The raven soars high above the towers of Heremac.
Far below her crawl the tiny shapes of crusaders, enjoying one last revel before undertaking their many long journeys home. Other small forms wind through the city streets, celebrating the newfound—and hard-won—deliverance.
The setting sun catches the raven’s wings as she banks eastward, toward Derwich and the many days of toil ahead, as the castle and the barony itself will be rebuilt from the foundations up. And beyond Derwich lies the ruined kingdom of the ruck-men, its inhabitants only now beginning to awaken to their new lives as forgiven men.
The raven banks again and descends slightly, now pointed toward Upchurch, safe and at peace once more. Upchurch, where the men play many a thankful song, and many a mournful one, as blessings are counted and lost friends remembered.
One more turn points the raven towards the great, untamed Westwoode. Her course now set, she wings her way toward the unbroken horizon of green.
The Westwoode, the Winter Solstice, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Sixteen. Noon.
Valerius, Helena, Hermia.
“This is it, daughters,” says Valerius, pointing toward the great black promontory rising before him. “The Corbiestone.”
“Even with all the snow,” says Helena, “I can still spy the shape of a crow, rising from the black rock.”
“Aye,” says Hermia. “And I can feel the Grandmother here, as well. She is close to us, is she not?”
“I do not sense her, myself,” says Valerius, “But you may very well be right, child. I first encountered her not far from here, when she gave me Noxumbra. It was nearby here that we slipped out of this world and into hers.
“But let us stop for a moment, daughters, right here, for I am tired from the walk. My kind does not walk as lightly over the deep snows as does yours.”
“Of course, father,” says Helena. “We forget these things.”
Valerius sighs and gazes long at the Corbiestone. “It seems strange to think how much has befallen, how much has changed since first I looked upon its form. I could not have imagined then all the things that were to come in the following years. Tell me, daughters: what do you see before me now? Surely not as much change as I have seen these last few years.”
“Oh, father,” says Hermia, with a laugh. “You must be teasing us, as you already know the answer. The mortal realm is ever-changing, always changeable. It is the only thing to be counted upon here.”
“But perhaps,” says Helena, “what you really mean to ask is, ‘Will what I see before me change for the worse?’”
“Well, will it?” asks Valerius.
“For mortal men, peace and happiness are ever short-lived things,” says Hermia. “That is why they find such moments as this so sweet… because they are so rare and fleeting. Oh father, enjoy these few happy days right now, savor them while you may. For as you know in your heart, all things must needs change. Though there are many more pleasant days before you, always remember that peace is easily broken, and sorrow never far away.”
“In time,” says Helena, “the men of these lands will forget what they have fought for, these last few years, as well as what they saw at Heremac. And soon enough they will turn against each other. Without Tereus, the Frounter lands become much more prosperous and attractive to settlers. And there are many fair lands in the ruckish kingdom that yet lay unclaimed. And though the conversion of the ruck-men may be genuine, there are many men whose hearts are not yet ready to embrace their redeemed brothers.”
“So it always was with men,” says Hermia, “And so it ever shall be. Given enough time, they will always find some new way to divide themselves up, to make war on one another.”
“And there are always,” says Helena, “the other, usual sorts of troubles ahead. Hungers, sicknesses, sadnesses aplenty, as well as greater calamities. The part and parcel of the mundane world. Surely you did not think that dragon in the mountain would slumber on ‘til Doomsday? Or that the surviving ruckish queens would be content in their exile forever? Oh no. Those few elder things left in this world will not go gently away, not without a fight or two. But they are getting rarer, every day, as mankind spreads and the wild places recede into memory, as magic fades from the land.”
“And my friends?” asks Valerius. “How shall they fare in this new world?”
“Many, probably most,” says Hermia, “shall prosper, know much happiness, and live long lives before they die. But not all of them will be so lucky. For a few, darker fates await them.”
“The Barony of Derwich shall grow and prosper,” says Helena. “Young Errol shall become a knight, and in latter days be reckoned a great lord. Though his father Hamral shall only catch but a glimpse of his son’s success.”
“And the god-child Agnes shall also rise to power,” says Hermia, “and in time shall rule over men for many years. She shall usher in a great era of peace and harmony, before she is betrayed and… well, you know what follows that, don‘t you, father?”
Valerius nods, sadly. “And what of… What of…”
“What of yourself?” says Helena. “Poor father. You have always known that you were not fated to lead a simple or carefree life, haven’t you? And yet you have tried, tried so hard, to resist temptation.”
Valerius nods, his jaw clenched.
“There are many trials ahead for you, father,” says Hermia. “But know this, at least: you will not be alone, not until the very last.”
“Well then,” says Valerius, standing up abruptly. “I have sat too long now, and seem to have caught a chill. We should press on before dark.”
The two girls giggle and scamper ahead into the wood.
The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac, XX Caulding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seventeen. Sext.
Ellen Golding.
“Pipe down, pipe down, ye fat, blustery, ignorant fools,” cries Ellen Golding, flashing her wide, gap-toothed smile. “I have heard enough of your idle blather for one day! Ye think you know what the Baron Derwich means to do with his new holdings? Do ye?
“Let me tell ye all, I have known his lordship since he were just a boy. He wasn’t always a great lord, did ye know that? He wasn’t always such a high-and-mighty knight, running around with magicians and saints and suchlike. No, by the Cup, no! Let me tell ye, he started out, well—just as humble as any one of us here in this room. Why his father, old Hamral, used to be a city guard, right here in Heremac, he did.”
Ellen drags a man out of his seat, and then swings her wide hips into his vacated chair. She tosses her long brown hair back and looks in at the quiet throng of men ringed about her, eagerly listening. “Let me tell ye all a story,” says Ellen, “from those early years, when young Hamral was cavorting about with some of his young friends, and that brave old sweet knight, Sir Will Garnfellow, who went and got himself killed defending Upchurch from a whole army of ruck-men.
“But that’s another story, lads, a tearful one, too, and best told another day. No, for right now what I want to tell you about happened long back before Hamral ever had Upchurch, before he was a knight, or before he even had two silver pennies to rub together. There were these bandits, you see…”