·         Thank you for clicking. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com. As always hope you enjoy reading this and please consider donating to Nifty if you can, it's more than merited.

 

·        If you end up enjoying this, please read some of my other stories on Nifty: The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).

 

**********

 

Chapter Two: Dragonspur

 

**********

 

Edward's Gift – The Wallenheim Delegation – Manse de Foy – Invitation – The Blacksmith's Boy – A Touch of Home

 

**********

 

The Brinestone, Isle of Gead, Kingdom of Morland

88^th of Summer, 790

ELEVEN YEARS AGO

Fran had him by the hand as they ran. "Come on, Ed, not too far now! Not too far at all!" Easy for him to say! He hadn't spent a long hot morning in session with Ser Martyn, practicing with training shields and sparring swords until his wrists ached. Oh no, Fran spent his morning with his nose in his books taking lessons with his tutors. He got to study the ancient kings and philosophies – and what did Ed get? Sore wrists and a bruised arse.

 

But he didn't mind.

 

Edward bit his lip a bit so Fran wouldn't see him grinning as he was led up the dust-scuffed steps of The Brinestone's towering keep. He looked down to see if Harry Grover was keeping up with them, but the height made him feel nervous and wobbly, so Ed looked away.

 

He'd catch up to them eventually.

 

Ed and Fran pushed on, raced up flight after flight after flight until the natural light of the sun beamed down through the entranceway to the roof of the keep. The salty air washed over the boy's bronzed skin, hot with exertion, as he and Fran set their hands to their knees and caught their breaths.

 

And then Edward saw it.

 

The view.

 

And by the beard of St. Thunos, it was breath-taking. It was almost impossible to describe. The sweeping silver presence of the great sea of the north, The Mandelsea, sprawling across the panorama. The wheeling gulls soaring above the dew-dappled skies as blades of light cut through the misty clouds above and draped the battlements and guard towers in all the sun's brilliance. Churning waves crashed into the shales and dissipated into clouds of white foam.

 

Mutually astounded, Edward and Fran approached the keep's merlons (stained with gull-shit) for a closer view of the highest point in the Isle. From hear you could see all the way to the Port of Gead on the south-eastern side of the isle, where the towering statue of Edwulf I, High King of Morland, stood imperiously over the merchant ships rocking at anchor.

 

They weren't supposed to be up here, of course. The Brinestone laid unoccupied since one of its rear gate houses collapsed into the sea three years ago, forcing the relocation of House Gray to a newly purposed manse on the western edge of Stoneport. But Fran knew how much Edward revered the hero king and wanted to make a gift of that amazing view on this the 11^th anniversary of Edward Bardshaw's birth.

 

"I knew you'd like it," said Fran, playfully.

 

His little hand squeezed Ed's slightly larger one, fingers threaded, clasping together like a clam. Ed liked holding hand with Fran. He never felt like the lord's son when they did. It always felt like more... like something deeper than friendship. He struggled to withhold his smile. "Francis."

 

"Don't you call me that!"

 

Ed giggled. "Fran..."

 

"That's better," he replied. "What?"

 

`I wish Jehanne was our saint,' he thought. But instead, he said, "Thank you."

 

"You're welcome," said Fran.

 

Then they held each other's eyes. Just for a moment. Then the space between their lips grew small and smaller and smaller still until it was almost nothing...

 

...and then fucking Harry Grover came charging up the stone steps, dropping to his knees and wheezing for air like a hooked fish, like his bloody life depended on it.

 

Ed and Fran let each other go.

 

Reluctantly.

 

Rather reluctantly.

 

Harry caught his breath, took one look at the view, and scowled. "What, is this it? All those stairs for this? Fucking saints above..."

 

**********

 

The Black Quay, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

31^st of Summer, 801

 

PRESENT DAY

 

`He was a riverside man, then.' That was where Edward found Knorris' living quarters after all – at the end of a long and poorly-paved backstreet just a few minutes' walk from the quays. Edward knuckled his plywood door and stood back, boots splashing in the muddy rain puddles pooling at the threshold. A woman came to the door. Stocky, squat, unbrushed hair, scrambled yellow teeth. A wife. She sized him up then glowered at the sheathed blade at his hip.

 

Ed drew his cloak over it. "I'm not one of the Constable's men. I'm with the Crow's Club. We heard about what happened to your husband. May I see him?"

 

"Consortin' with you lot never done him no luck," said she, bitterly. Nevertheless, she stood aside and allowed him in. Ed offered his thanks and proceeded inside, lowering his hood.

 

It was a draughty little hovel, wretched even by the grim standards Ed had come to know. A two-room dwelling with a floor full of old rushes and a simple hearth of stacked stones, with an empty, blackened cooking pot and barely enough kindling to heat it. The wife led Edward into the second room where Knorris laid up in his straw-filled double cot, his swaddled new-born wailing at the foot of the bed.

 

By Thunos, Constable Wolner's men had done him over.

 

He was naked from the belt upward to allow his bandaged ribs air. There were bandages around his eyes also, as both were blackened and crusting with blood at their fringes. His left leg was set by a wooden splint and his knuckles were purple as plum fruit – he'd fought back. No wonder they were so rough with him.

 

"W-who's there?" He asked.

 

Edward thumped his chest with his fist. "For the Folkweal."

 

"F-for the Folkweal..." replied the porter. "I know that voice. Is that you, Ed Bardshaw?"

 

He smiled. "Aye. How are you, Knorris?"

 

"...Fit as a fiddle." A chuckle. Then a cough. "Me good wife keeps me well, master."

 

Their babe yet cried. His mother swaddled him as she addressed their guest. "How d'you think he is?! He can't work or do chores, the healers said he might lose his sight! His cart and mule are gone! Tell me, master, how are we to live?"

 

"Merle-" An oily cough interrupted Knorris as he spoke. He smothered it with a bruised fist. "Hush now. W-worry not, Ed. Wolner's dogs, they... they got naught out of me..."

 

"As brave as you are loyal," said Edward. "Thank you, Knorris."

 

Merle frowned at him, babe in arms. "Loyalty won't keep us fed."

 

Truer words were never spoken. And so, Edward Bardshaw fetched into his belt pouch and retrieved a purse which he sat at the foot of Merle and Knorris' bed, where their baby once laid.

 

"What is that?" Asked Knorris.

 

"100 marks. When the purse runs empty, call for us and another will take its place. So long as the Crow's Club exists, you will have a friend and benefactor in it."

 

"Me thanks to you, Ed." Knorris smiled. "D'you hear that, goodwife? I knew... they wouldn't abandon us."

 

Merle held her frown. Edward did not slight her for it. She would have to care for Knorris until he recovered, and if his sight was lost, they would be dependent on alms from the Crow's Club and their saints' temples for the rest of their lives.

