Raslyn watched her boy, her firstborn baby, as he suffered in the bed. Erandon writhed and struggled as if against some invisible restraints. Sweat poured off him in buckets, the Apothecaries seemingly needing new towels every moment.

  “Is he going to be alright?” She asked the lead Apothecary, a squat, balding man with a constantly ruddy face by the name of Tuck.

  “The Martyr watches all, even those not his own.” Tuck offered with a strained smile.

  Tuck was almost always happy, but today the follower of the Southern Whipped god was etched with something between fear and fatigue. The Sons of the Martyr cared for all of those across the kingdom, without care for allegiance. He dipped his hands in a bowl of heated water, a practice he claimed helped to ward off certain spirits, and he set to dressing her son’s wounds. A messenger, coming with urgent news she’d already known, had found her son on the road. He’d been returning to the Eyefort, carrying a blade, covered in blood- both his own and the ichorous black gore of giant rodents. It had been his return day. Raslyn couldn’t help but smile. It was customary to return at the end of the day, but some men had been known to return the moment the sun crested the horizon. In any case, he’d survived to the day. It was not looked fondly upon, but it was still a success. He had passed his Rite of Wood.

  The door opened quietly, and Stanwen slipped into the room. He regarded Erandon solemnly, the way a man might look at a dead stranger.

  He looked to Tuck for a moment as he finished his work, once more rinsing his hands in the hot water.

  “Might we have a moment with the boy?” Stanwen asked.

  Tuck regarded him strangely, Keld Stanwens distaste of the bastard child was well known. Tuck glanced at Raslyn, and then the Apothecary and his men departed from the room.

  Stanwen sighed, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. Erandon sobbed in his restless sleep, tossing this way and that on the bed.

  “If he dies…”

  “He will not!” Raslyn hissed, struggling to keep the fear out of her voice as tears stung at her eyes. Stanwen fought some internal battle, turning away from her. She knew why he hated the boy, what he represented. But despite everything, despite the pain and the long nights thinking about the nature of his birth, he was her son. She had seen him take his first steps, heard his first words, his first hopes and dreams. He had a birthright he was owed, that they were owed- for her suffering and his own.

  She placed a hand on her son’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry.” Her husband whispered in the darkness of the room, flickering candles their only light. Raslyn wiped her eyes.

  “No..we don't have time for tears. The enemy does not take a recess in this game, we must not offer them time.” She said, hating the choked sound of her voice.

  Stanwen wrapped an arm around her.

  “He will wake up.” He assured her. “He is strong.” She could hear how much he hated to say that.

  “We’ve made sure of that.” He tried to console her, but she stepped away from him. Things he had said to Erandon, fools errands and punishments. Now he sought to act as though it had all been part of his plan, and not some extension of the hatred he had for Erandon’s father.

  “He is a man now.” Stanwen gripped the edge of the bed tightly, looking down on her son. She wondered what must be going through his head.

  “Everything we have been working for is coming to a head.” He leaned over Erandon, and she moved to her son’s side. He had stilled now, his breathing a bit calmer as Raslyn draped a cool towel over his head.

  “It’s just Ratblight. It’ll pass.” Stanwen stood from the bed.

  “Bigger men have died to the Ratblight.” Raslyn had to fight not to tug her hair out. All she could do was wait. Sit there and wait while he faced it alone, nothing to do for him.

  “When he wakes, you know what we must do.” Raslyn sniffled. Stanwen turned to face her, his eyes wrought with grief.

  “You knew this day was coming.” She chided, but tears were welling in her own eyes too.

  “Corwyn will not take it well.” Stanwen sighed. “They already call me ‘The Lord Cuck’ behind closed doors.” He looked down at Erandon.

  “Naming a bastard….” He shook his head.

  “They will not march behind him otherwise, you know it.” Raslyn pleaded.

