The cool breeze of the season gently fluttered through the curtains from the balcony window. In the distance, the woman could see the far off mountains and the streams interconnecting across the farmlands across the waters. She could almost make out buildings; a grain mill here and there, accompanied by barns or sheds next to long rows of tall crops. From that distance, it looked like just long blades of grass covered in fine golden blurs of movement as the wind blew them. The woman sat upon a cushioned armchair beside the open window, flanked by two maids. The women were shorter and more fair in complexion than she was, yet she had learned long ago to not be bothered by the differences of her race and theirs. She was still taller, and that counted for something, even with her paler grey skin. She let the wind brush against her as it continued to blow through the open window, soaking up all the feeling she could. The sunlight danced across her, warming up wherever it touched. As the woman bathed in the bliss of the late morning, she sighed. Turning to the maid on her left, she smiled.

  “Emery,” she began, her voice quiet and thoughtful. “Would you be so kind as to get me some tea?”

  The maid bowed slightly, turned and began towards the bedroom door. As she walked, the grey skinned woman watched after her, only looking away as the door was shut behind. She looked to the other maid next, and her smile faded a little.

  “She is such a nice woman, it is a pity her talents are wasted caring for an old Cith, such as myself. Wouldn’t you agree, Ingrid?”

  Ingrid smiled, shook her head and looked to her mistress. “Not at all, m’lady. She adores you, though she never speaks her mind on the matter.”

  “A pity. Eli always is so protective of me, the girl probably fears that he will hear any opinions she gives. I cannot blame her for that. Though I do wish more of the staff would treat me as a person, rather than some valuable object.”

  “Fragile more like, lady Edme.”

  Edme laughed. “Fragile? I may be sick and dying, but fragile I am not. Eli forgets this often, himself. I was the queen of the dying lands once, those days may be behind me but I still hold my own.”

  Ingrid nodded, “I meant nothing by it, I apologize.”

  Edme looked back out the window as another short gust came, she looked down at the waters ahead, the bridges which crossed them. Four of the massive wooden roads which the castle could submerge at any moment to prevent besiegement of the city, were bustling with traffic. She could see distant carts and horses crossing them, back and forth. The sun's rays warmed her face, as the cooling sensation of the wind engulfed her. The clear, crisp air of the morning was refreshing and she took a few deep breaths.

  “Think nothing of it, speaking your mind is important to me. Though you still need to mind yourself around Eli, his temper isn’t all just for show. “

  “I will heed your warnings, m’lady. Speaking of, have you heard of the latest success of his majesties army?”

  Edme paused, unsure why that question bothered her. She knew that Eli often used his soldiery to fight bandits, monsters, and the occasional Brondi tribe; but for some reason there was a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that didn’t sit right with her. She couldn’t explain the feeling to herself, like a feeling of dread or … no …

  “What news, Ingrid?” Her voice was quiet, cautious.

  Ingrid swallowed, then spoke, she was on edge as she looked into the eyes of her mistress. Edme held her gaze with a fixation of such intensity it nearly drove the woman to fright.

  “T-the army has f-finally cleansed the marshlands, m’lady.” She stammered, still unable to tear herself away from the piercing leer of a queen who now understood what had happened. Little did the maid know that in Edmes' mind, she repeated the same phrase, over and over. Edme looked up at her maid, who shrunk back as the stare went on.

  “Loss…”

  The word repeated in her head, like the drums of war.

  “Loss.”

  The marching of boots in formation, across the marshlands wet muck.

  “Loss!”

  The word to describe the anger that now welled within her feeble body, the feeling of pain at the thought of her previous subjects being massacred. The Daeg, the marshes … the death marches. She had once been protector of Gorgena, the homeland of the Daeg, long ago. They came to her when the winters were bitter, and they pledged themselves under vassalage to her rule. The little folk were loyal, obedient, kindly to all who came to their lands. And then the Elfhen wars came and went, as did the hopes and dreams of a young race; descended from the ancients, who grew in the plains, and were exiled to squalor and murk. She failed twice now to protect them, and that realization made all the anger leave her. Replaced with sorrow and a chill akin to the wind that blew around the room. Her throat hurt, it was burning with the pangs of rage which she could not let boil over. Gritting her teeth, she relaxed, slowly.

