The king’s council were seated around the Broken Table. The table’s edges sharp and splintered, leftovers from a council room brawl that had erupted decades prior.

“The table’s edges grow sharper with the passing seasons,” remarked the King. He prodded the edge nearest to him. His side was zigzag patterned like the parapets of a castle wall. His queen sat beside him.

“Do we need to have the carpenters return for polishing and oiling, once again, my king?” asked a man with a wispy white beard. His hair was so thin that the long strands of hair that remained could hardly be seen in the current lighting.

“Perhaps, but not at this juncture. There are more pressing issues than splinters from the Broken Table.” The King looked up from the table, scanning the council. “Alon, send for more wine before we get into it.” A man with dark features and a thin frame turned to the king’s squire who was standing beside him. The squire called Jal listened, despite having heard the King’s initial order. “Thank you, Alon.”

“Your majesty,” acknowledged Alon, the king’s Cup Bearer.

“And you better taste it before me again. I will not die the same way my father before me did…by poison.” The king’s face grew soured, as if repulsed by the thought.

“It is a privilege and an honor to serve you in this way, if it please your majesty,” said Alon. He bowed his head lightly, clasping his hands together through the sleeves of his black and red robe. Patterns resembling the black and red crow of Dalrin were embroidered along his robe.

Just as Jal had arrived at the ten-foot oak door of the council room the king croaked his name with a level of anger.

“Jal!” His voice caused the Queen to jump in her seat. It only added to the king’s annoyance.

“Yes, your majesty?” said Jal.

“Where is my son?” asked King Aydar.

Jal hesitated a moment, remembering the king’s missing son. The King hissed and brought a fist down on the table, before remembering his wits.

“Forgive me, Jal. I grow impatient with my old age. I am asking for Prince Rohinar, my younger son.”

“Oh. I see, your majesty. I shall call for him. He was made aware of the meeting some time ago. He had confirmed his presence would be here with the council, my king.” Jal quickly skirted out the door, only after he put his entire back into yanking the ten-foot-tall oak doors open.

Alon watched with a long face as Jal slipped through the door. When the king’s temperament was not in check, council meetings nearly ended with the Broken Table becoming more splintered than it already was. Alon brought a slow hand to the end of his wispy beard.

“A proper prince and heir to the king would be punctual. This is disrespectful. Treasonous, I dare say.” The king was still bemoaning his son’s absence when the queen laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“The prince will arrive when he does. The time for scolding will not be now, in front of the council.”

The king snarled, giving a slight shake of his head. He knew she was right. The prince would not respond well to a shaming in front of his future council.

“Let us begin,” said the king. “We will save the matter of Prince Rohinar’s betrothal for when he arrives, assuming he still plans to.” The king peered around the Broken Table. He had all eyes.

“We have many pressing matters to discuss. Beginning with the feast that is planned for the week’s end. Have we gotten a response by crow or raven from the great Houses of Dalrin?” asked the king.

A man at the far side of the table jumped to life at the inquest. It was the king’s royal intendent, the voice of the king. “Yes, my king. All have responded to affirm their presence at the feast. All will send their finest tournament knights for the jousting tournament to follow as well.”

“All affirmed with, yes?” asked the king.

The voice of the king was quick to answer, yet again. “Your grace, you would be correct in your understanding. However, the House Maykeep did include a note inside their message that they will not be admitting their legendary knight, Ser Cythos, for obvious reasons.”

“Which are…?” asked the puzzled Queen Lenora.

“Uh, your grace, it was mentioned by raven a fortnight or so ago that Lord Maykeep’s property was ransacked by a neighboring house—an insignificant one at that. The Maykeeps released a score of their finest knights, headed by Ser Cythos, to find and execute the perpetrators.”

“And none have been found, I presume?” asked Queen Lenora.

“Not as of yet my queen. I can send a messenger if it is of worthy importance to you, your grace.”

“That will not be necessary. Thank you, Lord Waryon.” The queen turned her attention back to the king, who sat with a troubled look.

“I thought Ser Cythos was a tournament knight?”

“He is your grace. But his services have been requested Lord Maykeep ever since his great triumph in Venistar…at the king’s wedding tournament, if you recall.”

