It was the time of day in Dalrin where the sun’s brief stay for the afternoon was quickly coming to a close. It was darker than usual since it was the year of the Bolg Moon. The clouds hung overhead, keeping a veil on whatever sunlight attempted to poke through. The Baronview Palace sat in a valley between two mountains up above the busy city. No unexpected visits could occur from either side or behind because of the rigorous terrain of the mountains. Only from travelling uphill from the citadel of Baronview could one arrive at the front grates of the palace. The High Fort, it was called.

There was a fine courtyard at the center of High Fort’s magnificent palace. It was here in the courtyard that fences lined the grass so that sparring, and dueling would not overflow into the walkways and plants that set the perimeter. People leaned against the fence, watching. Two men sparred before them. Princess Elswitta watched from the second floor, leaned over the guard rail with a pleasant look spread across her face.

Galor the Gallant (as they had begun calling him) and Rohinar were ringing their steel as their swords crashed noisily down below. Galor was much the better fighter, as was to be expected. His older brother was the legendary Ser Ganator, and the people had wasted no time at all in coining a nickname for the younger brother.

“Galor the Gallant,” said Rohinar teasingly as he jockeyed for position. “What an elegant name for a graceful lady.”

“Don’t you regret feeding my anger, young prince? It will only mean harder strokes for you to deal with, and your arms are already purple and beaten.” Galor’s anger was no anger at all, at least in his eyes. He came down hard on Rohinar because Rohinar needed the training, not because Galor needed to blow steam. Galor’s tactics were based upon positioning, not upon emotion and anger. He knew men who had been that way. Lords, knights, fine warriors. But not his older brother. If his brother was not an emotional fighter, then neither would he be.

He could not help the images of his older brother flashing through his head as he walked his sword flail against Rohinar. There were countless hours and days spent in this very courtyard between them—Ganator always coming out on top, of course. But as the younger of the two, that was what was to be expected. He had no felt pressure before, and his brother had never placed any on him. But now it was the prince whom he was tasked with training by Elswitta. Rohinar had not taken to it with any grumbling, but Galor knew he would have preferred to tend to other things. He wanted to be kingly and make decisions. He felt like a child when Elswitta forced him to train his sword. Galor recognized that and tried to make the training as much of a mutual sharpening for the both of them than just a basic tutorial for Rohinar. And credit to the prince, he was no slouch with a sword. He had fine movements and strength, but his positioning and poise could use a bit of work. He was a bit hasty to bite at an opportunity and go for the killer stroke. Any experienced warrior would slice through Rohinar like butter if they met on the battlefield.

Rohinar’s grunted as he slammed his sword down, the flat of the sword running along the edge of Galor’s blade and deflected off in a high-pitched ring. The sound echoed around the courtyard. Elswitta clapped from up above.

“Go on. Attack me,” said Galor.

“I am. I have been.”

“Not enough. You stop to catch your breath. You cannot stop and give respite if you want to be an efficient swordsman.”

Rohinar shook his head, breathing too hard to talk for a moment. The adrenaline of a sword fight was wearing off. They had been sparring since noon that day. His arms were about to fall off.

“Fight, my prince. Your leadership on the throne begins with ability on the battlefield,” yelled Elswitta. Rohinar’s eyes slowly lifted toward her.

“Not necessarily,” he shouted back. “My father never—” he was caught in the middle of talking by Galor’s advances. Rohinar backed up too fast, his back leg slipping. He landed flat on his butt and Galor was right there dropping a knee onto Rohinar’s chest and laying the blade of his sword horizontal across Rohinar’s jugular.

“You would be dead,” said Galor.

“I see that,” said Rohinar, pushing Galor from him. “Break?”

“We could both use a rest,” said Galor. He sheathed his weapon and removed his black leather sword gloves. He used gloves in training but never in a real fight. They kept his hands warm when the air was chilled. The skin of his hands would tend to get stuck to the hilt if it was too cold.

Rohinar’s breath was visible from the coldness of the air. The two took a seat at a bench that was before a fountain that was hardly spurting water. Two plants flanked the fountain with yellow and green faded leaves. Princess Elswitta went back inside, leaving the two to talk. The people gathered to watch returned to their daily duties. None who had attended the practice duel were outsiders. Outsides weren’t allowed in unless there was a public invitation to the spectacle.

“You miss him?” asked Rohinar. He sat with his head bowed and his elbows resting on his knees. Galor sat with his back against the bench. He had small, condensed facial features and a round head. A light mustache rested above his lip. “Sorry,” began the prince. “Stupid question.”

“No, no…it is a fair question. I do miss him.” Galor was quiet when he spoke. Rohinar could hardly hear him. “Not a fair way for him to go. There was no honor or respect in it. That is the hardest thing to accept.”

