Birds twittered before the first light of day peeked over the eastern sky, beneath the hillside that separates the Imperium from my lands. Mairtha’s table lay turned over on its side. Grass stained the crumpled white linen, and the plates and cups fell scattered and broken underneath the willow tree. The ground felt cool against my bearded face. My hand stretched out over Trace’s limp body. It was about this time of the morning, when she would hop into my bed, touch her wet nose to mine, curl up against my body, and patiently wait to start the day with me. Instead, her snout was bloodied from ripping open one of the attacker’s neck, just before he sank his dagger deep into her belly. Her breathing was shallow and growing faint, and her eyes locked to mine.

Another man lay on the ground, a table knife buried into his eye socket. He had stood taller than me, but was slow and clumsy once attacked from inside his arm’s reach. My head wracked and crumpled from the heavy blow from behind, and my eyes could barely focus. I held my other hand tightly against my stomach, warm, wet and sticky from the open wound of the third man’s sword.

He had stood before me as I fell to the ground, “To tell you the truth, old man,” he gloated, “you’re hardly worth the bounty. Luckily, I had nothing better to do.”

He took aim, raised his sword, ready to bring it down to severe my neck, then jerked a step backward and gasped with surprise. I saw an arrow stuck out from his chest, just before he dropped from sight. Several footsteps shuddered the ground as they came toward me. I fell away to darkness, just as I felt a hand gently guide my shoulder to lay back, so I could see the face of Luro.

—-

Summer has past since that attack. It seems that the colors of my lands have faded. The leaves of autumn are shades of gray, weakly tainted with yellow, red, orange and brown pigments. The clouded sky and distant land on the horizon blend together, and while the wind from the western mountains blows cold, I hardly shiver. The sounds, however are crisp. Twigs and dry grass crunch beneath my feet, as I walk through the ancient groves almost without effort. I can hear Trace, 20 paces ahead of me, eagerly sniffing beneath a bush for the scent of squirrels and jack rabbits, and possibly a friend. She lifts her head to check my progress, shows her tongue, flashes a smile, and trots to the next bush along the trail.

A thought brushes my mind, and I look up to see the remains of one of our border towns, Brighton. Once the home to many of my people and a thriving venue of trade with our neighbors along the northern plain, the walls of the village lay brittle and breached from a relentless siege of mercenary armies. Our own forces stretched thin, Beyle of the mounted rangers first led the villagers to defend themselves then helped many to escape the merciless attackers, as they pillaged, then razed the shops, liveries, mills, and houses. By the time my third daughter, Delfia, arrived with reinforcements, tired from their battles in the south, she found only refugees scattered, hiding in ditches along the road and in the surrounding vineyards.

She searched among the smoking, charred timbers of fallen buildings and dead warriors till she found Beyle’s body, stripped of its armor, weapons, and boots, leaving him naked, pale, and soiled. Delfia knelt beside him and laid his head gently on her lap. She pulled out her kerchief, wet it with her mouth and cleaned his face. She left his lifeless brown eyes open so she could look at him, to help accept his passing and talk to him while she stroked his hair with her hand.

“You always had a terrible head for retreat,” she chided as she wiped her falling tears from his face. “You never knew when to fall back. You always found yourself surrounded, and I had to rescue you from your mess every time.”

Now Brighton’s outline stands empty. Weeds have overtaken the lanes and deer forage among the blackberry thickets. Trace runs to them for a game of chase, only to find them unintimidated by her presence. She barks for a few moments, then looks to me and bounds back.

Watching her explore the village’s remains reminds me of our hometown, and I find myself standing in the middle of the town square. It’s market day, but the crowd is very thin as few vendors have arrived to sell their goods. I walk across and enter the Mare & Thistle, to find a handful of patrons, sober. Barrel-faced Harry stands at the bar, sipping his ale. Where tales of his travels usually flow like a freshly tapped keg to a thirsty audience, Harry is silent and stares at nothing in particular. Trace pokes her head inside the pub, catches my eye, then coaxes me to follow.

Leaving the Mare & Thistle, I walk through the doors of the Great Hall to find my second daughter, Stella. She stands by the fireplace to stave off the coldness of the room, while Brodin and Ghita from the elder’s council wait with Delfia.

After a moment Stella turns to Delfia, “Sister, what is your opinion?”

“I’m reluctant to concur with what the elders recommend, but we simply do not have enough forces,” Delfia replies. Her face is hardened now, her eyes without expression. “Better to stand strong defending a house than to be weak in a mansion.”

“Agreed,” Stella says. “Send word to our northern castles to prepare. Brodin, would you ask the elders to help prepare for an announcement so we can let our people know? I will make the first of many, of course, but they may also find comfort in your voices as well.”

The two depart, leaving Stella and Ghita alone.

“It is a difficult decision,” the elder says, “and it is a good decision.”

“Good decisions don’t always feel good,” Stella says as they walk outside into the courtyard and down a path of the Steward Estate.

“Our lands there will be entrusted to our good neighbors. Lady Glendora and Judgment are strong in force and will do right by our people.” Ghita says.

“You were always a comforting voice to my father,” Stella smiles wearily at her. “and I’m grateful to benefit from it as well.”

Ghita cups the young Steward’s elbow with her hand. “And you have your father’s strength. Don’t forget that.”

They stop underneath the familiar willow tree where I had taken my last breath, to find one of Delfia’s rangers approach them.

“We’ve received word from our people across the Great Sea,” he says. “Lord Gemini is nowhere to be found.”