Change

ON the other side of the door stands a bent woman in a red hooded cloak. She carries a basket full of berries that have turned her teeth blue. It is all she has had to eat on her journey of ninety-three days.

She has come from the northern kingdom of White Wind, where a prophecy flew in on the north wind and told her of this journey. A prophetess can only go where she is told, and so she left on her journey immediately, just after sending word to King Willis that she was on her way with a Word. She knows all the lands quite intimately. The lands between Fairendale are lands of plenty, so she left with only a basket, sure that she would find sustenance along her way—berries, plants, mushrooms. She has done well with the berries, though nothing else. The lands, it seems, are not quite as plentiful as they once were.

The kingdom of White Wind is very unlike the kingdom of Fairendale. Though Aleen arrived here when the land had already grown dark, she could see that Fairendale was much more beautiful than the land from which she had come. It was much more colorful, much brighter, much warmer. She did not need to shiver when she crossed into the bounds of Fairendale.

She has not come with the Word King Willis wants to hear. But a prophetess can only deliver the message she has been given, and that is precisely what she will do, for she is a good prophetess, just as she was once a good magician.

She has her own hopes, too. She hopes that she will find a place in this beautiful kingdom so unlike her own, with a king who will be loved by his people.

Oh, yes. She has seen change coming.

Will she find a place among the change?

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

***

DOWN below the throne room, in the secret dungeon below the dungeons of the castle, a place so dark one could not see a finger held right in front of one’s face, sit one hundred forty-two prophets who have come before this one. There is no light here. There is no warmth here. There is no hope here.

This is a dungeon that needs no guards, only iron bars and walls and a floor made of stone. This far underground, magic is lost, though the prophets do not have magic to begin with, you see. They gave up their magic long ago, when they chose children and then the way of prophecy.

In a dark such as this one, there is no reason for the one hundred forty-two prophets to keep their eyes open. So they mostly sleep. Except for one.

Only one stays awake.

Only one holds to hope.

Only one sees the vision of deliverance stepping across darkness.

“Soon,” he whispers to all his sleeping brothers. “Soon we shall all be together. Soon we shall escape.”

***

IN the village, Arthur steps into the room Theo and Hazel share. He has come to tell them a story and kiss them good night. Come to smooth their hair and settle their worries and turn down the torches.

But tonight he lingers. Perhaps he senses something. Perhaps he knows. Perhaps his son is not so clever at lying as he supposes.

Theo watches his father linger. He wonders if his father waits for something. Perhaps he should share what happened in the village today. He does not know what his father will say. He merely knows that this secret is burning his mouth, and he cannot play calm for much longer.

“Father?” Hazel says. Arthur startles, just the tiniest bit, in a way one would not notice if one were not already looking. But Theo and Hazel are observant children, always watching. “Is something wrong?”

Their father shakes his head. “No,” he says, and then: “Only a strange feeling.”

Hazel sits up, her hands clasped in her lap. “A feeling?” she says.

Hazel is familiar with her father’s feelings. He had a feeling when the first prophet came to town. The prophet disappeared and no one ever knew what was exchanged between him and the king.

Arthur had a feeling when all the other prophets came, too. Perhaps there is yet another.

Hazel looks at Theo. He looks at his hands, rubbing his knees. Her brother made a mistake that could cost his life, if this prophet shares a truth the others did not know. A magical boy who does not yet sit the throne has no hope in a kingdom like Fairendale.

“Father,” Theo says. Will he tell his father? Will he share his mistake? Will he let his father carry this worry for him?

“Yes, son,” Arthur says. He stares out their window, which looks out toward the castle. It is open, inviting the cool breeze inside. The white curtains shift and curl.

Theo tries to keep his voice steady, tries to speak in a way that sounds natural and calm and not terrified as his eyes suggest. “I did something today,” he says. He looks at Hazel, who nods. Go on, her eyes say. Tell him.

Arthur looks at his son, drawn out of his thoughts. He moves to Theo’s bedside.

