Kindly edited by @CollinHarrison4

"It cannot be," Kelton said with a growing smile. He approached the armed Aragonians with Yanda at his side, thinking it best they were greeted before discussions began with Yanda's mother. The presence of Cavid was pleasing enough, yet it was the young man who stood next to him that was most surprising. The man's face was still fighting maturity, though his height and breadth of chest had increased since Kelton had seen him last - no longer the wiry young boy. "You have grown much."

"And I have heard you now taste the stew after stirring the pot," Jutney said with a nod. Kelton laughed at the reference to Finger's statement so long ago.

"It pleases me you live," Kelton said, clasping wrists with Jutney. "I have imagined you testing many horrible ends, yet here you stand whole. Mayhap the Goddess does smile on us all."

"He and his men thought we were here to end you and meant to stop us," Yanda said. "There was a moment when we were near blows." She shook her head. "Sticks and knives against our bows and swords - bravery and stupidity in abundance."

"We knew nothing of bows," Jutney countered with a shrug. "I am the Answer's soldier, and you did not look like a friend. Mayhap I should have asked first."

"Aye," Yanda agreed. "If it were not for Filgot and Cavid shouting it all down, it would have been a mess."

Jutney nodded. "Many dead Sorinnians." Kelton smiled at the bravado, though Yanda rolled her eyes.

"Come," Yanda said. "My mother waits." She turned to Cavid and pointed to Jutney. "Bring this fool with you and more of that tea of yours. It pleases the Queen, and I prefer her happy."

"Fool?" Jutney argued. He did not see Yanda's smirk, for she had turned and began waddling away. "Had you not given me this blade..." There was no real threat in his tone, though it was evident that his arrogance-laden confidence had not waned with age. It was welcome in Kelton's eyes. Confidence is one thing they needed in abundance. There were more examples of it in the men he greeted as they walked along the disorganized line of Aragonians. With swords on their hips, they looked like warriors - a good sign.

"I like this Jutney," Yanda whispered. "He has many tales of your foolishness from times past. That time in the tavern..."

"Lies," Kelton interrupted, adding a smile to prove his claim false.

Brandish sighed loudly, letting the world about him see his frustration. "You must not half-commit with weakness," he chastised Mannily, then turned to the group he and his men were training. "Hesitation will see your insides spilled upon the ground." He turned back to Mannily. "Are you a man, or fodder for worms?"

"I..." Mannily faltered. Brandish could see fear, as well as water, welling up in Mannily's eyes.

"Weakness is death," Brandish said, moving his face within a hand's breadth of Mannily's. The boy was not a soldier. "You are more hindrance than advantage. A sword is earned, not given to any fool who dreams of being a hero." Brandish's anger rose as his choice of joining the Answer seemed more foolish by the day. "Return to your wagons, pup." He turned away in disgust.

"Nay," Mannily yelled. Brandish turned as if the statement were a sword thrust. Mannily flinched yet stood firm. "It is my right."

"Right? For you, it is only the right to die," Brandish said, moving closer. Intimidation was bred into him by a father who tolerated no disrespect. Mannily stepped backward, then stiffened.

"Valenti, my sister, was chosen," Mannily said, his voice now holding strength. It surprised Brandish that the words no longer faltered. "I did nothing then, but I will fight now. If I die, so be it."

"You were weak then, and you are no stronger now," Brandish goaded. There was a spark in the boy, and Brandish decided to ignite it. "You learned from your father, whose weakness allowed your sister to be used as a..."

A growl accompanied the swing of Mannily's wooden sword. It was horribly forecast by the cocking of his shoulders. The boy should have jabbed forward, not attempted a wide slash. Brandish tightened his jaw and allowed the wood to connect with his upper arm, something he could have easily blocked. Mannily yelled and attempted to follow up his strike with another - this one Brandish blocked with his sword. He moved forward into Mannily, grasped the back of the boy's neck, and pulled their foreheads together.

"That is strength!" Brandish said. The boy was correct; he had every right to face soldiers and Brethren. He would die, of that Brandish was sure, but were they not both foolish in their choices? Brandish separated and stepped out of Mannily's range, turning toward the surprised trainees.

