an order to everything, and the Father decreed it so. Different people had positions in society they needed to fulfill, divided not only among gender but class. For society to run, everyone had to act according to the positions they'd been born to. To go against the system gave the Dark Sister glee, and she wreaked chaos at every opportunity.

In her prayers, she also asked questions. Why does the Dark Sister even exist? If the Father is so powerful, why does he not destroy his rebellious twin once and for all? Why should women suffer and die in childbed when producing children was supposed to be one of the greatest blessings bestowed upon women? What was the point of existence?

Laurel let out a soft sigh. "It's not always a simple task to anticipate what a choice may lead to."

"There is no easy answer to that," Sialeni admitted.

"Indeed." The pair lapsed into a comfortable silence, to each their thoughts. Even though she had never gotten a satisfactory answer to any of these questions, the chamber was still pleasant, the wood that made up the Mother and Daughter's forms making them seem more approachable than the stone or marble that was often the choice for carving the Father's likeness. Often enough when she had been here with her mother or sisters, she would let them pray while letting her mind wander.

She was certain she was not the first to question the order prescribed by the Way of the Light. It was said that the Heavenly Father spoke to his followers before the Peregrination, guiding them to safety when the Dark Sister blighted the Homeland, forcing its mortal residents to flee. For them to flourish in their new home, they needed to follow His way, and they would flourish. The success of the first Araithalens only bolstered the belief of their descendants and ensured the enmeshing of the Way of the Light into Araithalen society and culture, dominating nearly every aspect of life directly or indirectly.

Solan VII, nearly two hundred years ago, had been called eccentric in his time, but as the firstborn son of a king who died at a relatively young age, the teenager monarch was granted the position of obermon of House Oronac. Most men did not reach this position until later in adulthood – if ever – and to be the ruler of an entire kingdom rather than simply his household, was something that would have overwhelmed someone not yet fully-grown.

Some disparaged his lenient attitude towards what remained of the Hgngu people in his kingdom, and he waged no campaigns against his neighbors. Against the advice of his court, he ended the conflict his father had begun with Viruch even though Araithale would likely have won the war. When it came to seeking a bride, he sent envoys to Yngis and was successful in securing a bride from Yngis, the daughter of the Lord Paramount Wvaoik, who ruled White Yngis. This, coupled with trade agreements between the two countries, led to over half a century of peace and economic stability.

Some saw Solan VII as weak for ending a war that he could have won, or taking a wife from a country that held the Heavenly Father in less regard than the Araithalens. But look at what had happened with the latest King Solan – tenth of his name – and his reaction to the news that Yngis had allied with Onshae Thamo.

What might the two Solans say to one another, if they had the chance to meet in the afterlife? Especially after Araithale's crushing defeat at the hands of the neighbors that surrounded it, not least of all Onshae Thamo? The latter Solan believed that he was doing the Heavenly Father's will by bringing Yngis to its knees for fraternizing with the tainted creations of the Dark Sister. Did the former Solan believe he was doing his best in the Heavenly Father's name by making peace with his neighbors instead?

"I know that I should pray to the Heavenly Father for your safety, but I wonder if he would grant it, and… I want you to be safe. There has been much to consider lately and when I am not working, I come here to pray. This space makes me feel… secure." Laurel looked up at the statues of the Mother and Daughter.

"I have not always been the devout daughter that my parents wish me to be. But it is a nice space." In a man's world, this sanctuary was one of the blessed few places reserved for the fairer sex. More than once, she had escaped her father or brother's wrath by coming to this room for prayer. "My greatest desire is for the fighting to be truly over. It's not been easy for many of us, as we both know very well. I know there are many among the servants who accept Thamonese rule only begrudgingly and pray for the Father's intervention while taking the food that is provided them."

With the former queen now under close confines, Sialeni had become the de facto head of the household, at least when it came to the Araithalen servants that remained. She made her rounds, talking to the staff, reassuring them that they did not need to fear harm, and bade them that they do their best to cooperate with the newcomers.