The two sat in quiet reflection. It was Rohinar who finally broke the silence. “Do you wish to continue his legacy…of sword fighting and jousting?”

“No. I want to fight for something with meaning. I want to fight if the Valnaraks return. I want there to be war…a great battle. And if there is a great battle, I will meet Cythos at the center of the battlefield. Me against him. No one else.”

“You dream of this?” asked Rohinar.

“Every night. I hope that the Silver Tree grants me this one wish.”

“The Silver Tree? You believe in all that?”

“You don’t?” said Galor. “Your family is responsible for keeping the religion of the Silver Tree alive. Your family is letting it die. Why?”

“Well…” Rohinar took a while to gather his thoughts. “It is not on purpose. The Silver Tree is just a good story. It makes us all feel better to think there is something greater than us, something with more power than us. But in reality, it is just a tree. And The Oracle left on his own accord, if that is what you are referring to. He went to be with King Tuuka and Cythos.”

“That part is not your fault. But The Oracle’s betrayal aligns with my beliefs, my prince.” Galor spoke more intensely now. Rohinar grew uncomfortable with conversations around religion, but this time he wanted to honor Galor by allowing him to speak. “It is written in an old prophetic writing that the leaving of the last oracle beckons the arrival of the new savior for Dalrin.”

“And you believe that?” asked Rohinar. A servant had brought the prince a fur coat with sheep’s fur lining the coat. Rohinar shrugged it on. His body’s warmth from the fight was leaving him and the air was getting colder. “Aye! Another for him as well,” Rohinar pointed to Galor and the servant nodded, rushing off to grab another fur coat.

“I believe in the religion of the Silver Tree, of course. My brother did as well. Although he is gone, I must believe that the Valnaraks are the mortal enemy approaching that we must fight.”

“Quiet,” whispered Rohinar. His eyes lifted up to the ramparts and railing above them. “My wife could be up there. She is Valnarak by blood, daughter of King Tuuka.”

Galor lowered his voice. “The changes we are in seeing in these lands…it is no coincidence. The ground itself is preparing to mourn. The entire holy land of Dalrin will be in turmoil soon.”

“Holy land? Dalrin is no different than any other kingdom.”

“You are wrong, brother. Do you not see the suffering beginning around us? The tree is nurturing the plants with its roots. You’ve seen the blackened crops, no?”

“I have,” said Rohinar. A cold gust blew through, making Rohinar and Galor clutch their coats tight. “But we are in a Bolg Moon, Galor. This is normal.”

“Not to this degree. Anyways, we shall see. If you see anyone unusual turn up here or at Crow Castle with something odd to them, beware. It is said the savior is already here when the last oracle leaves. We just have to find them.”

The prince thought back upon the two odd prisoners he had found that night in the Crag. The homeless man and the girl Vaya. Vaya. He had forgotten about her. But then he thought again. They had not been that odd. They were similar to just about any other prisoner they took in. Spies were known to be enticing, just as Vaya had been. She did have that ensnaring stare though. Eyes of gold a tongue to swoon any man. These thoughts made him uncomfortable, made him feel like he was missing a final piece to the puzzle. His day had been clear of troubling thoughts until this point. Galor was to blame.

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Rohinar began to touch Galor’s arms, chest, and then face. He was mockingly intrigued. “It is you, isn’t it?” Rohinar’s hand started to move towards Galor’s thigh. Galor grabbed his wrist and twisted. “Okay, okay! Apologies, I was only joking,” protested Rohinar.

Galor released his grip, snarling. “You think this is all a joke. While you cower behind these walls and play with your sword, your wife dictates the trade of the city like a heathen. Lords and ladies of Dalrin have never been so upset. There are riots daily, Rohinar. Perhaps even now…she is of house Valnarak. You picked poorly at your betrothal.”

“Poorly?” sneered Rohinar. “You have no clue how I picked. I picked the lady who best suited me.”

“And the lady who best suits you, happens to suit the kingdom horribly. Your father, last I saw him, was crammed away in the stacks pouring through books and scrolls like a mad scribe. Your mother runs the throne room on her lonesome with no one for council but Illena. What do you plan to do about the riots and the violence, anyways? More lives are taken every day in Baronview’s citadel.”

“Do you think I do not help guide decisions? Do you doubt that I sleep beside the princess and discuss the troubles of the capital daily? Ser Jaqon is dealing with the issues.”

