A few days after the attempted assassinations of Ethelyn and Caden, the marching column of over 8,000 men crossed the River Sar and entered Sarkana. Slowly the rolling Lavellan valleys and grasslands, though cold and white in the winter, gave way to Sarkana’s rugged highland terrain. The hills grew larger, the valleys steeper, and the ground rockier - with sporadic moorlands offering a small taste of the country’s northwest, which was covered largely in mountains, heather and cottongrass. In the south and east, however, quaint grasslands and forests were broken by steep, tall hills and deep, ravine-like valleys, and those who did not know the land could easily lose themselves.

They were also areas where a foe could easily spring an ambush and then escape without being caught, and though there was no danger to the army itself, Caden, Jaqueline and Ethelyn were heavily guarded. Knights of the Kingsguard flanked them wherever they went, and armoured knights were posted around their tents like a black ring in the dark, preventing anyone from cutting through the fabric to get inside.

Another attack never came, and the identity or motive of the assassins was never discovered. Caden knew who they were, of course - they were the servants of that woman, that terrible goddess or demon of death who had come to claim his soul just as the Philosopher King had warned him. Yet he told no-one and could trust no-one with that information except Ethelyn, but if she knew more than he did she would not tell him. And so fear became part of Caden’s life; his eyes looking twice into every shadow, and every moment of silence unnerving him to the point he would break it.

It wasn’t until they finally reached Sovereign that he felt some modicum of safety again; that great city of grey-stone built at the top of a hill that sloped gradually upwards until it ended with a sudden, steep drop down into a valley below. The valley, only a few hundred meters wide, twisted and curved through the surrounding hillside - the walls like cliffs, and a river in the middle that followed the natural path that the valley made.

Compared to Chaverne, Sovereign was miserable at first glance. Whereas Chaverne was a fairytale city of white, red and other bright colours sitting in the shadow of a fortified chateau, Sovereign was a functional city of grey limestone. Chaverne may well have been designed by the gods themselves, but Sovereign was a practical place built on a naturally fortified position, and its side-streets and buildings were smaller and dirtier. Some buildings and townhouses were painted cream or framed with timber, but many more were made of the same stone used to build the city’s ancient walls. Yet to Caden and many of the Sarkanians, it was home - and had a quality of comfort and security that Chaverne had lacked. Caden’s father had once told him that Chaverne looked warm from the outside, but Sovereign was warm on the inside.

“What do you think of it?” Caden asked Jaqueline, their horses walking along the paved road up towards the city’s main gate, which was open and busy with the traffic of peasants, traders, guards and craftsmen.

“I’ve been here before. Don’t you remember?” She asked, her accent suddenly so thick and strange when compared to the chattering of the Sarkanians who stepped out of the road.

“When you were a child. It’s changed since then.”

Jaqueline laughed, though it was a pleasant one. “Perhaps, but I did not know the city enough to recognize those changes. It’s like I remember it, a city of stone that keeps out the cold. I will be glad to go inside, and have a bath, and sleep in an actual bed in an actual room.”

Caden noticed how she did not truly complement his home, but rather spoke in that cleverly diplomatic manner she was known for. She avoided giving offense by telling the truth and yet also refrained from lying, and by doing both she proved not only the worth of her word but also her intent. He smiled, not knowing whether she knew he had this knowledge, and stopped his horse before they reached the gate. Behind them the column of riding knights also stopped, the main army still several miles behind them, and Caden said, “I cannot enter through these gates until my father is buried.”

“I see,” said Jaqueline. Her own father’s funeral had been a lavish stately affair, but she knew that it was far more a deeply melancholic and sacred affair in Sarkana. It was part of the reason why Caden had waited so long, months since the king’s death, to finally arrive at the moment before them. “May I accompany you?” She asked. “I would like to show my respect.”

“Of course,” Caden answered. “But it won’t be concluded until dark.”

“I don’t mind waiting. I’ve grown used to the cold.”