 

`Damn you, Wolner.' Ed excused himself. "I'll pray for St. Thunos to lend you his strength for a fast recovery. Good morrow to you both. I shall see myself out."

 

Knorris offered a final goodbye as the swordsman threw up his hood and stepped outside, shutting the rickety door behind him. Ed's boots slopped through horseshit and mud puddles (a reminder of last night's unseasonable weather) as he proceeded up the laneway, with its roving dogs and errant children, to the stone-paved portside.

 

It was high noon and the Black Quay of Dragonspur was bustling with activity. Wherries ferried townsmen up and down and across the River Wyvern. Wagons wheeled by, bulging at the boards with freshly fetched produce. Porters lugged sacks of grain, pack animals were led to the markets, gamesters waged bets on dice with gullible onlookers. Travellers and aliens tethered their horses to the stabling of the local inns as the tavern windows sealed up the drunken revelry within.

 

So much activity, so much commerce, and the Kingdom of Morland had grown rich from it – yet so little of that wealth had found its way into the purses of its people. Poor folks like Knorris and his wife. And day by day the Morish people were becoming more aware of it. There was a mood about them, a fervent one, that grew evermore so as the regency of the Duke of Greyford drew closer to its end. Ed sensed it. Like the nation itself was slowly approaching a monumental crossroad in its 800-year history.

 

One need only look at the streets of Dragonspur to tell the fact. They were lined with Odoists these days. Some of them laymen passing out pamphlets about the sage and his teachings, some of them ex-shepherds of the Morish Kirk, preaching fiery sermons about the evil duke who betrayed the Sage, as well as the evil Emperor who executed him. Some were members of the Crow's Club, professing the great values of Equitism from busy street corners to anyone who cared to listen. Heralds all. Omens all. History, and all its great gears, whirling into place.

 

Edward reached inside his surcoat and clasped his locket of relics, his old totem to home. Something was coming. And in his heart, he knew that King Oswald's maturation was the fulcrum of it. As did Stillingford.

 

Despite his stiff joints and bad knees, the old man agreed to attend the Crow's Club that morning, for the first time in half a season. Edward did not sugar-coat what Rothwell and the others had told him that day – everything was reported to the old scholar in good faith.

 

Alongside the smallest of prompts: `Some reassurance from you might quell their anger,' recalled Edward of himself. `What would it hurt to see you?'

 

Edward smiled remembering the old man's sour scowl. He thought perhaps that Stillingford saw through the trick – Ed coaxing him to attend the Club for its own benefit rather than Ed coaxing him to attend because Will wished it. But, in the end, attend he did. And that was where Edward left him, at the Old Lioness, as he saw to two items of business: providing a purse to Knorris and delivering Stillingford's letter to the Wallenheim Delegation.

 

They weren't hard to find. Wallish galleons made for a fearsome presence at any port: four-masted two-decker goliaths boasting their big bronze cannons and flapping golden pennants. Edward simply looked for the berth with the largest ship and found the Hildegunnr, one of the personal vessels of House Roschewald. It was fashioned for leisurely travel rather than war or trade, but still it was impressive – and larger than every Morish ship in sight. Edward slowed his approach as Wallish porters carried chests full of clothes and barrels full of wine off the ship.

 

The Wallenheim Delegation had already disembarked, standing at the woodwork pier with haughty imperative. They made a sizeable number. 50 household guards in padded gambesons and peacock-feathered morions, armed with halberds and basket-hilted short swords. 15 petticoated servants (4 chambermaids, 3 footmen, 3 cooks, 2 valets, 2 washerwomen and 1 seamstress, as Ed would eventually come to know). The master of the party, the Ambassador of Wallenheim, stood at its forefront.

 

Ed took an instantaneous misliking to him.

 

The swordsman eyed the diplomat from afar, from his felt black slippers to his pearl-studded cap, feathered by a single peacock's pinion. He wore a heavy furred coat, mink probably. And his broad shoulders were saddled with a great golden livery collar festooned with emeralds and rubies. His gloves were doeskin, his hose velvet, his smile saccharine and entitled. A Wallishman of significant means.

 

`By the saints,' thought the hooded Edward, lulling out of sight by a port-side fruit stall. `What makes Stillingford think this be-frocked sop would help us?'

 

The be-frocked sop chatted idly with the wharfinger, arms gesturing towards his ship, whilst his two valets and his captain of the guard stood at his back. Edward couldn't make out their faces. And there was a Morish nobleman alongside the wharfinger, some waifish lord half the height of his horse, crown-balding and grey-bearded with age. He kept a lusty eye on one of the ambassador's young male valets. Ed drew a little closer until he was within earshot of the group.

 

"Master Roschewald," said the greyed lord. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Piers Comwyn, Viscount of Thormont, appointed by his majesty the king to escort you to your chancery here in Dragonspur, Manse de Foy."

 

The ambassador, Gustavius von Roschewald, quickly offered his thanks for the hospitality. "Gratitude. My Lord Viscount, please do not mistake my haste for rudeness, but when can I expect an audience with His Majesty?"

 

Edward smirked. `Wasting no time then...'

 

"I am afraid His Majesty is rather busy at present, at work making the final preparations for his maturation feast at the great palace of Woollerton Green, three days anon, to which you are cordially invited," Lord Comwyn passed the Wallish guest a letter bound by the king's royal seal. "When the celebrations have concluded the king will summon you for initial talks and I can say no more than that."

 

Roschewald smirked softly. "For now, no more need be said. This suffices me. Please, my lord, lead the way."

 

There was a procession of horses and carriages along the flagstones awaiting them. The Lord Viscount of Thormont threw one last glance at the po-faced valet at Roschewald's back, a look the boy refused to meet. As the delegation moved onward Edward dove back behind the fruit stall and hid himself. Now was not the time to approach the ambassador – not whilst a noble led his delegation's escort. Or so he planned.

 

The wharfinger passed him by. The viscount passed him by. The ambassador passed him by. The valet with the face like sour milk passed him by. And then the second valet passed him by. And this time he was close enough to see his face.

 

His beautiful face.

 

And then a feeling as strong as a crossbow bolt shot through him. One of remembrance, warmth, longing, sorrow, joy, happiness, and that sweet, sweet tyrant of the heart the poets called love. Edward's stark silver eyes widened with recognition and the name that had haunted his soul for so long slipped his stunned lips...

 

"...F-Fran...?"

 

...and thus, his ruse was gone.

 

The chestnut-haired boy paused as he walked, ears piqued to his name, then turned to the source, sable cloak swirling around his ankles. And then they stared at each other, for the first time in ten long years, utterly dumbfounded.

 

"...Ed?" Fran gasped. "Is... is that you?"