“I do,” replied the king. “Let us move on. Let us hear from the Red Crow, Commander of the Crow’s Quarters and City’s Guard.”

A man fully clad in black with leather chainmail and a long black skirt stood from his seat. His hand rested round the hilt of his longsword. His black gloves remained, despite being inside. A rude gesture in Dalrin, but such was the line of his work that the king took no notice. To remove his leather gloves would signify a neglect of his duties.

“As for the Crow’s Quarters down below, I bring an update on our inmates. We are at a high capacity for this season of the year. The Hunters have been doing their job and bringing home spies and bandits. The cells remained packed, but we can make room—”

“—you mean to tell me that we have more bandits and spies than ever before?” the king interrupted.

“No, your grace. Only that we have been more diligent than past years at catching these thieves and traitors before they are able to get away. The Crag and the Eight Paths have always been a land ridden with bandits and—”

“You call them spies; I call it poverty. You kick men from the capital because they lack a shower and a coin. Then what? They end up at our doorstep along the Crag. Those are no spies you are catching. They’re homeless, poor men and women. Take an escort of those innocent poor to the edge of the Sea of Glass. Have them dumped to wastewaters. I will not have them spread disease and infection amongst my prisoners and guards.”

“If you would prefer it, I can have them slaughtered by knife before knightfall. It would save the legs of our horses and keep our men warmer.”

“No,” replied the king.

“Of course, your grace. Do you wish to hear of the city watch?”

“No. Attend to your new task. Do it now,” said the king.

“Your grace?”

“Now. What part of that is confusing, Ser Jaqon Jarold? I would go now, before the sun sets, and you and your men freeze to death. And feed the horses upon your return as well.”

“And would you—”

“Go! Now!” shouted the king. Ser Jaqon nearly tripped as he made his way from his chair to the door. He nearly ran over the squire, Jal, as he left. The squire was just returning, and with him came the prince. Rohinar stood inside the ten-foot-tall oak doors with a smart grin on his face.

“Why hello there, father. You look nonplussed this evening,” said Rohinar. The king’s face gnarled into a furious expression. His wrinkles made his face appear older than it was.

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“You have been home with little to do for nearly three days and making it on time to the council meeting was one of those things.” The king’s voice grew in anger. “I’ll say it again. Making it here, on time, was just one of those things!” The king has risen from his seat and had both hands on the Broken Table. He cursed when he his palm was cut by a sharpened piece of wood. Queen Lenora sat with her head bowed beside him, embarrassed.

Prince Rohinar was indifferent. “Well now that I am here, let the fun begin. Now what is it that you require of me, father? Ah, yes…it is the trivial matter of my diplomatic visit with the Venistar kingdom.”

“You…” the king was boiling up in outrage, “Come late into this council and expect to run matters here—”

“—your grace. It is a trivial matter. Take it up with your son at a later hour, his discipline can wait,” said Queen Lenora. The king looked around the table, remembering where he was.

“Apologies, council. My temperament gets the better of me. Rohinar, please, sit. Tell us of your visit with lords and ladies of Venistar.”

Prince Rohinar ducked his head in a bow. The squire, Jal, quickly moved to pull out Rohinar’s seat at the table. “Well, we got a response in regard to the tournament and the feast. They were hesitant as to whether it was an event worthy of such great travel. However, they did honor that I came in person to extend the invitation, rather than by crow,” said Rohinar.

“Indeed, it would have been a certain offense to Venistar to have sent a crow,” said the King’s intendent, Waryon. His eyebrows were dark and heavy, and parts of it drooped over his temple and covered his eyes.

“What else, from Venistar?” asked the king. He was still feeling foolish from his outburst and was desperate to advance proceedings to distract from his ashamed manners.

“Venistar will bring two of their heirs, two of the king’s seven daughters, as potential suitors. I hand-picked them myself based on their beauty,” said Rohinar.

“And what of their age?” asked Queen Lenora. She brought a wine cup to her lips. Her rings that sat on her fingers glistened. Rohinar’s own hand went to his royal insignet of his left hand but felt nothing. He glanced down, disturbed. It was gone.

“Your grace?” asked Jal the Squire.

