The War of Six Crowns: The Heir's Choice

A Solution to Caranth

Gawain stood in Castle Sylmion's empty council hall, staring out one of its large windows. The ocean seethed, its black waves in constant motion. Dark clouds roiled as actively as the water below it and winds tried their best to rattle the edifice on the cliffs.

His home. It was ancient by Nordaine's standards, built on the first Black Knight's home. The proud castle exuded both power and beauty. He'd been in many beautiful places, but he loved this one above all.

Gawain's hand caressed the black stone below the sill, knowing every indentation, until his hand met a familiar cut. G.

His G. His home.

He let his hand drift along a little bit.

D.

His hand didn't search out the Q and S.

Long ago on a rainy afternoon, the day after their Ordeals, Gawain, Darrion, Siofra and Quin had carved out the letters. Back when they all were still friends. Before Darrion and Siofra had fallen in love. Before Quin killed her for reasons no one except possibly the King believed.

Darrion had his eye on Nordaine's throne from a young age, and had dreamed without end about winning it. His glee at the King announcing the four of them as possible heirs to the throne had been palpable.

Gawain had spoken for them all when he declared Darrion the best choice. Their births might have been better than his, but he had the most merit. They'd wanted to assist him in becoming king. Darrion needed competition, though. As if Quin's, Siofra's and Gawain's houses trying to kill him wasn't enough of a thrill for him. His constant search for validation required it. So he'd insisted that they all should try. One would be crowned, the rest would become advisors. Together, they'd make what would become the most powerful alliance Nordaine had seen in centuries. They'd signed the agreement in stone.

It was long ago.

They were still children then.

As if Gawain's thoughts conjured him, Darrion sauntered to the wall next to their window and rested his back against it.

Gawain kept his gaze trained to the outside, not bothering to try and read Darrion's soul. His gift meant almost everyone was an open book to him. Except for other readers, whose gifts could cause painful interference, and Darrion, who gave away no sense of his soul at all. Because Gawain was the most powerful reader known, he could still wring some information out of other readers. With Darrion, he had to rely on expressions and their years of growing up together. Fortunately, Darrion's guard slipped every now and then. Or he willingly let Gawain in to an extent. Because they knew each other so well, it was as if they had a wordless conversation.

But for now, nothing.

A tomb-like silence fell over the landscape. Not even a breeze stirred the foam upon the murky ocean. The few people and animals remaining outside would now flee for cover. No one stayed outside when the northern wind came down. Seconds ticked by. An eternity of a wait for something inevitable.

Darrion faced the window and stood in suppressed excitement.

The Fury struck. She roared down from her northern palace with a force that rattled almost every window in the castle. The temperature dropped and ice frosted the windows.

"She's mean today." Darrion's plumes of breath fogged up the glass in front of him. He wiped it clean with the edge of his sleeve.

Gawain shrugged. "She knows she must wait an entire season before she can come down again."