The Necropolis of Kings wasn’t too far from Sovereign - perhaps an hour by horse, and seated to the northwest in a bowl formed by five hills. When they arrived the sun was beginning its slow descent in the western sky, but there was still plenty of light to appreciate the view before them.

The Necropolis had once been inhabited by the living, but now its overgrown buildings and stone architecture were ancient and abandoned. It was a small settlement, barely more than a town, with marble buildings and temples, and pillars and statues, and bridges that crossed and zig-zagged along multi-level structures. Some roofs were domed, others flat or slanted, and many of those narrow streets passed under arches or led into open squares or pools that had long become ponds.

“It’s beautiful,” murmured Jaqueline as she looked upon it from the remains of the ancient highway that led there. “How old is it?”

“Old. The scholars believe that this country was far warmer when these people lived here, hence why they used marble and outdoor pools,” Caden explained as he turned his horse into it, a dozen knights of the kingsguard following behind them.

Statues of ancient warriors wielding shields and spears lined the main road that led through the town, with that road split into two by a narrow garden that had long since overgrown a raised oblong of marble. It spilled down onto the road around it like a waterfall of brown vines that in the summer held spade-shaped leaves, and likewise all around them the buildings were covered in weeds, or trees, or roots and vines that grew through every available crack.

“Why is it called a necropolis? I don’t see any mausoleums, or dead kings,” asked Jaqueline.

“You’ll see,” said Caden. As they rode through the ruins, their horses climbing up stairways and crossing bridges, they could soon see where the rear of the town grew into the rocky-side of the northernmost hill. Doorways, windows, rooms and other openings had been carved into the limestone there, and then adorned and reinforced with white marble so that it stood out against the grey.

As they grew closer to the stairs that led to this place, Caden and the knights stopped their horses in a round, open area and dismounted. Caden helped Jaqueline down from her horse, and then began the climb to the man-made caves.

“Who disturbs this necropolis?” An old, deep voice said from the shadows of the cave. It echoed from the walls around them, and Jaqueline jumped in shock before composing herself. “There is no treasure here; it is a place of lifeless rest.”

Caden called forth: “I am Caden of Sarkana. This place is the tomb of my fathers.”

A few moments later an old man stepped from an opening in the stone, his eyes blind, and his beard short and grey, and his robe brown. He moved with a long staff that tapped the ground where he walked, and from behind him three more robed men revealed themselves who were considerably younger.

“Prince Caden,” the blind man declared. “Or should I say King Caden, the First and Last? Caden of the White Eyes, the Corpse-King. The spirits of the dead swarm around you, Lord, like flies to carrion. Arfeyr searches for his eye, yet that eye is on you.”

Caden and the knights seemed somewhat unnerved, not only by what the blind man said, but the way he has said it. He spoke like the heavens had opened, like thunder roared and rumbled from distant and ancient lands that carried the word of beings beyond their comprehension.

“You’re a seer?” Jaqueline asked him, far more unphased by the man than the Sarkanians.

“Hardly,” he said. “I merely see what others do not.”

“He is the Keeper of the Necropolis,” Caden explained. “He tends to the tombs of the kings buried here.”

“Not just the kings,” the Keeper interrupted. “The Queens too, and sometimes Princes and Princesses, and sometimes even those who were not of royal blood yet acted in a manner befitting of royalty.”

“My father will be joining them soon,” Caden explained. “Is his tomb prepared?”

“It is indeed,” said the Keeper. “On my daily rounds I saw him, his ghost a blinding light against the blackness of my eyes. He came to visit this place, to bid we open his tomb and to meet with his father before leaving. A week later the news of his death reached us - and since then we have barred all travel here. Follow me.”

The Keeper turned and began walking into the first room of hollow stone, and behind them his acolytes followed silently. Caden bid his knights to remain there at the bottom of the stairs and then, taking Jaqueline’s arm, led her up after the robed men.

“Why have they barred travel here?” Asked Jaqueline, whispering into Caden’s ear.

