Chapter 1

© Copyright 2004 by Elizabeth Delayne

Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings

hast thou ordained strength because of thine enemies,

that thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger.

~Psalms, 8:2.



"Father—"

Standing beside the King of Fairingham, Stephanie passively waited to be acknowledged. She held her hands folded together at her waist and kept her chin lowered. The shadow of the throne's draping canopy fell over her and left her partially hidden from the room.

From his perch on his throne, her father watched her sisters parade around the room in a wide circle, displaying their newest dresses and accessories. The throne was set on a platform, with golden carpet rolling down the steps on all sides. The railings were ornate, carved with intricate detail and stained to a dark, shimmering brown.

A handful of the Nobels and her father's ministers stood around the edge of the throne to watch. Lord and Lady Dennison, the priest, the minister of the treasury and of another who was over border defense, were among the most notable. They were trapped within the idiotic setting with her, was all Stephanie could think. Who would have chosen to remain and stare in such a time and place?

Oversized feather plums from Africa, sparkling gold jewelry brought from Asia, and silks and furs pieced together in sweeping dresses just to fit them were only a trickle of the abundance that her sisters had displayed in the last month. Francisinna and Mellianna giggled uproariously as the servants teetered around with them and a gaggle of musicians banged cymbals and plucked at harps in a wild and contemporary celebration.

"Father—" she tried again when the musicians started into a new song. She was quiet enough to keep the word a secret between the two of them, stoic enough that she did not appear to move.

Still, she was not acknowledged and she knew not to overstep her bounds. She was to be quiet, unseen, and obedient. She knew how to remain all three.

So much so that she was rarely summoned to events, many times forgotten—but most of the time to her relief. She'd entered the chamber when it had been quiet, needing to speak with her father—needing to share with him as she had for so many years of her life, to tell him of the new foal she'd watched being born. He would have listened and asked questions, as the stables had been one of his favorite places in his youth. He never would have questioned her being there.

Then her sisters had entered the room, stealing his attention as they had for the last month in preparation for their leaving after their marriages. They had clothes to show, paintings to admire, fabrics and jewels to inspect.

None of those things had ever captured her father's attention in the past, but now his mind seemed distracted, caught ... in what she was unsure.

It wasn't so much that he was watching her sisters, but that he was distracted by their presence, searching, thinking, deep within the chambers of his own mind. She watched over him, and worried, but she knew not how to reach into him and draw him back out.

Suddenly the parade of noise and idiocy stopped and her sisters turned toward their father. Francisinna lifted her heavily plumed fan and the music and noise came to an abrupt halt. The small crowd of Nobels lifted their hands in polite applause—and one, the Lady of Dormandy, hurried over to admire the fabric first hand.

So maybe not all were indifferent, Stephanie thought, and tried to picture herself in her sisters' places, getting married, looking for perfection.

"What do you think, father?" Francisinna asked.

He seemed to shake himself, life returning to his eyes. "You will make fine brides," he said with some gusto.

Mellianna giggled, the curls of her oversized blond head piece quivering. "It shall be a day like no other."

He nodded. "Yes it shall."

The two of them hurried from the room, hand in hand, their companions nearly clumsily hurrying after them carrying the lot of goods they had been parading. A few of the Nobels, including the Lady of Dormandy, followed them out. It would have been a silly scene if Stephanie could have broken from her father's demeanor.

He father stood then and he called his ministers to him. The wives that were present quietly excused themselves and slipped out the back. Suddenly, he was no longer her father. His shoulders were stiff and his gaze looked ahead.

The lot of them, King and counselors, walked steadily out, their talk quiet and dim.

Stephanie watched him go and stood still in her place as the doors of the courtroom closed behind them, leaving her in the silence of being left alone.



In another castle, across the Mountains of Lore and the Forest of Dreams, the King and Queen of Darbenton paced the throne room as their chief minister reported the grave news.

Finally, the king stopped, his hands latched behind his back. "Are you sure it was Gouten?"

"Who else would wear the dark capes of their ancestors?"

"Someone," the king started, searching his mind, "looking to start a war."

"There's nothing to start a war with riders drawing near. Our boarders have always been open to trade." The minister took two steps forward. "However, it is suspicious. If we are right, it would be the third sighting of a Gouten rider within the Forest of Dreams in the last month, sire."

"Mmm."

Charles turned, looked out over the kingdom of his youth. Smoke rose from the village fires that prepared the meals. Snow capped the mountains in a distance. He'd walked the hills, searched and hunted in the Forest of Dreams, paraded with his common man in the streets celebrating the lush history of Darbenton.

They'd been a secure people, at peace.

And in those fields his youngest son and a few of his knights practiced their sword fight, more as play than toil.