"It is his sister that drives his blade," Brandish said. "You must all find your purpose and let it fill your soul." He formed a fist and shook it in front of him. "The enemy must see that hatred, for it attacks their convictions and whittles away their purpose." He turned back to Mannily. "If you desire to die for your sister, then heed my lessons for I will teach you to make them pay dearly for it."

"Aye," Mannily said. He was stronger of mind now, though no stronger in arm.

Brandish forced himself not to rub the growing bruise on his arm. He knew he would soon regret not blocking the boy's swing, but it served its purpose. Perhaps Mannily would be a useful distraction to the enemy before he perished on the field. The man's sister deserved at least that.

Kelton looked around trying to estimate the collective impression from the gathered Sorinnian leaders. It was hard to tell whether horror or disbelief molded the look in their eyes. He had just finished answering the last question after what was a lengthy rendition of all that had happened since he had returned to Aragonia. It was a choppy story, broken up by Yanda teaching him the proper words for complex explanations. Kelton tried to avoid any language nuances that would lead to unintentional falsehoods.

"Your story does mirror what we have heard from the men who follow your lead," the Queen said. "It also uncloaks much of the mystery, then adds more puzzles that are difficult to digest." Her lips stiffened, and, with eyes narrowed, she considered what was said. "It does fit cleanly with why this land is feared." Kelton was concerned with her tone. It sounded as if she thought there was a chance he made it up for nefarious purposes. He began to wonder if their help was not the foregone conclusion he thought it was.

"Yanda?" the Queen asked. Kelton was not sure what she was asking.

"Kelton would not lie to me," Yanda said with conviction. "Nor I to him." Kelton smiled.

"Ah, but he holds your life debt," Serinda said. She turned to one of the unit leaders. "Tinak?"

"Truth," Tinak replied, nodding her head.

The next leader the Queen queried doubted Kelton's account yet worded it in a way that did not impugn Kelton's character. He questioned the story as more of a flawed interpretation of facts or possibly embellished as a means to an end. Kelton was about to speak in his own defense but heeded Yanda's shake of her head. It was not his time to speak.

And so it went from leader to leader with only half trusting Kelton, or perhaps they heeded Yanda's trust. In hindsight, it was difficult for those born in Aragonia to grasp the truth, so Kelton should not have been surprised that it was even more challenging for outsiders to believe. The last to be queried was Parinada.

"I lean to the one who chose me," Parinada said, sharing a smile with Yanda. "Yet there is a way to grow confidence in the tale." The Queen's eyes widened. "I shall cross blades with Kelton," Parinada said.

"I have no desire..." Kelton began.

"Yes," Yanda interrupted, struggling to her feet. "Blunted training blades," she added for Kelton's benefit. "Parinada ranks as one of our best with the sword. Would not this 'Knowing' be apparent then?"

"He will protect your life debt," one of the doubting leaders said.

"Blunted blades?" Kelton asked. Yanda nodded. He realized that no one would end up more than sore. "Then perhaps others will join my new brother." There was initial laughter that petered out when Kelton stiffly stood his ground. He could see some of the dissenters beginning to rethink their doubts. They needed to see with their own eyes, and his show of confidence was the first step.

All looked to the Queen. She sipped her tea, probably to give herself time to think, as her eyes traveled the circle of leaders.

"What is happening?" Cavid whispered. Jutney and Filgot looked equally confused.

"They mean to test me," Kelton replied. "It is a hard tale to believe on its face."

"I thought you committed," Jutney said, looking at Yanda.

"We are," Yanda said. "It is the manner of help being considered. The battle mind is being shaped. Now we measure the breadth of our fidelity - it is our way."

The Queen lowered her tea, and all went silent, awaiting her words. "We will see this Knowing," she announced. Kelton nodded.

King Gregory sat down on the cushioned crate with the slowness of a man much older than the winters he had seen. Three days on a horse had taken its toll, his backside aching as if it were one enormous bruise. At least being alone in the tent allowed for the privacy to grimace properly. It was only weakness if it were seen.

"Rider approaching," the guard outside of the tent announced. Another snarl invaded the King's face. He would prefer to languish in his pain alone. "Striker, sire," the guard added a moment later.