Caden let out a slight sigh, and whispered back to her: “Sarkanians come here to pay their respects, but in the period between the death of a king and his burial access is mostly forbidden. The Necropolis is said to be filled with spirits who protect it, but when a sarcophagus remains open then dark spirits can come to this place, and some men are said to bring them.”

“Is it true?” She asked as they reached the top of the stairs..

“Try asking the spirits.”

When they entered the cave they found it considerably warmer than the winter air outside, and though the walls in the hallway were stone they glowed orange from woodfire and torches in iron holsters hammered into the sides. There were various open rooms about the place, with few doors beyond those crudely shaped by the acolytes themselves that shut off their most private places. They slept behind those doors, and lived behind them.

They saw the Keeper turn through an open space a few meters down, and followed him into a large, open room with windows carved high in the southern walls that let in the dim winter light.

“In the summer,” the Keeper explained as he walked, “the sun crosses the sky to the south, and that southern light shines north into this room. By that light ancient stories of our history are read, and prayers are told, and we examine the words carved into the stone of these statues.”

The northern end of the room held a large altar, atop which was some ancient depiction of a lightning god who seemed to chase the sun - which was carved into the wall by him. A cloak of clouds and shadow surrounded the sun, and in those clouds were eyes and hands that sought to keep the god at bay. On the western wall, behind the statue, depictions of death, and monsters, and strange creatures and skulls were carved meticulously. There were so many of them that they were an army, and three female figures led this army, and they seemed to chase the god across the world.

“See this,” said the Keeper, who tapped the altar gently with his staff. “Even the ancients were aware of the Furan, and were perhaps closer to them than we are now. See how this lightning-wielding giant chases the sun, and how it resembles Arfeyr seeking his lost eye. See also those clouds and hands shielding it, how they could just as well be the Farlander.”

Caden listened to the Keeper’s story out of respect, but Jaqueline seemed genuinely interested. Such a piece of history, of ancient religion, was both awe inspiring and little known in Lavell. They had their cathedrals, and they worshipped Arfeyr and his fellow Furan, but she had never seen anything like this before. “Who are the three women? They who lead the army of monsters?” Jaqueline asked.

“One of them is Eshki,” said the Keeper. “She who mothers monsters. As for the others… It is hard to say, though they are also Primordis. Perhaps they are her sisters, or daughters.”

“Eshki? But she has no sisters,” argued Jaqueline. “Perhaps they are the ladies of fate, the Alda. It would make sense - there are three of them, and they lead that vast army, just as the Alda are said to lead us to our destinies.”

“Look closer, Lady. These women look different, and yet the Alda are said to be the same. Such inaccuracies are hardly to be a mistake of those who built this place, but rather not an inaccuracy at all.”

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“I see,” she replied.

Caden sighed audibly then, and looked up through the holes in the wall and at the grey, winter light that shone through them. “Keeper, my father’s body will be brought here soon. I asked my brother to bring him.”

“Yes,” the Keeper said. “The acolytes are preparing his tomb now.”

“Where are the tombs?” Asked Jaqueline. “Beneath the hill we’re in?”

“No. Beneath the necropolis itself, though as you may have noticed it is no true necropolis,” the Keeper explained.

“You like to talk a lot, don’t you?”

Caden almost choked at what Jaqueline said, and the Keeper, who first looked slightly shocked, began to laugh. “Indeed,” he said. “It is my preferred way of passing the time these days. I can be quiet if you wish, however - I am also used to the silence of the dead.”

“That would be appropriate, though I am as guilty of it as you,” Jaqueline replied. “We have both spoken enough; my husband has come here to bury his father, and perhaps now is not the time for idle conversation.”

The Keeper, silent, bowed. Caden took a seat on an old step and Jaqueline sat a yard or so to his side. He was pleased they had finally stopped talking, yet it also meant he could no longer escape the reality of his situation. He could no longer use their discussion to hide, to ignore confronting what was about to be done, and now had no choice but to fill his minds with the thoughts of it.

They sat there for some time, though just how long Caden could not say. The sun was lower in the sky, though it was not yet dark, when an acolyte entered the chamber they waited in and bowed his head. “Lord and Lady, Keeper, they have arrived.”