“It was an accident,” Theo says. Now he looks at his father. Arthur does not show the slightest bit of worry. He has always been good at hiding these things. It is what one does when one is a parent.

“What did you do, son?” Arthur says, his voice steady and gentle. He takes his son’s hand. He does not assume, does not propose his own ending to his son’s beginning, does not worry. Yet.

“I...” but Theo cannot finish. He cannot tell his father this.

So Hazel does instead. She sits straight up in her bed, her purple nightgown swallowing her where the crisp white sheets do not. “He used magic.”

Arthur studies his son but does not say anything. They wait.

“To whom?” Arthur finally says, for this matters a great deal.

“To Mercy,” Hazel says. Her eyes shift to her brother. She does not want to tell, either, but she knows she must. “And Prince Virgil.”

Her father clears his throat. “I see,” he says. His children watch him, but he does not say another word, as if there is nothing more to say. But there is plenty more to say, dear reader.

“Does he know?” Arthur says, finally.

“I told a story,” Hazel says. Her eyes flicker. “I said I did it.”

“But he might,” Theo says. “We are not certain.”

Arthur pats his son’s hand. “Let us not worry ourselves, then,” he says, and his eyes say the same. This is the face that reassures his children. Arthur kisses his son’s cheek and moves to kiss his daughter. Then he stands and gives a small stretch, his thin body lengthening and flattening until it smooths out again. He walks toward their door.

“Father,” Hazel says when he is almost through. He turns back.

“Yes, Hazel?” Arthur says.

“Why would Prince Virgil say magic is stupid?”

Arthur lets out a long, deep breath. Its whisper falls on the children’s ears like a spell, and they are suddenly very tired. But they must know the answer to this question, too, and everyone knows that when children must know something, they will never be able to sleep until they do.

Arthur leans against the doorway, crossing one foot over the other. The toes of his boots have pulled away from the sole, and his dirty white stockings poke through. There is a crack up high, near the knee. His pale brown pants are streaked with dirt, and his tunic is laced tightly enough so the white shirt on his belly is protected. His sleeves, ruffled at the ends, ripple in the wind.

“Well,” he says. “There could be many reasons.”

Many reasons, perhaps. But he knows the one. Because it has to be the one. Yet Arthur has a duty to his children, to dispel their fears so they can find rest.

“It could be that the king and queen forbid him from practicing magic outside the castle, and he does not like their rules. Or perhaps they do not wish him to practice it until he is of a certain age.” The children nod. Parents in the village are not quite as strict with their children as a king and queen must be. None of the village children will rule a throne, after all. Arthur continues. “It could be that he is having trouble in his studies and his magic is not working the way he thinks it should. In which case, perhaps we could help.” He looks at Hazel as he says the words.

Arthur’s eyes grow cloudy then, as if he is not in the room with them at all. “It could be that he does not have the gift of magic.”

The words do not come easily. Arthur, you see, remembers another boy who said those very words when he was a child. He remembers trying to help and being cursed away. And even though he knows these words will not make his children feel any better, he also knows that he must tell them the truth. He simply must.

Hazel and Theo look at him, their eyes wide.

“Surely not,” Hazel says. “Why would Prince Virgil not have the gift of magic?” She looks at her brother, as if begging him to agree that this cannot be so. “I thought princes were always born with magic.”

“Not always,” Arthur says. “There are rules to magic. Only firstborn children get the gift.”

“But Prince Virgil is an only child,” Hazel says.

“Yes,” Arthur says. “He is.” He uncrosses his legs and crosses his arms instead. “Then I suppose we have nothing to worry about, do we?”

“But if he does not have magic,” Theo says. He lets the sentence hang in the room, where it twirls on the wind.

Arthur looks at Theo. His eyes hold something different now, something wild and haunting and terrifying. It makes Theo catch his breath. “Well, then, Prince Virgil would have something to lose if someone knew his secret,” Arthur says. “And a boy with magic would be in grave danger.” He clears his throat. Hazel shifts her gaze to her father now.

