Fion Trellec sat brooding in - what he supposed - was technically his throne room. That he was unsure of the room's actual status had much to do with his poor mood.

It seemed ridiculous to him that such a thing as this remained unclear. But how did you go about gaining clarification in such a matter? Who did you ask? And, more importantly, what did you do if you did not get the answer you wanted?

He pondered on that for a few moments, sipping at a cup of blood-red wine.

The West was free. Now, of that, he was certain.

He had achieved his life's goal in bringing about the decisive vote that had severed the land's connection with the Capital. He had done that. Him. No matter what had happened next - and he was still not wholly sure about the train of events there - he had been able to wrest control back from the grasping nonentities at Court and given the West the freedom it desired.

The thing was—and this was something which was causing him no end of angst—what was the West going to do now with its hard-won release?

In a succession of proclamations, he had ensured that everyone at the length and breadth of this newly released State knew they no longer had to bend their knee to the King.

He had, thus far, been disappointed at the reaction.

"More!" His eyes flicked to the serving girl behind him who was staring into space, a look of profound confusion yet abject terror on her face. He was seeing that expression rather a lot lately.

The girl shambled forward, spilling the jug of wine as she did so, her arms hanging almost languidly at her side. At such sloppiness, his temper flared, and he stood, glaring at her. "What are you doing, you stupid child!"

His shout raised Gilles from his stupor in the corner of the room, and the Steward slowly paced forward. Fion grimaced at the man who, at least in theory, was responsible for the smooth running of the Trellec household.

"You need to get your girls in order, Gilles! This is unacceptable."

The Steward looked at Fion blankly as if he could not place where he knew his lord from. His eyes were watery, and underneath, his mouth worked busily, as if Gilles were tasting the words he wished to speak before allowing them out, yet rejecting all of them. The silence stretched out, leading Fion to bang his empty cup on the tables.

"Gilles! Did you hear what I said?"

The sudden noise of metal on wood caused a blossom of consciousness to appear on Gilles's face, and the slackness in his expression retreated somewhat. "I am sorry, my lord. Wool-gathering. What was it you said?"

Fion jutted his chin at the servant. "She spilt the damn wine, Gilles! What is wrong with the help nowadays?"

The answer, of course, was 'quite a lot'.

However, the man to articulate this significant truth was not destined to be Gilles Harcorth. Indeed, almost from the moment he had overextended his control of when forcing the great lords of the West to acclaim Fion's proposed secession, his mind had begun to flake apart like five-hundred-year-old oil paint from a cheap canvas: a metaphor for blankness rather too appropriate for what was left of Gilles' brain.

For years, he had been aware that his grip on sanity was slowly loosening, but it was nothing to the horror he was experiencing these last few months.

The days had turned into a torment of fractured images, each more disconnected than the last. One moment, he was here by his lord's side. The next, he was in bed with some slatterny servant - appalled at their shrieking and crying. Then he would find himself on top of the battlements of the newly rebuilt Keep - no, Castle wasn't it now? - Trellec.

The last time he found himself there, he was sure he intended to jump. Indeed, he was not sure why he had not.

The deterioration of the Steward's mind was, in and of itself, a thing that deserved great pity. However, for those who owed their fealty to the Trellecs - which now encompassed a significant proportion of the West - the consequences were far more horrific.

Before the seismic events around the expelling of the Lady Darkhelm from the village, Gilles had been a casual predator, using the power of his Class Skills to please himself however he wished. However, those under his control now saw that as a golden age compared to the impact upon them caused by the man's current dotage.

Gilles looked at the girl with the wine - he could not recall her name - and enhanced his voice with . "Apologise to Lord Trellec, and then clean the mess up."

The girl gave a little cry, blood pouring from her eyes, nose and ears, and collapsed to the floor, whimpering like a newborn pup.

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"For the Dark God's sake, Gilles!"

Pernille, watching events with wry amusement from Fion's side, strode forward, picking up her skirts to run to the servant. She pressed her fingers to the girl's brow, activating . It was the least Mana-heavy of her old Skills; the irritation it would cause her to have to serve herself at supper slightly outweighed the energy cost of rebuilding the servant's shattered mind. Noticing a number of . . . other injuries, Perneille healed them too, washing away the girl's memory of how they were caused.

She glared up at Gilles. "You don't need to blow their minds out with every order! Where's your subtlety gone!"

Gilles stared back, and then a terrible fury welled up behind his eyes. Pernille had just enough time to increase her mental shields when the weight of his suggestion crashed against her. "Slit your throat with your knife!"

Even considering the depth of her own power—particularly since the Dark God had enhanced her abilities—it was a significant strain not to reach for the blade hanging from her belt. The Shadow Cleric glanced over to Lord Trellec, wondering if he had noticed the latest example of his Steward's monomania. But no, he was staring off into the distance again, with a look of injured frustration. He often seemed to look that way, she thought.