When the four of them left the chamber, they found that Caden’s waiting squadron of kingsguard had been joined by another, and that Arian was climbing the steps with something under his cloak, accompanied by four acolytes who carried a varnished mahogany coffin. At the base of the stairs Caden saw Wulfsurd, and carefully nodded to the man. Wulfsurd nodded back, but did not join them.

“Is he not coming?” Jaqueline whispered as the coffin was carried by her.

“Tradition doesn’t allow him,” Caden whispered back. “He was my father’s best friend, but he is not family.”

“And I am?” She replied.

“Yes.”

“Only through marriage to his son. Have you not told me that Wulfsurd is as good as family to you and your brother? That he may as well have been your father’s own? You should let him join us, Caden - even tradition should be changed for the better.”

Caden thought for a moment and knew that, despite his differences with the man, she was right. Why should he be bound by tradition anyway? He who, against holy law, was to begin his reign after what appeared to be his own death?

“Harik, join us,” Caden called down.

Wulfsurd looked up at them, and the coffin carriers and the Keeper paused but said nothing. “It is not proper,” Wulfsurd replied.

“I say it is. Join us, the Keeper won’t mind. Or we will go without you.”

Again the Keeper did not say a word, but Wulfsurd, who at first looked unsure, began to climb the steps after them as the coffin carriers continued to walk.

“I hope the ancestors don’t mind,” Caden said to Arian, looking rather unsure himself in some comical fashion.

“They won’t,” Arian replied. “I’m sure father will placate them.”

Other than the acolytes who carried the coffin, a fifth who led at the front with a torch, the Keeper, Caden, Arian, Wulfsurd and Jaqueline, no others went into those chambers carved in the rock. No other family, distant or otherwise, came to show their respects - or were even allowed to - for despite Valen’s many friends there was only Wulfsurd he considered to be like family, and that family was small. Valen had been the only child of an only child, and thus any relatives they had were distant branches of the royal line. They were a small family, but tightly knight, and in many ways that made them strong.

They walked until the corridors and rooms they passed became less symmetrical and smooth, and the clearly man-made walls grew increasingly unfinished until they could easily have been standing in a natural cave. Eventually a wide set of stairs went down, then back on themselves, then down again, and then a passage turned back in the direction of the necropolis above until they came out into a large underground cavern that was in roughly the shape of an eye.

“Amazing,” Jaqueline murmured, awestruck as they stepped out onto a path carved into the wall of a cavern. It was surprisingly high up, but stone rods and iron chains provided a safety railing to stop them falling into what sounded like water in the blackness below.

Throughout the cavern steel braziers had been lit with flames, and as Jaqueline’s eyes adjusted to the dim light they provided she could see just how big the cavern was. It must have been a hundred meters across at the widest point and three times that in length, and on each level of the cavern - for it was split into levels, each with its own path - dozens of openings had been carved in the shape of doors.

“Each of those doorways you see leads into a tomb,” the Keeper said, while on one of the many lower levels they group could see distant acolytes walking with torches.

“How many levels are there?” Arian asked.

“Thirteen.”

They walked around the first level, then down a set of stairs to the second, then again to the third. They must have passed a hundred doorways on each level, but no actual doors, and the dark rooms within were unlit and seemed to stretch on into the darkness. Every two levels four more acolytes appeared, taking the burden of the coffin from the shoulders of those previous, and they continued down yet further.

Finally, after what seemed like nearly an hour of walking, they reached the tenth level, and the Keeper came to a stop by an opening that now had a stone door waiting to be fitted. Each doorway was wide enough for a little over two men to pass through shoulder-to-shoulder and this was no different, and inside candles had been lit in small alcoves in a passage wall. The coffin was carried down the passage and out into a relatively large chamber, perhaps the size of a small hall, in the centre of which was a raised platform and on that a second, larger sarcophagus of stone.

