Rampion

 

ram·pi·on -- n. 1. A biennial Eurasian plant (Campanula rapunculus) having rosette leaves with winged stalks, panicles of lilac-colored flowers, and an edible root used in salads. 2. Any of various similar plants of the genus Phyteuma.

 

Once upon a time there was a woodcutter and his wife, who lived at the very edge of a haunted forest. The woodcutter, one Edwin by name, was not a terribly good woodcutter; he tended to get sidetracked by strange and wonderful ideas, and bringing these ideas to reality was a passion that could, and frequently did, occupy him for weeks and months at a time. Fortunately although a very poor woodcutter, he had the foresight to marry a very shrewd wife who was usually able to persuade the local Duke to purchase many of his highly inventive toys. Little did the poor woman realize that Duke Cyrus had nefarious designs upon her person, and bought the things to hold them up for ridicule among his peers, seeking to drag down her husband and cause her to despite.

Eventually though, the Duke tired of his little game, and decided to advance his cause in a more-direct manner. The resounding slap left not only his study but his ears ringing as well. Rather than taking this as the rebuff it was meant to be, her show of spirit only increased his ardor to possess her as his own.

Thus, one fine spring morning in particular found the Duke booted and spurred, wrapped in ermine and mink, mounted on a fiery chestnut stallion. His saddlebags bulged not with provender, but rather with gold and glimmering gemstones, satins, silks and brocades of the finest weaves ever seen. His most trusted manservant stood at his side, stirrup cup held firm awaiting the Duke's pleasure; an ebon-skinned warrior of a race of warriors, bound to service for his king's honor. Z'damoar was he named in his mother-tongue, called Trueheart, and in this he was true as his name, for never did he fail to speak but once his voice stilled he did follow his master's commands.

"Beloved Master," he spoke now, and drank from both flask and cup lest there be a hidden taint not detectable to his nose. "I cannot think this is the course of wisdom. Take the blonde witch if you will and break her spell, but seek not the words of the Seer of the Woods, for I fear there lies only death and heartbreak."

"My Heart," the sandy-haired Duke replied, "I must, for to force the Fair Katherine to my hand is to invite disaster at every turn, and 'tho it desires me to have her, e'en thy quick spear cannot protect me from every man who would turn their hand against me."

Z'damoar sighed deep from his heart. "If this be thy wish, My Duke, then let us onward, and I shall stand before and behind, as ever." He saluted the Duke with the flask, draining it to the very dregs.

Duke Cyrus said nothing, for the loyalty of his servant moved him deeply and tears choked his voice as ivy does the alabaster column. Instead he raised his cup and drained it, crumpling the frail golden vessel in his hand before tossing it aside, and 'tho the words raised up in his mouth in multitude, all that he could say was, "Onward then, oh My Heart!" And the Duke on his stallion flew from the courtyard, his Faithful One hotly on his heels.

Over hill and dale, briar and bramble did they run, the russet stallion and his two-legged shadow. Night followed day, and day night, for while east and west the woods were less than a strong man might walk in a day, north and south they reached the ends of the earth. At long last, at long last did they stop, foot-sore and weary, at the first of the cairns that marked the southernmost boundaries of the Seer's domain just as the sun began to set on their third day of travel.

"Behold, My Heart, the first of the Seer's markers," the Duke said, sliding down from his steed's back. "Let us sleep here in its shadow, for the glen is fair, if snowy still. A good night's rest will see us with strength to make the first payment for the Seer's help."

"As thou wish, My Master; but bide a moment and I shall light a fire for thy warmth."

Duke Cyrus stood from his stretch and stopped Z'damoar with outstretched hand. "But stay a moment. See instead to Roland, and I shall tend the blaze, that we two may be the warmer the faster."

The men smiled at each other and went to their tasks with a will. The Duke gathered a good faggot of deadfall to have nearby, that the brothers of the night would stand at bay, while his companion tended to the grateful Roland. Soft footed the dark warrior returned to his Duke's side, a pair of coneys taken and cleaned on the run held in one hand.

The Duke rose to meet him, his fine garments in disarray from their wild charge through the woods. He took the hares from Z'damoar's hand and tossed them near the fire where a pair of quickly sharpened stakes awaited them. Grasping the dark man's hands in his own he drew his companion nearer the blaze, shaking his head. "Ah, My Very Dear, I would thou grant me permission to clothe thee in the silks that befit thy beauty. For see? Thy hands are chill and rough from this frozen air, let me warm them."