  “What did Eli do?” she asked Ingrid, teeth clenched.

  The maid opened her mouth to speak, but as she did, the door opened. The two turned to see two figures, a maid bearing a tray, with kettle and cups. And a grinning man, wearing dark red robes, with the emblem of a withered tree emblazoned upon it.

  “Good morning, lady Edme,” the man said, his voice strained from age.

  Edme took a deep breath and released.

  “Karill, what a surprise to see you here. Has Eli sent for me?” She emphasized the last sentence with a slight tang of agitation, which Karill to his credit picked up on.

  “No. I come bearing bad news for you.”

  Karill grinned widely, showing a mouth of yellowish teeth, though to Edme's' surprise, he still had all of them. Humans were usually not known for their dental hygiene, Eli included with two of his own back teeth replaced with silver copies. As he stood there, Edme took into account the sweat beading on his forehead, and the aura around him, a faint green glow brimming with wickedness.

  “Well, what is it?” She asked calmly.

  Karill ceased his smile, now serious in expression. His eyes dulled, and the ocean blue hue grew ever colder, detached.

  “His majesty decided that the time was nigh, and did-in those halflings you loved so much.”

  She went rigid with every word he said, the numbing cold that washed over her; winter. He continued, despite noticing her reaction.

  “It was a tragedy really. I hoped to re-integrate them as at least tax paying tolerables eventually. Wasted income is always a bad call, but I could not dissuade the king from his path.”

  He feigned remorse, much to Edme's' chagrin. He even placed a hand upon his forehead for dramatics, like a fairy tale maiden fainting from the loss of a lover, or in that case an asset. That's all the Daeg where to him, she thought, an asset. To her they were her subjects, her citizens. She may have been the queen of the Cith, but her lands were home to all who knelt before her. Cith, Cird, Siobhe and Daoca. Even the Recdi carved their own fates in the dying lands before the second Elfhen war broke out. To hear her loyal subjects, already downtrodden and forced from their lands to certain death, now culled … it broke something inside her. She was a queen without a kingdom, locked away like an antique from a bygone age. She tuned out the human and his continuing excuses for the murder. She focused on the thoughts of her past, to one Daeg in particular who she admired above all. A man named Maxwell.

  He was in twenties back then, when Gorgena fell to the Imperium during the war, she knew he was most certainly dead now. If not from the war, the death march or the exiles many years, then definitely from Elis actions. Maxwell was A man she met when her carriage broke down in Hathovale, around eighty five years ago. She reminisced on the memory. The day was warm, though it was autumn, the sun brightly lit the half harvested wheat and barley fields of the town, wind blew the remaining crops, not unlike the sight outside the window in the present, far away. She turned to look out at the distant farmlands across the water again. She didn’t even know if Karill was still speaking, and she didn’t care.

  She sat in the carriage impatiently as her driver, Rhys, tried to procure aid from the town. This task was easy for Rhys, as the Daeg would jump practically at the chance to render aid to and meet in person, her majesty Edme of the dying stars. She knew she didn’t deserve their praise, all she did was keep them from starving during the winter one time. But they had latched onto her as a savior, almost a paragon of some virtue to which she never subscribed to herself. She was a queen, and she did what was necessary to keep the peace in those days, nothing more. She waited there as Rhys made his way back, she remembered the feel of the wooden window sill of the door on her fingertips, she thought of the rough, un-sanded spot which she never got around to having repaired. She liked the way it was, it gave the carriage character almost. Every dent, chipped paint and splinter was unique to it. It made her smile to remember the breeze back then as it blew inside. She looked up at the clouds which spanned entire cities worth of clear, blue abyss. Puffy, white and filled with their own mirth, a day that any man or Cith would call worthy of their attention, and admiration. Rhys eventually returned to her, along with a local man.

  “M’lady, may I present, preacher Maxwell.”

  Rhys voice was stoic yet pitched, he was after all, only forty-six, a mere child among Cith, he was barely taller than the Daeg before him. He bowed as he spoke, his reddish brown hair was longer than other boys his age, and would sometimes get in the way of his courtly demeanor and mannerisms. Though he pretended well enough that it didn’t bother him. The preacher, on the other hand, was different in courtesy. He bowed his head slightly while smiling warmly.

