“The trouble began after the death crusade – my father and uncle both fought in it, but the old King Cucoco stayed in his palace; his fighting days were over, they said. All of his sons had perished many years ago, but for one: a little boy yet to earn his name, and who was therefore called Ferret. Uncle and father both fought will against the forces of the high necromancer – but it was Uncle who drove him into the river, and who claimed victory o’er him and his forces.”

“So, upon Raphael Velenzi – who was my uncle – King Cucoco – who was the king and the father of Ferret – heaped treasures untold. I remember attending the reward ceremony – they brought out wagons for the gold, and discussed matters such as marriage, such as Princess Lucia’s marriage – I am Princess Lucia, by the way – and my father dined on jealousy that night.”

“A few months later, sickness claimed King Cucoco – who was the king and the father of Ferret – and so the noblemen of the kingdom of Jerefraine were called to elect a regent. Ferret is still a little boy – he cannot be king! Anyway, they chose Raphael Velenzi, who was the second richest man in Jerefraine, and the single most respected.”

Lysa listened idly to the Princess' spiel. The woman had clearly been scrambled by the resurrecting spell, aye; it was usually unwise to bring back those who had just been made deceased. If Lysa did not have a cause which needed furthering forsoothly, she would not have made the magick move. Ultimately, though, there was nothing to regret, and a father would not quickly question the revival of his blood.

“Who is the first richest man in Jerefraine?” Asked she.

“My father. He owns most of the southern coast – inherited it from my grandfather. He is older than Raphael, and a greater war-leader besides. Victory after victory we've had; though our enemy is greater in number, a host of noble lords rebelled with us. Only, we cannot take the north. Ally after ally have tried to make the crossing, and they all lost. So now father marches for it.”

“The crossing?”

“Mhm. There's only two ways to reach the northern half of Jerefraine, thanks to the impassable River Rianne. There is the sea – which, due to the sheer number of men needed for the conquest of the land, the price of ships, and the risk of storms, is unfeasible – or there is Zeregazi. Its a mighty citadel, and it overlooks the only bridge north. Father will have to take it. My father is Lord Gabriel Velenzi, by the way. My uncle is Lord Raphael Velenzi…”

And so babbled on the dead princess. Lysa had already extracted herself from the conversation, and had therefore turned her eyes to the crackling campfire in front of her. She felt the grass beneath her feet, and the wind cool against her skin. So much had happened here, while she’d been gone. Five years seemed now to have passed in an instant; she had been brought into the depths of The Crypt, closed her eyes, and then appeared hither on the surface again. Somewhere between the glimpses of sunshine, there was a single instance: The lashing whip, the insults, the reeking laughter. That instance had repeated itself for one-thousand-eight-hundred and twenty-five days. During its expanse, there seemed to be nothing but the instance and its pain. Now, no matter how hard she tried, she could barely recall it. It had not even been a day since the instance last repeated. No memory lingered; just the ghost pain of capture and the relief of fresh escape.

“Daughter, go at once to Alonso,” came the voice of the Rebel King, his sabatons clinking quietly ‘gainst the grass, “And stop bothering the corpse-botherer.”

“Lady Lysa is a kind woman-”

Lysa bit her tongue as a brief argument ‘twixt father and spawn arose. Some part of her was bothered that the clueless princess had registered her so swiftly as the corpse-botherer, but found no need for correction in that matter. It was how the men of Gabriel’s troop had doubtless come to know her. Sorcery must have seemed to them as the wicked act, the evil force, the antithesis of the godly rites; Lysa knew that those godly rites were born of the same creature. Magick was everywhere, and the only difference between holy and heretic spells were the subspecies they drew from. Whatever the case, Princess Lucia was sent away - bid so by a quiet nod of Lysa’s head. Gabriel talked.

“You did me service, raising her, but mistake not my thanks for trust. Alonso is my friend, and I trust his word o’er your sorceries. Remember you swore to me - and remember that even the darkest of gods have no love for oathbreakers. When Mor Karavon broke the trust of the Old Thirteen-”

Lysa’s heart pounded, her eyes widened, and at once did she act to shush her new master, pressing a hand to his mouth. He stared at her for several moments until she, realizing her impulse, pulled her hand away. The rush of panic made way for a brief ember of shame. Never show your fear.

“Speak not of them,” Lysa said, her voice shaking, “Speak not of Mor Karavon or his masters. Doing so will only invite misfortunes. Please, tell me, was there anything else you had to tell me?”

“Yes. You, being oathbound, and having given my daughter life, and having wisdom which my countrymen do not possess - you are of special importance. Tonight, you will ride on my stallion. We leave ‘fore the sunrise, and as we do so we’ll leave but embers at our backs. We cannot stay here, for all that is here we’ve plundered already, and we cannot leave the place to our foes, so we’ll burn it.”

Lysa was surprised at this, but did not show it.

“Very well. Anything else?”

“Should we take prisoners, and should they be of ignoble background, I’ll lend them to you. Alonso will do any killing you need - that is my whim for him. The matter of his heart and the hearts of my troops, and their attachments to the proper rites - I shall handle.”

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“You take on much burden for the apprentice of Baphosarex.”

“If the apprentice places her foot where it should not go, or wags her tongue when it should be still, then I shall have a priest fill your lungs with the holiest water - which cannot drown - and your throat with holy hymns - which cannot by your pagan lips be sung; and you shall be consecrated, and given pure to soldiers who do not talk much but who desire many things of strange women.”