“So Theo—“ she says, but her father shakes his head. She stops.

“Theo is a boy,” her father says. “A boy without magic.” Then softer, “You understand.”

Theo and Hazel nod. “Yes, father,” they say.

“Goodnight, then,” Arthur says. “I love you both dearly.”

They echo his words, and then Arthur moves silently through the shadows, into the bedroom he shares with his wife. Maude is bending over a wash basin, candlelight flickering across her brown dress. Arthur does not say a word. He moves behind Maude and puts his arms around her and holds tight, so tight she turns.

“What is it, Arthur?” she says, her dark eyes troubled.

Arthur shakes his head, buries his face in her silvery brown hair. He has no words for the cold terror that has crept up his arms and legs and sent its ice storm straight to his heart.

He never should have returned. He never should have risked it. He never should have followed his heart back to the people he loved. He knew something like this could happen. He knew they could not stay here forever, hiding a secret as important as this one.

So they will have to run. They will have to go. They will have to find a place, somewhere safer than here.

The morrow. They shall leave in the dead of night. They shall escape.

They shall live.

***

“Come in!” The king’s voice crawls beneath the gap between the door and the marble floor. The prophetess straightens her back as well as she can. But it is not much, you must understand, for she is an ancient woman. She hitches up her robe and steps through the door opened by a man in balloon pants. “Thank you,” she says. He bends his head, just slightly, the only acknowledgment that he has heard the words. He remains outside. She limps in.

“Ah,” King Willis says. “Ah ha ha.” His arms are stretched out, as if waiting for an embrace. But this is not the way of the king, and she is still a long distance from the throne. She knows of this king and his ways. He merely believes she is here to deliver the Word he would like to hear, the Word he sent in his letter that reached her on her travels. The king believes she can gift his son with magic though he was not born with it. This hope makes him generous.

The queen waits at the bottom of the steps, along with a handsome boy dressed in a cape and tunic and boots very like his father’s, black, trimmed with gold near the knees. His dark eyes watch her approach, and her dark eyes watch him. This is the boy she has seen in her visions. This is the boy who will set it all in motion.

Prince Virgil, in return, stares at her ebony skin and the hair that is wrapped in gray-black braids that swing with every step so it looks as if serpents sit on her head. She is frightening, and yet something about her is familiar. He has never seen her before. But perhaps he has read about her in stories. He once took a book on prophets and prophetesses from his father’s library. Perhaps she was in it.

“Your name,” the king says when she has hobbled close enough to the throne.

Our prophetess stops on the carpet. He waves her still nearer. She waits until she is closer to answer his question, which annoys our king. He is not a king accustomed to waiting, after all. “My name,” she says, straightening up her bent back as well as she can manage, “Is Aleen. Aleen of White Wind.”

Prince Virgil studies her closer. Yes. He has seen her picture in the book. Aleen of White Wind is the most famous prophetess in history. She was born more than a hundred years ago. One hundred forty-two years, to be precise, but Prince Virgil was never a boy bent on precision. He could complete his studies “well enough” so he could spend the rest of the afternoon in the village, playing. He could lace his tunic “well enough” before venturing past the castle walls. He could learn to ride a horse “well enough” before dismounting and racing off to his friends. His tutors know well his shortcomings. They tolerate them but try not to encourage them.

Prince Virgil did not know a prophetess this old could still be alive. He looks at his mother. Queen Clarion grips his hand but stares at the prophetess.

Surely Aleen has brought them good news. Surely a woman so famous from the faraway land of White Wind would come with news that would not send her to a dungeon.

“What Word do you bring me?” the king says.

“A Word of magic.” Aleen’s voice creaks on its way out. Hundreds of wrinkles slice and twist across her dark face. They ripple and fold when she speaks, as if the family of serpents has moved from her hair to her cheeks.

“A Word of magic!” the king bellows. “Pray tell me then, woman.”

