Caernholm was in sight and for Aelf it couldn’t have come at a better time. Their column was ragged and spread down a mile of road. His father headed them in his riding clothes, Aelf thought he looked far less impressive out of his armour. His furred cloak scattered behind him aimlessly. He was deep in thought.

“Father the gates, I can see the gates!”

Caernholm was old and vast, there was no place quite like it in Angevain, none so old none so vast. Only Guildmark compared in size but that was all warehouses and dockyards, Caernholm was a fortress city, two curtain walls enveloped stone buildings centuries old, the youngest finished construction two hundred years ago commissioned by Aelf’s ancestor, Aelwulf the Wise. Aelf spent a while remembering his lessons on family history, hundreds of names first recorded on the memory stones in the grove, then in parchment scrolls that were stored in the library tower. So many names and such little history, Brother Hedwyn had taught that much was lost during the fall of the empire, great libraries burned in civil wars that exploded across the realm, and the victors took what little remained and rewrote it for their gain before being defeated in turn and such works being lost once more. Now it was only the Collegia that preserved history, in its vast scribe city thousands of brothers and sisters of the quill spent a lifetime writing and copying so that such a blow to learning may never happen again.

His father nodded absently as a gloved hand scratched at the stubble on his chin. The march home had been long and hard, after the battle they had marched quickly to the castle of Ashwyn and imposed on the hospitality of Baron Starling. Every wounded man save for Luc had been left there in the care of the castle monks. Their father would not consider leaving Luc, despite the advice of Brother Bertram that he should not be moved.

“Hedwyn has cared for the boy since he was a child, he knows him well, knows his humours. He will be entrusted with his care.”

Aelf carried a small book, loaned to him by Lady Kiras Starling, daughter of Lord Starling. Smuggled out more like, he thought, she had come rushing out of the library with the little parcel tucked under her skirts. Aelfric had thanked her and looked down at it running his hands across the leather. She was still standing there looking at him with some expectation. He bowed slightly and turned back to his father's party. Edric picked this moment to burst into laughter.

“That’s not how you treat a woman Aelf. You’ve got to court them, show them you know the value of a lady.” He lifted his arms and hummed some courtly tune and mimicked some silly dance. The knights and squires found it all quite amusing.

Aelf scowled at the memory. Edric was sulking now, in his riding clothes with a poultice on his cheek, despite being named hero of the battle and heaped with honour by all the knights in attendance, ratified by Baron Starling, and sealed with a song by his eldest daughter he still wasn’t happy. Aelf cast moody Edric from his mind to focus on his book, and then Luc came alongside him, his horse snorting loudly.

“Do you ever stop reading Aelf?”

“Only when the world out there is as interesting as the one in here.” Aelf tapped the book with his thumb.

“It’s not the one in the book little brother, it’s the world in there that you’re stuck in.” Luc reached over with his good arm and tapped his forehead. Luc had taken the worst of the battle, his left arm was in a thick linen sling, silk bandages wrapped around his head.

“You shouldn’t be riding.” Their Father had ridden over to them.

“Father you cannot expect me to ride the wagon into Caernholm.”

“The monks left instructions.”

“They left suggestions.”

The two of them eyed each other, Leofric with a face full of worry, Luc with one full of defiance.

“My lord riders from the city approach.” Ser Raine called from ahead of them.

“With me captain we’ll meet them.”

The baron and his captain left the brothers behind as they galloped away. They went alone the other knights of the honour guard stopped on the road holding the rest of the party back.

“Since when does a lord require an escort into his own keep,” mumbled Edric.

Leofric Rune returned to his men with a stormy face.

“What is wrong Father,” asked Aelf, the others looked in with interest and concern.

“Guests are waiting for us, they arrived yesterday and no bird was sent.” Aelf had rarely seen his father angry, even when his children misbehaved and made nuisances of themselves as all children do he was patient and calm. Aelf could feel the thunder in his father's voice and see the cold fury in his eyes.

“Who comes to Caernholm father,” asked Luc.

“A royal party.”

The only royal who came was the crown prince, and his uncle Aelfric supposed. He wasn’t sure if a sibling of the queen counted. They had marched through the city hearing the cheers of their subjects. Garlands were thrown, hands grazed Aelfric’s boots, he gave a slight wave but wanted nothing more than to pull out his book and bury himself in it.