“Ser Jaqon? You mean the former hunter who ran the dungeons at Crow Castle. All he’s done since arriving is start a bloody bash with the former city guards and slash at criminals and thieves with his pike until bodies litter the citadel and stop carts from rolling through.” Galor’s rant had caught Rohinar by surprise, who did not see Galor as a man to speak his mind so freely. Perhaps he was upset about his brother, and this was his way of expressing his hurt—by redirecting it. Rohinar cursed himself for starting their conversation by asking about his older brother.

“I am sorry about Ganator. Revenge will come someday, my brother.” Rohinar rose from the bench, clutching the coat tight to his neck. He gave Galor a slap on the shoulder and made his way inside. He was due for a hot meal and a warm bath. He’d been pampered by it as of late.

Galor just nodded, staring idly down at the ground. Rohinar had better grow up soon, thought Galor. The battle for Dalrin could be sooner than most knew. But for the meantime, there were pressing matters to contend with in the capital. The central hub for Dalrin’s trade, the recent shortages were causing crime and tension between lands.

The next day arrived and Galor found himself inside the palace’s council room for an urgent meeting with the princess. He had sworn himself in as a ranger to Baronview ever since Elswitta and Rohinar had moved to the palace to rule. There was no shortage of things for Galor to do with the recent uprisings.

“Galor, you are needed in the Cobbleton fief.”

“Cobbleton fief?” asked Galor. “Didn’t I just go there yesterday? Because of bandits?”

“You did. But there’s trouble again. Lord Maykeep sent troops there today because apparently those were his bandits that got captured and locked away. He’s demanding that Cobbleton return them, or he’ll lay siege to their small little fortress.”

Galor shook his head, sighing. “Another day of nonsense. Send for my guardsmen and I’ll be on my way.”

“No,” said Elswitta. A smile came across her face. “You’ll take Rohinar, and only Rohinar.”

“What?” protested Galor. “He is not trained enough nor experienced enough to negotiate this sort of situation. Just send me with my usual men.”

“No.” Elswitta gave a flutter of the hand and a handful of dutymen scurried away from her to gather the prince. “He needs to get his hands dirty. I’ll direct the realm and he can protect it. That is the way our ruling will work.”

Galor clenched his jaw, turning on his heel. Serving the princess became more difficult every day.

The two mounted their horses and went on their way. It was risky business travelling the roads as the two of them. Rohinar was still a royal prince and as good a swordsman as Galor was, he was nowhere near the level of his brother, Ganator.

They guided their brown horses along a yellow cobblestone path which ran downhill from the High Fort and through the heart of Baronview and its citadel. Beautiful statues and monuments lined either side of the path before the packed city streets overflowed with vendors, travelers, and beggars. City watch members (now under the orders of Ser Jaqon) oversaw each street corner and jutted at people with the butts of their spears, laughing and shouting all the same. They did not even recognize the face of their prince, who had his hood drawn and wore a dull outfit to avoid drawing attention to himself. Galor had his usual demeanor and a green ranger’s cloak atop navy leather and tan breeches. His eyes were sharp and peered around them periodically, seeking to detect any danger. He hadn’t anticipated any, but it was smart to be cautious with the prince in his stead. The journey would have been much less taxing had he been able to bring his experienced guardsmen instead of the sixteen-year-old prince.

Finally escaping the citadel, a land of wildflowers and bright yellow meadows rose up along either side of the path. Sweeping hills lay distantly ahead. An uncharacteristically blue sky with white fluffy clouds filled the day with a pang of joy. It had been a while since the sun broke through the barrier of the clouds. It was a short time that the sun lasted, however. And rain clouds quickly began to scurry in, desperate to rob the people of a fine afternoon.

The fine began at a slow and steady pace, and it hardly picked up. Rohinar and Galor didn’t mind, as long as their cloaks didn’t get too soaked—which they wouldn’t If the rain remained at the pace, it was.

They were travelling away from Crow Castle and away from Baronview—towards the small fief of Cobbleton. It was not more than a half-day’s ride to the west, but on horseback with rain coming down it felt like an eternity. But it was not long before a rustling in a nearby bush had brought them to a halt. Rohinar was hasty to draw his dagger, but Galor held out a hand to stop him. He squinted at the large bush, slowly withdrawing an arrow from his quiver. His bow was in his right hand.

“Likely a squirrel,” said Galor. They waited. More rustling. Giggles soon followed. Two small boys emerged from the bush finally. Hair wet and sloppily flung to the side, the two brothers Pret and Lun came prancing out with wooden swords drawn. Their battle cries reminded Rohinar of home. He was laughing, dismounting his horse and pretending to take a beating from his little brothers. They whacked at him until he was on the ground, rolling and laughing. Galor still sat atop his horse, a stern face staring down at the action.

“You’re a long way from home, you two. You know this is farther than mother allows.” He had suddenly gotten serious.

