In Valkryn, the shining kingdom, Sam walked through the darkest corridors. He did not choose the wide roads, nor walk where the markets and torches burned. He avoided the light, wearing a robe that covered him completely, its hems trailing behind him on the stone. He stopped at every alley, looked, watched, walking as one who did not wish to be seen.
He stopped beside one of the modest houses and sat down, his back against the wall. His shoulders pressed flat against the cold stone. He took out an apple from his pocket and ate slowly, his eyes on the ground. He heard the city's sounds—a distant cart, a crying child, a door closing. The air was cold. The apple was cold.
When he finished, he rose, wiped his hands on the robe, and set off through the alleys of Valkryn. He did not know the way exactly, but he knew what he was looking for. Whenever he came across a larger alley, he stopped, contemplating those who passed through it, reading faces, searching for something.
Until he reached the southern suburb of the main city. He stopped before a large, straight door. Above it hung a faded wooden sign. Two young women stood before it, calling to men, smiling, holding the edges of their garments. Their voices were bright, practiced—the voices of women who had learned to sell warmth in a cold world.
Sam looked up at the building. It was tall. Two windows on the upper floor were lit. From them came noise—laughter, moaning.
He entered cautiously, walking through the corridors of the pleasure house. The walls were lined with dark red fabric, the lamps dim, the doors closed. Behind them came sounds: moaning, laughter, creaking beds. From one of the rooms, a woman emerged, half-naked. She placed her hand on her chest and looked at him.
"Looking for some pleasure? Go to the room over there. I have the right one for you." Her hand waved lazily toward a door at the end of the corridor.
Sam looked from beneath his robe and did not speak. He entered the room, keeping the robe on. The room was narrow, secluded. A low bed in the corner. A single candle. At the back, a mirror.
A woman entered and stood behind him. Her reflection appeared beside his in the glass. "What is wrong? Shy?" she said. Her lips curved—a small, professional smile. "Remove your clothes. Nothing to be ashamed of. We do this every day."
"I am not shy," said Sam. His voice was calm. He did not turn. "Just not here for that, woman."
The woman looked at him. Her smile faded. Her head tilted. Something in his way of speaking did not belong to this place. "What are you doing here, then?"
"Looking for someone."
"Sorry, but you are in the wrong place." She crossed her arms over her chest.
"No, I am exactly in the right place," said Sam. He turned his head just enough that his eyes caught hers in the mirror. "She used to work here. She... handled special cases. And she has experience. Great experience. As she said."
"I do not know what you are talking about. Get out." Her voice hardened. She stepped back.
"Sozon. Do you know her by that name?"
"Sozon?" The woman's brow furrowed. Her arms loosened. "She used to work here. But not anymore. Always thought she was better than us. 'Great experience'—that is something she might say." She paused, her jaw working. "Anyway, I do not know where she is or what she does. So if you are not here for pleasure, then I have nothing for you."
Sam looked into her eyes from beneath the robe. His voice dropped, soft and deliberate. "You would do anything for silver, would you?"
"It depends on how much silver." Her eyes narrowed.
Sam brought out the silver, gleaming in the light, and extended it to her. "Take this. I want you to give me her place. Where she lives."
The woman looked at the silver. She turned it in her hand, bit it, weighed it in her palm. Her fingers closed around the coins. "Alright. This will do," she said. She tucked the silver into her bodice. "It is not far from the pleasure house. You know—no matter how far a woman goes, she will find she is never far enough."
"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"
"Patience. Go down the hill. Keep straight. You will hear a house full of birds. That is the one."
"If you lie, I will return and take the silver back."
"There is no refund after a man has had his pleasure." She shrugged, one shoulder rising and falling. "That is how it works."
Sam left quietly, walking through the red corridor, feeling disgust at the smell of sweat and cheap perfumes and closed doors. He stepped out into the air and breathed—deep, slow, filling his lungs as though cleansing them. Then he walked along the road the woman had directed him to.
The road descended, the stones uneven, the houses low, the doors wooden. Some windows were lit. He heard his own footsteps, passed by tired faces, until he arrived.
When he stood before the door, he knew it at once. He did not need to ask. The sound was clear: the chirping of many birds, filling the place, quiet and rhythmic, like running water.
He knocked once, then twice. The door opened. It was Sozon.
Sam entered without permission, glancing around the place—the cages, many of them, filled with birds, some hopping, some pecking. Light entered through an opening in the ceiling. The air was warm.
Sozon still stood at the door. Her hand rested on the frame. "Get lost," she said. Her voice was flat, but her fingers tightened on the wood. "I no longer do those things."
Sam smiled. His lips curved slowly. "Why? Have you been purified?"