Lysa scoffed and cocked her head, “You should explain in greater depth this fantasy of yours, Lord. Your tales cure deafness and, no doubt, create fires in the loins of thy beloved who, hearing your command, is slave to the woman-urge, and no doubt imagines herself as the apprentice and the quiet soldier come to plunder her as yourself.”

His expression became very grave.

“My wife is dead.”

“Oh. Well, if you bring me her body and three lives…”

To her surprise, he chuckled at that, but it was hollow noise, “Baphosarex should have taught you silence. I’ll be off to attend my duties. Feel free to laze about until your sorcery next is needed.”

Then, accepting no retort, Gabriel marched off to the tent of command (the largest of the tents, bearing the twin-eagled banner of House Velenzi, and the motto of the family: No rest in peace. Peace had long since fled Jerefraine, Lysa knew. First, the kingdom had been called to crusade. Then those same crusades were turned against it. Then Gabriel rebelled. And before the crusades? Lysa was young, and had never known such a world. Perhaps there was peace in those tiny years between her birth and Baphosarex’s breaking of her shackles, but one could not even see those years if they were to squint. Like the memories of her torture, they had disintegrated - or at least were misplaced.

The same could not be said of that man. Baphosarex had, even in her torture, dominated a place in her mind. He had done so before, as well. The memory of he was so fresh she could not even hope to repel it when it came. His skin, dark like coals, shimmering with sweat in the desert sun. His black robes flying in the wind. His hands, which were so thin, and always trembling ‘neath the force of his own art, which once rose an army to rival an army of the gods. But what she remembered the most about him was his warmth. His voice like the fire set before her, the ashy scent which always accompanied his old tomes, the heat of his hands guiding hers through the most basic of incantations. And, of course, the hearth lit in his embrace, in his words. The words he told her at the site of their first meeting: For as long as I live, they will not hurt you.

It made sense that he was dead, then, because Lysa suddenly felt an injury upon herself. She bandaged it with nothing more than a slight twitching in her face. Then she watched the fire. She watched the smoke lashing at the sky until the smoke could only be seen for the stars. Gabriel shared his plans to move on with a speech, but the men, not caring much about the virtues of the gods and caring a lot more about resting their legs, were not eager. Still, with a tumultuous grumbling and a great moving about, the war camp made ready for movement. It took a while. Men still had looting and eating to do and were loathe to pause such tasks.

Of course, such warriors were inferior to the one's which Lysa could raise. Could. The fact that she could still use her gift at all was - not to credit the gods - a miracle. Only the usage of the gift could make clear its existence, and it withers if it is not exercised. Many sorcerers lived and died without ever realizing they had it at all. Lysa was around seven years old when Baphosarex showed her the powers she had, and it was a surprise that she, having never used them before, had retained them until that point. Now, a five year break - and the gift had not left her. What good fortunes!

At the moment, however, she had no minions to prepare for travel, and no possessions to pack. The Frog, at least, did her a kindness in the meanwhile; he emerged from behind a tent and, after making several comments about the ruckus, offered Lysa a change of clothes. Or, clothes at all. The few stringy garments she had did little to protect her, so she took the dark (and somewhat scratchy) robes with nothing more than a nod of gratitude. So too did he give her a pair of straw sandals. They were peasant clothes - which blended in better, and which she could offer no complaint over. Then she walked among the horses until she found Lord Gabriel.

His horse was, by all accounts, a noble stallion. Never had she seen one like it - there was no such breed in Carel or its surrounding crags. The beast was broad and tall, with fur so thick it was a wonder it could even see or move. Its eyes were nothing but yellow dots, and its tail flicked hard enough to bring her pause.

“She’s a good girl,” said Gabriel from atop the beast. He had changed out of his plate mail, perhaps for the sake of the beast. It was too dark to see without fire, and so his face was cast in torchlight. He had sharp cheekbones and a heavy brow, his skin only barely beginning to reveal his age. Gabriel’s eyes were of a deep sort, as though a hundred sorrows had pressed them. His shoulders were wide, his slender hands gripping tightly the reins, and as Lysa mounted up behind him, pressed against his broad back, she could not help but detect the scent of the forest. She was as fond of men as she was of women (see: not very), but it did surprise her very much that he had not taken a wife. A second one, from the sounds of it. He was old, but handsome, and also rich. Besides the warmongering and the apostasy, there seemed little wrong with him.

“Stop clinging,” he told her, “We ride until midday.”

Alonso, appearing from nowhere upon a black warhorse, stomped up beside His Lordship, “Are you sure? The men are tired, and need rest.”

“Then we’ll rest at midday. We need to be quick about this. Fort Geruosi stands strong between us and Zeregazi. We must cut the shield to break the sword - otherwise good Knight Jerefraine will reach around and smash the backs of our heads with the rim of the implement. Its a small fort, anyway. Can you take the walls?”

“I’ll have to take a look at it - we build forts differently than the southerners, but if its got a wall, I can break it, yeah. But beware, Lord, for the road itself hides dangers: No doubt your brother, despite his holiness, will unleash snakes from the brush upon us.”

“Well spoken, Alonso. Let us be off!”

So off they were let, a caravan of armor and swords. Princess Lucia with the Frog rode in the back, defended by the Household Guard - men of loyalty and strength which could be matched only by the dead. And perhaps Alonso was even better spoken than Lord Gabriel knew, because six hours later - just as the sun crested the hills and rose again - Lysa would survive her first battle since Baphosarex had gone.