 

**********

 

Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

31^st of Summer, 801

 

If the chancery assigned to the Wallenheim Delegation was anything to go by then King Oswald's earnestness in desire for talks was unimpeachable.

 

According to Lord Comwyn, Manse de Foy was first commissioned by the Duke of Greyford some twenty years ago for the purposes of housing foreign emissaries, as his great ambition was always to strength ties of peace and trade to all foreign powers.

 

Its grounds sat upon the northern bank of the River Wyvern (the more affluent half of the city) just a short distance from Dogford Bridge, the westernmost of the three main bridges of the city, otherwise known as `The Three Beasts'. It was secured on four sides by eight-foot-high stone walls and had a single point of entry at its south-facing iron gate. That was where Lord Comwyn and his retinue brought them, and where a Morishman named Perrin, the steward of the property, resumed the introductions, and the Lord Viscount (throwing one last glance Lothar's way) took his leave.

 

With a terse smile and a crooked back propped up by his walking cane, Perrin the Steward led Gustave and the Wallenheim delegation into the manse grounds, through its carefully tended outer gardens of yew hedging, water fountains, oaks, lavender, and wisteria. He led them all down a crunching gravel footpath towards the main property, the manse proper, with its red brick walls, piping chimneys, slatted gables, scrolled corbels and leering gargoyles.

 

"This way, masters." Said Perrin. He led them beneath a tall archway overrun with holly into their new domicile.

 

From there they were shown the entire household: its porticoed inner courtyard, great hall, dining room, solar wing, gatehouse, bedrooms, privies, pantries, undercroft, and wine cellar.

 

They later returned to the great hall where Perrin's own staff of servants provided refreshment for Wolfrick's men: sliced bread rolls, herbed guinea fowl meat, grapes, oat cakes, and ale. The men relaxed. Light chatter and laughter filled the hall as Perrin led the servants away to their quarters and asked one of his chambermaids to show Wolfrick to the barracks behind the house where the guards would sleep.

 

Fran was barely aware of any of this. He was still too shaken by the boy that approached him at the Black Quay.

 

`No,' thought he. `Not a boy anymore. A man grown.'

 

Edward Bardshaw. The strapping young son of Egbert the Blacksmith, the centrepiece of so many girlhood infatuations back on Gead, with his seafoam eyes and his quiet little smile and his wavy blonde hair and that sun-bronzed skin.

 

Fran swallowed a lump in his throat. Back during the chaos of the siege he'd thought... that Edward was dead, just like his lord father and mother, their bodies broken by cannon fire and shattered brick. But he survived. He survived! And he was there, in Dragonspur, hale and hearty, and by the saints above as handsome as he ever was...

 

`My heart is racing!' Thought Fran. Suddenly all the noisy chatter and clinking cups was overwhelming to him. `I need to sit down; I have to think. I need to think!'

 

Lothar stood close by. "Are you alright, Fran?"

 

"I-" `I don't know...' "I'm... I'm fine, Lothar. Just hot is all."

 

Gustave was by the far wall observing the banner unfurled over the roaring hearth. It bore the sigil of House Roschewald, a gilded "R" in the clutch of two prancing black griffins. It was a surprisingly thoughtful gesture to weave such a gift and have it meet Gustave upon his arrival. But the Ambassador of Wallenheim was unmoved – and gestured for Fran and Lothar to follow him outside to the porch surrounding the inner courtyard, where things were quieter. Lothar shut the great hall doors.

 

"Master?" Said the Catspaw.

 

Gustave frowned, eyeing the pruned rose bushes beyond the balustrade. "Gormless. Unenchanting. Small."

 

He meant the manse.

 

It was a quarter of the Roschewald Manor's size, certainly. And it was half the size of the Imperial chancery, Cromwood House, which they rode past on the way here.

 

Fran sighed. "Master, I feel certain the king meant you no insult."

 

"...No," Gustave grumbled. "You Morish simply have no mind for grandeur. Nevermind. Business, then. Fran. Recite Lord Comwyn's particulars from Neidhart's dossier."

 

The aide paused before he spoke as Edward's startled smile ran rampant through his mind... even as the cool air and rose scent calmed his flusters. "...Lord Viscount Piers Comwyn of the township and burgh of Thormont. Based in the Lowburghs. Currently serves as a royal liaison with the city merchant guilds. Two-and-fifty years of age. Unmarried. Has Jehanne for his saint."

 

"And his proclivities?"

 

Fran's mood darkened. "...Boys. In gilt dresses."

 

Gustave turned to Lothar. "Then you know what to do. He showed you favour. Take the opportunity to collect as much information as possible. We may need it."

 

Lothar, emotionless, nodded to him.

 

"Yes, master."

 

Then the espial silently excused himself, footsteps echoing down the chequered floor as he made his way to the dressing chambers. Moments later, when Fran and Gustave were alone, the older man seized the younger one's arm.

 

Fran jerked reflexively at the sudden grip. "Master?"

 

"Who was that man at the port? The one who gave you that letter? Eh? Answer me."

 

Fran was half Gustave's measure in age and size. The Wallishman could have snapped his arm in half if he wanted to. "Master, please. He was only a subject of my father's... back on Gead. He recalled me from his youth, he said, but now he serves Theopold Stillingford. Worry not for him, master. I love you and only you."

 

Gustave shoved their lips together, muffling Fran's startled moan. The boy tried to pull away (more out of startlement than anything else) but the taller man snatched him back, hand firmly set against the small of his back until it slipped down and cupped that `pert little arse' he'd been fucking these long ten years.

 

The Fiend snickered. HE, HE, HE, HE...

 

...until Fran finally broke from the kiss, gasping for breath, eyes darting about their surrounds for onlookers. There was no one. But still...

 

`How can he be so careless?!' Thought the aide. "Master..."

 

Gustave leered over him, refusing to let him go. "Never forget, we are here only for a short time. Once I convince this boy king to abandon his trade embargo, our business here is concluded, and we will return home to Wallenheim."

 

"Yes, master. I miss home already."

 

A smirk. Then Gustave pulled Stillingford's letter from his coat folds. The seal was already broken, him having taken the opportunity to read it during their carriage ride up there. "This letter that he gave you, this invitation from Stillingford; draft a reply inviting him to supper here, but tell him that he must attend secretly, two days anon."

 

Fran smothered a sigh. Gustave had been a guest of Morish soil for less than a day and already he was breaking his brother's express directives. Nothing was more like him. Ever the champion of a game only he was playing. "Yes, master."

 

"Next, we must get the lay of the land here in Dragonspur. I've heard tell of a small community of Wallishmen here in the city. I would like to liaise with them at some point. I've asked Wolfrick to send one of our guards out to rouse some of them, and once we have a few names, I plan on inviting them to dinner here as well." Gustave clapped his hands. "There's work to do! Go to your chambers and draft my letter. I shall stop and see you tonight before I retire."