The war had disrupted supply lines to a city that saw trade on an almost daily basis. Farmers came in from the rich forests and fields that surrounded the city, offering everything from the basic root vegetables and beans to the freshest seasonal fruit as well as livestock. From the north came lumber and fur, wool and various mined materials came from the west, and from the fertile reaches of the east, south, and southwest brought spices, gemstones, silk, and coffee. The guilds would then refine these goods, turning out textiles, leather, jewelry, wine and beer, refined food items, weapons, and furniture among other things.

With space at a premium within the security of Whitecastle and the influx of refugees, stores ran out, some much more quickly than others, and employment ground to a near-standstill. Hard work was one of the seven virtuous choices in the Way of the Light, but what to do when there was no influx of goods that provided the foundation of sustenance and labor?

Some chose to fill that free time with prayer. Others spent their time foraging the confines of the city for food, amusement, or employment. The heat of summer had made the situation no better, and people wondered if they had been fervent enough during the New Year's celebrations as the summer solstice came and went.

"To be sure, at least some people are grateful for what is provided. But now that stomachs are full again, there is more time and energy for… grumblings to foment. I just tell people to take comfort in the Mother's mercy."

Sialeni nodded. She had invoked the Mother a fair amount of times when she talked with the holy sisters that remained in the palace, or servants she knew to be more devout.

"Keep up the good work. I know I do not have a lot of time left here, but if there is something I can do for you before I leave, please come see me."

"My lady! You are so generous!" Laurel blinked, looking a little flustered, and Sialeni smiled faintly.

"Please, consider it a token of gratitude for the work you have done here, and the kindnesses you have shown me. I wish you only the best, and may the Mother continue to bless your path."

Though Laurel was a respectable enough young woman and her years in a convent and her touch of magic did improve her standing somewhat, Selestia had not selected her to be part of the ladies' court. But Lady Tekura might think differently.

Irindu was already sleeping, breathing quietly on the side of the bed that had once been occupied by Estelleta. Sialeni removed her dress, folding it carefully and placing it on a stool before she slid under the blanket wearing her linen shift. Irindu was dressed similarly, commenting that the autumn was warm here compared to where she had grown up near the palace in the capital city of the Empire. Some nights, they would stay awake, practicing the Thamonese language, or Irindu would tell her about this or that piece of Thamonese history.

She shifted around onto her side as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, seeing the green-blue material of her dress come into focus, a patch of dark color against the near-blackness that shrouded the stone wall behind the stool. In the days of yore, if she had not folded things properly, her mother or nurse would have scolded her. Despite her rebellious spirit, there were some things she'd learned to not put up a fight against, understanding that sometimes it simply wasn't worth the energy to do so.

Even then, she was not immune to corrective comments, for as much as she prayed to the Father and his Family for guidance, her willfulness could not always be quelled. And why should it, when certain things simply didn't make sense or seemed patently unfair?

She was not supposed to question the order of the world, she had been told often. She had been born as a female for a reason, so, therefore, she should not question the Father's will. Women were smaller and weaker than men and were also the ones to bear children, which led her to question the Father's wisdom. After all, if childbirth was so painful and dangerous, shouldn't women be the larger and stronger sex, to help them bear the rigors of the childbed, and improve their chances of leaving it alive? Wouldn't that have made it easier for her ill-fated sister-in-law, who had spent her last couple of days in agony? Sialeni recalled the peace that had settled on Ermina's sweat- and tear-streaked features as the last breath passed from her lips.

Air is the most precious of the elements that make up the world for it is the essence of life, a life we must remember to thank the Father for with every breath we take, Sialeni recalled. It was but one of many passages from the Holy Book that had ensconced itself within her memory.

Four elements made up the physical realm, and if a person – or any living thing for that matter – was denied them, then life would cease to exist. Take away food – which grew from the earth – and death would come in weeks if not months. If water was denied, it was only a matter of days before the thirst became deadly. Without the warmth of fire, death would come in less than a day as the cold seeped into the unfortunate person's flesh. And though Sialeni had never witnessed death from any of these causes, she understood that out of the ways one could die, starvation, dehydration, and hypothermia were considered among the worst ways one could leave the mortal coil.

