Description: She frowned, contemplating her choices, considering well. Lives depended on her choice, especially her own. A blade? Or a mace? Lady Bethral, Warder of the Castle of Edenrich and Protector of Her Majesty, Queen Gloriana, the Chosen of Palins, tightened the last of the buckles on her armor as she looked over the rack of weapons at her disposal. "Don''t see why you bother even pretending," Oris grumbled from behind her, his deep voice echoing off the stone walls of her office. "You''re gonna take the mace." Bethral looked over her shoulder at the older man, and raised an eyebrow. He shrugged, lifting his chin to meet her eyes. "You always do." "It''s true, Lady," Alad chimed in. The younger man was nearer her height and could look her straight in the eye. He gave her one of his boyish grins, his blond hair falling into his eyes. Bethral shrugged, then turned back and pulled the mace off the rack, securing it to her belt. "I like the feel of a mace." "Can''t understand why," Oris said. "A blade''s a better choice. What if ..." Bethral ignored him as she checked her saddlebags for the final time. Oris was a good man of strong opinion. He did his job well, and if he voiced his opinion of weapons once in a while, it was fair enough. "There''s times you need to slash, then there''s times you need to hack away," Oris continued. Alad sighed, and rolled his eyes. Bethral looked around her office. Odd how things had turned out. She''d gone from simple mercenary to this in less than a year''s passing. There was a grumbling sound from the windowsill. The ugly barn cat roused itself, stretching in the sun as it woke from its third nap of the morning. Red Gloves had once said that it looked like a soured boil with its mottled fur. Bethral wasn''t sure that was true, but it wasn''t the loveliest creature, that was certain. The cat yawned, showing all its teeth, then started to wash its face. "Then there''s stabbing," Oris continued. "What good is a mace if you need to run something through? I ask you--" In less than a year''s time, Bethral had gained a battle mare, a barn cat, and plate armor that other warriors could only dream of. She''d fought beside the Chosen to challenge the usurper for the Throne of Palins, and had stood at Gloriana''s side as she claimed the throne. She had lost her sword-sister, though. Red Gloves had left before the coronation. Bethral had offered to go with her, but Red had stopped her with a simple question. "Now who''s avoiding the call to adventure?" Bethral wasn''t sure she''d made the right choice that night. But here she was, and here she''d serve, until there was no longer a need for her services. But for now, she''d a task at hand. Bethral sighed as she picked up her helmet, and slung her saddlebags over her shoulder. The cat roused itself, then leapt to the floor to twine around her legs. "You''ll see to the Queen''s safety while I''m gone?" Bethral rounded on Oris, cutting off his speech. Oris and Alad both glowered at her. "Been doing it since she was a bit of a thing, back at Auxter''s farm." Oris stiffened, his face getting red. "No reason to think I''ll do anything else." "True enough." Bethral nodded to both men. "But she''s no longer a child you need to watch over. She''s the Chosen, the newly crowned Queen, and new to the throne. If any were to--" "They won''t," Alad said firmly. "Our oaths on it," Oris added. "They''d have to take our blood before hers would spill." Bethral nodded, and stepped past them to the door of her office. She''d be gone only a day or two at most. "Then escort the Queen to the courtyard. I''ll stop in the kitchens first." Oris and Alad gave her a bow and headed off to the Queen''s chambers. Bethral stood for a moment, thinking. Oris was right, there were times a blade was handy. She returned to the racks and grabbed her sword. Oris would snort when he saw both weapons on her belt, but that was fine. Hope for the best. Plan for the worst. Bethral strode back to the door. Her saddlebags were packed well enough, but some trail rations would not go amiss. Just in case. The kitchens were busy, with servants headed this way and that, carrying trays and pots of kav. The nobility usually broke their fasts in their rooms, summoning food and drink. The staff would have already eaten, and were now about the business of the morning. Bethral paused, waited for a serving girl to ease through the door with her tray, and then slipped in behind her. If she was lucky, he''d be ... She was in luck. He was there. Ezren Storyteller, also known as Ezren Silvertongue, was not one to eat in his room. He preferred the kitchens, with their wide hearths, warm baking ovens, and servants'' gossip. He was careful to tuck in near the hearth, where he''d not get in the way of those busy with