With one hand the Duke loosened his ties still further, then recaptured Z'damoar's hands and guided them against his flesh, the chill roughness against the heat of his male parts sending a shiver through him that was less than half shock at the coolness. Z'damoar grinned widely and stepped closer, letting one hand wrap his Beloved's half-grown cock while the other rolled the rounded balls in their pale-furred sack. The little catch of breath the Duke gave at the feeling pleased him, and he used his intimate grasp to guide the shorter man backwards to the blankets piled near the fire. One last tug of the tight-swollen orbs he gave then slid his hand around the other man's hip and over a firm buttock.

"Thy skin is chill, My Master, let me chafe it warm," Z'damoar murmured against a frost-touched temple, suiting actions to words. And if the circling strokes he used slowly tugged the Duke's trous looser and looser until they fell 'round his knees, why, was that not for the best, that the delicate skin feel the fire sooner?

The Duke made a sound between a moan and a whimper, caught between arching up into the firm, calloused stroke and thrusting back against the finger gently stroking his dark cleft. He shuddered and grasped at his beloved's hips to steady himself, letting his own hands wander across smooth skin that gleamed in the firelight. Cyrus's hands found their way under the tail of Z'damoar’s breechclout and tugged at the knot that held his strange, spotted catskin. With a last jerk the warrior's covering fell away, revealing the Duke's prize for his determination. Proud and strong as its owner the ebony column rose between them and this time Cyrus stepped forward, sliding their cocks together with carnal heat.

It was Z'damoar's turn to shiver at his Duke's actions, and Cyrus chuckled in his turn. "Ah, My Master," Z'damoar whispered, "I fear thou has suffered some hurt, for tears pool in thine third eye here below." He ran his thumb across the small opening of the throbbing flesh he cradled, spreading the dampness thinly across its cheek. “I would kiss it save I fear my lips are themselves chilled.”

The Duke raised one hand to cradle the back of Z'damoar’s head, drawing it down the few inches between their heights. “Come then, My Heart, and let me warm them with mine breath, for ‘tho I feel no pain I would fain have thy great heart reassured.” Cyrus tipped his head then his lips brushed lightly across the sweetness of Z'damoar’s mouth. Once, twice, and once again he nuzzled their mouths together, ‘til the foreign warrior growled deep and grasped the Duke’s head firmly between his hands and joined them together, thrusting his tongue deep into the smaller man’s mouth. Still paired Z'damoar urged the Duke down onto the blankets, breaking from him only long enough to hastily strip off Cyrus’s last clothing.

For a long minute Z'damoar crouched at Cyrus’s feet, studying the pale form. “Thou art beautiful, My Master; more fair than the spring dawning, and I the ox beneath thy foot.”

The Duke stared back, watching firelight dance across darkness, then he reached forth his hand, saying, “If I am the dawn, then thou art the night and its deep velvet warmth. Come to me, My Heart, and let us chase the pale stars from the sky, us two, my sun and thy moon.”

Cyrus grabbed the hand Z'damoar stretched towards him and pulled the other to him, cradling his weight between strong thighs. The sudden shock of pleasure brought forth little cries from the both. Helplessly Cyrus locked his legs high around Z'damoar’s back, grinding their groins together to near pain. Unbalanced, Z'damoar threw out a hand to catch himself, and it landed painfully upon something hard within the blankets they writhed on. Panting with the effort to keep himself from spilling on the delightful body under his he started to throw the intruder from under him, recognizing only just in time the small flask of sweet oil for what it was.

“Yesss, My Heart!” The Duke cried, his eyes fastening tight on what the other held. “Take me, pierce me with thy fleshly spear.”

Z'damoar fought his traitorous body still with a long shuddering breath then pulled himself reluctantly away. Though the two had shared their beds many times over the decade since Z'damoar's father had bound him to the Duke in gratitude for saving his queen's life, this act, this bonding was rare between them. He watched in lustful fascination while his Duke held himself open for the oil Z'damoar poured over his Beloved Master's netherparts. While the oil was rare, it could be purchased from merchants who traveled in the Far East, making it less rare than the delights spread on the furred blankets by a northern fire.