She smiles. Prince Virgil stares. She looks a thousand years younger when her white—or are they blue?—teeth are showing. She is not missing a single one, which is quite remarkable in one so ancient. Aleen keeps her teeth strong by eating apples. Three a day, to be exact, though she has not had one since she set out from White Wind.

“There is a boy,” the prophetess says. She looks at Prince Virgil. His heart thumps hard. Could it be him? Could he have magic they have not yet discovered? Could he be the real heir to the throne after all? Aleen turns back to the king. “A boy with magic.”

If one were to turn one’s attention from the prophetess to the queen, one would see Queen Clarion squeezing her son’s hand, beaming into his face with a look that says, “See? There is hope still.” For a mother will always hope where her child is concerned.

Oh, sweet queen. Poor, sweet queen.

“My son!” King Willis says, and there is no room left for disagreement. “You have come to awaken his magic.” The words hang in the air, shifting on their breaths, an impossible command.

Aleen throws her head back, her hair swinging again, and lets out a hoarse laugh. It is quite disturbing and a bit exaggerated. It has been so long since she has laughed, you see, so she is out of practice. The laughter makes her insides feel warm. When she is finished, she looks at Prince Virgil. Her eyes are nearly black, and he takes a step back, unprepared for that empty look, the look all prophets get when they are seeing a vision. She licks her cracked lips. She gives a vicious shake of her head. “I cannot awaken magic,” she says. “One is born with magic.”

“You must do this awakening!” the king roars.

“I cannot,” Aleen says, still shaking her head. Prince Virgil turns away. “It is already too late.”

“Then who is this magical boy?” The king’s voice rumbles through the throne room, bouncing off the walls and beating his audience with its echo.

“I cannot tell you who,” Aleen says. “But I can tell you where.”

The king waits, but he is not a patient man. And when the silence stumbles on for too very long, he says, “Where?” in a voice that could shake the walls were they not made of the sturdiest stone.

The prophetess holds up a bent finger, pointing out the window behind the king. The window that looks upon the village of Fairendale.

“The village?” the king says, turning to look. Prince Virgil cannot take his eyes off the woman’s finger and its dirty, curved nail. That one finger holds more power than he could ever hope to have, though this prophetess has no magic.

“Yes,” Aleen says. “There is a boy in the village who was born with the gift of magic.”

Prince Virgil’s face begins to burn. He knows who it is. He knows the boy with magic. But he is a best friend. Best friends do not betray one another. Best friends keep even the most dangerous of secrets. Best friends...

“And what else have you seen?” the king says. “What else do you know?”

Aleen creeps closer to the king’s throne. She does not fear a man like him. Prince Virgil feels his heart beat faster. “I have seen destruction,” she says. “I have seen death. I have seen a throne in ruins.”

“No,” the king says. “It cannot be.”

“Yes,” Aleen says. “Oh, yes.”

The king’s face has turned ashen. He is staring at the back of the throne room, toward the doors. Prince Virgil watches his father and feels as if he is losing either way. Keep the secret and make his father worry. Share the secret and perhaps endanger the life of his best friend.

What would happen to Theo? Would he be imprisoned? Would he be killed?

A friend cannot do that to another friend. So our prince remains silent, for now.

“When?” the king says now. “When will what you have seen come to pass?” His face is red and splotchy again. His boot stamps the floor, as if he is an angry, petulant child. His hands grip the throne so hard the gold cuts marks into the flesh of his palm.

“Soon.” Aleen’s voice scratches against the walls. “Soon. Very, very soon.”

King Willis flicks his wrist, a small movement that throws open the door of the throne room and sends footsteps running, men’s boots cracking against the marble floor. Garth stands before the king, bowing deeply. “Yes, m’Lord,” he says.

“Find the captain,” King Willis says. “Bring him here.”

Garth bows again. “Yes, Your Most High King.” He scurries out again.

Everyone in the throne room holds their breath until the captain of the King’s Guard, a man called Sir Greyson, stands before the king with his sword point against the marble floor and his hands crossed upon the hilt. The candles flicker against the metal armor the captain wears at all times.