“Mother doesn’t care anymore. And father has gone mad. I heard Illena say so.” Pret had a drawn up a serious face. Lun was looking down the wooden blade of his fake sword. “Yeah,” agreed Lun. “We have to do things on our own now.”

“No, you don’t, little brothers. In fact, you shouldn’t do things on your own. Why don’t you head back toward home? Mother will be awaiting you guys for supper, and it is already three until.” Rohinar was knelt with his hands on Pret’s shoulders.

Galor figured that Rohinar had matured in some respects since becoming a prince with lands. His facial hair grew in thicker, and he had moments of maturity such as was happening now. The two little brothers grew a frown on their faces and slowly began the walk home.

“And be quick about it,” shouted Rohinar after them. “It’s not safe here. Not anymore.”

Rohinar turned back toward Galor. The prince climbed onto his mount, and they continued their journey. “Am I a bad brother for sending them off alone? They’re a long way from home.”

“They’ll be fine,” said Galor. That was all he said. Rohinar suddenly felt a strong sense of empathy, remembering that Galor was a younger brother himself, not long ago.

“I forgot about…Ganator,” stammered Rohinar as they rode. Galor kept his gaze ahead. Rohinar wondered if he might have been holding back tears. He could not tell with the rain having picked up now. It came down in heavy sheets, blinding them.

Two hours later they had crossed the Blue Creek, a small brook of water that separated Baronview from the smaller fiefdoms of the countryside. Cobbleton would be just a few hours west now. There were large fields of bumpy plains ahead of them. Black rock speckled the uneven ground. The rain had also finally cleared up, but it was getting later so it had not brightened the day much. Black clouds still loomed overhead.

“The grass is not as affected this far west,” noted Rohinar.

“The tree’s influence grows weaker as we move farther from its roots,” replied Galor.

Rohinar chuckled. “If you believe in that sort of thing.”

Galor stopped his horse, his small face was stern. “I did not come all this way to squabble about the religion of the Silver Tree, but now that you’ve started it, I will. Your family is destroying Dalrin and all of its history with one fell blow. Your neglect of the tree has been costly. And yes, I believe that the Silver Tree protects us and allows us to flourish. Do you wish to see that come to an end?”

“No, I just don’t know what your solution would be. What shall my family do? Plant another tree? Start nurturing the tree’s roots better with more water? I do not—”

“Do not play the fool with me. Not now.” Galor’s face set Rohinar on edge. He was very serious and perhaps more worked up than Rohinar had anticipated. “You spent the better part of your teenage years studying the tree with Varisy, did you not?”

“Wait, how did you know of him? He is dead now,” said Rohinar.

“Everybody knew him. Word spreads of the activity taking place in the Crow Castle. He was a sorcerer of sorts—everyone knew that. Everyone also knew you spent a lot of time near the Sea of Glass and the tree, taking samples and doing experiments.”

“I suppose that is true,” admitted Rohinar. “But what has that got to do with religion?”

“You know more about the tree than you care to admit.”

“Perhaps.”

Galor pulled at the reins and rode off again. Rohinar struggled to keep up.

“What’s wrong with that?” yelled Rohinar.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you riding away so fast?”

Galor stopped his horse one final time. “You think this is a game? All of this? We’re not playing a game here. You are to be king someday, and your princess has tasked me ith preparing you to wear the crown. But beyond your duties with a sword, I think you ought to consider your moral obligations to the crown as well. The people of Dalrin are suffering because of the failing produce. Why don’t you spend the rest of the ride thinking about that?” Galor challenged Rohinar with a stare. “My brother lost his life whilst entertaining the people. He lost his life because house Aetos invited the Valnaraks to a betrothal, and now their daughter is currently in line to become queen of Dalrin. Do you realize the power that is waiting there for Venistar? To have a foot in Dalrin and an iron fist in Venistar?”

Rohinar nodded his head but kept silent. He was suddenly very sullen. Some of the fears about his own competency that had been sulking in the back of his mind were coming to the fore. Perhaps he wasn’t cut out to be a king, or a ruler for that matter. He was still so young and naïve. Besides, he was average with a sword and overwhelmed by the prospect of the Silver Tree. It was a responsibility that he did not want to bear. His father hadn’t either, and now the tree was without its voice—its oracle.

The two rode on without a word until the hooves of their mounts stepped on Cobbleton soil. They arrived. In the distance Rohinar could make out a dozen different mini fires with tall streams of smoke rising up. Groups of men were huddled around the fires and small tents were littering the area like clusters of bugs. They were camped outside a five-foot tall wooden log perimeter. Just inside the perimeter was a small fortress.

“Cobbleton,” said Galor.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Now come, let us find lord Maykeep.”