Lord Grimlor’s palace looked no different than it normally did, except for the Throne Room. The Throne Room had one notable difference. There was someone else besides Grimor sitting on the high dais and in the throne chair. Dalko Rivien.

Although he was no king, Grimlor had set up his Throne Room in a splendor of jewels and gemstones. The array of jewels and bright gems reflected off of the sunshine majestically. The mosaics along the walls displayed fascinating scenes of Windem history. One mosaic was a three-piece, all hung next to each other. It told the story of Feynram’s origins. Tristan studied these mosaics now, preparing to approach Dalko with his selections to accompany him. He was to journey towards the Captiol to confront Basidin’s servants and their Cropkillers. Of course, they would have Veracifers with them too. Dalko had managed to tame a couple of Veracifers in the past, and he had held them captive at his secret base outside of Sesten. Tristan remembered all too vividly that horrifying experience he had had when he’d led the Windem Spy to the secret compound intentionally. With his immunity to their paralyzing and hypnotizing stare, it was no wonder that Dalko had seen fit for Tristan to lead this party. But then Tristan had had his doubts. He had significant doubts-ones in which he had lost sleep over.

He was supposed to “lead”, whatever that meant. He had his first taste of leadership during their takeover of Feynram, and that had ended with his embarrassment. Asherin had intervened, having to negotiate on his behalf with that smart-tongued Captain, Eamon Thorne. The first part of negotiations had gone well, Tristan had thought, but he had been on the brink of beginning a real siege. Lives would have been lost. Bloodshed would have ensued. In his mind, that was the point all along. That was the reason they had taken two months to assemble a catapult. The plan had been devised intricately, with the fires, the Ascendians’ invasion, and the hidden army of Denderrikans that were composed of two hundred, rather than the mere fifty that Eamon and his guards had seen from the ramparts.

Tristan had it all planned. He would fire a few rounds from the catapult. It would be enough to bring mild ruin to the beautiful white walls. They could coax Eamon and his guard out from behind the gates, realizing they must meet out on the battlefield to prevent further damage to their walls.

“If you wait forever behind those walls, we can also just starve you out!” Tristan had shouted as one of his last gasp lines. Eamon had visibly grimaced, running a hand through his thin hair and then ruffling it all back into a messy heap.

At that point, Tristan was prepared to have them open the gates and meet them on the open field. Of course, they would have archers at their back--which is why Asherin had stepped in and changed the plan. The archers were something Tristan had not accounted for, foolishly, as Asherin had reminded him. Tristan had frowned, wishing to see his plan through and allow the guard to become overwhelmed on the flanks as his spare and hidden men would emerge from behind the tall rocks like devils--axes and spears in hand. Some would leap to the tops of the rocks with their bows and aim for the men along the ramparts. Tristan had argued with Asherin, backing up that element of his plan. Asherin had disagreed, taking over negotiations with Eamon and ensuring Eamon that they would starve them out and fling feces into their city until the place was rank with filth, stink, all variations of foul infection and disease.

“We’re stalling. That’s all Dalko needs. The Ascendians would have their Overlord captive by now. He’ll be behind their Captain of the Guard at any minute now, a knife held to the Overlord’s throat. They’ll open the gates and we’ll waltz right in. No bloodshed. No deaths. It’s that simple.”

Tristan was panting heavily with anxiety at that point. He had begun the plan with a great gusto and bravery. He was still riding the coattails of the tremendous confidence he had gained from training with Dalko for months. One thing became apparent at that moment. Tristan had not been trained in diplomacy.

“You don’t need to be a diplomat to use common sense,” Asherin had said sneeringly.

Before Captain Eamon Thorne had formulated a proper plan to deal with the small army that was camped outside his walls, Bard had been tapping at his back, muttering his name and title repeatedly.

“What? What could you possibly need--” Eamon’s voice trailed off. He had turned to shrug off Bard and scold him for ruining his train of thought. Then he saw it. They had appeared like ghosts appearing out of thin air. Four of them…the Ascendians. The shorter one with piercing blue eyes (that reminded Eamon of ice) was standing in the front of the Ascendians with a jagged, yet somehow ethereal, beautiful dagger at the throat of the City’s Overlord. Lord Grimlor Eyowen. Eamon exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping. He gestured for weapons to be lowered with his right hand. It came up like a stiff pole and then swung down like someone waving a flag. His guards lowered their weapons obediently, intrigued by these men in graycloaks with hoods that concealed all but their mouths and their bright eyes that showed through the shadows of the hood.

“Open the gates.” Dalko’s voice was a low grumble.

Eamon didn’t need to ask what would happen if they didn’t. It was quite evident.