  “I know.” Her husband replied, balling his hand into a fist. He could not decide what to do with it, and dropped it, pacing to the window.

  “This is our best chance.” Stanwen said, more to himself than her. He finally turned to the boy, his eyes resting on him as they swam from anger to grief to disgust, and finally acceptance.

  “I will do it. I will do it to see the Azalus suffer. To tear down their homes with their own blood.” Stanwen turned to face her, a fire in his eyes.

  “I will ready the council. Prepare him. He is a boy no longer, and when he leaves this room he will have no time for children's games or worries.”

  “Did he ever?” Raslyn asked.

  “Such is the lot of Bastards.” Stanwen replied grimly, shutting the door behind him, leaving Raslyn with her thoughts, and her moribund son.

  This castle was cold, and it was not just the snow. Raslyn could see it on the faces of guards and servants alike- did nobody care that her baby could be dying? She hated how easy it was to falter from one end to the other, to feel so sure in his survival and then so equally sure in his death the next moment. She was rocked as if by waves, and they carried her into the gardens behind the castle, hoping for some peace and stillness. She let a sigh out, nearly collapsing as she felt her strength flee with it. From her position at the overlook, she could see the Eye spreading out around the island. The waters of the lake were calm and still, free from the depths of winter’s ice. At the far edge she could just barely make out the shape of a doe and fawn tracing a path along the water’s edge. They gracefully pushed through the cold, stopping only for a sip of water before they continued their journey. Raslyn leaned over the balcony, looking off the edge of the island. She remembered when she was a child, first coming to visit the Eyefort. How Stanwen had tried to impress her by leaping off the edge of the balcony and into that ice cold water. She smiled now, looking back, though at the time she’d been terrified. How could her future husband just throw himself into the deep like that?

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  “For you, I’d do anything!” He had said, and then he ruined the moment by offering her a frozen frog he’d grabbed while he was in the water. She laughed now, alone in the garden. Surrounded by new life where flowers and other herbs grew, and the trees of the personal Ironoak grove of the Eyefort. Stanwen had carved her a tiara of Ironoak once. She’d given it to Delysia when she was old enough. Noen and her had at least got along well with Erandon. Corwyn seemed to hate him. She did not understand. Perhaps he merely wanted to be like his father. She recognized the three footed gait approaching from behind long before she saw the source of the sound.

  Lord of Ravens, the man in charge of the messenger birds, Portwyn, hobbled through the garden on his walking stick, a raven perched precariously on the edge of his shoulder, keeping watch on the sky as if for predators.

  “Rumors abound from across the sea.” He smiled, standing next to her at the railing.

  Portwyn had been Master of Ravens since before Stanwen was even born. He’d served the Eyefort and its ravens since Stanwen’s grandfather, and at ninety five winters, still seemed as spry as a man fourty years his junior. Raslyn wondered how much longer he had in him, but he showed no signs of slowing down.

  “Rumors of what sort?” Raslyn asked.

  “That Rousse Azalus has come into Zairos not for piracy, but to free slaves.”

  She raised an eyebrow, turning to Portwyn, who stroked his shaggy pale beard. His robes bore the forest green of House Todd. In one hand he clutched his walking stick, a long, gnarled and burnt oak staff.

  “Have they heard anything else?” She asked.

  “His fleet has grown, though gossip disputes by how much. Some say two vessels, some say ten, some say four. It’s impossible to tell.”

  Raslyn’s heart fell into her stomach.

  “He’s building an army.”

  “There really is no place like home.” Portwyn laughed to himself, the old man scratching the chin of the raven on his shoulder.

  Raslyn sank to sit on a bench.

  “With Lucen dead, there is nobody to stop him from taking the throne.” Her heart thundered in her chest. This could not happen, it simply couldn’t, it threatened everything she’d spent all of Erandon’s life working towards. She balled up her hands into fists.

  “I will not let him steal what is rightfully ours.” She said. Portwyn clattered across the stone to meet her eyes.