  “Yous majesty,” he began. “I’s tolt you’d be needin’ some help fixin’ them there wheels on yous carriage, ye?”

  His voice was deeper than the boys; gruff. A man of hard work, and authority. His speech was vulgar compared to others who spoke the human tongue called “Enklish”, though it was called ‘common’ in the here and now. His bright red robes, with the stitched emblem of a star in golden embroidery on the chest, were neat and well cared for, say for the dust blowing from the road as the wind swept by. He was young, younger than Rhys even, yet sported a full beard going down to his shoulders in length. All Deag of age were expected to maintain and keep beards, as to mimic their god, the one they called “Mark”. If only they knew the truth of that so-called deity, and the land from which he lived in, they might have reconsidered their faith. The otherworlders were rarer in those days, yet their creeds followed them from their heinous homeland. That Included the Daegs religion, Markism, as well as the terrifying human faith of the Vrill god.

  The man cautiously approached, his sandals stirring up more dust as he went, Rhys behind him eying him vigilantly for any sudden moves. He was a good boy, always paranoid though of anything untoward happening to her either by violence or impoliteness. Rhys and he looked over the damaged axle and wheel of the rear carriage. Broken through the middle, and the wheel itself was in ruins. Spokes stuck out, the top of the wooden wheel was caved in slightly making an elongated appearance. Edme waited patiently as they accessed the damage, while thumbing nervously the same rough spot on the window. Its coarse, unpainted wood was grainy and dry. Suddenly she stopped, seeing something odd there. Red now painted the previously bare fleshed place, then the pulsing, the pain. She lifted her thumb from the window and inspected it, a splinter had caught her, and the blood began to trickle down.

  She didn’t gasp in pain, she showed no real signs that it bothered her at all in fact. The warm, red blood slowly dripped, staining the dark wooden splinter that reminded her of something else. She let her mind wander to older times, and to things she did not want to recall.

  An image flashed in her mind of a book she had read once, one brought ages ago by an otherworlder. A picture of a nail, hammered down into the palm of a man who was said to have sacrificed himself for his people. She wondered if she would be remembered as fondly by her own people in that way, to be written about centuries ahead. She could almost feel the stinging of the pages as she let the thumb pulse. Each heart beat, a dropping of stone onto wrought iron, jagged and twisted with hate. The gush of blood, staining olive skin and the dark wooden cross beneath. Nails to be his chains, a crown of crimson soaked thorns his shackle. The next moment she heard rustling outside. And with a brief startle, the carriage lifted slightly, Edme nearly tumbling back in her seat to the other side of the cabin. Her first thought was to chastise Rhys for not warning her, but then she thought that perhaps he did, and she was just too deep in thought to have noticed.

  “I must stop reading so much,” she said, her gentle voice barely audible to Rhys outside. “My mind wanders back to them too much.”

  “Is everything alright, m’lady?” Rhys called up from below the carriage.

  He and Maxwell were busy trying to replace the axle and wheel, with spares kept atop the cabin for just that sort of emergency. They had just replaced the wooden bar and were preparing to pin the new wheel onto the end hub.

  “Yes, I am fine. But will this take much longer? We really must be off before dark.”

  Maxwell grunted as he and Rhys pushed the wheel into place. “I’s think’n you be off soon wiff dis’ere new wheel all in place, m’lady Edme.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  His statement was humorous to her, as she was still unaccustomed to the dialect the Daeg used. Hearing it spoken with such manners was almost like hearing a child trying to sound courteous to a nobleman. In fact, it was entirely a similar parallel, given her title and his youth. A gust of wind once more blew, and dust flew around briefly in the cabin, dirtying her royal raiment's. The Purple dress complete with the crest of her family house stitched masterfully with burgundy in pattern, was now sullied by light brown soil and granules. She seethed at the feeling of the sand like dust ruffling against her skin, the uncomfortableness giving way the next moment to the hope of finally moving along since the carriage was almost repaired. She was busy that day, she recalled. Edme was to attend her sister's betrothal to her newest husband, a human. Why she would breed with them was beyond her at the time: foul mouthed, obnoxious and unhygienic barbarians. The human race, who were called the Brondi in those days, were less threatening than the latter years of the Imperium's arrival. Her dear stupid sister Weyla, Queen of the Cird; was to be married with the philosopher king known as-

  “M’lady, the carriage is repaired. We are all set to be off.”