"Enter," Gregory ordered. Thoughts of the scout rerouting their passage crossed his mind, possibly adding days to the travel. He shifted on the crate to relieve some pain and prepared to declare any extension a threat to the crown.

"Riders have arrived from the south, sire," Striker said, his scent following his words. The man must roll himself in the deadfall of the forest to achieve its odor to such perfection.

"The southern force still merges in two days?" Gregory asked, pleased that Striker had not mentioned another reroute.

"Aye," Striker said, though that did not look to be his intended message. "There is something more," he added with a lowered voice. Gregory waved him closer when he gathered the news was not for all ears.

"A new force is moving north, and they are like nothing seen before," Striker whispered. "They wear thick leather, blackened, as is their skin."

"No foreign force would step upon this land," Gregory said, louder than he intended. He adjusted himself and lowered his voice. "Mayhap Magna'est has called forth allies for this war." Gregory's heart sank at the idea.

Striker shook his head. "It does not seem so. They are followed by many Aragonians wearing no colors, yet each wears a sword." He reached into his tunic and produced a broken stick, perfectly straight and feathered at the end. "One of the scouts approached too closely, and this was thrown at him with such speed, it embedded itself deep in a tree." Striker handed the item to Gregory. "Is this not a spear from that weapon you spoke of?"

Gregory smiled as he took the broken arrow in his hand. The workmanship was remarkable as if the wood had been molded by a master potter. There were no blemishes or indication that the wood had ever been anything but perfectly shaped. The bluish feathers were stiff, and from some bird he could not identify. "Aye, it is from a bow."

"I believe they are here for him," Striker said.

Gregory chuckled. "He has found allies where there should be none."

"It is your blood running through the Answer's veins," Striker said. "It is time you..."

Angry, muffled words were heard at the entrance, followed by a scuffle and the sound of metal leaving sheaths. A dagger appeared in Striker's hand as he turned about, positioning himself between the King and possible trouble - a move that surprised Gregory, who had thought Striker's loyalty lay only with the Answer. Gregory reached for his sword - a ponderous blade of his family line, more ceremonial than useful.

The flap at the entrance burst open and the two guards stationed outside spilled onto the ground. They were locked in combat, swords too long to be of any use were let free as they wrestled for supremacy.

"What is this?" the King demanded. Striker took a step back, his free arm held out to guide Gregory farther backward, away from the turmoil.

A waist blade appeared in the hand of one of the guards, the other holding back the wrist that wielded it. Gregory was about to call for assistance when it ended. The blade, driven by the weight of the guard on top, was forced into the other. Striker moved with speed Gregory did not expect, diving atop the victor and wrestling the man onto his side. The guard ceased any movement, exposing his palms in surrender as Striker's blade threatened his neck.

"What is the meaning of this?" Gregory asked again, this time with volume. He pointed his sword at the man, using two hands to hold the monstrous blade steady. Gregory wondered if the sword had ever been used in such a manner.

"Your words carried, sire," the guard said. His eyes indicated the bleeding corpse, a dagger buried in the chest where a heart once beat. "Some see profit in them."

"Verdi, is it not?" the King asked.

"Aye, sire," the guard replied. He almost tried to nod then thought better of it since Striker's blade had yet to yield the space.

"You do not see profit in my words?"

"It is not coin I seek, sire," Verdi replied. Striker's hold lessened some. "I desire to serve a true king, not one guided by lies."

Gregory lowered his blade, letting the tip dig into the dirt by its sheer weight. "You think me guided by lies?"

"I did, sire," Verdi replied. He tried to look at Striker but could not turn his head enough. "Are your words true? Does a new king rise by right and by blood?" Striker released his hold and removed the blade from Verdi's neck.

"You heard too much," Gregory said, chastising himself as much as the ears that heard. Striker stood and kicked the fallen blades out of reach, then held out his hand. Verdi took it and rose as well. Trust was difficult.

"Aye," Verdi replied, his response devoid of any honorifics. It caused a smile to emerge on Striker's face.

The sounds of battle must have alerted the captain of the guard, for shouting could be heard outside of the tent. Unwanted help was coming.