But if a person could not breathe, death was at least relatively swift, granting its merciful release within mere minutes. And since the Father resided high in the sky, naturally, Air was his realm, and given its importance in continued living, the Father was paramount in not only that but all other things, superseding the rest of the Holy Family.

And since the sun hung in the sky, its light traveling down from heaven, the Father's power was only magnified. He was radiance itself, the light that gave life to the world, and the light that one day, according to the Holy Book, would banish the darkness forever.

Trying to please the Father, and secure one's place in his eternal light, governed every aspect of Araithalen society, and even though she had chafed under this way of thinking numerous times, it still felt odd not having to consider that any longer, and as tonight had proven, she still found comfort in some of the practices she had been raised with, and she was not the only one.

There were other gods in this world, worshiped in other cultures but dismissed by the Araithalens as deceptions crafted by the Dark Sister, leading astray those who might otherwise follow the Way of the Light. Were all of those gods real, or did none of them – including the Father and his Family – exist? Would she ever know for sure?

"Hmmph." She rolled over onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Sometimes she'd envied the calm certainty that her mother and sister possessed in regards to their position and limits in Araithalen society. Now, she wondered if they ever wished they were in her position as they meditated in their cells.

o0o

Kuojin glanced around the room over the rim of his cup at his companions. At this moment, they were his peers in a varied but general sense of the word. Even now, after nearly a decade of living as a prince, he knew he would never forget the days he'd lived as a second-class citizen and a servant, and how any of these men – regardless of their nationality – would have seen him as such.

The twists in his life were almost like that of some sort of fable or saga, and not something he would have ever imagined possible in reality, especially for himself. He'd once had to keep his eyes lowered and tongue guarded, for what else could he have done, looking the way he did, a non-Araithalen heritage evident on his face and hair? Now he could look down upon his former superiors, and know that he had the power for reprisal against those who had abused him.

Tales of kindness repaid were universal. Inevitably, there were stories of terrible vengeance, whether it be dealt by a mortal or divine hand. Being in this place roused old anxieties, and he took another swig of wine before he glanced over at the two youths sitting nearby. Like him, they came from highly-respected pedigrees but had experienced hardships in their lives because of it.

When Araithale invaded Yngis over two decades ago, the Lords Paramount had united their forces and put up fierce resistance, but Yngis was a smaller country than its rival, and determination could only amount to so much in the face of sheer numbers.

The Lord Paramount of Blue Yngis was killed in battle, and his son and heir had been forced to bend the knee to spare the lives of himself and his family. House Binesi was stripped of much of its power, and young Isaac had spent his life as little more than a commoner, his family kept under close watch, used as hostages to keep the citizens of Blue Yngis in line.

White Yngis did not fare much better. Although the region was large, it was mountainous and cold and had the least populous of the three sections of Yngis. The Lord Paramount bent his knee after witnessing the Araithalen forces marching across the steppes. He might still have had a fighting chance if not for the betrayal of his closest adviser. Despite the Lord Paramount's surrender, some members of House Wvaoik refused to surrender, and in the next few years, many members of the venerable house were hunted out and slain. Kyle was the younger son of a younger son, but because of the decimation of his family, his uncle – an unlikely heir in past times – was now the Lord Paramount of White Yngis.

Now that the Paramountcy was restored, Isaac and Kyle were here in the newest province of the Thamonese empire as representatives of their houses, and as wards of the Governor-General. At nineteen and seventeen respectively, there was still much for them to learn even though the Dark Years had taught them many bitter lessons.

Kuojin could sympathize with them because of his own experiences, and he was certain that this was why Isaac and Kyle seemed more at ease with him in this land that was strange to them. He was only a few years older than Isaac, but taking on a somewhat protective role felt natural to him.

"Is the wine not to your liking?" he asked lightly as he observed Luke staring at his goblet as if attempting to divine some secret from the dark liquid. The Viruchid wine was a gift from Eman, who had brought several casks of it, and was renown for its strong and rich flavor.

Silently, Kyle shook his head before he spoke. "I mean no offense to the one who has provided this so graciously." He seemed like he wanted to say something else, but he bit back further words.