  She came back to the present then, and looked over to Rhys who was on his tip-toes to peer into the cabin window. She gave him a rye smile, amused at the sight.

  “Very well,” she began. “Please, have the preacher- um,” she paused for a moment, “Maxwell, was it?”

  “Yes , m’lady.” Rhys replied.

  “Yes, have sir Maxwell join me in the carriage if you please.”

  Rhys let on a furrowed expression, unsure as to the reasons for the request. Yet, orders were orders, and thus nodded in obedience. Though, due to his peering over the window, Edme couldn’t help but compare the sight to a buoy bobbing on water. When he disappeared, she leaned back in her cushioned velvet seat, sighing in curt at the whole affair. It wasn’t that she disliked the country-side, in fact it was the most pastoral and untainted part of the kingdom. No guildhouses, smog from blacksmith shops or mills, not even the bustle of crowded city streets. It was peaceful, for sure. But she was also an impatient person in those days, always rushing around, keeping the failing kingdom together all on her own. That delay with the wheel had cost her precious minutes that was not in her schedule.

  Another moment passed, and the carriage door opened slowly, cautiously. The unlubricated creaking of hinges squealed as the door now ajar, revealed a short and red clad man with a beard.

  “Maxwell.” Edme smiled as he appeared.

  He looked up at her for a moment before farting his gaze away and swallowed nervously.

  “Y-yous hi-highness.” He sputtered, both probably scared out of his wits and honored at the same time.

  “Please, do come in. Sit across from me and let us speak as we ride you back into town. It is the least I and Rhys can do in return for your aid.”

  Maxwell paused for just a moment, before nodding, and with one leg thrown over, climbing into the cabin. He lost his balance once, and only once, before he managed to sit down before her. Maxwell was looking around, trying his best to avoid eye contact from her perspective. Rhys slowly shut the carriage door, but this only exasperated the dry hinges screeching. Edme flinched, as did Maxwell. Rhys, who was most certainly used to the noise, paid it no heed as he boarded the drivers coach and ushered the horses onward.

  The Daeg and Edme endured the rocky dirt road as it went along, for the most part unfazed. She took the moment to take in the man's features more closely. His robes were not silk but some form of tree fiber, and they were clearly dyed with beet, which was not uncommon for the peasantry. It was darker and lighter in some places, uneven and unprofessional; but functional. The star in the center, the sign of his faith, sewn into the breast with careful threadwork. His beard was unkempt, as was his face and hands, which bore not only the dust of the road outside, but callouses and dirt from many hours of hard labor. Soot partially covered his neck and the right side of his face, presumably from working in an ashery. Though his robes themselves had no such ruination about them, apart from the occasional tear or patched rip.

  “Do you not wear these robes while working, Maxwell?” She asked bluntly.

  Maxwell, who had been peering out the window, turned to face her with shock.

  “I beg yous pardon, m’lady?”

  Edme chuckled, his fearful expression made him look like a schoolboy realizing he’d been caught red handed for some infraction.

  “Your robes, they have little dirt on them compared to yourself.”

  Maxwell relaxed his gaze, “Ah, I’s be seein’ya point.” He nodded. “We’s preecha men don’t be workin’ wiff the garb’o teh church on us.”

  Edme tried her best to mentally translate what the man had just said, but Rhys up front, had beat her too it.

  “He said that he and the other preachers do not wear-”

  “I know what he said, young man.” Edme snapped. “And for your information, I recall that eavesdropping is considered a socially unacceptable taboo is it not?” She looked over to Maxwell, whose coy smile left her amused.

  Rhys, fearing he stepped out of line too far, began to apologize. Much to Edmes dismay.

  “I sincerely apologize m’lady, I simply wished to help, as the halflings dialect is-”

  “Daeg.”

  Edme saw Maxwell's lips move, but was not expecting him to just say one word. And Rhys, pausing in his kowtowing, peered back through the cabin's front facing window and down at the man.

  “We’s the Daeg. Not halflin’s. His face was dour, cold.