“Do as he says,” said Eamon. Bard and Cal moved to the large wooden crank and heaved. Two more men added their strength to the effort and the gates slowly opened with a reluctant groan that echoed through the midday air.

The next scene had sent chills through Captain Eamon. He realized that they had been more fooled than they had initially realized. One hundred and fifty Graycloak Denderrikans emerged from the ground like wraiths. They would have been outnumbered if they had met that young man who called himself Tristan for battle.

Dalko raised himself from his seat and slowly descended the five steps of the high dais. He had changed out of his Graycloak and was now wearing a woolen cape that dragged along the ground behind him. He wore tall boots that thudded softly on the palace floor. It was quiet this morning. The palace hadn’t seen a morning so quiet since it had begun its existence. Dalko had placed all palace workers, servants, and leadership in locked rooms inside the south tower. It had been a generous gesture, considering there were vacant spaces in the dungeon. Dalko had decided to leave those who were imprisoned where they were. He wasn’t sure which ones may have a vendetta against Feynram and thus wouldn’t give them the chance to explore that option if he didn’t have to. Those prisoners wouldn’t care that new leadership had taken over Fenyrm. At least, that’s what Vitarko had told him. He had sent the Ascendian to inspect the dungeons, the four towers, and the main castle of the Capitol and to return with a full report of his findings. It had taken Vitarko the better part of three days, but the report had come back full and detailed. An Ascendian never omitted any level of detail--no matter how small.

Dalko strolled up to Tristan, hands behind his back. His boots scuffed along the floor lazily. “I heard the lady Asherin Unsworth helped you close out your business with the Captain before we arrived with Lord Grimlor. I hope she wasn’t overbearing.”

Tristan turned his attention from the mosaics. He had been studying a shaggy blonde haired knight who had lost his half-helm to a man in black garb but had simultaneously gutted the man in black with his sword as he was falling back over a cliff’s edge. Tristan had frowned, failing to recall anywhere nearby that had a cliff.

“Asherin stepped in prematurely. I could have handled it.”

“I believe you,” said Dalko. He opened his mouth, then closed it. The two stood in silence awkwardly for a moment. “You did well,” Dalko finally said.

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Oh, but you did. It was a big responsibility.” Something about Dalko’s voice sent a chill through Tristan. He couldn’t quite understand why. It felt like a cold wind had passed through him. He shuddered.

“You said it could be a continuation of my training,” said Tristan.

“And indeed it was.”

“It doesn’t seem like training if lives are dependent upon it. That was real.” Tristan’s tone had grown very stern.

“Calm yourself, Tristan. You must continue to battle your emotions. You must make decisions out of your rationality. Rational thinking eliminates emotions, even if you must suffer.”

“Suffering. Isolation. This is the life of a warrior,” said Tristan, reciting a line that had been beaten into him during his time alone with Dalko. Even after all the time they had spent alone, Tristan felt himself tremble with fear at times when he was alone with the Ascendian.

“Why do you entrust me with such responsibilities? First the siege, now the mission…I feel I must know. I haven’t slept much lately.”

“I was meaning to speak with you about the mission. I wanted to ask if you had selected your companions for the trip.” Dalko set about walking slowly along the wall, observing some of the other mosaics. “But first I must answer your question by asking you a question.” Dalko seemed to have a look of quiet satisfaction planted on his face. “Why do you think it is that I would entrust a boy from Sesten with these responsibilities?”

The silence was deafening. Tristan had no answers. That was why he had asked in the first place. “Well,” began Tristan. Another long pause. “I’m a Blackthorn. My bloodline suggests I am capable of…” Tristan trailed off. He was looking at the mosaic that Dalko was now focused on. Tristan’s mouth slowly opened wide. It was his father’s father. The Great Sir Grant Blackthorn.

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Dalko continued, acting as though they hadn’t just chanced upon a mosaic of Tristan’s ancestors. “That is part of it, yes…but more than that, Tristan.” Dalko turned, clutching Tristan’s shoulders and holding his face in front of his. Tristan felt his body go horribly cold. Dalko’s hands were icy. “You are the Wielder of the One Sword. I’ve seen it in my visions. The sorceress has shown me. By rights, Tristan, the sword is yours. In fact, it was your father’s. It was gifted to him by Lady Saphira--the one who shows me things.”

“But…but why? Why do you care? What’s in this for you? Why train me for months at a time? Why did you give me forbidden access to your hidden compound in Sesten? Why are you leading me against my own people? I don’t want to take down Windem. I want to save it!” Tristan’s voice had grown to a shout.

Dalko removed his hands from Tristan’s shoulders, but his eyes never left Tristan’s. “Because…we are bound together. We want the same thing, Tristan. Do you know what that thing is?”

Tristan pondered a while. What did Dalko want? He remembered now. “You want to be freed. You are under her curse…Lady Saphira’s. You are just a pawn in Maltor’s game.”