 

"Yes, master. I shall go."

 

Fran excused himself with a bow and made his way up the colonnade. Gustave returned to the great hall. And when the younger Roschewald brother was gone, Fran stopped. Lothar stood leaning against a column not three columns down. Frowning.

 

"I did not think he would give me a `duty' so soon." Said he.

 

Fran clutched a fist. "Nor I. But for now, we have no choice but to follow his orders. Worry not. Once we have settled in, we will start the search for your parentage. And I will begin my plans. All we need is our patience."

 

**********

 

The Old Lioness, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

31^st of Summer, 801

 

There was a much-lightened mood at the Crow's Club when Stillingford attended that afternoon. Two members tasked themselves with carrying him from his coach and around the back alley down the stone steps to the basement tavern where he was met with rapturous applause. William Rothwell clapped, grinning to himself at his little victory. Basil Smeadon struck the table with his fist and ordered the tavernmaster to fetch them all plates of colcannon. Old Meg drew him an ale. Some of the younger members took off their hats and introduced themselves to Stillingford, this man who so inspired them, Morland's most prominent Odoist and the Father of Equitism.

 

That was how Edward left him before delivering his letter to the Wallenheim Delegation. Before Fran. But the mood was low again when Edward returned to the club later on that day.

 

Stillingford (fully fed and halfway down his third cup of ale) tabled with Rothwell, Smeadon, and a third member newly returned from pilgrimage in the Lowburghs; Kenrick Thopswood. Kenrick was a small man, thin and balding at the pate, a lawyer by trade, one of the Club's more religiously minded members – and one of its staunch hardliners. The other members in attendance gathered around their table as Thopswood, mopping up his brow with a kerchief in the low light, plied them all with the horrors he'd witnessed in the south.

 

"Brothers, the holy road was profaned with corpses," said Thopswood. "From Peaswyke to Greatminster, there were oaken staves driven deep into the earth, each one with a naked corpse nailed to it by the feet, each one wearing a little board that said, `The saints had me worked for the sin of my Odoism'."

 

The members gathered groaned collectively, and light yet astonished murmurs followed as Thopswood took another swig of wine to settle his nerves. Stillingford bid him continue.

 

"When I slept for a night at an inn near the outskirts of Greatminster, I met a sawyer who begged me not to deliver my offerings this year. He said that the Earl of Wrothsby was putting soldiers on the streets to capture anyone with ties to any known Odoist. Even his own daughter was interrogated, married as she was to one. His stepson was one of the ones they beheaded, you see."

 

More murmurs.

 

Thopswood wiped the tears from his eyes. "The holy city stunk of ash! Never have I seen it in such a state. There were rats everywhere. Stake burnings at every corner. Gaols overflowing with prisoners. Soldiers stationed at all temples, even those of St. Jehanne. The nights are filled with the screams of the tortured. Madness. Sheer, utter madness."

 

Smeadon slammed his meaty fist to the table. "This is that zealot Wrothsby's doing, is it not? Why has no one petitioned the Lord Shepherd to put a stop to this?"

 

"Because the Lord Shepherd endorses it," said Thopswood. "His eminence calls it `the sacred inquest' and has proclaimed the Earl of Wrothsby Protector of the Kirk for carrying it out. He's even offered 50 king's marks and a writ of dispensation to any lord of the Lowburghs who continues his work within their own demesne. The intensity of these attacks grow with each passing day. Hundreds of our brothers have already fled north to accept an offer of protection from Edith the Exile. More will follow."

 

Edward watched Stillingford frown at this news.

 

"These tidings are ill indeed," said the old man. "All of these crimes must be raised with the king."

 

Will Rothwell rolled his eyes. "Saints above, master, why are you so certain he will give ear to these atrocities?"

 

"Why are you so certain he won't? The Greyford Regency comes to a close and King Oswald's reign begins in earnest. That means new Masters of the Realm, a fresh court, and younger blood. We will be heard. I had Ed deliver a letter to Ambassador Roschewald of Wallenheim-"

 

Smeadon grimaced. "What? A fucking foreigner?"

 

"Yes, a fucking foreigner, Basil. That fucking foreigner will have an audience with the king soon, probably to discuss Morland's trade embargo with Wallenheim. He's a follower of mine, an Equitist and an Odoist, as well as of noble blood. I will tell Roschewald everything I have heard tonight and ask him to raise our concerns with King Oswald when they finally meet. We will be heard."

 

Grumbles. Edward eyed the members gathered around Stillingford's table and saw cynicism in their eyes. A few clearly sided with the old man, perhaps more out of devotion to him than out of faith in the king, but the brunt of the mood was morose. Though Dragonspur's populace awaited King Oswald's true accession with bated breath, the Crow's Club was far less enthused.

 

`Your reins are slipping, Theopold.' Thought Edward. `And now the ungrateful horses begin to bolt.'

 

Then right as Stillingford mulled over the mute responses to his Roschewald plan, Will took over, huffing his pipe smoke and swirling his wine cup. He spoke softly. "Our respect for you is unimpeachable, master. But perhaps relying upon alien voices is not our only play here."

 

The old man's frown deepened.

 

"And what do you suggest?" Said Thopswood.

 

"I suggest that the Crow's Club extends a formal and public invitation to the king to attend Speaker's Square. Let him hear the pleas of his subjects with his own ears unfiltered by letters and whispers."

 

As soon as the idea was spoken it quickly gestated with the members. Murmurs of approval passed around the hall. Smeadon affirmed the idea with a nod (perhaps mostly because it bypassed the need to rely upon a Wallishman). Thopswood was perhaps more cynical – he had even less faith in the crown than Rothwell did – but he paused to consider it all the same.

 

"A public invitation to speak might be read as a provocation on our part," said the lawyer. "Perhaps it would be better to extend a private invitation instead? That way the king cannot lose face if he refuses."

 

Rothwell glared at him. "Losing face by refusing would be his incentive to attend. Ed? What do you think?"

 

Will turned to him. So did Stillingford. And then Smeadon and Thopswood and then all the others until dozens and dozens of curious gazes fell upon him awaiting his answer. Ed blushed, coughing into his fist. He was never one for too much attention. He spotted Will's mischievous (and poorly hidden) smile across the table and frowned at him.

 

"Well?" Said Stillingford. "You've been dreadfully quiet this eve, Master Bardshaw. Speak. What say you?"

 

Ed demurred.

 

If he backed Stillingford, Will would sulk about it. If he backed Will, Stillingford would badger and bemoan it all the way home to Harvenny Heath. Either answer would upset someone. So, he considered what he himself thought.