  “We will need to move quickly. The Emerald Coast is rich, and some say lush with magic.”

  “Magic was destroyed from the world.” Raslyn retorted. “He will come, but not with magic. Sword and spear. The war will be won with blood.”

  “Already you speak of war.” Portwyn teased. “Excited, are we?” The old man chortled.

  “There is no other choice.” Raslyn replied.

  “Of that, we agree.” The old man became solemn, sitting next to her on the bench.

  “He will need to go south. You know he may not return.”

  “Of course I know!” She snapped. “You’ve no idea how often I dwell there.”

  Portwyn offered her a sympathetic look.

  “I only mean to ask, what am I to do in the event of his failure? Where are we to go?” He asked.

  “A Todd has sat the throne in the Eyefort since it was little more than a longhall on an island. We will not flee the ancestral seat of our home. We live and die with our House.” She was surprised by the steel in her own words.

  Portwyn smiled a gap toothed grin.

  The rider who had brought Erandon into the castle had brought the official news of the King’s death, and with it, the summons for Keld Stanwen to head south and swear fealty. The rider had been given a new horse and sent off to deliver his message to House Hawl of Westhall. Which meant they had a narrow window of time. They’d need to send their own messengers, perhaps by raven, to try and call their banners.

  Raslyn wagered that even if the Northlords did not swear fealty, they’d stop at the Eyefort on their way south. If she needed to, that could be an opportunity to ensure loyalty through hostages.

  Listen to yourself, you would break the right of hospitality?

  Raslyn sighed.

  “Sebast brings word that Lady Massel of Icenhall has been named the new Lord of Waves by Lady Meriwyn.” Portwyn said, reaching into his robes to recover a folded scroll.

  Raslyn thought of Lady Massel, sequestering herself after the death of her husband. Would she react any better to the death of Stanwen? Or of any of her children?

  “She’s recovered?” Raslyn asked, and Portwyn only shrugged.

  She glanced towards the tower, where Corwyn’s room was, and beyond it Noen and Delysia’s.

  The war must never come here. She could not help but imagine the Eyefort, scarred and blackened by siege and flame. The forests around the Eye, put to the torch. The land as barren and silent as the Clagclaw Cliffs.

  “My birds can take wing today, if you give the word. We could have a Warhost within the moon.” Portwyn gave a bow.

  “Thank you. I can never repay your loyalty to my family, Portwyn.”

  “No coin is needed.” Portwyn smiled. “I roost with my Ravens, and I am paid with their whispers.”

  Portwyn’s bird cawed, as if in agreement with him. He nodded understandingly, almost thoughtfully, at the sound.

  “Arrowhead is a smart one.” He said, scratching the bird’s chin. “He’s fast too. Knows to hide from men, so not to get shot. I suspect he may have been witness to a murder most fowl.” Portwyn laughed at his own joke.

  Her stomach was churning, she could not match his joy.

  “I’ve never seen you frown.” Raslyn pointed out.

  “Is there a reason to?” He asked. “The gods have given us opportunity. Sebast sees it in the leaves of the wind- the Triune rages, and the upstart gods of the South will face a reckoning like never before.”

  She considered his words.

  “Massel has been appointed to the council. When you send your ravens, do not call the Isle of Bastards to our banner. Send for Ravensroost- they worship the Triune still.”

  “The bastards are Nothmen still, need we deny them a space at our table?” Portwyn asked.

  “We will need Ravensport. From so close we could launch attacks at that shrine to vanity they call a capital city with impunity.”

  “A shrewd choice, my Lady.” Portwyn gave a bow. “I will conference with Keld Stanwen to get his view of our little scheme.”

  Raslyn hesitated. Was this wise? Perhaps they should wait for their foes to make the first move. As if he could sense her thoughts, Portwyn gave his opinion as he left.

  “Fortune follows the brave, Kelda Raslyn.”