“It’s interwoven into my blood. I am hers to do command. Lady Saphira ensured this when I was a child. To break free, I must give the High Lord Maltor what he want most--what Denderrikans want most.”

“Which is?” asked Tristan.

“World Domination. A new order. And Windem is the ideal place to start. Ripe with open land and fruitful vegetation. I will not be free until I take over Windem on behalf of Lord Maltor and the Denderrikans.”

“Have you ever considered running away? Breaking free? It’s no fair that you should have to wage a war against your own desires.” Tristan was perplexed. A deep crease ran along his forehead.

“I would die,” said Dalko. My healers, my bloodsguard, they would abandon me.

“Bloodsguard?” asked Tristan.

“They hold the mixture that keeps the poison from infecting my blood. You may have seen them before. Brown cloaks, blue-tinted potion. You’ve heard their chanting at night sometimes, I presume.”

Tristan nodded. He had heard their rituals at night on occasion during their training.

“Without them, I cannot have the potion administered to me and Lady Saphira cannot hear their chanting. That is how she keeps me bound.”

“Is it the same for the other Ascendians?” asked Tristan.

“In a way, yes. But each Ascendian is different. It is not up to me to reveal the ways in which Saphira keeps them bound to her.” Dalko exhaled deeply. He shifted his gaze to the high dais and the bold display of gems, diamonds, gold, and rubies which littered the wall behind the throne. “But that’s where you come in, Tristan. I cannot over take Windem on my way. In my Verr Seeing, Saphira has shown me a way. You are that way, Tristan.”

Tristan approached the throne, watching Dalko return to his seat on the throne and cross his legs. “What if I fail? What if I don’t want to do this?” Tristan felt tears well up in his eyes. He fought them. Choked them back. He had been suppressing that fear for months. What if he wanted to quit? But he couldn’t quit now. Twin Hills wouldn’t be the same. Ma was gone. Uncle Bodry was locked away in Sesten. Elric was still alive. And Tristan was on the way to becoming a warrior--a Blackthorn.

“I don’t ponder failure. We cannot dwell upon the actions of others, Tristan. We can only control a fraction of our own destinies. Mankind is weak. They worry about the affairs of others--people whom they cannot control. Remember our training, Tristan. All we can master is ourselves. Take your thoughts captive. Make your emotions captive to your will. The rest will take care of itself.”

Tristan nodded, but inwardly he felt like a big bag of emotions. Sometimes looking at Dalko made him sick. It reminded him of betrayal, murder, darkness. He was the cause of great bereavement throughout the kingdom. The death of the Kingsguard. The death of Sir Crowley Begg. It was wrong, all of it. The Kingsguard were wiped, murdered. There had been no negotiation there. Just death. In one fell swoop, twelve arrows had found the homes of twelve of the kingdom’s most respected, skilled knights. And now Tristan served the man responsible for their deaths.

“How am I supposed to sleep at night? Huh?” Tristan had raised his voice again. He flapped his arms despairingly.

“Control your emotions, Tristan.”

“NO! I will not!” Tristan convulsed, tears streaming down his face. But he was not sad. He was angry. Divided. Turmoil spilled from within and spilled out in the form of quick sobs and ill-tempered shouts. “I vowed to become a Knight and serve this kingdom, just like my father and his father before him. I am a Blackthorn!” Tristan circled the throne in a half-circle below he steps to the high dais. Tristan brought his emotions under control, wiping the snot and tears away from his face.

“Tristan…answer me this.” Dalko tilted his head to the left, running his tongue over his teeth. “Do you want to serve me or not?”

Tristan stood. Frozen. Now was the chance to stop, to turn away. He had gotten all of the training he had ever dreamed of. He could take what he’d learned so far and run. He could run to the Capitol and beg King Tarren to let him serve him. Or perhaps, he’d find an outpost with men who were still loyal to the old ways--men who knew his father and Sir Crowley. They would surely take him in and welcome him with open arms. But no--that wouldn’t work. Those men worked under their Lord Commander. The same Lord Commander who had betrayed his father and stolen his mother. He was a defiler of Blackthorn’s, and he would pay for that someday.

“I serve…” Tristan paused, eyes locked with Dalko. Seconds passed. Finally, an answer escaped Tristan’s lips that surprised even him. “I undeniably, unequivocally, serve you, Lord Dalko Rivien of Denderrika. I serve you ‘til the day I have righted the wrongs in my life. And until the day that my father’s sword is complete and in my grasp…until Myroniad, is no longer a spearhead, but the blade to my sword…I serve you.”