  Edme remembered that face, even in the present. The face of a man who took insults of himself at jest, but when his people were the brunt of the teasing …

  “Tall’ns won't nev’r underst’nd our customs. Teh way we’s speak’n be an abom-in-ashun to they. I’s don’t know who’d be tellin’ ya that our name be the ‘halflin’s, but we’s Daeg. An’ only Daeg.”

  Maxwell sighed guiltily. He had known that his words would surely turn the mood sour, but Edme just locked eyes with him, and nodded.

  ‘I understand.’ She wanted to say, but did not. No words were necessary, as when he saw the look in her eyes, he knew what Edme was holding back already. He simply bowed his own head in gratitude.

  As they rode forth, the town grew larger as the road behind, disappeared into the rolling country hills, a log strip of bare patchy dirt, not dissimilar to a stroke of light brown across an artist's green canvas, splotched with the occasional red farmhouse and golden gleam of wheat. A living masterpiece, a magnum opus brought to life by Daegish hands. The carriage began to ride into the town through the large wooden palisade gate, the Daeg in those days were masters of fortification, even when strapped for resources and sapped of endurance. The enormous wooden pikes, lashed together, crossed with ropes of animal hair and fiber; stood as a testament to the resolve of the little folk. Four guards stood aside, flanking the thick iron gate as it raised. The Daegish braves, adorned in simple yet effective iron mail and leather helm, spun four-fold a large wooden wheel which raised the bars which blocked the path. The guards themselves each had bowed as the carriage bore forth into the city, their lavender purple surcoats proudly heralding the crest of her house.

  This surprised Edme, she was somewhat concerned that they would rather wear her colors than fly the pride of their own homeland. But there it was, in all its splendor, the symbol of a constellation consisting of three stars. The humans had their own name for them, but to the Cith and Cird, they were simply called the ‘dying stars’ due to how faint they were in the eastern sky. Surrounding the stars was an ouroboros, the snake of renewal. Above this, the icon of a sword at rest on its side, which contrasted perfectly with the picture of a Cithish maiden at the bottom, laying on her side, reaching her hand to the heavenly stars above … still weeping for the stars to give back her love, lost to the heavens in ages past. It was the story all Cith and Cird knew well, the fall from grace, and it was worn proudly now on those guards and on Edme herself.

  “Why my crest?” She asked, still watching the guards pass by.

  Maxwell did not smile, nor did he look over to her, instead peering out the opposite window at the white sea foam set upon the ocean blue above. And the far off tree-line at the base of a nameless mountain.

  “Thems love’ya ‘m'lady.” He replied after a moment passed. “You give’em hope’n wen dark tidin’s appro’ch these lan’s.”

  They rode slowly down wide streets of cobbled stone, passing by an otherwise rural yet lively settlement indeed. Children playing on the red-brick sidewalk, one dressed as a knight in reed weaved ‘armor’ squaring off against another his age, sporting a headband of some ragged cloth and a birds feather tucked inside haphazardly. They fought with sticks, she couldn't hear their words among the clamor but she saw their smiles.

  “We’s all but giv’n up ‘ope by the evil wint’rs bac’ yonder wen I’s a wee-lad.”

  Edme turned to face him finally, finding that he was looking up at her with soft, almost sorrowful eyes. It hurt to look into his gaze, she, like all of her royal line, had an uncanny ability to ‘read’ emotion to some extent through their vision. His was not only full of sadness, but fire. A man who had been through the ringer so to speak, but kept onwards, burying the past for some future she did not dare ask.

  “Yo lived through the winter that year?”

  He chuckled, though stopped abruptly, doubtful trying to not seem rude. “P’rdon me m’lady. I’s a suriv’r reckon it. On’y in muh twen’ies now. But-”

  He paused, looking out the window closest to her, she followed suit. They passed a large banner on a building, while grey and well worn, tattered in many places; its message was still clearly visible.

  “Tall ones not welcome here?” She asked.

  “ It says 'Tall’ns', an’yep. No tall’ns ‘round here be’n welcome.” He affirmed.

  “What are ‘tall’ns exactly?”

  He tensed up, breathed out slowly, and relaxed again. His breath was warm, and his heat travelled to her even in the warmth of the day.

  “Brondi.” He minced no words. Straight, simple.