 

He was no scholar like Stillingford, nor writer like Rothwell. Unlike Thopswood he was not religiously minded or legally trained. He was not a business-minded guildsman like Smeadon. Ed was just Ed. Just a big man with a big sword surrounded by the stalwarts of his age. What was he compared to them? Was he a man that Fran could still find something in his heart to-

 

`Speak, you mutton-wit,' thought he. "...What do I think? I think the people still love their king, and the king would see as much if he agreed to treat with them. But Thopswood is right. The nobility might misinterpret a public invitation as a force of hand. Better to send a private invite through the ambassador, and if he agrees? Then we announce it. Best of both worlds."

 

Murmurs of concurrence. Edward gauged the room. A begrudging glare from Stillingford. A softer one from Will. Smeadon and Thopswood looked convinced. Then Old Meg pushed through the members, crept up behind him and slapped down a frothing mug of ale. "Well, saints be, Ed! Who knew you had it in you?"

 

"Fine then," Stillingford threaded together his knobbed fingers as he eyed the men assembled with focused intent. The old spirit of the author of The Phantoma yet dwelled within that tiny, aging frame. "If we are all agreed, I will ask the ambassador to extend to King Oswald our invitation to Speaker's Square. Yet should the king accept it or no, I have every faith he will right the wrongs of the regency and the atrocities of the Earl of Wrothsby. We must have faith in him, masters. And if you can't, have faith in me." Then he lifted his cup. "FOR THE FOLKWEAL!"

 

"FOR THE FOLKWEAL!" Roared back the members, raising their cups and flagons in toast. The flutist, Pybus, struck up a tune as the assembled surged with discussion and laughter, returning to their tables and their card games.

 

The mood swelled as when Stillingford first made his reappearance at the Club. Despite the horrors unfolding in the Lowburghs, despite the repressions of Constable Wolner, despite Knorris; they had a plan, and it was worth celebrating.

 

But Edward had no mood for revelry that night.

 

As the others chatted and schemed together, the young swordsman threw back the ale that Old Meg brought him and excused himself for a piss. Up the stairs he went (slightly off his gait) then out into the alley through the rear doors. There was a small privy nearby, but its plyboard roof had rotted out through the spring showers earlier in the year and what was left of it was too repulsive even for a man of Ed's low birth. None of the members went near it unless Old Meg's chamber pot was full. The Geadish man lowered his breeches and relieved himself, throwing his head back with a sigh as a stream of hot yellow liquid pattered against the wall and oozed into the gutter until his yard was spent. Then, as he pulled his breeks back up, he found Will standing behind him.

 

"Fucking saints above!" Barked Edward. "What do you mean being out here?"

 

Rothwell cut a simple smile. "The old man spoke true when he called you quiet this eve. Is anything the matter?"

 

"I only needed a leak is all! Besides, I've never been much for talking."

 

"You usually talk more than you did tonight." Said Will.

 

Ed shrugged. "Let the old man talk."

 

"I thought... I thought perhaps you were unhappy with me."

 

After we last spoke was the missing piece of that sentence. The pair had scarcely exchanged words since that day. Not out of any malice on Ed's part, nor any fear, just... an inability to know what to say.

 

`I'm no wordsmith,' thought he. `There'd be so much I'd be willing to share with you, Will... if I only had the words.'

 

"Mad at you why?" Edward buckled his belt. "You've done me no ill."

 

Will's smile grew.

 

"It's only... I saw someone. Someone at the Black Quay... someone I knew a long time ago."

 

"Back on Gead?"

 

Ed nodded. "You remember where I was born?"

 

"You're a more interesting man than you credit yourself to be, Edward Bardshaw. I doubt there's much of you I'll ever forget."

 

A chuckle.

 

"Are you happy to see this person?" Asked Will.

 

An image of Francis Gray, ten years grown since last they met, flashed brightly through Edward's mind. A young man of studious look and demeanour. Short and lean. Pale-skinned and freckled, like flakes of cinnamon sprinkled over a bowl of milk. Smooth brown hair sheared just beneath the ears. And his eyes – eyes as green as holly. That sweet chuckling boy of his bittersweet recollections was not merely alive... he was a man grown. A man grown and ravishing.

 

Ed looked away as the blood rushed to his cheeks. "Yes. I am. It... startled me, mayhap, but... yes."

 

"Then you should reacquaint yourself with them. Who knows? They might even get you talking."

 

Another chuckle. "Thank you, Will."

 

Will's smile fell. "...Ed, I-"

 

"AUGH!"

 

It was a shout of pain. Edward and Will threw glares down the other end of the murky laneway, where a second cry rang out and a burly young man fell into the street. A soldier (or a guard, maybe). He landed face first into a mound of horseshit and straw, the muck splattering over his padded grey gambeson as two purple-knuckled townsmen drew up and ran their boots into his stomach. The guardsman coughed blood.

 

"Up you come there, alien!" Said one of the assaulting pair. This one wore the guardsman's morion. "Up you come, up you come!"

 

The second one clutched his short sword. "Are you sullying our good streets with your dirty foreign blood? Tsk, tsk, tsk! What say you, brother? Shall we give him another?"

 

The guardsman lost a tooth as the first thug kicked his face to the flagstones. "Another and another!"

 

"STOP THERE!" Bellowed Edward. "What is the meaning of this?!"

 

The two Morishmen eyed him and Will behind him. "He's a fucking alien, what's it to you?" Asked one. The second grit his teeth. "The duke let these foreigners run free, but not our King-soon-to-be! He'll run them right into the sea! To the sea! To the sea!"

 

They both stank of mead.

 

Edward sneered at the pair. "Speak not of the king – for you shame him with your deeds."

 

One of them made a run at him. Ed felt the air course around his limbs as his body swung forward, ramming his shoulder in the thug's stomach, and tossing him overhead like a flour-sack. The assailant landed on his back with a meaty thud, spine slapping off the cold stone. A dark cloak whirled like wind as Edward went for the second – punches flying swiftly until the pulpy snap of a nose beneath his knuckles. A cry pulsed out amidst a gout of blood. Sobs.

 

Edward shoved him against the wall, elbow to the throat. "You kick a man when he's down and steal his goods? You call yourselves Morish, yet you know not a Morishman's honour? COWARDS!" The swordsman spat at his feet. "Give back what you stole and away with you!"

 

The short sword (still in its scabbard) clattered to the ground. As did the feathered morion. Edward released the thug with the broken nose just long enough to collect his friend from the floor and together they skulked away, shuffling out onto the road. The man in the grey gambeson groaned, shuffling onto his hands and knees until Will Rothwell moved to help him up.

 

Then Ed noticed the sigil on his chest – the sigil of House Roschewald. "Wait, I know you... you're one of the ambassador's men, aren't you?"