Edric basked in the praise as they all knew he would. One egregious moment that made Aelf cringe was when his brother pulled off a leather gloved, creased from a hard day's ride, and threw it into the crowd. A group of women charged forward fighting each other for the stained garment.

Luc rode in silence and he was met with silence. His injuries didn’t escape notice and more than once Aelf eyed members of the crowd making the sign of protection across their chests.

The honour guard ahead of them cleared through the crowd and kept them from coming too close. Aelfric remembered his lessons on decorum with the lower ranks, it always confused him that they were to be so far removed from them. They were flesh and blood like he yet they were to be kept separate never to mix with his noble self. Everyone he asked had a different idea as to why, Hedwyn gave a lengthy sermon on the history of serfdom and slavery and how service and protection demanded reverence and respect. His father simply told him that they were both loved and feared by their subjects and it is best to keep them at a distance so you never need to find out which is the stronger feeling. After parading them through the streets their father decided to turn to the inner keep, they had looped through the outer bailey and made for the main gate.

Mother won’t be pleased with the wait. As soon as word came of Leofric entry into Caernholm Baroness Rune would have assembled his sister and the rest of the Dragon's court and awaited their Lord's arrival. Aelf looked up to the sky, looks like rain.

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They arrived through the courtyard to the sound of a dozen trumpets blaring and drums beating, a herald screamed his arrival from a wooden stand by the gate, after announcing their victory upon the fields of Stoneshade the knights of the honour guard drew their swords in a toast to their lord. Aelf had no sword to draw so he looked over the foreign figures in the crowd.

There was a tall and thin man dressed in a deep blue, jewelled hands were joined together respectfully at his front. Aelf gaped at the golden-armoured figure of Ser Hector Vauken of the Grandsraad Knights and recoiled at Ser Robane of the Kingsguard. The prince was dressed richly in gold and purple, unlike his uncle he was not in armour instead a doublet encrusted with jewels and a burning tree of golden thread was spread across his chest. A purple half cape descended over his right shoulder covering a silver-handled sword. The blonde-haired prince stood upright with his hands clenched by his side. Dozens of other unfamiliar faces stood behind them, knights and courtiers all looking down at the battle-weary party of the Grand Baron.

“My lady I am returned and with me, I bring news of victory. The raiders of the north are defeated, their longships are burned and the monastery at Stoneshade is safe.” His father trotted forward to the centre of the square. A light drizzle began to fall on them.

“My Lord I am overjoyed to hear such news and with pleasure, I say that it can be shared with members of the royal family. Crown Prince Felix Aurel, accompanied by Lord Chamberlain Duc Arand and Grandmaster Hector Vauken.” Father jumped from his horse and strode forward, and bent his knee to the prince, the rest of his war party followed suit.

“Caernholm is yours, Your Majesty.”

Prince Felix lay his hand out in front of his stiffly for Father to take. “I thank you for your hospitality- Grand Baron- as does my father. Your lady wife has made my fellows and I feel very welcome.”

“Let us retreat to the main hall, a feast awaits, with singers and skalds ready to record word of your victory and spread it far and wide across your lands.” Mother raised her hand and the door to the great hall opened. Many of the prince's party rushed in to avoid the growing rain.

Aelfric had snuck out of the feast early. It had been unbearable. Aelf had been sat at the high table with his brothers and sisters with them was the prince and his companions. Aelf had been sat next to Grandmaster Vauken and had said perhaps five words to him during the festivities. It had been equally hard to watch as his eldest sister, Gwendolyn, tried to make conversation with the prince. More than once she spoke with her mouth full, spitting food onto the prince’s clothing, the prince was gracious enough about it but spent most of the feast trying to eavesdrop on the baron and baroness.

Their father was the main source of misery. Whatever had been in the letter from the king had not agreed with him. His face twisted and turned, going from angry to disgusted then furious then heartbroken. It was distressing to his father in such a state, in all of Aelf’s life he had never seen his father in such a way.

In a moment of silence which fell upon the entirety of the great hall, the prince asked Luc a question, he sat next to the youngest sister, Guinevere.

“You must be pleased, being named hero of the battle. The songs sung about it will make you famous across the Angevain.”

Luc coughed politely. “It was Edric who won that honour majesty.”

The prince frowned and then shook his head. “No, the knights you returned with speak of the Old Bastard diving off his horse over the raider's shield wall and fighting his way free.”

“I am the Grand Baron's adopted son, and it was Edric who broke the raider's wall.”