"I will hear your loyalties now," the King demanded. Time was not on their side.

"To the Answer," Verdi said without hesitation, "and the end of lies, sire."

Striker nodded to Gregory as the tent filled with soldiers and others stationed themselves outside in a protective ring. The captain of the king's guard entered, and shock painted his face when he saw the dead man. Time had run out, and decisions had to be made. Striker's nod indicated his trust in Verdi, yet that trust put all at risk. A gamble either way.

"Gunvin!" The King said, his voice awash with anger. "Why have you placed an agent of this false prophet in my midst?" He pointed at the dead guard. Gunvin fumbled his reply, the beginning of a mixture of ignorance and half-proofs of the dead man's loyalty.

"Loyal? Do loyal men rush their King with heresy on their lips?" Gregory demanded.

"Nay, sire," Gunvin replied, his voice begging for forgiveness. "It is not..."

"Enough excuses," Gregory said, waving away Gunvin's next words. He used his command voice, the one that only Magna'est and his traitorous wife would ignore. "You will return from whichever unit birthed you. Let them remind you of the duties demanded of the king's men." He turned away from the captain's weak pleas. "Verdi, it is you who saw this traitor for what he was. It is your quick mind and sure blade that sees me still breathing." He clapped his hand forcibly on Verdi's shoulder. "My guard is now in your hands. I leave it to your proven loyalty to choose those who are faithful to their king."

"I will guard your blood with my life, sire," Verdi declared. Gregory found it oddly gratifying that the only true loyalty he could gather was that given to his son. The King of Lies deserved no more.

A large training circle had formed, about fifty paces across. It was rimmed with leather-clad warriors and Aragonians. Kelton removed his cloak, folded it, and set it on the ground. There were murmurs when Spider's-bite were revealed strapped upside down on his back.

"You wield two swords?" Parinada asked as he also stripped away restrictive outer garments.

"Yes," Kelton replied. "It is the way of the tribe who taught me the skill." He pulled the sheaths from his shoulders and laid the blades safely atop his folded cloak, for they held more value than a mere piece of cloth. He had intended to stop at that point, yet the warmth of the afternoon sun allowed him the freedom of choice. There was a story carved on his body that held power, so he removed his tunic.

"Goddess," Parinada said. It was the least of the comments that now traveled the circle.

"It has been a hard road," Kelton said, indicating first the scars, and then the Nagada swirls on his torso. "Beast, masters, and saviors mark me now." There were whispers about the mark of the beast churning amongst the Aragonians. The tale held power, and Kelton knew he needed to employ it. If Tarvakian taught him anything, it was the need to win the mind before the deal was struck.

"Armor?" Parinada offered as he adjusted his leather chest piece.

Kelton smiled. "It will not be needed."

"I have been chosen," Urlia announced as she approached, carrying three dulled swords.

Parinada smirked. "Volunteered, more like." He relieved her of two blades, handing one to Kelton. "Be wary of this one. She is swift and will slide past your weaknesses like wind through leaves."

The Queen entered the ring with Yanda at her side and motioned for the combatants to move to the center. Yanda greeted Parinada there and adjusted his woven hair as she whispered something he found pleasing. She cradled his head and kissed him, though not on his forehead, and Parinada's lips responded in kind. There was a glow in her eyes as they separated, a look Kelton had never received from her. Parinada was her true happiness.

Yanda moved to Urlia and said something else Kelton could not hear. Urlia smiled as her hands reached out and rubbed Yanda's bloated belly. Urlia whispered something that caused Yanda to laugh in return. Kelton could tell they were well known to each other.

"The lesson is now the least of your scars," Yanda said as she approached Kelton. It surprised him that she was not speaking in Sorinnian.

"Those lashes are the worst of my scars, for they held no purpose," Kelton said.

"Aye," Yanda agreed. "Though I would not undo what was done." The way she said it brought back memories of house Tarvakian and all that had occurred. He had gathered a family there, Yanda's timely arrival being proof of that. Without them, he would have faltered and never returned. They were his road back to Juno.

"Not a stroke," Kelton agreed, his smile showing his shared understanding.