 

He wiped blood from his lips. "They... thought... I was Imperial..."

 

`Wallish or Imperial, it's all the same to some folk,' thought Ed. He picked up the helmet and sword and returned them to their rightful owner. "Idiots both. Here."

 

The Wallishman took them and thanked him.

 

"Those louts do not speak for us all," said Will. "I apologize for your poor treatment this eve, master."

 

He nodded back weakly.

 

"What is your name, friend?"

 

"E-Edrick..."

 

Edward cupped his shoulder. "Well Edrick. Let me offer my apologies too. And let me make amends by helping you back to Manse de Foy."

 

**********

 

Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

32^nd of Summer, 801

 

The master snored loudly from Fran's bed, naked save for his silken hose, his privy parts crusting over with long spent seed. Frowning, Fran peeled himself from Gustave's woolly arms and ambled over to his desk. It was not so well customized for him as his own back in Wallenheim, but it served its purpose. He lifted the flat of the plinth and propped it up at angle as he set a roll of paper against it and dappled his quill's point in an ink jar. And so, the boy began to write...

 

 

Sighing, Fran folded the letter into quarters and poured a mound of hot sealing wax upon the folds, then stamped it with Gustave's personal seal.

 

And then he heard a commotion.

 

Loud Wallish-accented voices shouting in the distance, and a sudden burst of crunching footsteps rushing across the gravel path to the front gate. Fran, curious, left his desk for the window. The hour was late (long past midnight) but bathed in just enough moonlight to see by. What he saw was Wolfrick and two of the household guard running to the black-painted bars of the gate, opened by the two on-duty guardsmen to allow in a rider with a wounded man at his back.

 

Fran's eyes shot wide. "E-Edward?"

 

The blonde swordsman called for the guardsmen at the gate to help their compatriot down from his saddle.

 

Fran quickly went into action, setting aside his quill, lighting his chamberstick with a taper from the hearth, snatching the freshly written letter from his lacquered desk and gathering up the lower folds of his nightgown as he slipped out of his chambers, carefully enough not to wake Gustave.

 

Fran made his way down the corridors and stairs with only his candle's flame to see by, his heart swelling in chest, his excitements building; down the pillared shadows of the portico and through the narrow antechamber out into the front gardens. The cool air bit upon his bare neck, his bare toes champing through the gravel towards the gates.

 

The battered guard's name was Edrick. Two of Wolfrick's men set aside their halberds and helped him down from Edward's horse before the Morishman dismounted. Wolfrick moved to question him but stopped at the crush of steps approaching from his rear.

 

Wolfrick and Edward both turned towards him.

 

Fran blushed. `Ed...'

 

"What are you doing down here?" Barked Wolfrick.

 

Edward glared at the captain of the guard.

 

"Apologies. I heard concerned voices, and I came to see if everything was alright," Fran caught Ed's eye then and felt his cheeks rush hot. What was this? What was this feeling in him? "Is everything alright?"

 

"I'm ashamed to say that your man was attacked this night by two drunkards who mistook him for an Imperial. But rest assured they paid for it. I only thought it right to return him to you."

 

Fran watched the anger mount in Wolfrick's grey woollen features. Edrick was the man Gustave tasked with rousing the leaders of Dragonspur's Wallish community and he'd been beaten to a pulp in the process. The captain of the guard was humiliated and barely able to hide the fact. He crossed his arms with a grumble and said, "My thanks then. This should not have happened. I will have words with my men."

 

Then he stomped off to Edrick's side – first to check on him and then to question his version of events – leaving Fran and Edward alone together, out of earshot if they whispered.

 

Fran felt his cheeks flush as Edward's warm smile bore down on him. He couldn't look him in the eye! How hard was it to say a quick `good-eve-master' or `how-do-you-do?' Yet he struggled simply to speak.

 

`Ed...' he thought. `...These long ten years, I... I... thought you were...'

 

"You look well," said Ed. Kindly. "More than well."

 

Fran chuckled nervously. "What? Even in my night clothes?"

 

"Even in those. Saints above, it's good to see you," Edward's voice darkened. "I never gave up hope. If anyone could have made it out of the siege, it was you."

 

The words were kind. And yet? And yet they cut Fran's heart. Ed never gave up on him. These long ten years apart and still he had strength enough to believe that Fran had survived. But Fran? Fran took Edward for dead long ago – and dared not hope otherwise lest it break him – and prevent him from carrying out the work he'd waited a decade to begin.

 

But here he was now.

 

Edward Bardshaw.

 

The blacksmith's boy. Ser Martyn Morrogh's greatest pupil. The boy with whom he climbed to the highest point on the Isle of Gead to witness the wonders of their small little paradise on earth. The boy who once set his heart aflutter, who made him smile on his darkest days, who cuddled him the night his dog died. They were only children back then. But now the boy of Fran's dreams had grown into the man of his waking day. And Edward had grown comely. He was tall and broad-shouldered, muscular, with piercing grey eyes and pale blonde hair the colour of sun-drenched wheat...

 

"Have you married?" Blurted Fran.

 

Edward chuckled.

 

"Saints be, Ed, I-I've no idea why I asked, it's none of my-"

 

"No. No, I've not married. Much of my time is occupied with the protection and care of my master, Theopold Stillingford. What little is left wouldn't make for a fruitful marriage, I fear."

 

"Well, I am sorry to hear that," A lie – he loved it. "Still, you must have suitors..."

 

Edward's smile flattened. "I've only ever wanted one."

 

"...I..."

 

"We should catch up, Fran. Speak properly, with good food and wine. I want to hear everything. How you've been, what you've done. Everything."

 

Fran bit his lip. "I'd be delighted."

 

"We'll make the arrangements," said Edward. "I cannot wait, my lord."

 

Lord.

 

Fran's mood soured at the word. Lord. "...I... I am not a lord anymore..."

 

Ed's smile fell, realizing what he'd said. "...Forgive me, Fran. I meant no offence."

 

"No. No, I know that. Forgive me, I am being rude. We do have much to discuss," Fran took the sealed letter inside his pocket and handed it over. "Take this to Master Stillingford. Ambassador Roschewald invites him to supper at Manse de Foy, but it must be clandestine. He would have you come tomorrow. If you came with him... perhaps we would have a moment for ourselves?"

 

"I'll look forward to it," said Ed. "Well, I'd... best be on my way. Until tomorrow, then?"

 

"Until tomorrow."

 

The swordsman smiled, pocketing the letter, and doubling back to his horse. He threw himself back up onto the saddle, offered Fran one last glance goodbye, then coaxed the mare around and galloped through the iron gates of Manse de Foy before the guardsmen on post clanged them shut again.

 

Fran gave himself a moment to breathe, for his heartbeat to still, then turned back to the manse where Wolfrick scowled at him from the archway.

