Sunset at his back, Zander leaned onto the restored palisade, just above where the old breach had been. Though flowers budded where bodies had burned, he remembered the horned helms and fur-covered black cloaks, the scent of fire and blood, the screams, sword rending flesh, the taste of sweaty tears, the feel of a dead friend in your arms. Zander wasn’t fooled by the beautiful mirage before him. Mirrevar would soon run red with blood, fill with screams. Smoke would rise toward Covademara’s branches. In the heart of her land, the Leverians who bore her name would once again pierce Leverith’s heart.

  The Bearbreakers had arrived. The inaptly named Peacewatch spread across Mirrevar, fortifying their positions west of the Cardian. The LaGrett Howler’s strengthened their presence at the Owlbear Confluence. Zander just left the first meeting with the vanguard of western Mirrevar’s new regime. Sir Werner Bearbreaker, the man known as Iceheart, would arrive tomorrow evening with the bulk of the Bearbreaker forces with the directive to launch an aggressive assault, to claim Mirrevar for the Ruby Kingdom.

  Zander spent his days as blademaster trying to prepare the Peacewatch to defend peace only to forge them into a powerful blade that would cut deep into the wounds that festered in his homeland. He tried to speak to them about the importance of their oaths, of watching for peace, tried to keep Mirrevar free of war until Alexia returned. But with Werner coming, he felt like a tiny pebble trying to stop a mighty river.

  He’d be commanded to kill again. Zander gripped the palisade and squeezed, clenching until it started to crack from the pressure. Why did he have such tremendous raw strength if he couldn’t use it to do anything but wage war? Why did men like Adameon Ruby who sat in his palace eating fancy food on a gold table get to make the rules? Why did heartless arses like Werner get to execute those orders without any trace of compassion? The world was made wrong, but Zander didn’t have the strength to change it. His heartrate rose. He’d need to talk to Asa about this, to lean on her shoulder.

  Then again, his staff-sister didn’t seem to agree with him. When he spoke for peace, she defended the king, accused the Sapphires for being at fault when they attacked them beneath the full moon. Most of all, she was fueled by her hatred of Alexia for destroying her hometown. No matter how much Zander spoke of his Sunrise, and how much Asa supported his love, he couldn’t tell her that the Sunrise was Alexia Bluerose.

  He couldn’t even speak to his best friend in Mirrevar. Thirteen Divines! He missed Alfread. He’d agree, and even have better words for these feelings and maybe even a wise plan of action. But he was gone. Zander tried to remind himself that the visions he had in the Impwood indicated Alfread leaving was the right choice, but it was hard. He could use his best friend now.

  But he’d need to make due with what he had.

  A torch approached in the distant fields beyond the palisades, likely one of the new Peacewatch running messages from the outposts and patrolling their side of the Cardian. A warm breeze delivered the scent of Mirrevar’s unending flowers and Zander dreamt of Alexia. He hoped she was safe, prayed she found a way to stop this impending fight.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he promised, whispering to the wind, into the scent of flowers. But he didn’t feel like he could do enough. He needed her to be the peacemaker. As he did a hundred times each day, he wished he could be beside her, sharing her burden. He was convinced he’d be able to do more if he was with her instead. But all he could do was the best where he was with what he’d been given.

  “There y’are, Zander!”

  “That’s Sir Zander to you, squire.”

  Kenneth climbed the battlements. Of course, he ignored the rebuke. Zander understood more each year why Sir Edward got so flustered by Kenneth’s shenanigans. “Why did Al leave?”

  Zander gestured toward all the flowers out in the fields. “Said he couldn’t stand the sight of so much beauty being marred by so much—” Zander grimaced toward Kenneth, “—not.”

  Kenneth cracked a crooked smile.

  Zander smiled out into Mirrevar, ignoring his boyhood friend’s cracks about Alfread’s celibacy.

  After a few moments of being ignored, Kenneth jumped, waving his hands in the air frantically like he was trying to call for the attention of a carriage driver venturing toward a riverbank.

  Zander smiled out into Mirrevar. He wanted to let Kenneth know that he was glad to see him. Alas, that was not the way of doing. Kenneth would use such a display for his japes ever and anon. Zander had to be cold or he would have his balls busted for eternity. However, ignoring Kenneth rarely made him go away or mitigate his jackassery. That was like trying to pretend a thunderstorm would go quiet if you closed your curtains.

  “Camp’s been talkin’ bout how ye whipped his arse over Shiny an’ how ye been plowin’ her ever since. Norali’s knockers! I can’t believe Sir Zander’d do that to ‘is mate, but I guess for a woman as sexy as Shiny, I’d rip the divinedamned sky apart to see ‘er look at me the way she looks at you.”