Well, that would at least give her some space to work. She turned back to Gilles, summoning - the dark mirror to her healing Skill - and reached forward to stroke the Steward's face. Rather than jerk backwards, the old man almost smiled and leaned in as she prepared to rot the skin from his bones . . .

"Pernille!" The warning bark came from the open door of the throne room. She glanced up to see Drunnoc Trellec standing there and dropped her hand. "We've talked about this. Now is not the time!"

"When will it be?" Pernille stood, the silent girl at her feet now forgotten. "He tried to get me to kill myself again!"

"And, once more, clearly failed," Drunnoc sauntered into the room, glancing about him carelessly. His father looked his way momentarily, then dropped his eyes to the floor. "We've discussed this. Gilles is, currently, necessary."

"But he's getting worse!" Pernille hissed. The two of them gave no sign of caring for the others in the room who could hear them. "If we don't do something soon, who knows what chaos he could cause."

Drunnoc dipped his head in acceptance of the point and moved to stand before Gilles, reaching out to grasp the old man's face in his hand. He pulled it close to his own, squashing the cheeks into a facsimile of pouting lips. Pernille thought she felt the younger man trigger some sort of Skill as he did so, but it was far above her ability to discern what.

Lordling Trellec was manifesting a whole host of unusual abilities of late.

Pernille knew that Drunnoc had found the favour of the Dark God, which brought with it all sorts of advantages. However, from her understanding of such things, the conduit to a god's power was through the Class they granted their followers. Her own Shadow Cleric - a darkly evolved version of her Healer Class - drew its strength from the god in that way. Her new Skills - not just and , but also more . . . exotic talents she was seeking to keep from Drunnoc for the present were a world away from the drudgery she had felt as a common-or-garden Healer. However, there were times when she missed the simplicity of her previous life, especially in moments such as this.

"If you cannot control yourself, Gilles, I must do it for you. Do you understand?" Drunnoc's voice was a vicious whisper. "Say you understand."

The old man was finding it difficult to speak through his squashed cheeks. "I understand, my lord."

Drunnoc shook his head, then moved his ear closer to Gilles' mouth. "I can't hear you. Say you understand."

"Stop this!" Fion's voice boomed from the throne.

For a moment, Pernille thought Drunnoc would refuse - that the confrontation between father and son that had been bubbling up for the last month was finally about to break out. But then Drunnoc dropped the old man and walked towards Fion.

"Father, long time no speak." How is everything going in the world of high governance?"

Fion regarded him stonily. "It goes well, son. And how is . . . whatever it is you are doing with your time?"

"Cannot complain." Drunnoc's eyes never left his father's. Pernille could feel the crackling tension between them despite the seeming amiability of their words. "We've tracked the Darkhelm to the Bloodspires if you are interested. Sounds like she is still with that Mayor who causes you sleepless nights."

Fion's jaw bunched. The continued existence of Taelsin Elm was a running sore. He could not understand how the man had survived the destruction of Swinford, and all the reports that had come back made nothing any clearer. Drunnoc waited for an answer, but seeing his father would not give him the pleasure, he pressed on.

"Don't you worry about it, though. We will soon be rid of that troublesome knight and her various hangers-on.

That was too much for Fion not to respond. "I have heard you boast similar before, son. It seems to me that there are limits to the power of this Dark God of yours."

It was the mocking expression on Fion's face, as much as his words, that drew Drunnoc's ire. He exploded forward, crossing the distance between them in an instant. Pernille barely had a chance to trigger a healing Skill she was sure she would need to save Fion's life when she saw man and boy, nose to nose, glaring at each other.

It appeared the Dark God's favourite had been able to restrain himself from anything too explosive.

"He is your god too, father. All of this," Drunnoc waved his hand around the room, "comes from his favour. Do not speak so slightingly of him."

Fion had blanched white at the speed his son had moved. He had known that powers had been granted, but that was the sort of thing he expected to see from someone of the Lady Darkhelm's ilk.

Just what had been done to his boy?

Fion cleared his throat. "Indeed. I misspoke, son. I apologise."

Drunnoc nodded, stepping back. "Your words are appreciated." Then he smiled, his face splitting into an angelic grin. "I came to tell you that, in short order, your problems in that regard will soon be over."

Much as it pained him, Fion couldn't resist asking a follow-up question. "How so?"

Drunnoc smiled, shadows dancing in the corner of the throne room as if he were draining the space of light with his joy. "Let us just say, the Lady Darkhelm has just walked into a situation even her beloved Goddess will not be able to pull her out from."

The silence in the room was punctuated by the quiet sobbing of the serving girl and the soft drip of spittle bubbling on Gilles' mouth.