Queen Clarion tries to pull her son toward the door, but Prince Virgil shakes her off. He wants to hear what will happen. He has friends in the village, after all.

King Willis shakes himself out of his throne and paces back and forth across the stage, in heavy, lumbering steps. “There is a boy, captain,” he says. “A boy in the village. A boy who has magic.” He turns around and paces the other way. “This is a danger to us.” He stops and looks at his captain. And it is only because Sir Greyson has removed his silver helmet that the king can even see the grey-blue of his eyes, though he is not paying attention enough to notice color. He is quite thoroughly distracted by this news he has been given. I am sure we can all empathize with our king. If one receives news one was not expecting, it can throw a whole evening off balance.

“So,” King Willis says. He turns back to the window that faces the village. “Something must be done. The village must be searched, its people punished.”

“Wait,” Prince Virgil says. There is an easier way. Theo will give himself up, if he knows everyone else in the village is in danger. Prince Virgil knows he will. “Wait, Father.”

King Willis turns to him, as if surprised his son is still here, or, perhaps, that he has a son at all. “We will invade every territory from here to the kingdom of Guardia,” the king says. “We will leave no stone unturned. We will find the boy with magic.” His eyes grow suddenly soft. He looks at Prince Virgil as if he really sees him this time. Moments of fatherhood can turn the most spindly men into the gentlest creatures, though King Willis has never been a gentle father. Or a concerned one, for that matter.

But this, a magic boy threatening his son’s reign, this has turned him uncharacteristically gentle. “You will keep your kingdom, son,” he says. He even strides over to Prince Virgil and pats his head. Prince Virgil stares at the red carpet, uncomfortable with this attention.

“Wait, Father,” he says, still staring down rather than up. “I know something.”

“You know something?” his father says. The king grows impatient again, and just like that, the tender spell is broken. Children, you see, at least according to King Willis, are better seen and not heard. “What could a boy like you know?”

“I think I may know,” Prince Virgil says. “I think I may know the boy with magic.”

Should he tell? Should he betray his friend? Should he do it in the name of safety for all the others? Does our prince care enough to risk the life of his friend so he can save the lives of Hazel and Mercy?

Yes. Yes, he will tell.

The room grows absolutely still. Only the swishing of Queen Clarion’s skirts as she draws nearer to her son and the raspy breath of the prophetess can be heard above the stillness.

Queen Clarion places her hand on her son’s arm. Does she know about the boy, too? Perhaps she suspects. Perhaps she has no idea. “Are you sure, Virgil?” she says. Her eyes hold warnings, as if this is a leap forward one could never take back. The queen knows about leaps forward that appear to be solutions but are really only disasters. She lived through her own, many years ago.

But Prince Virgil does not heed his mother’s warning. He simply says, “Yes.”

“Who, son?” King Willis says. “Who is the boy with magic? Where does he live?”

“The boy with magic is Theo,” Prince Virgil says. “He is the furniture maker’s son.” Queen Clarion gasps.

“And how do you know, boy?” King Willis says.

“I saw him do magic,” he says. “His sister tried to cover it up, but I could tell. He made a puppet fall out of the sky and land in his hands.”

Queen Clarion puts her hand over her lips, as if she can change the betrayal of this gaping secret by stuffing it back into her own mouth. But it hangs in the air, and it makes King Willis laugh—a loud laugh that echoes all through the chambers, that would surely shake the foundation of a home as humble as Arthur’s but cannot touch the solid one of the palace.

“The furniture maker’s son,” King Willis says. “Well, now, that is interesting.” He moves back to the throne and squeezes into it once more. “That is interesting indeed.”

The room waits for what comes next. They all know that something is next.

“We shall attack this night,” King Willis says. “While they sleep. We shall move in with cages and swords and teach them all an important lesson they will never forget.”

“But,” Prince Virgil says. “But there is only one.”

King Willis turns black eyes to his son, his brows drawn tight over them. “How old is your friend, son?”