Sozon looked surprised. Her hand fell from the doorframe. Her body went still. "Sam."
He removed the robe. His face emerged from the shadow of the hood. "I am."
She closed the door quickly—then opened it again, her hand shaking on the handle. "What do you want? To see me hanged with you?"
"No one will be hanged today, unfortunately." He stepped past her into the room, his eyes moving over the cages. "I made sure no one saw me. Sit. Do you have anything to eat?"
Sozon was shocked, standing still, not moving. Her mouth opened, then closed. "You will eat and then leave immediately." She pointed a finger at him, her arm stiff. "And do not mention my name unless you wish to lose your rule."
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She went into the kitchen. Her footsteps were quick, uneven. "Do not expect to eat here what kings eat."
"Anything will do," said Sam.
He sat down, looking at the house, the cages, the opening through which light entered. His hands rested on his knees. "Why so many birds? Do they not disturb you while you sleep?"
"I used to work in the pleasure house," said Sozon. She did not turn from the counter. Her hands moved over the pots. "What do you hear there all day? Worse than the chirping of birds. And the bigger problem is—even after leaving, those sounds still stick in your mind." She paused. Her shoulders rose and fell. "Only the sounds of birds help."
"I think I understand."
She placed the food before him. The plate clattered against the wood. "Eat and leave."
"What if I refuse?"
"I will throw you out." She stood over him, her hands on her hips. "Do not expect royal treatment. You are no longer in your court, and no longer a king."
"Actually, it is not fair," said Sam. He picked up the spoon, turning it in his fingers. "I brought you into my palace when you were nothing. But I do not expect you to return the favour. I am a king. I will not become that miserable." He looked up at her. "I will leave after I finish my meal. Agreed?"
"Good." She sat across from him, her arms crossed.
Sam ate slowly. The spoon gleamed, the knife beside it. He chewed, looked at the table, not at her. His jaw moved with slow deliberation. When he finished, he placed the spoon and knife on the table—carefully, deliberately—raised his head, and looked at her.
"Now give me the real meal."
Sozon did not move. Her hands, resting on the table, went still.
"Or I will drive this knife between your legs." His eyes were steady, unblinking. His fingers touched the knife's handle—just resting there, not gripping. "Tell me—where is my bride?" His voice was quiet. "Or I will hurt you. And I will enjoy doing it. I always do."
Sozon was terrified. Under the table, her feet trembled. She held them with her hands, fingers pressing against her knees. Her breath came short. Without thinking, she said, "Izzadar. She is in Izzadar."
"Izzadar is a large place, full of beauties and cities."
"She works in the high palace."
"Meriel's palace?"
"Yes. She works under the name Klara. Which is not her name." Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Sam cleaned his teeth with his tongue. His head tilted. "Tell me what her name is. Her real name."
Sozon was gripping the table tightly. Her knuckles were white. She looked at Sam—at his eyes, at the knife beneath his fingers—and then said, "Sereine. That's her name."
Sam smiled. He looked at one of the birds in its cage. Its small body hopped from perch to perch. "Sereine," he repeated.
He rose from the table. His chair scraped against the floor. Sozon remained seated, her hands on her knees, her body rigid.
"I am leaving now. Thank you for the meal."
He looked at her, her eyes wide. "Cheer up," he said. His voice was light. "Beautiful days await us all."
He put his robe back on, opened the door, and left.
The sunlight still entered through the opening. The birds in their cages—their sounds filled the room. Sozon sat without moving. The knife was still on the table.
In Izzadar, the day was bright—not as bright as the days of Salter or Valkryn, but bright enough. The people had become more active, the alleys no longer silent, the oppressive atmosphere gone. Everyone seemed to have a purpose, a duty. Craftsmanship had resumed its clamour: smiths at their hammers, vendors calling, merchants displaying goods imported from other kingdoms. The air carried the smell of fresh bread, wood, and coal—the smell of life.
In the palace, the same was true. Meriel was heading to the breakfast table in the dining hall, his steps quicker than usual. He was hungry.
Layla was seated in her place. When she saw him enter, she greeted him with a smile. Her hand rose in a small wave. "Good morning, brother. How are you?"
"Fine. But a little hungry." He pulled out his chair and sat.
"Sit. Let's eat, then."
Meriel sat. He looked at Layla, who was smiling. He let out a light laugh. "Why are you smiling like that?"
"I don't know. I think the kingdom has an effect on our mood. Don't you think so?" she said with a laugh. Her shoulders shook slightly.
Meriel smiled as well. "Have you gone mad, sister?"
"I'm trying not to."
While the atmosphere was lively and full of smiles, one of the palace guards entered in his pure, splendid armour. He bowed. "He is here, Your Grace. Shall I let him in?"
