by Elizabeth Reeves

Created on: August 11, 2008

Foreward

Girdaon of Frewdwyyr looked up as the stone hall filled with the clatter of armor and heavy shod feet marching. The sound was almost unknown in this place, where servants walked silently barefoot and even kings felt oppressed by the walls to never raising their voices above a whisper. Girdaon raised his eyes, feeling a quickening in his heart. Perhaps here was the word he had been waiting for, an agonizing three months in which he had watched lines of care mar his once-young face. Rather than show his anticipation he sat up straight on the uncomfortable stone seat that was his throne, and cradled his arched scimitar- the symbol of his regency- in the crook of his arm.

"Sir," His head steward, Rynd murmured. Even that soft murmur echoed through the hall like the rushing of great winds. "Your Eyes have returned from Gildarlyn."

Girdaon waved his hand negligently in the air to hide his need to swallow down a knot of tension in his throat. "Show them in," he said, his voice unnaturally loud in the silence of the hall. He silently cursed himself for letting ancient stone unnerve him to the point of lowering his voice. "I will hear their reports."

Rynd bowed halfway and backed the three prescribed steps before turning back to the arching doorway of the hall. Girdaon noticed that Rynd's steps were perfectly silent, even in this cold, echoing hall.

Girdaon started, in spite of himself, as the noise returned. Three men, wearing very different costumes, marched into the room, ignoring the thunderous reply of the stones to their arrival. They threw themselves down on their knees before him and bowed deeply.

"I have waited long for this report," Girdaon said, no longer hiding his impatience. "What news is there of the North Country?"

The first man, all in green, a bow on his back and a long knife at his side, bowed more deeply, then drew up to his feet. His long legs were clothed in high leather boots and wrapped around with scarlet, a startling contrast against the muted colors of the rest of his uniform. His hair was long and uncut, blond, almost white, with a neatly trimmed beard around a finely curved mouth and along a strong, narrow, jawline. His eyes were blue as the northern ice which was his homeland. "My lord," he spoke quickly, his words clipped and urgent. "As you feared the Northern Territories are in uproar. The people have thrown over the High King. This is why you have not had a response to your messages of late. We found your messengers murdered and hung

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