Of Gods and Warriors ✓

After The Storm

Months passed into the next spring until Farren recovered from her wounds, and two years passed until Midaelia did the same under the iron-grip rule of the new queen. The Royal Guard was hence dissolved, and there arose the Silverhaarts, followers of a great warrior of old.

Yet the years following the siege of Byton were not without upheavals, despite the end of the war. Beyond the hills in Drisia, rebellions raged on the streets as it did amongst the members of the Council, for Drisian representatives previously dominating most of the decisions found their seats shaken. Queen Lysandra utilized exactly that, and managed to enforce with renewed strength the law of restriction in Drisia, banning practice of necromancy all over Stormvale.

The world around her might have changed, yet Farren found herself yearning to tread paths long familiar, refusing the promotion to the queen's personal guard she was offered after two years of relentless service.

"My heart lies in Kinallen, Your Majesty," said she, "and that is where I wish to go. I ask no more than the humble rank I previously boasted."

Queen Lysandra sighed, as though she had long anticipated this answer. "So says the rest of your folk, Corporal." She then let out a soft chuckle. "Wonder if you're all conspiring against me, leaving me all alone to sort out this barely closed wound of a city."

Farren smiled. "Byton heals under your touch. We will make sure, in your stead, that the healing reaches the farthest provinces. If you need us, you need only call. Thanks to the hard work of our Royal Sorcerer, sorcerous carriages are no longer limited to mail service."

"Ah, speaking of the Royal Sorcerer..." Lysandra trailed off, rising from her throne and gesturing at Farren to follow, "he aims to leave for Kinallen in a few days."

Outside in the sunlit courtyard, an ornate high-speed carriage drew up, pulled by a pair of magnificent horses. Servants came carrying crates of wine, bags of tea, cups of porcelain and goblets of etched glass. Farren wondered if the sorcerer had worked on the carriages simply because he wanted to transport without harm his favorite yet fragile things—and his poor bones, as he so loved to say.

"Ryffin has taken a short leave from his teaching at the academy, and so they wish to visit his house at the wooded hillsides of Kinallen. I suppose two more carriages can be arranged, and you along with those of Brittlerock could set off on the same day."

Farren gazed at the queen. Sunrays glittered at the jewels above her brow, her features proud yet melancholic. The courtroom they stood in was so very enormous, the pristine walls far apart. When she held court here with her counselors filling the hall and guards flanking the throne, the picture was of grandeur.

Yet when empty, the same halls had a way of making even the mightiest of rulers look small and lonesome. And that was the way it had been most days of recent, for life around the palace picked up pace to meet the new challenges that arose around the land. Raising a ravaged kingdom back on its feet was a task both solitary and draining, when everyone turned to the queen in their times of need. And on top of that, the music of her life is missing, whiling away in a distant outpost.

Queen Lysandra regarded her with a quizzical smile. "What is it, soldier? Cat got your tongue?"

Farren shook her head.

"Come to Kinallen, Your Majesty," she said. "I do believe Captain Walric can hold fort in your place for a few days."

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"Don't eat it all by yourself. And do not blow it up. Understood?" said Finnian, packing cookies.

"For the last time, I did not blow up your cookies. The box just happened to be in a building that got targeted by a Firemount," groaned Farren as she struggled to fit a bundle of clothes in her knapsack, half knowing that Fin would fuss over it, take it all out again to fold them.