  Kenneth mimed having a two-handed grip on an extraordinarily long object perpendicular to his groin, vigorously shifting his hands along it while puckering his lips and squinting his eyes. “Balbaraq’s bursting balls she’s divinedamned perfect, ain’t she?” He maintained his hand motions, side-eying Zander with a shite-eating grin.

  Zander sighed out into the world, battling the reflex to toss Kenneth over the wall. The rumor mill had done nothing but spin shit around the whole situation. He knew what they said behind his back, knew that damn near everyone thought he and Asa were fucking, that Alfread left because of it. He tried to slay those rumors any time he could, tried to tell them that he was a brother to the witch. Yet they’d all heard of Alfread’s flight, of the bruises on Zander’s face, of Asa crying and holding to Zander. Even now they spent most evenings together, often in one of their tents, Asa sleeping on Alfread’s old cot. There was no sword big enough to slice through this shite. Instead, it smeared his happiness every day, made him feel guilty for taking the only solace he could while his best friend and life’s mate were gone.

  “We didn’t fight over Master Asa,” Zander said, trying the ever-futile gambit of reasoning with Kenneth’s japes. “We argued over whether he should leave for Leverian University.”

  “Yer not lightin’ her up with tha’ famously tiny pecker?” Kenneth stopped stroking his delusional air-phallus and made a gesture with his index finger and thumb that severely underestimated reality.

  “She’s like a sister to me.”

  “Like a sister? Shiny? Have ye looked at ‘er!”

  Kenneth smacked his lips together and thoroughly detailed all of the reasons that Asa was “‘ands down” the most beautiful wench that ever lived, as bright a star in the sky as Norali herself, a divinedamned goddess reborn. Kenneth couldn’t imagine how any man who’s ever seen Asa could contemplate thinking of any other woman while self-stimulating, and that he had already done such three times since launching his tirade.

  The frantic energy with which Kenneth explained these truths so clear to common man’s brain lured Gordan over to investigate what all the ruckus.

  “I leave ye alone fer a moon an’ ye go anath’ma on me?” Kenneth said, finally provoking Zander enough to break his attempt at not caring.

  “No!” Zander roared, close to acting on his desire to toss Kenneth off the palisade.

  Kenneth flinched. Alas, the bastard knew nothing other than how to be a divinedamned nuisance. “Then yer plowin’ her?”

  “No, you divinedamned son-of-a-bitch!”

  Kenneth went quiet. Zander almost wished he could take that back, knowing that Kenneth’s mother was perhaps his only sore spot. The woman had birthed him and threw herself off Old Iron when he was a toddler. Kenneth had been with her on the bridge.

  But it was only a false end to the storm. Kenneth returned, as immature as ever. Like only a boy who’d never held a dying friend in his arms could be. “Seems like Al may’ve given ye a sore arse for e’ left. S’prised ye ken still walk after that big-ol-hammer poundin’.”

  Gordan winced. He tried to shift the subject in his soft-spoken way. “Zander talked about you a lot before you arrived, Kenneth. I imagine you’re good friends.”

  Zander snickered. “This creature isn’t my friend. He’s my jester and I’m his king.”

  “King o’ the arsesniffers,” Kenneth said. He spat over the wall, the unmistakable sound of spittle splattering onto steel following.

  Sir Gaiton, a Bear’s Crossing knight that often sparred with Zander during his training with Edward Bladestorm, sat his horse below. Kenneth’s spittle ran down front of his helm. “Good evening, Sir Zander.”

  Zander cranked the gate open. “Sir Gaiton!” He tried to cover his embarrassment, seizing the first comment he could find. “See anything tonight?”

  “S’it rainin’ out there?” Kenneth added, that divinedamned smirk on his broad face.

  Gaiton passed through the gate, sighing at Kenneth’s quip. “I saw neither Sapphire nor beasts, my friend. This place is something else though. My last deployment was in Balbaraq’s Gap. Leverith! Her land is as beautiful as Balbaraq’s is ugly.”

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  Kenneth interrupted before Zander could respond. “What’s not ter love bout a tight crack tween two big ole mountains? I’d say right in the middle o’ that’s the place to be.” He lowered his voice, bumping into Zander, “less you’re anath’ma.”

  It was hard to take Gaiton seriously with the spittle dribbling down his helm, now plopping onto his breastplate. “That would be the endless barrage of lighting blasts. Like some squires, Balbaraq would do well to try silence more often and to be a little less reckless when opening his mouth.”

  “Wise words, Sir Gaiton,” Kenneth said, with dramatic enthusiasm. Zander caught the twinkle in his eye, braced himself for what came next. “Leverith’s land’s beautiful as ‘er spirit while Balbaraq’s land’s as spitful as he is.”

  “Spiteful,” Gaiton corrected. “See you on the training grounds tomorrow morning, blademaster.”

  “Thank you for helping me earn this title,” Zander said.

