They came then to a tower door upon the ramparts and passed the guard to enter a dim chamber, a guard room whose walls were rough, bare stone, neither plastered nor white-washed. Spear racks were against the walls and shields were also hung upon them. In the centre of the room, bearing great branches of candles, the only light to see by, was a rude oaken table, such as soldiers mess at, littered now with disregarded papers and a half-gnawed loaf and some cheese. Standing beyond the table, with his Council in attendance around him was the King. He turned as they entered, and they had the impression of a stooped figure rising to his true height as he stepped into the light. His head he held proudly, and his face was a mask of calm, as well might a king’s be, but it was lined with the many cares he had carried for long years and his beard grew more white than brown. A simple circlet adorned his dark hair, which was flecked white, like a merlin’s breast. Over his mail shirt he wore a long tabard blazoned for his house, Daegan, a gold gryphon upon a scarlet field. A long sword hung at his side.

Seeing them, he bowed first, Sacrissa noted, to Elyssa. Elyssa met the King’s gaze and nodded gravely in return. Again, thought Sacrissa, that look of some fellow feeling in the eyes, such as the huntress and Elyssa had exchanged. Then the King turned to the two ladies of his court, and, again, bowed, but Sacrissa could not tell whether the bow was to both or, if not, to which of them. They bowed their heads to him. Sigird curtsied with grim inevitability, while she, Sacrissa, inclined her head with an ambiguous smile that could be accepted as something just short of amusement, such that the recipient could not assume insolence. It was the sort of smile that, Sacrissa reckoned, no man complacent in his power could resist, be he king or lord, merchant or innkeeper, and she could wear it well, she knew. It was then the King met her challenging gaze with eyes that showed a curious and lively intelligence, which she rather liked. Her perception ever keen, she realised with some shock that those grey eyes were also windows upon a profound and enduring sadness and that they showed also the wisdom to bear such sadness and yet to strive. As his eyes quested her intent, they revealed something of him to her. He was a man, she realised, who abided on the shores of a sea of bitter tears. Yet, though he might never leave it behind, he would not go forth to drown upon it. In the face of its moods, both its calm melancholy and its cruel storms, he would endure in the peace that his will had made. A strong man, then, and one honest in his suffering. Ashamed, she lowered her gaze from him.

Stepping forward to Elyssa the King spoke “Honoured daughter of the Sun, born to the Blood, my roof is your shelter, my hearth is your comfort, and my sword is your safety for so long as you choose. You honour them with your presence. Accept our welcome.” They each bowed again to the other. “Mind you,” the King continued, “your bow is likely to be my safety in these unlooked-for times,” and he smiled and his countenance was open and his eyes kind. “Your counsel would be most welcome, and any news you might have from your people.”

The words were fair and Elyssa could not help but like this King of Men. She had been curious and unsure what to expect; after all who knew aught of Men? Yet this man, she had heard of as honoured by the High Houses of her people. For this King and his daughter were woven into their sight. Prophecies, Men would call them, though there was no such thing. Yet, there were some strands woven together; House Daegan and the Elves had intertwined fates. As she looked at him, she sensed his great and abiding sadness. For a moment, she closed her eyes and let it flow over her. Then she sensed that hope was not dead in his breast and that he had yet the power to endure. His daughter had grown from that same strong root and there was much hope in that also, and Elyssa drew strength from it. She opened her eyes and smiled at the King.

“Elfwyn of the Clans Paramount, Dread Keeper of the Dragons’ Gate and Protector of the Hidden Realm, Lord King of the Seventh Kingdom,” replied Elyssa, “the welcome of your house is a blessing upon me. I accept it with grateful joy. My service I give you freely in return.”

“Good,” said the King, his tone lightening, “then this is a happy meeting. Might I present my counsellors,” and the noblemen present turned and bowed with great courtesy to Elyssa.

“The Earl Strang,” said the King, indicating a man of middle years and stature with a powerfully compact frame. His eyes were small and bright and alert. His beard was black and close-cropped, but little hair had he upon his crown, as if the growing of it was something for which he would not spare the time. His wargear was plain for such a high lord, and his cloth was a sombre green, chased purple, and on it strode a mighty black bear. His demeanour was brusque, a man, Elyssa thought, with no time for fools, and no one’s fool, but diligent and kindly enough in his way. A plain man and a fighter who would brook no opposition, but above all, a man of honour.

“The Earl Aldred,” said the King, indicating to Elyssa an elderly man in pale yellow surcoat with a wolf’s head sigil upon it. He looked as though he might have first given counsel to the King’s father. Tall, and now rather willowy, he was. Yet, old as he was, he was nevertheless clad in full harness of war, which hung limply upon him now that the muscles and sinews that once filled his coat of mail were wasted and thin. His white hair was long, his cheeks hollow, but the grip on his sword hilt was still firm. Elyssa saw that his blue-grey eyes alone seemed ageless, bright and keen, a great wisdom and sympathy she found in them. His mouth was firm, its set non-committal. It suggested the patience of one who need not speak first, but whose answer men awaited.