"I should have known that the quiet of Gouten was not of peace, but of dread."

"We've always speculated of things, your majesty."

"They have not contacted us, they have not demanded anything, their merchants sail the river without repute from us." He turned, looked to his minister and studied the solemn wise eyes that had also given advice to his father. "Have we heard back from Fairingham?"

"Our rider came back this morning without news. King Dustiny of Fairingham refused to see them without notice."

"And neither the other we sent under the last moon. It's not like Dustiny."

"Not the Dustiny you know."

"Aye. Gouten rides between, I fear."

And within the walls of Fairingham, he feared as well.

"Fairingham has always been honest and open. Dustiny and I hunted in the forest and mountains between our kingdoms, attended each other's weddings. He would not turn unless—he would not turn by his choice."

"Or so you have always depended."

The king nodded and for a moment paced the throne room allowing the information to soak in. The room was located in the tower, open on all sides by wide windows that let in the air—better to see in, to think in. He could feel the breeze, see the land, and at night stand like Abraham and count the stars.

He was king, but there was more beyond the land he'd been granted.

Standing alone, his wife and queen solemnly watched him. His eyes were deep set, staring out over the land, thinking of larger things, seeing beyond, working the information as a mill worker worked the grain. His hair was long, as he preferred it, his beard trimmed and kept close to his face. Grey had already begun to creep into the deep set brown color of his hair.

Time was passing, and their time was fading ... leaving the way open for Albert to make his mark as king.

"A full contingent," Charles said at last, turning to his minister, "a representative from the royal court should not be denied. They should move in without information. They will have to go first to search for truth, then to ask for it."

"You plan to send Albert?"

"No—no, we know not how he shall be received. It is too risky for Albert to make the journey. He is the crown prince and he is known by Dustiny."

"Then you suggest?"

Charles made his decision and turned to face his minister. "Justen—" he said pointedly. "My son Justen is ready."

"My Lord—" the minister stepped back when Charles lifted his head. "He is young."

"He is at that. But it is time for him to step into his place. He has a good head on his shoulders."

"His head is full of games and foolishness. It is a serious time."

"And we were all made for times such as these, isn't that the proverb?" Charles asked as he looked over at his queen, her eyes alight with the concern that she felt for her youngest. "He has never had to use that God given head of his. We shall not send him alone. Luther was his companion and has served our kingdom well since leaving that commission. It is time to match the powers of our kingdom together. Use them."

"He's young," Regina said to her husband when they were alone, turning to look out the window where her youngest practiced his sword fighting skills on the lawn. Even from so far she could hear his cries of jest and mirth, see his youth in the way he moved. She could still remember how it felt to hold him against her heart when he was a baby. He'd survived, though so many of her children had passed on as babes.

And Justen was her last.

Life was still a game to him. The trades he'd learned—sword fight, weaponry, archery—only a game.

"He's so young for this."

"He's trained," Charles said again as he came up behind his wife. He placed his hands, always kind and tender hands, on her shoulders. He leaned close, needing her presence as much as she needed his. He too remembered Justen as a babe—he too, remembered showing him how to swing his first sword, a toy, given to him by one of the Nobels, but a sign of his destiny as well.

"He's a prince. It's far past the time that he think like a warrior, not just train to be one."

"Are you so sure that Fairingham won't accept Albert? He has a mind for this ..." she turned away and paced into the room, deliberately putting distance away from the image of her youngest. "How does one go about choosing which son to sacrifice?"

"I don't believe Dustiny will harm either son, but Albert's place is here, at my side. He will be in more danger on his journey. He is known in the land, in our land. We've made a path for him toward the throne. We've set the people's mind on him, to trust him, to know him, but not all respect the role of king—and Gouten seems so close these days. The woods, the mountains, we've always thought that they protect us. Now ... now, we don't know. He won't be safe in the woods alone."

"Justen," Charles turned and looked at the family insignia that hung on velvet tapestry behind the throne, "will one day lead the militaries for Albert. That is his job as second son. His skills have been fine tuned, but his mind is slowly going to waste."

Regina laughed and slid her arms around her husband. "I remember a time when such play was not considered by you to be a waste."

Charles smiled into his wife's deep blue eyes—the eyes that Justen carried—that had captured his attention so long ago now. He'd crossed the Fields of Viel for her, to her father's kingdom by the lake of the calm waters, and he would cross so many more miles with her.

"I did my duty for my kingdom. I found a fiery wife to give me strong sons."

Ignoring the statement of jest she had heard so many times before, she lay her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, seeking the sound of his heart. It beat strong, as strong as the day when he had come to her father's castle and offered to share his heart, his kingdom. The years had gone by so quickly.

"If it must be done," she stepped back and held her hands together at her waist, "then let us get this business done and get my son back home."


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