their tasks. The room smelled of warm bread, and there was hot whispering of the comings and goings of the noble lords and ladies. Ezren stayed quiet, enjoying his bowl of pot oats sweetened with honey and cream, a mug of kav near at hand. He''d made it his habit to rise early and take this place, letting none serve him in bed like a lord. No, this was far more comfortable and far more worthwhile. Queen Gloriana needed his aid, and knowledge was valuable. Very valuable. "More kav, Storyteller?" one of the cooks asked, holding out a fresh pot. "Always," Ezren swore. The cook laughed, and poured. "They''ll be trussing up a carcass on the spit soon, for tonight''s dinner. Mind your clothes when they bring it in. The lads always get blood all over everything." "I''ll have a care." Ezren smiled at her and took a sip. He''d have to leave soon, anyway. Evelyn and Blackhart were departing this morning, and Ezren wanted to bid them farewell. Of course, Lord Marlon would be there as well, for he was going to open the portal for them. Ezren would have preferred not to come into the man''s presence, because Marlon was firmly convinced that Ezren needed to die, and by his hand. Ezren sighed, catching a glimpse of the manacles that he wore hidden under his sleeves. The Lady High Priestess Evelyn had given them to him and explained their nature. They absorbed magic, including the wild magic that cursed him. Evelyn had been chained with them when she''d been captured. He''d resisted them at first. Too many memories of his enslavement. But at Evelyn''s urging he''d put them on, and felt the pressure in his chest ease. Without the chains, they appeared to be heavy bracelets. And they did conceal the scarring around his wrists. Still, they made him uneasy. As if, at any moment, he''d find himself ... Ezren frowned at his breakfast. If wearing the manacles rendered the wild magic null, it was worth the cost. The people around him were safe. For now. Evelyn had told him last night that she had learned they were only a temporary measure. The manacles would not last forever. Eventually they''d absorb all the magic they could, and crumble into so much dust. Well, that was for another day. For now, Ezren needed to finish eating. He took another sip of kav, then froze. She was here. In the kitchens. He kept the mug up, using it to cover his face as he let his eyes scan the room. They caught a sparkle of light off plate and a glint of golden hair. There, between the kitchen and the pantry. Lady Bethral. It was just a glimpse, and then she was gone, disappearing into the shadows of the room beyond. Moving like a silent spirit, even in full armor. His ... no ... an Angel of Light, who had rescued him and saved his life. Lord of Light, Lady of Laughter, she was lovely. Tall, powerful, with hair like gold and blue eyes like a spring sky ... and not for the likes of him. The kav suddenly went bitter in his mouth. Why would she give him a second look? Whipped, scarred, a man unable to save himself from being enslaved. No real skill with sword or dagger, and no equal to her. A storyteller with a broken voice, no longer able to enthrall an audience, much less a woman of her-- "Lord Ezren?" Ezren turned from his thoughts and saw one of the palace clerks hurrying toward him. "Lord, there is some question concerning damages done at the Flying Pig Tavern last night. The men were there at your expense, and the innkeeper has presented this bill... ." The man held out a roll of parchment. Ezren stifled a curse at the amount. "Blackhart''s men. It has to be. Let us go talk with this innkeeper." Bethral paused in the doorway and watched as Ezren held his mug out to the cook, his green eyes sparkling. Something he said made the cook laugh. She''d been out of her mind when she''d bought him for a copper. She and Red Gloves had been on their way to another city, looking for anyone who''d hire their blades. Her sword-sister had been frothing at the mouth as they''d purchased supplies, all because a goatherder had told her a prophecy about her birthmark. Red had not liked that one bit. The slavers had thrown the man down to the platform in the slave market, offering him as meat for dogs. Blind with rage, Bethral had flipped the copper coin onto the platform, then eased him up and over her shoulder. Her sword-sister had squawked like a chicken, but Bethral had just turned on her heel and walked away before she''d killed a slaver. Or two. She''d leave no man to that death, no matter how impulsive or crazy her purchase had been. Red had complained, but she''d fought their pursuers as Bethral had mounted and fled, the slave in her arms. The cook moved off, and Bethral slipped into the pantry, not wanting to be caught staring. She

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