“This is his tomb,” the Keeper said, striking a fire in the contents of two wide bowls of bronze so that their light shone around the tomb. The walls had been carved beautifully; images of gods and their stories a wide banner around the room’s four walls. Also carved were anecdotes of battle, and kingship, and stories of Valen’s life described in an ancient language very few Sarkanians still spoke. “I hope it is satisfactory,” he said.

“It’s perfect, thank you,” said Caden. Around the tomb were small stone and clay figurines, and pots that in older tombs had been filled with treasures of gold and jewels and other items that would be desired in the afterlife. In the more modern tombs, such as Valen’s, these pots were filled with more earthly things - earth, and sand, and dried herbs, and scrolls on which were written deeds and tales.

The Keeper turned and faced them then, and the coffin was stopped just inside the door. “We are here to entomb the body of King Valen II,” he said, his voice deep and echoing. “We hope that his ancestors welcome him, and that these walls of ancient stone protect him. Arfeyr, look down upon him and welcome his soul to Furalhart, the great hall of warriors and kings.”

The Keeper raised his hands up then, and Jaqueline followed his hands until she realized that a great eye had been carved into the ceiling of the tomb.

“King Valen II, we ask you to bless your children and your heirs, and their own children, and their children’s children, and the kingdom that you leave behind that they will rule, with your strength of body and spirit. We beg you to do this until Arfeyr calls you to return, or until your bones are dust.”

They each lowered their heads in silence then, and Jaqueline followed their lead. A minute later the Keeper raised his head and the acolytes carried the coffin up onto the raised platform and lay the wooden shell inside the stone sarcophagus. “Here we entomb the body of Valen, son of Talen,” said the Keeper, as the stone lid was lifted and pushed across the top until it fell into place.

The acolytes stepped down, and the Keeper turned his head in the direction of Caden. “Have you brought a weapon to protect this tomb?” He asked.

Caden nodded, and nudged Arian forward. Arian cleared his throat and pulled a polished sword of steel from beneath his cloak, which he unsheathed for a moment to show the edge of the blade. “A sword,” Arian told the Keeper. The Keeper nodded, and took the sword after Arian sheathed it again.

The sword was placed down in front of the stone sarcophagus, and then the Keeper knelt below the blade and took a small hammer and chisel. Slowly, and with great care, he began to engrave the words ‘’Here Lies Valen II, King of Sarkana’ in the stone - and despite his blindness none of them could find a fault or imperfection in his craft.

By this point Arian’s eyes were wet with tears, and he wiped them on his sleeve, and Wulfsurd placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Neither Wulfsurd nor Caden cried, but their reasons for it could not be more different. For Wulfsurd, to cry was a sign of weakness, and what Sarkana needed then was strength. For Caden, however, there were no tears because of a numbness in him - a disconnect from what was really happening, and for a moment he wondered if any of it was truly happening at all.

Jaqueline had her head bowed in respect, and when she noticed Arian’s tears she hugged him, but he did not return it, and even shuffled away from her. She then hugged Caden, and Caden enjoyed the warmth of her skin in that cold underground place.

Eventually the Keeper finished and stood straight, turning to face those who had gathered. “That’s it then,” he said solemnly. “It is done. You may leave now if you desire, or stay longer to reflect. When you have all gone, we will leave an offering and close the tomb.”

“I’m going,” Arian said, primarily to Caden, and the two brothers leaned over to embrace one another before Arian left and started the climb back up to the top of the cavern.

“I would like to stay a few moments more, if that’s alright with all of you,” said Wulfsurd in his gruff voice.

Caden nodded at him, then released Jaqueline from his arm. “Jaqueline, would you accompany Arian? I would like to stay and speak to Harik.”“Of course,” said Jaqueline, and she turned and followed Arian out of the tomb, followed shortly by the Keeper.

“I will leave you to your privacy,” the Keeper said, his walking staff tapping against the ground.

Soon only Caden and Wulfsurd remained, but they were silent, and their eyes were on Valen’s sarcophagus. It was Wulfsurd who spoke first, and unlike the last time there was no anger or resentment in his voice.