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“My Lord Warian,” the King continued, indicating a man, like Strang, in middle years. His features were a little too sharp to be truly pleasing and his dark hair was faded in places, but he was tall and cut a fine enough figure in his finely wrought harness. Like the others, he wore the long surcoat of a northern knight, his bearing a pale embattled tower, a sturdy keep on a field of forest green, a yellow star was set above it and it was garthed with a fence of thorns. Warian looked guarded yet attentive.

“The Lord Nerian, Warden of the Marchlands and Castellan of the Vale,” said the King, indicating a wiry man, with a weather-beaten face and hair greying before its time. His pale green habit bore a gloved hand grasping a dagger. He looked alert and grave.

All, thought Elyssa, bore testament to hard years spent establishing order and kingship on the wild northern marches of the Fallen Kingdoms.

“And my Knights Paramount, Kendrick son of Kimbal, Algar son of Aldred and Bryce son of Beorys,” concluded the King, presenting to Elyssa three younger men, not yet arrived at their full estate, but with faces wise and grave and respectful.

Then the King turned to the Lady Amora and the huntress. “I see ladies of my court are present, in wargear, to stand with the men and fight at need, as was ever the custom in the Northlands. I had looked for another to join me in Council this day, but I see she is not yet here among us. Might, perhaps, a huntress with a cloaked shield take her part, by my Lady Amora’s leave?” Amora nodded in acquiescence. Neither her face, nor her companion’s betrayed the slightest trace of their thoughts. Amora whispered something to the other, then, with a bow in the direction of the King, she withdrew, scooping up the boys and ushering them out into the fading light.

“Was your journey here without incident, my lady,” the King asked, turning to the huntress.

“No, my Lord, it was not,” said the huntress, flatly.

“Well then,” he replied in careful tones, “we will talk of that, though we will not do so now.” The King’s tone brightened as he continued, “Was that the Royal Under-Bookward I saw leave this moment past? Goodness but he’s … filled out.”

“Yes, my Liege”, she replied, “he trains, I’m told.”

“By the Powers, what with?” laughed the King.

“The weight of his learning, I believe, Lord King.”

‘Well, those two seem to get along,’ thought Sacrissa, and then she felt the King’s gaze turned upon her.

“But we have two other guests, and they are not known to me,” said the King, in a neutral tone that put aside his burgeoning joviality in an instant.

“I have met them but lately myself,” said the huntress, adopting the same neutral tone.

Then Lady Elyssa spoke up, “Lord king, to me these ladies are strangers also, yet my heart urges that they have some part to play and that we might depend as much upon them as upon any of us here. Pray admit them to your Council, noble elfwyn”

The King looked thoughtful. Sacrissa’s smile, now somewhat fixed, began to experience strain.

“My Lord King,” the huntress intervened, “I believe Elyssa Bloodraven sees the truth of this. Let them for my sake also stay and be a part of your plans.”

Sacrissa’s next thought was short, expressive, and exceedingly profane.

“Then be it so, and right welcome,” said the King. Elyssa presented Sigird and Sacrissa. Upon hearing of Sigird’s house, the King smiled fondly and bad her right welcome. Upon hearing that Sigird was to become princess-companion, the King grunted with satisfaction. When Sacrissa was named to him, he merely raised an eyebrow and chuckled, which she thought rather rude.

“Elyssa Bloodraven, huntress, my ladies,” the King began, “these things you should know. We have few ‘useless mouths’ here. Though it wanes in the rich lands of the slumbering south, in the North old custom waxes strong and all who can hold a spear will fight at need. We are well set, armed and provisioned in the Gryphonhold. Yet before us is Stowham town, abode of such strangers to this land as have commerce with us. Its walls are stoutly manned, and we will prevail there for a time yet. I expect news of our defence this hour.” As he said that, he cocked a look straight at Sacrissa, which annoyed her, because she could not understand why.

“Yet there is no safety in Stowham. It can furnish no reserve of trained townsfolk to stand at our soldiers’ backs. Our subjects are now withdrawn to the Gryphonhold. What remain are not of our realm but strangers who cannot pass within the walls of this castle. Doubtless among them are many spies and concealed foes, gathered there to serve the enemy at our gates, indeed, the streets are now patrolled against such, to the lessening of our strength upon the wall. But many are innocent, set to die when, at last, I needs must recall the men from the walls and Stowham falls, as it surely will. I cannot let those people in; people who cannot fight for me, people who I am not provisioned to feed, people who might carry our enemies with them to our secret places and who are forbidden our lands for the sake of our subjects. Nor, it seems to me, can I let them die. I cannot take my shield from them, nor see the feet of these noble towers drenched in their innocent blood while I stand aloft and do nothing. Were it so, I would dishonour my House, which then would surely fail. It is the fate of these people I must now doom. For this I seek your counsel, and from that you will see why your presence here is timely, and, perhaps, ordained by the Powers.” The King fell silent and looked expectantly at his guests.

It was, to everyone’s surprise, not least her own, Sigird who spoke first.