Prince Virgil swallows. “Eleven,” he says, sure he knows where his father is going.

“Eleven,” King Willis says. His eyes grow ever darker. “Eleven years they have hidden a boy with magic. An entire village has done it. An entire village will pay.”

“No,” Prince Virgil says. “No. Please, Father.”

“Silence!” King Willis says. “I will not have a boy arguing with a king!” He looks at Queen Clarion. She takes Prince Virgil’s hand and pulls him toward the doors again. He shakes against her, but this time her grip is sure and strong. She gets him all the way out the door and into the great hall before he collapses in her arms.

She holds him as long as she dares.

***

SIR Greyson did not ask to be here. Not really. Captain of the King’s Guard is a position he inherited from his father, when the brave man was killed by the red rain of an exploding mountain during a routine trip to the kingdom of Ashvale, a mostly peaceful land. The King’s Guard is put in place to ensure the safety of the royal family, but part of that safety is assured through routine trips to distant lands, where kings and queens are given not gifts of gold or silver but flower seeds, for the beauty of Fairendale is revered throughout all the lands. Many a kingdom aspires to be as colorful as this one.

Sir Greyson’s father was killed when a Fire Mountain in Ashvale erupted and set the whole town smoking. He went back to save its people, of course. He died instead. When his men brought the tragic news, they knelt at Sir Greyson’s feet and said they would follow him anywhere, though he was merely a boy of seventeen.

He did not want to be a soldier for a king like King Willis. He would gladly have turned it down, but his mother, dear reader, was stricken by the sugar sickness. She was near dead. And the only way to acquire her medicine, you see, was to work for the king. This is the way of Fairendale, under the hand of King Willis, though it all began with his father, King Sebastien. It is not always fair. But justified, according to King Willis. And that is all that matters to him.

But this. This attacking a village full of people he loves is not something Sir Greyson can do.

“Are you sure it is wise to attack the entire village, sire?” Sir Greyson says. King Willis turns angry eyes to his captain. Sir Greyson shrinks a bit, glad he is wearing armor, though it is silly to think the armor will protect a heart from the vicious words of men. Nothing protects a heart but a wall. And Sir Greyson has never been one for building walls, only opening doors. He is known throughout the village as an honorable man. The widows call him an enviable son.

“Of course I want to do it,” King Willis says, as if Sir Greyson’s question is the silliest question he has ever heard. Who is Sir Greyson to argue with a king? “The people of Fairendale must know that their king will not tolerate secrets. They must be taught honesty.” The king puffs himself up, sticking his great belly out further, if it is possible. “They must be taught integrity. They must be taught honor.”

Sir Greyson does not ask any more questions, though he wonders what the village people might have to say about honesty and integrity and honor if they knew the secrets King Willis whispered in this room where he thought there were no ears. There are always ears in a palace.

Oh, yes. Sir Greyson knows why the king is terrified of a magical boy. He has heard more than he should.

But his mother. He cannot refuse the king. He cannot tell the people what is coming. He cannot let his mother die, which she will surely do without the medicine the king’s page hands him every evening.

In fact, Sir Greyson is waiting on that medicine as we speak. He is wondering, while the king is laying out his elaborate plans, if his mother is feeling well or if she has taken to her bed. Will he find her sleeping when he shows himself home? Will he find her cooking a late supper? Will he find her reading that storybook she used to read aloud when he was just a boy, the only storybook she has ever had?

The king’s voice stops. Sir Greyson looks up. The king is watching him. “This night,” King Willis says. “You will take them tonight.”

“Them, sire?” Sir Greyson says.

“Yes,” King Willis says. His voice bounces off the walls and back at Sir Greyson, like a hard ball. “Round up all the children in the village. Bring them here.”

“But is there not only one who has magic, sire?” Sir Greyson says. “A boy?” What would he want with all the young ladies? Sir Greyson has seen them doing magic in the streets, of course, but young ladies have no power in Fairendale. They are no danger.