With that Aelf could not bear it any longer. He excused himself to use the privy and did not return. There was much to think about and there was only one place where he wanted to be. With his loaned book tucked under his doublet, he made for the grove.

It was easy enough to hide from the guards, they were distracted by sounds coming from the great hall and couldn’t see well through the heavy rain that was pouring down from the heavens. He pulled a cloak off a peg as he swept through the inner keep and hauled himself over the locked gate to the grove.

Long before this land had been settled by the peoples of the east it had been inhabited by the Caern. A crude and uncivilised people Aelf had been taught, that lived naked in mud huts in swamps and bogs. They were led by the druids, priests and storytellers for the ancient gods. They had built the groves over a thousand years ago, small areas of thick oac trees and vast trunks of stone that had been balanced on one another and carved with intricate symbols. Aelf walked past them and ran his fingertips along the cool dark stone. Many times he had been here with Hedwyn asking him question after question of his ancestors. He would be gently reminded that his ancestors came from the East.

Unlike his siblings, he had taken time to learn the old runic script of the Caern. He had read the runestones thousands of times, to his father's displeasure he had spent many hours out there copying them down into leather-bound books and had Brother Hedwyn send them off to be copied at the Collegia.

At the centre of the grove was a small pool of black water. It was clean you could run your hand through it and nothing would be stained or dirtied, but it was jet black and you could not peer into its depths. Set behind it was a vast boulder. It was dark, grey, and smooth there was not a single crack or crevice and if the runes flowing across it were to be believed any damage and the stone would be regrown.

The boulder was carved into the shape of a giant face. It was broody and intense, the eyes narrowed slightly and the large beard was threaded with bones and fetishes. It was said to be the last druid of Caernholm, as he was before his death over one thousand years ago. Aelf did not know his name for it had been lost to time, no rune referred to him as anything other than the Last Druid. Aelf bowed respectfully and then sat where his stony beard met the soft ground, he needed no pillow to soften his behind as the moss on the grass was thick and comfortable. He opened his book and sighed with contentment.

His eyes opened. The rain had stopped and the sky was black. He wasn’t sure how long had passed. With a quick turn of his head, he knew no guards had yet entered the grove. He tucked his book back into his doublet and stood up, he would be in trouble no matter what he did but if he spent more time missing his punishment would be truly terrible.

Aelf stopped. He heard voices coming from the keep. They were getting louder quickly and he did not recognise them. In a panic, he looked around for a place to hide. In a flash, he decided to slide into the pool. He was already wet from the rain and he wouldn’t be spotted in there. The cold water enveloped him and before he sunk his head below he heard the voices speaking.

“Hurry! We must hurry. They won’t notice us gone when they are looking for the boy. We may not have a chance like this again.”

Aelf didn’t close his eyes. From beneath the surface, the water was clear, like a crystal he could see through clearly. Even the noise of their voices didn’t diminish.

“I’m not sure about this Arand. They might flood this place with guards any minute to find the boy, and if they see us…”

“Have you forgotten what she said, what will come to pass if we cannot heal him? Do you doubt our cause now?”

“No.”

Aelf had to keep from opening his mouth in surprise when he saw the two men standing in front of the Last Druid. It was Ser Vauken, and beside him the Duc Arand. They were both shrouded in dark cloaks with their hoods over their heads, but in the silvery moonlight, he could make out their faces. The air burned in his lungs as he watched them draw out a bag, it was sodden with red liquid. It took Aelf a moment to realise it was blood. They began to draw out limbs and organs all from the bodies of man, all fresh. Aelf had not been allowed to attend any lessons in anatomy and physiology, his mother would not consent to him being around the dead, but he had been taught about the philosophy of medicine and bodily humours, he knew that once removed from the body these things rot away to nothing. This viscera had been collected recently.

Suddenly he felt very scared. He shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be seeing this, it was the Ancients punishing him for trespassing on their land, it was the Everchosen condemning him for lacking in courage. His throat burned and it was becoming difficult to resist the call of the surface.

The Duc had pressed forward and arranged his bounty at the foot of the Last Druid with bloody hands he rubbed at the runic inscription and spoke in strange foreign tongues. At first, nothing happened- but then Aelf felt the pressure. It built in the air like the strange calm before a thunderstorm. He heard a whining in his ears, drilling into his skull. Aelfric Rune could no longer bear it and he pulled himself from the water with a mighty gasp. When he looked up at the Last Druid, his world went black.