  Edme furrowed her brow. “You know, many humans inhabit the kingdom as well, they don't all just live in the Imperium. Are your people truly going through with the objectivist philosophies of my wayward sister’s kin?”

  He halfheartedly smiled, “we’s Markies, not theys cap-i-tall’n lovin’ objecties from Britona. Though, reckon we be bett’r off wiff that there ‘freed’m-o-associatin’. So’s we’s’a takin’ it.”

  “That mindset could end in disaster, if not checked.”

  Her tone took on a grim, dangerous edge. One that Maxwell, even while cool and collected, could not help but notice. A shiver ran up his spine, and he sank lower into his seat.

  “I’s sorry if’n I offend’d ya, m’lady. Meant nothin’ in way-a disrespec’. ”

  Letting out a sigh, she softened herself, and smiled. The two sat in silence for a few more moments, once again the pair of them looking out at the town. Houses made of mahogany, trimmed with facades of olive-green tiling and very flamboyant fence rails coated a sunflower yellow. It was that time she noticed the faces of the people they passed, apart from the astonished gazes of those seeing the carriage; Edme observed the otherwise silent, stoic expressions of the townsfolk. Worried, angsty even.

  “Why-,” she started, but her guest beat her to it.

  “Thems know.”

  She tore her gaze away from the window and for a brief moment she thought she saw the young Daeg well up with emotion. A sadness that wanted to break the surface, but by the pride of his status perhaps or maybe his unwillingness to shed tears in front of a lady, he instantly pushed the feelings back into his very mind and soul.

  “Know what?”

  Maxwell shook his head as he lowered it, a dark portent. “The Daeg, we’s know’n ‘bout the comin’ war for years now.”

  Edme said nothing. The carriage turned silent. The only sounds heard were the faint breeze that still rang throughout the city, chilling the previous warmth, and the voices of those who went along their business down the streets outside. Even Rhys, who had been eerily silent due to his previous mistake, turned to leer inside at the Daeg.

  “Dunnut, git me wron’ m’lady. We’s Daeg are always-a preppin’ for troubl’. An’ if war it be, we’s gon’ stand by yous side no what nots’r how whys. The Daeg love’ya, yous our queen aft’r all’s said’n done.”

  “How do you know that war is coming?”

  She held back her breath, wishing for him to just be mistaken. How could he, or any of the Daeg for that matter, be savvy on such intrigue? She waited, as he straightened up and cleared his throat.

  “We Daeg all’n but got a gut feelin’ ‘bout thems kinda t’ings. Yous see t’ings. Car-e-vans carryin’ weap’ns, magici’ns travellin’ abroad, an’ even foodstuff’n gettin’ more ‘spensive.”

  Edme thought for a moment, dumbfounded. They were able to tell her plans … by logistics? That was bad enough, but even the economic side of things; prices, something that was ‘technically’ supposed to be foreign to them with their odd barter and voucher systems, was a dead giveaway to her intentions to war with the Imperium…

  Maxwell let loose a rye smile, clearly elated with himself for getting even a slight victory in such a war of critical thinking.

  “Maxwell,” she started, “are you sure the Daeg will … support my war efforts?”

  He nodded solemnly. “We’s not warri’rs, but by Mark we’ll die like’em. Theys tall’ns swine won’ know what’id hit em. I know, the Daeg’ll come to yous aid’n the war. So’ll I’s.”

  “You?”

  “Aye.”

  “But you are just a preacher, not a warrior, you even affirmed this yourself.” She giggled.

  “May’n that be true, but I’s also got magick in me bones.”

  Edme bowed in approval, “A magician? Then by all means, I take back my previous jest, you are warrior material indeed, young Maxwell. And I hope to see you leading armies one day, or perhaps storming even castle Aryan itself within that dreadful ‘Agartha’ abomination.”

  Maxwell beamed with pride as he closed his eyes, contemplating the thought. Though their meeting was brief, she still remembered the final moments of that fateful meeting. As the carriage came to a halt before the town's church, she looked up at the steeple before her. The tower went high, topped with a bell stage. The gold-trimmed silver bell, massive and clearly inscribed, sat still. She couldn't make out the words at the time, but later, after the war she learned they said:

  ‘Even so; all is but dust.”

  “M’lady?”