"Yes. Let him have breakfast with us."
Layla wondered, her head tilting. "Who, brother?"
"He is my brother's hand. I mean, his cane. William Narsow."
William entered with his cane, his slow gait, a quiet smile. His bad leg dragged behind him. "Have I come at a bad time, my lord? My lady?"
"No. You're right on time. They are serving the breakfast. Sit." Meriel gestured toward the empty chair.
"Beautiful. I'm tired of eating outdoors." He moved forward to Layla, took her hand, and kissed it. His lips barely touched her skin. "I am sorry for what happened to Gerald."
Layla said, with obvious sadness on her face, her hand withdrawing slowly, "How is Rob?"
William said, "He's just doing well. He's a mature, strong, and intelligent young man." He nodded once.
Layla looked surprised. Her brow lifted. "Good. He's really smart. Take your seat. Let us not ruin the mood."
William sat in his place. While the food was being served, he was silent, as if somewhere else. His eyes moved over the table without settling.
"How are you doing?" said Meriel.
"A little tired," said William, not wanting to spoil the mood. He set his cane against the chair. "The road is long and tiring, and I'm feeling a little hungry."
"It is on its way," said Layla. She looked at Klara. "Come on, hurry. Our guest is hungry."
"Very much so," said William, holding his spoon and knife. His fingers adjusted their grip.
As Klara served the food, he looked at her with a strange glance. His eyes lingered on her face—a moment too long. After the plate was placed, William was the first to taste. He paused as he chewed. His jaw stopped moving.
"Strange," he said.
"Why? What is wrong?" said Layla. She leaned forward.
"The food is too salty."
"How? I do not keep much salt in this house. Not since I cut ties with Salter," said Meriel. His fork hovered mid-air.
"You restored them. I heard."
"Yes."
William smiled. His lips curved, but his eyes did not. "That is why. You would be surprised how far Salter's salt reaches."
Meriel tasted the food. He chewed slowly. "You're right, I guess."
Layla looked at Meriel. Her hand set her fork down with a small click. "Shall we stop talking about salt as if we have nothing else to talk about?"
"What, then?" said William.
"The bloody war."
William laughed, a light laugh. His shoulders shook once. "Very well. If you insist on spoiling the mood, I will address the matter." He put down his spoon and looked at Meriel. His eyes narrowed slightly. "What were you thinking when you restored relations with the two kingdoms?"
"Nothing. I only thought of my people's interest." Meriel's voice was flat.
"Good. That is what a king should do." William nodded. "But do not misjudge your enemies' steps. Their agreement does not necessarily mean they are on your side."
"I know," said Meriel. His hand clenched beside his plate. "Except my brother, no man had the spine to be on my side."
"Since they are not on our side, we will consider them as our enemies." William's voice was calm, final.
"They have the numbers. They have the advantage of waiting. What do we have?" said Layla. Her arms crossed over her chest.
"Surprise," said William.
"Then we will surprise them," said Meriel. His fist struck the table—light, but firm.
"Not today. And not tomorrow. We are not ready yet." William raised a hand, palm open. "Besides—the longer we wait, the deadlier the surprise. We will study every possibility. Every man. Every point. Every weakness." His hand closed into a fist. "That is how we win. That is what will make us ready for the surprise."
Meriel looked at William. His eyes were steady. "True. They have the numbers. We have the strongest men. We have been the wall against the Normens' threat for centuries. We have participated in wars against them more than any other kingdom. That means we will be the stronger hand."
William looked at Meriel. His head tilted slightly. "It will not be that easy. This is not a battle of strength. They have already won the first round." He paused. "So we must exercise some caution."
"What will we do, then?" said Layla. Her fingers tapped once on the table.
William gripped his cane. His knuckles paled. "First, I will eat. Then I will bathe. I think I am tired." He rose, the chair scraping behind him. "So I will rest a little. The road is long for a cripple like me." He looked at Meriel, then at Layla. "After that, we will discuss matters of war in the right place. Not at the breakfast table."
He paused. His eyes moved between them.
"I understand your enthusiasm and thirst for justice for Gerald. I share those same feelings." He tapped his cane once against the floor. "But I am a cripple. And a cripple has the right to rest."
He left. His cane struck the stone in a slow rhythm. The door closed behind him.
Meriel and Layla remained at the table. William's plate was half full, the spoon placed. Silence had returned.
"He is different," said Layla. Her voice was quiet.
"He is tired," said Meriel.
He looked at the window—at the city that had returned to life, at the smoke rising from the chimneys, at a people who were moving. He was thinking of the war, of the surprise, of the salt that had crept into his plate, and of William, who was bathing somewhere.
Something was moving beneath all this calm. Something that had not yet appeared.