“Son?” repeated Queen Lenora.

“Huh? Oh, yes. My apologies, council. I did pick two of Venistar ladies—”

“—and their age?” asked the Queen again.

“Their age?” Rohinar rubbed his naked finger. “The one was the second youngest, ten. And the other…the other was third from oldest—eighteen years old. She had a beautiful braid of blonde hair and these dazzling brown eyes.”

“Brown eyes? The Venistar’s have green eyes,” said the king.

“Not this one,” replied Rohinar, eyes full of enchantment.

“What of the younger one?” asked the Queen.

“I chose her because of King Vorn. He did let me pick just one, I did forget to mention. The younger is, well…she is full of character.” Rohinar cast his glance downward at the Broken Table.

“Then why bother sending her at all?” asked the Queen.

Rohinar hesitated, “The king told me to keep the younger, if nothing else. He has no need of her. She is lame, your grace. She has no use of her right side. Blind in her right eye as well.”

The king heaved a deep sigh. The queen pursed her lips.

“What are we to do with her?” asked the king’s intendent and voice. “Why send her to us?”

“King Vorn is disillusioned if he thinks he is doing us a favor by sending her to us,” agreed the king’s cup bearer, Alon. He ran a hand through his scraggly beard. Rohinar stared at it, wishing he could snip it off.

“And the other houses of Dalrin, they will bring suitors as well?” asked the King to Waryon.

“We have just received the last crow today, your grace. All will be attending.”

“Then let us get prepared immediately. I want wines of every shade. I want barley from the fields of Atoss and husks of corn from Feilonfeld’s finest. See to it, Waryon. This will be momentous for our family. The Aetos’ shall have influence from Dalrin to Wexocar.”

“Wexocar?” asked Prince Rohinar. “I thought I was to be your heir, here?”

“You are,” replied the king. “You will stay here until my dying breath, but I’ve still got thirty years of life. Perhaps more. Pret and Lun, they are twelve and ten. Pret will be a perfect match for that lame daughter of the Venistar.”

“A match? They are too young for a royal betrothal,” said Queen Lenora.

“That is why we shall send someone to rule in their stead, until they are of age. In Wexocar. King Vorn is sure to approve of it. We will combine our armies, send them south, and then bask in the glory of lands from north to south, all under the ruling of the two great kingdoms of Dalrin and Venistar.”

Prince Rohinar scoffed. “So, my betrothal is to be overshadowed by an aggressive expansion to the south for what? And by whom—a boy and a lame girl who can’t walk? Do you mean to turn half the southlands against us?”

The King sneared at his son, “Know your place, boy. One day, when you are king, you too can make decisions. But that day has not yet come.” The king turned toward his spouse, Queen Lenora. “And you will obey my wishes and not appear dumbfounded when we are in court in front of Dalrin’s greatest houses. And especially not the King of Venistar.”

“Uh, about that, your grace,” said Rohinar. He adjusted the collar of his embroidered prince’s garb nervously. “The king will not be attending. He wanted to send word that his wife’s gout ails her, especially as the weather grows colder here in the northern reach. He is sending his finest lord in place of him. Lord Vain Galad of Stylvotter.”

“Venistar sends it regards, a lame daughter, and their finest lady as a token of their highest respects. A joke, if you ask me your grace,” said Waryon the intendent. The king released a sharp yell.

“Enough talk of unfaithful allies in the south. The Venistar King can tend to his weak queen no better than the nurses and caregivers there in their stone keep. What do you know if this Lord Galad?” The king spat the name like hot tea that belonged only a second in his mouth.

Rohinar was to speak but he saw that Waryon had raised his finger, requesting to speak instead. “The floor is yours, Waryon.”

“I hear tales from around the kingdom, your grace. Word travels amongst the houses, as you know. In my last visit to the Maykeeps stronghold, closest to Venistar’s border, I heard about some mighty feats and battles led by Lord Galad. As I hear it, he is quite the legendary warrior. A warrior that same claim, is the fabled Feller of the Tree,” said Waryon.

The king scoffed indignantly. “Must I call in that dumb Oracle to back up those silly prophecies? The religion of the Silver Tree was wiped out when the War for History erased all of our records. The Oracle only speaks because his existence would be vain otherwise.”