 

The boy approached him.

 

"Is Edrick al-"

 

Wolfrick snatched his throat. "Know. Your. Place! We may be guests in your country, but you are a ward of OUR household. Do not place yourself in matters that do not concern you. Understood?"

 

The grip was so tight the aide could barely speak. He croaked out a weak "y-yes..." and the captain released him with a jerk, and Fran coughed for air, almost dropping his chamberstick in the process. The Fiend crept up his back.

 

YOU WILL REGRET THAT... it sneered. "...Understood..."

 

**********

 

Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

33^rd of Summer, 801

 

Edward Bardshaw, relieved of his cloak and longsword by the halberdiers at the Wallish Chancery's front gates, stood behind his master, Theopold Stillingford, as he sat to supper with his host for the night, the Wallish Ambassador himself, Viscount Gustavius von Roschewald – or `Gustave' as he was more commonly known. He was not the sort of man Edward would've pegged for an ambassador, judging by his tallness and musculature. He possessed a hunter's frame, a woodsman's height, and a wrestler's demeanour. Edward could only imagine him in armour and horseback taking the field during the Wallenheim Rebellion – and yet here he was, a preening foreign dignitary in lavish garbs of ruffed silk and black-gold brocade as he sat to supper with an elderly scholar in homespun leathers and fraying cotton.

 

The... `distinction' between their two stations was not lost upon the old man. In fact, when two of Roschewald's chambermaids served the night's first course – a simmering bowl of vegetable broth and a long bread roll (alongside a healthy helping of freshly churned butter) – he looked downright uncomfortable.

 

"...Eh, thank you, my dear..." said he.

 

The Wallish chambermaid smiled softly, too softly, in that saccharine way only a noble couldn't see through, then went about pouring them their wine.

 

Roschewald lifted his cup. "The food is locally sourced, Master Stillingford, for alas, due to the embargo enforced upon my people I cannot treat you to the greater delights of my home country. But I was able to bring some wine with me... drink! Direct from the vineyards of Gasqueri, one of the finest reds in all the continent."

 

Stillingford was never much of a drinker. But he took a polite sip and savoured it. "...It is delicious, lord."

 

Smirking, Roschewald set his cloths, one over the shoulder and the other across his lap, as he broke his bread and sloshed it in his soup.

 

Edward misliked him. He could not say why, but there was something about Roschewald he neither liked nor trusted.

 

The lighting was low. Only thirty candles lit along the great hall and only fifteen burning from the three candelabras set along the long table, which the servants had dressed in cloth covers embroidered with the Roschewalds' family sigil. Ed kept to the shadows as he stood watchfully over his master.

 

Stillingford dabbed the bread within the soup. "I must thank you for your hospitality, lord. Especially given the import of your business here. Though, dare I say it, you arrive at a time of great tumult."

 

"Tumult?"

 

"Aye. I will be frank. There is great unrest in this kingdom, lord, much as there has been these long ten years of regency under the Duke of Greyford."

 

Roschewald wiped the crumbs from his fingers with the napkin over his shoulder. "Tell me of it."

 

"Let me speak first of the Guard Tax," said Stillingford. "In the wake of the Siege of Gead, the Duke levied a bi-annual tax ostensibly to fund coastal defences for fear of Imperial invasion. We have been at peace with the Empire for two years now, ever since the Treaty of Grace, and yet that tax has not been repealed. Then there are the atrocities in the Lowburghs. There is a fanatical nobleman in the south, the Earl of Wrothsby, who sets about torturing and burning Morish Odoists and neither the Duke nor the Lord Shepherd moves to stop him. Hundreds have perished. More will follow. And the embargo you are here to break, it has taken its toll upon our people also. In years past Wallenheim was our primary source of wheat, corn, and potatoes. Now that that trade is halted, the Morish gentry have capitalized on the food shortage and increased the prices of their produce. Many of our people are starving now, I shudder to think what will happen this winter. This nation is in desperate need of reform and King Oswald must be made aware of it."

 

Roschewald snapped his fingers. The two chambermaids came and collected their empty soup bowls and bread plates. "Ah. Business. And here I was expecting a more... philosophical discussion."

 

"You have lived my philosophy, excellency." Said Stillingford. "In the Republic of Wallenheim I see the ultimate end to the philosophy of Equitism – a nation-state ruled by elected men on behalf of its people. Who better than you to understand the plight of the common Morishman?"

 

Roschewald stilled. "Two of your `common Morishmen' beat one of my halberdiers half-to-death last night."

 

"And I apologize for that insult to you, though I know not the men who committed it, my guardsman Edward saw them punished."

 

Ed smirked to himself. "I beat the bollocks off them and I'm not ashamed to say so."

 

"Edward!" The old man shook his head. "Forgive him his discourtesies, excellency."

 

The ambassador threw Edward a quick glance, eyeing him over dismissively before his two chambermaids returned with the meal's second course: sour roast veal with hashed potatoes and a steamed medley of leeks, carrots, and cabbage. More Gasqueri wine was poured.

 

"In truth, the situation is... complicated, excellency." Said Roschewald. He cut a morsel of veal and slipped it between his lips before he continued. "It is as you say, Wallenheim's existence is... unique on this continent. A republic encircled by kingdoms and empires. It is my brother Neidhart's fear, and this is a fear I share, that our very existence makes those `kingdoms and empires' very nervous. It was Odoism... and to a lesser extent Equitism... that planted the roots of rebellion in our soil. The King, as the Duke of Greyford before him, may fear a similar fate befalling his own country should those ideals take shape here. And so, for me to consort with you and to bring your arguments to court..."

 

"That is NOT my wish," said Stillingford, sharply. "There will be no `Republic of Morland'. We are a kingdom, ancient by centuries, as it has suited us to be. My people want reform, not rebellion."

 

A Kingdom of Equity.

 

But as his master spoke Edward's thoughts turned to the hardliners of the Crow's Club... and Edith the Exile. The old man did not speak for everyone abroad the realm. `If only he did.'

 

The Ambassador smiled as he partook of more veal and encouraged Stillingford to do the same. The old man eyed his plate and nibbled some of the potatoes, forcing himself to eat.

 

Roschewald took a sip of wine then. "...I have read The Phantoma, your great work, several times throughout my life. The central concept as my brother and I understood it, was the tendency of wealthy nobles to stagnate in a gilded veil of ignorance, heedless of the needs and concerns of the poor, who at their core, form the backbone of any nation – and that if this delusion persists... it will doom that nobility to the fires of rebellion and ultimately, the skein of history will unravel. Is this an unfair assessment?"

 

Edward watched his master smirk.

 

"No," said Stillingford.

 

"Do you understand how such a treatise could make men of higher birth feel... uneasy?"