He does not mean to question his king, this captain of the guard. It is just that he loves the village and its people, and he does not want to frighten or hurt anyone unnecessarily.

But the king cares nothing for caution such as this. His eyes narrow. He points them at Sir Greyson. “There are many ways to hide magic,” he says. “A boy could become a girl. A young man could become a child. There are many ways.” He takes a deep breath, as if this line of speech has winded him. “Bring them all.” His belly shakes into a laugh. “Bring them all. We will find the one.”

“And you would have us to take them this night?” Sir Greyson says.

“This night,” King Willis says. “You shall round them up this night.”

“But it is late, sire,” Sir Greyson says. “My men have already retired to bed.” It is a lie, of course. The king’s men are always ready for action. But Sir Greyson needs some proper time to think. Some time to process what is being asked of him. Some time to decide that his mother’s life is worth more than this treachery.

The king is watching him. There is no bottom to the blackness in his eyes. Sir Greyson knows the king well enough to know that his eyes tell the story of his emotions. The darker they grow, the angrier the king. He represses the urge to take a step back, away from those holes. “Then we will round them up at dusk tomorrow,” the king says. “What is a few hours? You will take them when they are all watching the day’s end. When the only thing on their minds is turning in for the night.”

When they least expect it. The people will least expect something like a roundup when they are sitting comfortably in their chairs, hoping to see a mermaid’s tail.

He would warn his mother, but what would she say? Would she forbid him to do such a thing? Would he have to watch her die because of it?

He will tell no one.

He has sworn his allegiance.

He is a man of honor.

What does honor mean in a circumstance such as this one?

Sir Greyson simply nods his head. He tries not to think about the boy with magic in a kingdom as peaceful as Fairendale, a boy who has hidden all these years and never raised a bit of a threat. Is he foolish to believe his king is mad? Is he foolish to think that a boy with magic would keep a pure heart free of invasion dreams in a kingdom as wondrous as this one? Is he foolish to wonder, for just a moment, whether the boy might be the relief the kingdom needs after the reign of King Willis and his father before him?

“Make sure they do not hear you coming,” King Willis says, as if he knows more about these things than Sir Greyson does. Sir Greyson knows about stealing into the dead of night. He knows about surprise and attack. He knows about war and peace and all the lines in between, for his father taught him when he was but a boy, though he has never seen anything but ease in his duty thus far.

Yet the words give Sir Greyson pause. His men, after all, wear armor that clanks as if they are wearing costumes of broken bells. Perhaps they would have to enter the village without their armor. Suppose they did. Perhaps it would make the people less likely to fight. Perhaps they would simply hand over their children, if Sir Greyson promised they would get them back.

Would they get them back? Is this a promise he can make at all? He does not know what the king plans to do with the children, and Sir Greyson is not a man to make promises he cannot keep.

“And kill the ones who resist.” King Willis looks at Sir Greyson. His face breaks into a slow grin, flickering by candlelight so it appears twisted and evil, the face of his father before him. Sir Greyson shudders in his armor.

He does not know if he can do this. He has never killed anyone. He could never kill the people he loves.

He will find another way.

“Page!” the king bellows. The thin boy who is the king’s manservant scuttles into the room. “Get the captain his medicine.” The king gestures a grand farewell and turns his back to Sir Greyson.

“Yes, sire,” Garth says and scuttles back out the door. Sir Greyson waits one minute, two, five, and then Garth returns, with a bottle in his hands. Only then does King Willis turn back around.

“This one,” King Willis says. He points to the old woman, standing in shadows beside the throne. “Take this one to the dungeons. With all the rest.”

Sir Greyson stares for a moment at this woman ancient and bent, this woman who reminds him of his mother, only older. She looks at him with the blackest eyes he has ever seen, blacker even than those of King Willis, only they are kind where the king’s are hard. She gives the slightest nod of her head, sending her braids roving.

Just before he hands her over to Calvin, the boy who feeds the prisoners, he hears the prophetess murmur, “It has begun.”

The words send chills down his back.