“I take it your wife doesn’t suspect anything,” Wulfsurd said.

“I don’t honestly know,” replied Caden, making sure to keep his voice low. “She is as hard to read as she is smart. For all I know she could have deduced the truth yet chosen to ignore it, or to bide her time and take her revenge at a more opportune moment.”

“You speak like you don’t trust her.”

“I find it hard to trust anyone these days.”

“Is that because a sorceress has slipped words of paranoia in your ear?”

Caden smirked at that. “Not exactly,” he said, and wondered for a moment if he should tell Harik. He had told no-one else, not even his brother, but he began to feel that he needed someone else to know. He trusted Ethelyn more than he could adequately justify, but a king could not go through life trusting only one person. “A letter was found.”

Wulfsurd perked up then and looked at Caden curiously. “A letter?”

“Addressed to Jaqueline from an A.L, though I have no idea who that might be. He seemed to be her lover and co-conspirator, and though their plot was not explicitly described it seemed to favour Armand.”

Harik sighed and closed his eyes. “Is that why you had him killed?” He asked.

“I suppose. In truth I had planned on it anyway… I wanted revenge, and no matter what deal we made I could see Armand only as a dangerous enemy. But if I examine the actions that led me to finally have it done, I guess it was. It made me feel rushed, like a trap was being put in place all around me.”

“And then stepped in the Philosopher King to save you from yourself,” Harik mused. “And now you are in his debt.”

“You think he planted that letter?”“It would be a clever way to get what he wanted.”

Caden shook his head. “I don’t think so. It wouldn’t be possible for him to have predicted my actions so precisely. The fault is mine, Harik. He merely took advantage of my error.”

“Then perhaps you should confront Jaqueline about it.”

“Perhaps, but truthfully I’m afraid. In some strange way, even if she is my enemy, I don’t want to lose her.”

“Yet you would instead let her plot against you?”

“She would also be plotting against herself. She is Queen now.”

“If there’s one thing I have learned over the years, Caden, it’s that women like her can be vindictive. They will cleverly plot and ploy, putting to use that feminine intelligence for an end that is not - for an end that is emotional, not logical. Love, for instance.”

“I suppose. I would ask you to watch her when I leave.”

Harik nodded carefully. “So you are going, then.”

“I have to. I have to put right my wrongs, and safeguard what my father left us.”

“You shouldn’t go alone, Caden. You need someone you can trust.”

“I’m going to ask Sir Anselm. He’s getting to the young end of old, but he’s as sturdy and trustworthy as an oak. Perhaps Arthur too.”

“Why not Arian?” Wulfsurd asked. “He’d go if you asked him.”

“I’m going to protect him. It wouldn’t make sense if he came with me. Besides, I need to leave people I trust behind here… And there’s no-one I trust more than him.”

Wulfsurd nodded. “Then I guess I’ll stay and help him. He’ll need someone to watch his behind.”

Caden smiled at that. “Thank you, Harik. Just try not to start any civil wars with Lord Gray while I’m gone.”

Wulfsurd laughed, and it echoed around Valen’s tomb. “I doubt he’ll bother me for a while. He can stay in Chaverne with Colbert and do the boring work. I’m sure he loves that Lavellan wine.”

“Don’t discount Colbert,” Caden said, turning then to the exit of the tomb. Wulfsurd began to follow him outside, despite there being no spoken agreement to leave. “He’s a keen strategist, and should be given a chance to prove himself if something happens.”

“You mean if Kedora attacks.”

“Exactly.”

As they began climbing the path up along the side of the cavern, the acolytes moved in behind them and shut the stone doors to Valen’s tomb. They kept climbing, taking almost an hour to reach the top level again, and when they began climbing those stairs that led outside there was no sign or sound of Arian, Jaqueline or the Keeper.

Suddenly Wulfsurd stopped, and Caden paused in confusion. “What is it?”

“A.L,” Wulfsurd murmured. “I think I know who that might be.”

“Who?” Caden asked, his curiosity peaked.

“The man who stabbed you in that valley. Alaric Laurens.”