"Abstinence is an honorable virtue," Lord Redfield said from the end of the table, where he had barely touched his goblet. "It should give no one offense."

Kyle regarded the old man for several moments, and Kuojin's calm expression did not betray the anxiety that he sensed from Kyle and Lord Redfield. Finally, the youth gave him a nod.

"Well said," Kyle commented.

"Everyone has a vice, it'll be something else for you, then," Eman said lightly as he took a swig from his goblet. Isaac let out a chuckle, and Kuojin smiled. Even Lord Lubiu made one of his half-smiles, the paralyzed side of his face preventing that corner of the mouth to pull as high as the other one.

Yngsians do not forget, it was often said. Not to Araithalen faces, of course. The Yngsians had schooled themselves well in keeping pleasant faces to mask not-so-pleasant thoughts. And even if Lord Redfield had done nothing personally to them, just his name was enough to raise the hackles of anyone who knew that name and its history. There had not been any fields soaked with blood – Hgngish blood, that is – for several centuries, but as one of the oldest and most powerful Houses in Araithalen society, the Araithalens certainly remembered many parts of their history with pride.

By spilling the blood of those who worshiped the Dark Sister, the first Redfields had done the work of the Father, clearing this fertile land for the weary ancestors of the Araithalens so that they could continue the work of the Holy Father, and spread their light through the world, so said multiple sources of Araithalen history.

What remained of the Hgngu in Araithale, some eight centuries later, amounted to two reserves of land that the Araithalens set aside on the condition that they follow the Way of the Light, and outside of that, the occasional Hgngish monk, nun, or rarely, spouses.

The Hgngish that had already been in Yngis, or refugees from the Araithalen conquest, had borne much better luck. Out of practicality and necessity – not to mention that the Yngsians were more gracious towards the new culture they had encountered – a small but strong nation had emerged, with many of the Yngsians being descended from the Hgngish. Such was the truth, especially in Blue Yngis, where the Lords Paramount of House Binesi took pride in their Hgngish blood mixed in their ancestry.

Kuojin's attention was brought to the present as Kyle yawned.

"There is… much to do tomorrow," Lord Lubiu said as he finished his wine. He rose to his feet with the assistance of his cane, inclining his head in a slight bow to everyone else, regardless of their age. "May I find all of you... in a good morrow."

Kyle and Issac followed him out, leaving Kuojin, Eman, and the old Lord Redfield by themselves near the fire. Unlike the two youths, Eman had taken much more warmly to the old man, even though Viruch had nearly as much reason to hate Araithale as the Yngsians did. Eman had the almost enviable attributes of putting himself and those around him at ease, which did him very well as a representative of the royal family of Viruch, and the country itself.

To be certain, all of them had responsibilities of their own, but Kuojin enjoyed the heat of the fire and the calm atmosphere. Yngsians certainly did not forget, but it was important that others remembered, as well. Despite what history Lord Redfield was indoctrinated to in his youth, it seemed like he'd eschewed these beliefs for something better for himself and his family. Even if it was simply for the preservation of his family, who said that he couldn't gain more than mere security?

He lifted the cup to his lips, letting the last of the rich Viruchid wine slide past his tongue. Kuojin had to admit he'd developed a grudging respect for old Redfield. The day the Araithalen capital was finally taken by the Tekuras was the first time he'd ever met the elder nobleman. When Lord Redfield had been brought forth, he'd thought that he would be one of these wizened old men who clung tenaciously to the beliefs they'd been raised with, simply because of the name. Because he had not been one of the people in collusion with the Tekuras, he remained under surveillance – albeit of the discreet kind – and nothing untoward had been uncovered.

Kuojin was someone that many people had made assumptions about – often unfair – but as a human, he was not immune to making the same mistakes. All he could do was learn from them.

After some conversation between the two men comparing the sorts of crops that were the primary focus of the lands held by their respective families, Eman took his leave. Kuojin was about to do the same before he heard his name uttered quietly. He glanced at his remaining companion with a raised eyebrow.