“Please do go on, Waryon. I wish to hear the end of it,” said the Queen.

Waryon looked to the king to ensure he had permission to continue. The king gave a sullen nod. “Well, it is said that a man strong as an ox with be the one to fell the Silver Tree—the very tree that sits here in the courtyard of Crow Castle…” He paused.

“And?” said the King. “Go on, I assume there is more?”

“Yes, your grace. The Feller of the Tree was also believed to come out of a southern powerhouse, and Venistar qualifies as such.”

“And the King of Venistar would send this fabled lord to our castle, with these rumors floating around?” the king pursed his lips, brooding. “This smears our repour with the Venistar kingdom. I will not have Pret marry that lame daughter of his. Forget Wexocar. Forget his elder daughter, Velda. Rohinar, you will publicly deny his suitors. If he wanted his daughter betrothed to you, he would have come himself instead of sending this abomination of a lord to us.”

“But Aydar,” began Lenora. “We do not believe these silly fables. It just a tree.”

“Just a tree, my queen? It is not merely a tree but a simple of our family. I will not have this prophesied falsehood dwell under my roof for a feast.” The king looked back to his son, the prince. “Did the King indicate whether his designated lord, Lord Galad, would be participating in the tournament?”

“He did seem to indicate so, your grace.”

The king snarled.

“Your grace?” The king’s intendent brought a hand upon his shoulder. “Admit a prolific warrior into this tournament, and you can put the falsehoods and the rumors to rest.”

“Remove your hand from my shoulder,” said the King. He kept his head down, thinking deeply.

Waryon continued, “Send Ser Sledda into the tournament. He could slay this Lord Galad, I am sure of it.”

“There is no killing in tournaments,” protested the Queen. “Not here, in Dalrin. The Crag is known for its honor. We cannot smear the name of Aetos by slaughtering Venistar’s lord in a tournament. That will start a war, for goodness sakes!”

“Who said anything about its death by tournament?” a new voice had chimed in. It was the ever-quiet Master of Potions, Master Varisy. “Poison is cheap and untraceable. At a feast with many houses, lords, and ladies anyone could be the killer.”

The king seemed to like the new suggestion. “I will consider this. Until then, make sure there is ample security around the Silver Tree. Even if its religion is dead, the symbolism remains. Lord Galad will get nowhere near that tree. I don’t care his stature or ability.”

The King rose from his seat, careful not to further cut his palm on the Broken Table. “The feast begins the night of Saturday, and the tournament will begin at noon on the Sunday after. That is the decision.” The king turned to his son. “Rohinar, we have private matters to discuss. You can stay behind a while.” Queen Lenora paused, wanting to stay and hear. “This is a private matter, love. Go on, leave us to it alone.”

The Queen bowed her head, obeying her king. She strode from the room, giving one last glance behind her as the squire Jal held the heavy oak door for her. Once Jal and Queen Lenora had gone, it was just King Aydar and Prince Rohinar.

“So, what of this private meeting, father? Must you leave this meeting to the imagination of the rest of the council?”

“Why don’t you tell me why I find one of your whores locked away in the Crow’s Quarters every so often? You are risking your reputation as an Aetos and as a young prince. Those women are not yours to experiment with. It is dangerous.”

The prince chuckled, “What business is this of yours, father? I am a young man now. I ought to do as I wish with my women.”

“Not when they turn out like this,” The king whistled and from around a corner appeared Ser Sledda the Commander. He withdrew a head from underneath his arm.

“And this? What is this?” asked the king. It was the head of Marris.

Rohinar did not flinch at the sight of the head. “It will not happen again, father.”

“It better not. You are soon to be betrothed. Your days of messing about with girls are done. You are an Aetos. We live our lives with honor, and your sick experiments are done. Tell Master Vallisar you are no longer using his services. Your reputation as a prince could be damaged.

“Yes, father.”

The King spoke no more, exiting the council room. Sledda gave Rohinar a look of despise, tossing the head into Rohinar’s chest. He, too, left the room.

Rohinar looked at the head in his hands. He spoke, “Goodbye, Marris.” He smiled, leaving the head on the Broken Table.