Dalko sat still as a stone, indifference implanted on his narrow, sharp face. “Excellent, young Tristan. You should know, you will be rewarded for your loyalty in ways that are not yet clear to you. I hope you know that,” said Dalko. His voice was hard as steel, cold as an icicle. “Now that we’ve made that clear, have you chosen who will accompany you to confront the servants of Basidin?”

“I have.”

“And who have you chosen?” Before Tristan could begin, Dalko added, “And a brief explanation as to why you have chosen each person should suffice.”

“From your contingency of Denderrikans, I have elected to go with Kenton, Asherin, and Loren. Kenton is afraid of nothing, and has the aggression of a bear. I suppose if we encounter trouble on the journey, Kenton will not hesitate to put his life on the line to defend our group.”

“He is loyal without hesitation, certainly.” Dalko nodded his approval. “Go on.”

“Loren has been a dear friend to me. She showed me your compound and was the first person to lead me out of my sheltered life as a boy in Sesten. She led me beyond the Twin Hills and proved to be a breath of fresh air in my life. I suppose any journey of substance requires trusted friends to help push you along.”

“We will miss her here at Feynram, I am sure of it. She is quite good with a sword as well, if you hadn’t already noticed.”

“And Asherin, well, you know how she is,” said Tristan.

“Most men fear her more than Kenton. And those who don’t know her will underestimate her.”

“I agree,” said Tristan. “I knew she looked the part when I first met her. But it is no facade. She is a warrior. A fighter. She has more strength than two men put together, I have learned…and she’s not a bad negotiator, as I expressed earlier. She helped us enter these walls without bloodshed.”

“Indeed.”

“I am bringing Nothelm Eseloor, a Brantish man that I captured on one of my excursions. He has proved to be a great companion and has provided good fellowship. He knows his way around a sword and has no family left. He is better off aiding me than rotting away in the dungeons here.” Tristan was not sure why he trusted Nothelm so much, but he just did. His gut told him so.

“Can he be trusted?” asked Dalko.

“Yes.” Nothing else was said regarding Nothelm. Tristan noted a hint of reluctance in Dalko.

“Lastly, I am bringing Lord Eamon Thorne and a number of his guards, as we had discussed previously. As long as you are still good with the arrangement, I would like to see that through.”

“Do you favor Eamon and his guards over our own? I can send you ten Denderrikans instead, if you’d like.”

“No, I want Eamon. He is a disciplined man and he seems wise. Besides, his guards will answer to him with a loyalty that I have rarely seen before. He knows his way around the kingdom. We could use that. Loren, Kenton, Asherin…they are new to Windem. They won’t know the road like Eamon will.”

“And the arrangement?”

“What about it?” asked Tristan.

“Do you still remember it?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?” Dalko lifted his brows. Tristan exhaled deeply.

“Okay, fine…I don’t remember all of the details.”

“He will see you safely to the completion of your journey. If he fulfills his end of the bargain, we will reinstate him as Overlord of Feynram and allow him to operate as a ruler of the city.” Dalko paused a moment before adding, “Of course, he will still be answerable to me and we’ll have a small contingent of Denderrikans here to watch his every move and offer counsel.”

Tristan pursed his lips, nodding. “Yes, that’s what I remember hearing. It’s coming back to me now.”

“I am adding one more member to your journey.” Dalko whistled. From a small door behind the throne came a figure that was hardly an inch taller than Dalko. He removed his deep hood, revealing rich, brown eyes and a chiseled, youthful face with tousled brown hair. “I want you to meet Vitarko. He’s one of the Ascendians.” Vitarko gave a small nod. His face was still and void of emotion. “He’s vowed to aid your group along the way. Consider him a security investment in your safe travel to meet Basidin’s servants. After all, who would deny the option of an Ascendian--these times of war being what they are.”

Vitarko stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “A pleasure,” he said. His voice held a thick accent.

“We’ve met,” said Tristan. He reluctantly shook his hand. He didn’t want Vitarko on their trip. It wasn’t someone he had selected.

Dalko wrapped up their time together by going over logistics. He ended by saying, “In all, fifteen of you shall go. Any more than that and you may find yourselves struggling for food. The road will be bare, but I suspect the closer you get to the Capitol, the more bountiful the land will be.”

“When shall we leave?” asked Tristan.

“You will leave the day after tomorrow. First, we must enjoy one last feast together inside these warm and wonderful walls. Then, we shall review the trajectory of your journey and review the plans and objectives altogether. Remember, communication will be key. We should observe every member of your party closely. You don’t want any internal incidents or conflicts to mar your progress. After all, it will be a long and tiresome journey.”

That night Tristan lay his head down on his pillow. It was the second to last night he would be spending in a comfortable bed with a plush pillow and privacy to accompany it. For the first time since leaving Sesten, he found sleep as soon as he lay his head down.