  Edme tore her gaze away to see Maxwell dismounting from the cabin with the aid of Rhys, who had spoken. The preacher's boots had left a trail of mud across the fine velvet rug, and a small, half dried puddle of dirty water where they had been resting through the short journey. He, one step after another, hopped down and onto the cobbled road with a clack of metal against stone. When Edme heard this, she assumed he had hurt himself, and went to look over the side of the carriage to check on him. However, her worry was in vain, as Maxwell turned to look back. He saw the face she wore and laughed.

  “M’lady,” he wheezed. “You shou’d see yous face. All’n white an’ pale.”

  “How dare you mock lady Edme!”

  Rhys tried to sound authoritative, but his youthful appearance and voice only made the preacher continue his guffaw with renewed vigor. Edme was surprised, but only for a moment. Before noticing his boots, and the faint gleam of metal from beneath them, something she hadn’t noticed in the carriage, void of enough light to perceive it fully. Metal plated boots.

  “No disrespectin’ meant, I’s sorry. But tuh see you’s maj’sty concern’d for littl’ol me is jus’ silly.”

  Edme’s face filled with color again, the moment passing. “Why would that be ‘silly’ to you? I look after all my subjects.”

  “ ‘Cause,” Maxwell said quietly, taking on a serious expression. “You’s the queen, an’ I’s jus’ a Daeg. You shoul’nt be worry’n ‘bout me. You get’n more ‘port’nt tings to deal wiff.”

  Edme went still, and thought. He was right in some ways, she had business to attend to, but she decided to entertain him as a guest for a brief moment. She recalled the memories from the book again, and looked down at her thumb, now resting on the seat beside her as she leaned out. Her eyes dimmed, and she spoke without turning to him.

  “Maxwell, I may be just your queen. But I am not heartless. Please …” She said no more. Unsure how to continue.

  Maxwell though, he understood. “I apologize.”

  She looked up at him finally, startled. The voice was his, but at the same time, it wasn’t his own. He had spoken to her, and she saw the face of Rhys also take on a tone of concern.

  “You-” she hesitated, “-you spoke without your accent?”

  The preacher downcast his eyes. “It is the least I can do, to show you the respect you deserve. I’s-,” he coughed, clearing his throat, “ I apologize for being rude.”

  Edme and Rhys just looked at him blankly, almost stupefied. This man, just with this simple change in dialect, had done something most unexpected. Edme said nothing, instead beckoning back over. Her eyes glazed with worry, with sadness. As he approached cautiously as he did when they first met, she reached out with her hand, the one which still held the splintered thumb. And spoke softly.

  “Maxwell?”

  “Y-yes, lady Edme?” He replied.

  “Never speak like that again. Please.”

  His eyes went wide, and he shook with fright at the look in her eyes. He was not scared, for those were not lenses brimming with hate or malice, but windows into her soul, and the pain inside washed over him, chilling bone.

  “You do not change for me, nor for any man. Ever. You are not halflings, is that not what you said?”

  He nodded.

  “You are Daeg, And your voice is your pride. Carry with you always little preacher, for as long as you live. May your peoples voices, may their songs reach across the lands. For as long as one of you speak in that tongue …”

  Maxwell smiled weakly, and Edme could see wetness in his eyes as he replied in earnest.

  “Them Daeg’ll nev’r perish.”

  Edme nodded, and in a gesture she had never done; leaned closer and kissed his hand. He didn't know how to react, standing deathly still as she slowly retracted her hand and sat up in her seat once more. He bowed, turned and began towards the church, looking back only once, to see his queen give him one last sad, mournful smile. And with that, she had never seen Maxwell alive again.

  That word rang in her mind again, an echo far off that hurt deeper as she remembered that man, those faces of playing children, the guards stoic in their duty, wearing her house on their garb. And the face of a silently weeping woman reaching to the dying stars stars; “Loss.”

  “Lady Edme?”

  The voice brought her back to the present then, the past fading into her mind. Looking over to the origin, she saw the face of an elderly man wearing red robes and a withered tree, a scornful frown upon his face. Karill stood there, clearly agitated from Edme ignoring him as he spoke.

  She leered at him, her face filled once more with pain, with silent rage. “I wish to see Eli. Now.”