 

"The Phantoma was neither prophesy nor threat, merely a warning. An observation of a potential and undesirable outcome for any nation in which the chasm between noble and commoner grows too vast. Please do not misunderstand me. I want to avoid that outcome, ambassador. We love our king, and we love our country. We simply seek fair hearing and amelioration for the hardships wrought throughout these ten long years of regency. And I have every faith that King Oswald will listen to us. Please, take this."

 

Stillingford set aside his cutlery to reach into his coat pocket and withdraw a letter which he passed onto Roschewald across the long table.

 

"What is this?" Asked the ambassador.

 

"An invitation," said Stillingford. "To Speaker's Square here in Dragonspur. It is a public forum where men of all social standing are free to attend. I implore you, ambassador, as a devotee of my work and as a fellow Odoist – please give this invitation to the king. Tell him his people love him and wish to see him, to hear him speak and to be heard by him. This is all I ask."

 

Roschewald reclined into his seat. "...This is not a small thing to ask."

 

"Set against the weight of our need, I assure you it is. I do not say that heedless of your own designs here in Morland. Ending the embargo benefits my people as well as your own, I would do nothing to hinder that, nor do I think this will. Please, ambassador. Give this to the king."

 

Edward watched the ambassador cynically eye the onionskin letter as he downed another cup of wine. He understood the Wallishman's reluctance.

 

And Theopold Stillingford, despite all his good manners and diplomacy, was not being entirely honest.

 

Many Morish did love the king and expected great things from him, but there were others in the realm drawing similar conclusions to their Wallish brothers across the Mandelsea – that no one man should rule all. That there should be no lords. Some of those men were members of the Crow's Club (though they dared not say it to Stillingford's face). Not to mention Edith the Exile and her growing northern following...

 

...yet the ambassador took the letter into his pocket... with a smirk. "When I end this embargo my family will be eager to renew its trade ties with Morland, particularly here in Dragonspur. And I am told that many members of your Crow's Club are guildsmen. Perhaps a few... deals might be struck between us in exchange for this favour you ask. Mutually beneficial ones of course..."

 

`You little weasel...' thought Ed.

 

Stillingford drew a wrinkled smile. "Your terms are more than acceptable, ambassador."

 

"Good!" Roschewald clapped his meaty hands. "Then it is settled! No more talk of business. Let us eat and drink and speak of things more pleasant."

 

The old man raised a cup to that. He had his victory (or rather the first step to it) and that was worth a celebration. More wine was poured. The two chambermaids removed their smattered plates and replaced them with two bowls full of cherries, orange and apple slices, and almond cream. And then their conversation began to drone. Philosophy. Talk of new men, of suffrage, of common law and saintly, of this and that and the other.

 

Edward called for the privy. "Apologies, lord. Where might I find it?"

 

Roschewald eyed him for the interruption then snapped his fingers to summon his aide. "Francis!"

 

Two of the ambassadors' halberdiers, posted at the doors, opened them for the young man to enter, dressed in formal attire, eyes low, demeanour obedient.

 

Edward smiled.

 

"Show Master Bardshaw to where he might relieve himself."

 

"Obliged, master." Fran acknowledged the command with a nod then turned to Edward, a small private smile gently tracing his lips. "Please follow me, Master Bardshaw."

 

The two filed out of the great hall leaving Stillingford and Roschewald to it as the halberdiers closed the doors behind them. Then the pair burst into laughter.

 

"The privy?" Fran leaned against the inner wall, basking in the shadows cast by the moonlit porticoes of the cloister. The air was rich with jasmine scent from the flower gardens centring the colonnade. A giggle. "That was your pretext?"

 

Edward shrugged. "For all my mental labours I couldn't find a better reason to excuse myself. And they do drone on, those two."

 

"Gustave especially. And yet so little of anything he is says is of value."

 

A chuckle. "When can I see you, Fran? Properly, not with all this high fuss and bother."

 

"Tomorrow morning, we leave to attend court at Woollerton Green for King Oswald's maturation feast. We should return in a few days. I'll come and see you then."

 

Ed felt his own heart pounding in his breast. Just like when they were boys. Fran, smiling at him. Fran, giggling at some joke he told. Fran-

 

"Ed," said Fran. "May I ask something of you?"

 

He snapped out of it. "...Anything."

 

"I have a friend who seeks to know the truth of his birth but knows only that it might have been in Dragonspur. Do you know where birth records here are kept?"

 

Edward nodded. "The Chamber of Star Charts. They retain records for all four saintly stars and oversee the annual censuses."

 

"Can facsimiles be made of their records?"

 

"If you can narrow the year range, perhaps. I have a friend in the Crow's Club who works there. I'll see what I can do."

 

"Thank you..." Edward watched his long-lost friend step out of the shadows with a broad smile across his face. But then he noticed something on Fran's neck. A bruise. Ever so slight, but palpable, like he'd been grabbed. Fran frowned when Ed frowned.

 

"What?" Asked the clerk.

 

The blonde man did not know what moved him then – to be so forward as to cup Fran's cheek, baby soft and pale, caressing it with his thumb, absently. But cup it he did. Caress it he did. And Fran did not pull away. On the contrary. The boy's eyes flapped shut as he leaned into Edward's touch. It was a moment Edward did not wish to sully. Even so. He had to ask...

 

"What happened to your throat?"

 

There was urgency in Ed's heart, but the question left his lips like a murmur. Fran looked away, shivering slightly, then smiled up at the swordsman as though the sun rose at his back. Fran's soft hands clasped Ed's own as they held his cheeks in their grasp. His eyes slipped shut.

 

"Do not worry about this blemish. Call it a... by-product of clumsiness." Fran opened his eyes again and stared deep into Edward's own. Almost as if transfixed. "When I look at you... I see home again."

 

Ed felt the same.

 

"I never dreamed I'd see `home' again."

 

"Home still remains," said Edward. "As do I."

 

Fran bit his lip, staving off something deeper than a smile. "Do you... do you remember how you used to hold me?"

 

The embrace was instant – Edward's arms wrapping themselves around the smaller man and drawing him close, chest to chest, so close he could smell the cherry bark scent of Fran's hair. He felt a thinner pair of arms encircle his waist and settle there. And warmth he felt from them... `Oh, the warmth...' like a Geadish sun.

 

"I missed you so much," whispered Fran, choking back tears. "I thought you were dead..."

 

"Hush," said Edward. "Hush now. We're both alive. We're together again. That's all that matters."

 

They cuddled there in the moonlight, enclosed by porticoed shadow, flowers sweetening the night air, blissfully oblivious that they were being watched.

 

**********

 

·        Thanks again for reading everybody! Stay tuned for more. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com .

 

·        Please read some of my other stories on Nifty: The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).