"Might this old man beg for your company a bit longer?" Kenneth asked. Years ago, if the old lord wanted his presence, he could easily have demanded it, and the younger man could not have refused. Kuojin wondered if that thought ever passed through his head. "I do not wish to impose," Kenneth added.

"The Holy Book commands that we show charity to those who beg," Kuojin replied, making sure his tone was light. A faint smile appeared on the other man's face.

"You have no reason to follow the Way of the Light anymore… but I do welcome your kindness, and am grateful for it."

"Is there something you wish to discuss?" Kuojin asked politely.

"I only wished to thank you privately for the mercy you have shown me. I know my family name usually precedes any individuals in House Redfield. I have been through much, and I can not help but contemplate that when I look at a young man such as yourself, knowing that you have had your share of trials."

"I am not accustomed to an Araithalen lord paying any mind to what I have been through here."

Kenneth smiled wryly. "I had never laid eyes upon you until that fateful day, but your presence in Heliert's court was known. You can imagine, with my family history, what children of House Redfield were taught about the Hgngish."

A brief nod was Kuojin's response.

"It never sat right to me, that my family should be so proud for what one man and his army did to a village that surrendered to him. The one time I brought this up to my father, he struck me upside the head and told me to abandon such foolishness. That the slaughter had been necessary, to ensure that those who had surrendered could not teach their children rebellion, which would give the Dark Sister fertile ground in which to sow her seeds of evil."

Kuojin wondered where his companion was going with this and remained silent, giving another nod in encouragement.

"When I heard of you and your mother, I could not help but recall what my father had said to me. He would tell me that he was right, that the first Lord Redfield had been right to exterminate all the Hgngish within his reach. He was of a mind that the reservations should not even exist."

"Hmm."

"Does my talk bother you?"

"Should it?" Kuojin asked. Kenneth shook his head.

"Consider this as… something of a confession, perhaps. Only I think you are better suited to hear this than a priest or holy brother."

"I am listening."

"My father had high expectations not only for myself but the rest of his family. He was very devout. I do not doubt that he acted in a way that he believed was good for all those around him whether it be his sons or his servants. And I tried to believe the same thing. After all, I was raised in the Way of the Light, just as he was, and my grandfather, and all those who came before me. But all these years, doubt has crept into my mind and heart. You know what some would have said about that."

"That the Dark Sister was finding her way into your soul so that she could pull you astray from the divine path."

"Indeed. All these years, I bit back these objections. I acted as others expected me to. And it weighed upon me more and more. I prayed. I fasted. I read the Holy Book multiple times. But I did not dare voice certain thoughts in the confessional. However, when I had the chance to kneel before your aunt, I…" He paused, stroking his chin. "I can not say that I knew what I would feel should I take the knee before Lady Tekura, but after I did, it felt as if a burden had been lifted from my heart. I was tired of fighting."

"There is a saying in Onshae Thamo. In certain circumstances, a surrender can reap greater rewards than a hard-fought victory."

"It's too bad that was not the case for these poor Hgngish that my ancestor slaughtered," Kenneth said ruefully. "Although I doubt the outcome would have been better if they'd kept on fighting."

Kuojin bowed his head in acknowledgment.

"My granddaughter is quite upset that I surrendered, but I do hope that with age she will see the same wisdom that I did. Hopefully, it won't take her quite as long." Upon seeing the confusion on Kuojin's face, Kenneth chuckled dryly. "You would not know her, but Lady Sialeni would. Prilly used to be her lady-in-waiting before being dismissed. My son considered it a great honor when Lady Selestia chose her to come to live here at court."

Though Araithale and Onshae Thamo were two very different cultures, in some ways courtly life was very similar. Being chosen to be part of the retinue of royalty or a high-ranking lady could garner great opportunities for the lucky ladies who had been invited into service. Especially when it brought them before the eyes of prospective well-born suitors, or noble parents seeking a bride for their sons.

"I hope that she embraces her good fortune as you have," Kuojin replied diplomatically, recalling the acerbic comments Sialeni had in regards to her former companion.

The old man lifted his cup. "Speaking of good fortune, I commend you on yours."

Kuojin chuckled at that as the other man gulped down the last of his wine.