  Gaiton nodded to him. “There is naught but shame and missed opportunity in refusing to face the squire who can defeat you. I am glad as Gidi in an arm-wrestling match that you are on my side now.” Gaiton laughed. “Now, I must report to Sir Thanalon and Master Asa. Good evening, Sir Zander.”

  Zander returned the courtesy as he lowered the gate. Technically, Gordan was on gate duty, but Zander had stumbled over here while dealing with Kenneth. There was always something satisfying with cranking the gate open and shut, like having a big shit. Now, if only he could deal with the shite-eating grinner beside him.

  “I should go report to Master Asa,” Kenneth said. “It’ll be the biggest and best report she ever gits.”

  Zander clapped Kenneth’s ear hard enough that he buckled over. “Listen here, Kenneth. One: if you disrespect Master Asa, you disrespect her sworn shield. Two: if you disrespect me, you will get struck. Three: women have more qualities than how they appear or what they can offer beneath the blankets.”

  Kenneth clambered to his feet, wiped at his nose. He grinned that divinedamned ugly grin of his. “Ye laid ‘er down, din ye?” he whispered, his excitement undisturbed by the smacking.

  Zander felt his fists closed, his muscles tightened, thoughts narrowed, going dark with the desire to hurt this bastard who refused to learn when to shut his stupid mouth. Zander reminded himself that anger was not the way of Leverith, that he nearly killed Alfread in anger. He ventilated the boiling rage. Barely. The anger leaked out into his tone.

  “I care about her as a brother cares for his sister.”

  Kenneth looked at Zander as if he was solving a puzzle. He couldn’t comprehend. Kenneth’s worst enemy was his sister Joyce and as far as Zander knew, he was distant with Jayne. “Ye ‘ad ‘er. Ye always got the mos’ beautiful wenches back ‘ome. I know ye ‘ad ‘er. Ye ken tell Kenneth all ‘bout it.”

  Zander leaned against the battlements, gazing at the sunset and longing for the Sunrise. He’d someday hold her, gazing down at these mystical fields from Goddess Hill. He’d gaze into her sunrise eyes, savoring the giddy feeling of his hands caressing her immaculate face. She’d sing the loveliest melodies to him, pausing between them to taste her magical kiss as they rolled among the flowers. Kenneth boomed on like a perpetual thunderstorm but Zander clung to his dreams of more beautiful days.

  “Look at ‘im,” Kenneth demanded of Gordan. “E’s dreaming ‘bout ‘er. If he ‘ad a decent mast, it’d be stressin’ his buttons.”

  “I am dreaming about her,” Zander confessed. He closed his eyes, feeling the smug smile crown his face.

  “I knew et!” Kenneth roared, like he’d just won the tournament of jesters at a Pageant celebration in Rubinia. Gordan, who was about to start wandering the ramparts, froze, listening like a spy at a meeting of opposing generals.

  “My life’s mate, Kenneth, is not Asa.”

  Kenneth wasted no opportunities. His grammar was bad enough that he was happy to omit a comma here and there when it suited him. “Ye think I’m yer life’s mate? Oh, Zander, I’ve got news fer ye. I’m gonna be plowin’ Shiny.” He pivoted to Gordan. “Maybe you ken ‘elp out my boy. E’s just told me ‘e’s anath’ma. I still love ‘im anyway, jes not like that.”

  Gordan didn’t buy into the prank. Most men Zander had met retreated as fast as they could from any hint that they might act like an invert. Gordan took it without the obligatory denial. “I’ll pass,” he whispered.

  “Sorry, Zander,” Kenneth shrugged. “Guess it’s jes’ ye and yer ‘and. I ‘erd if ye sit on it fer a couple degree, it’ll be like it ain’t yers.”

  Zander sighed, closed his eyes, fading back to dreams of Alexia. He most certainly was not an anathema.

  “Who is she?” Gordan asked.

  “My Sunrise,” Zander answered. “I cannot wait for you both to meet her. That will be a beautiful day indeed.”

  Kenneth covered his laugh with the back of his hand. “She sounds like she’s definitely real.”

  Gordan tapped Zander’s arm. “I’m glad for you, Zander. I look forward to meeting her.” With that, he excused himself to use the latrine. Why did he look on the verge of tears?

  “Piss over the edge,” Kenneth called after him. “Worse ye ken do is shower some pompous knight who treats ye like a pissant.”

  Gordan lifted his hand in acknowledgement, venturing away without response.

  Kenneth leaned against the battlements, taking a generous breath of air. “Well, since yer ‘parently inverted now, wanna git some tankards and horns and plan ‘ow I’m goin’ ter git after Shiny?”

  Zander examined Kenneth, trying to see him past the unending storm of innuendo. He saw a mass of boundless potential. Potential being wasted. Kenneth was naturally gifted as a fighter. Despite lacking height and reach, he was strong enough to throw down almost any man, quick enough to strike the fastest foes, and his instincts were sharper than a meladonite blade. When he was on a horse, he was art in motion and Zander could only choose to be either in awe or in envy. For all that talent, he never tried hard at anything other than being a thorn in everyone’s arse.

  Fast as a flash, Zander drew his sword, pointing the tip against Kenneth’s breast.

  “Zander!” Kenneth cried, trembling. He looked like he’d either cry or shit his pants.

  Zander kept his face hard. “Kneel.” My turn to be the thorn in the arse.

  Kenneth’s knees wobbled as he plummeted onto them. “Sorry, S-S-Sir Z-Z-Zander. I-I-I-I…” he stammered. All the laughter was gone and his square face was pale. The brown hair on his head stood up as if the wind was blowing hard. His gray eyes never left the sword tip.

  “I what?”

  “I-I-I did’n mean ter insult ye!”

  “I never meant to insult you,” Zander corrected, stressing Kenneth’s mispronunciations.

  Kenneth looked at him stupidly, his mouth hanging open and his brow furrowed.

  “Say it proper, squire,” Zander commanded.

  Kenneth gave a start as the blade pricked him. His tongue stuck out of his mouth in concentration for several turns before he spoke at last. “I... nev…ver m-meant… te… to insult y-you.”

  “Again! Faster!”

  “I never meant to insult you, Sir!”

  Zander grinned maliciously. “Better. Anything else you would like to amend?”

  Kenneth swallowed. His eyes were cloudy. “I…am…sorry that I…insulted… your wetch. Witch!”

  “How will you pay for your insults, Kenneth?”

  Kenneth looked down at the sword. “I don’ know.”

  “Try again.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do.”

  Zander pulled the sword away from Kenneth and held it vertically, gripped in both hands. Solemnly, he asked, “Kenneth of Bear’s Crossing, swear yourself to me. Swear yourself to become better than you are. Swear yourself that you may become as great as you can become. Swear yourself that you will be a faithful and dutiful squire for me.”

  Kenneth rubbed his head. Zander could only describe his dumb expression as awestricken. At last, he smiled. “I swear et.”

  “I swear it,” Zander corrected.

  “I swear it.”

  Zander tapped the sword on each shoulder, intoning, “I name thee, Kenneth of Bear’s Crossing, my squire.”

  Kenneth bowed his head.

  “You shall serve me and follow my commands. My first command is to improve your diction. Your flea-bitten dialect is not the language of a knight. My second command is to meet with me an angle before the sun-up training session for your personal training with me. You will learn to fight amongst the best warriors in Leveria and stand your ground with them. For my third command, you will accompany me during other official duties. When in the company of other knights, you will remain silent unless spoken to and you will not make your jests unless given leave. Do you understand?

  Kenneth nodded, his head still bowed.

  “Do you understand, squire!”

  Kenneth jolted upright, shocked by the intensity of Zander’s tone. His eyes rose to meet Zander’s. His lips wobbled, straining to suppress the emotion welling within him. It was a relief to see he could feel something more solemn than a cock joke.

  Lightning crashed behind them, only about fifty feet away. Zander shielded his eyes, cursed the ringing in his ears. Had he been so engrossed in his daydreams and Kenneth’s japery that he hadn’t noticed the starry sky giving way to this storm? Rain pounded Mirrevar as lightning sparked across sky.

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Outstanding. Fourth: you will move your belongings to my tent. You will serve me better from there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Gather your things immediately. I want the tent organized properly within an angle.”

  “It’ll be done.”

  “What was that?” Zander challenged.

  Kenneth flinched. “It shall be done.”

  “Better. Dismissed.”

  Kenneth rushed into the encampment, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to obey.

  Zander felt peace as the rain wet his hair, drenched his shirt, soaked into him. Kenneth had been a constant in his childhood and his mother had always encouraged him to be friends with the smaller boy. Often, she told him there would be times where he was grateful to have Kenneth in his life. Zander knew not what the morrow held, but he knew that having a faithful friend at his side would make that morrow more manageable. He had to make use of the tools he had, and Kenneth could be sharpened into a fine blade indeed.

  Alas, Zander wished that he didn’t still feel this crushing sense of dread. Vaguely, he could hear his mother’s voice and an echo of his visions the day Alfread had left.

  The sired ward. Death laughing, like nails on glass.

  Zander shook his head, trying to break free of the echoes. He couldn’t get lost in them. He needed real answers, not riddles. The moment of understanding that followed those visions had been a mirage fated to fade when examined. Either that or he didn’t have the strength to look too closely at those futures and the pain they promised.

  Zander sheathed his blade. As soon as Gordan returned, he’d pursue those answers from perhaps the only man who had them. He would ask, at long last, who his father was. For all he knew, Sir Edward Bladestorm was the last living person to hold that answer. Tonight, Zander would wrest it from his grasp.