The warrior prepared his lover's body carefully, spending long minutes fondling the stiff cock, pinching sharply at the base when the Duke's movements became too frantic. Love bites decorated the pale thighs, slowly darkening in peace while Z'damoar's fingers made their way to the hidden sweetness he'd been invited to share. The heat when he first breeched the softness with one blunt finger was nearly his own undoing but he forced himself to stillness by watching Cyrus writhe under his touch.

The pale man's babble of encouragement had faded to a child's whimper of need by the time Z'damoar was satisfied with his preparations. Gently he eased back from Cyrus's panting body and placed him on his side. Z'damoar coated himself with the last of the oil and lay behind him, urging one knee up with his own so that he nudged the rosebud opening with his blunt member. Slowly then, so slowly he though the dawn might indeed chase the last of the stars to their pale daylight home before he could seat himself fully. But finally the deed was done and the both of them rested, the dark warrior's sword at last fully sheathed in moist warmth.

"Ah, My Heart, it does me good to feel thee so, in me and around me as thou art." The Duke sighed, and reached for the strong hand that had begun to slowly stroke his hardness, lingering traces of sweet scent from the oil wafting around them. "How is it, My Heart, that as often as we lie together this is so rare between us?"

Z'damoar chuckled slightly, then moaned when his movements shivered his cock across Cyrus's sweetspot, causing the other to gasp and clamp tightly around him. "Because, oh My Master," he gasped out when he could, "it would take this most sacred of acts between warriors such as we are, and make it no more than if it was happening with a whore. Now cease thy thoughts and instead feel me, feel my heart and my strength, for they exist only for thee." And with those words Z'damoar pulled the other man more firmly against him and dipped his head to bite gently at the nape of the Duke's neck, careful not to break the skin while his thrusts became stronger and deeper, until finally he rolled Cyrus onto his belly and drove them both to completion and their cries of pleasure fulfilled mingled with the cries of the nightrunners in the far mountains.

Dawn found the two lovers still entwined from the night's pleasure, the fire a warm glow of coals. Reluctantly they separated with a last lingering kiss, the Duke to tend the whickering Roland, anxious for breakfast, and Z'damoar to tend the hares thrown hastily aside in their need to feed a different hunger.

By the time the edge of the sun could be seen over the tops of the trees, twice the size she appeared in the Duke's lands to the south, the two had cleared all signs of their presence from the small grove wherein stood the first of the three cairns that told the price of the Seer's words. They looked at each other and shivered, but neither felt the chill of the wind that gnawed away at the trees surrounding them, slowly bending them into obeisance to forces older than earth. Finally Duke Cyrus took a deep breath and started to step off the last few feet keeping him from the featureless rock in the center of the site.

"My Master," Z'damoar spoke from behind him, "I ask thee, do not do this; no woman, nay nor man, is worth the price thou'lt surely pay."

Duke Cyrus stilled, but a step from the stone. Something he heard in his bonded servant's voice, something that he felt down to his stomach, but after a long minute he shook his head once and waved the other to silence. Face to face with the first sign of his destiny, Cyrus frowned. "Look thou, My Heart, for tho' there should be signs and symbols writ large upon its face, yet do I see only a blank slate. Do mine eyes deceive me?"

Reluctantly Z'damoar joined the other man at the cairn and swept his gaze across it. Frowning he moved slowly around it, casting his eyes across each face. "Mayhap the scholars have misled thee, My Master, for surely there is naught here to guide us." It was difficult to tell what the words meant to the southern warrior; joy that they could turn back without shame, or wrath at the slothful, lying black robes that had sent them here.

"And yet there should be carvings here," Cyrus replied, reaching out to brush off a drift of dirt that laid across the smooth windward face, and just as quickly jumped back with a tremendous oath as the stone cracked under his touch. Shards slivered off and landed at its feet, a few exploding from the surface with other shattering snaps.

Z'damoar rushed around the cairn and exclaimed not at the stone, who's face clearly revealed its message now, but at the slight fall of blood from the Duke's hand, released by the knife-edged slivers that littered the small glen. Quickly he tugged open Roland's saddlebags and pulled out a fine bottle of spirits, made by the monks using the skimmed ice methods, and a roll of fine linen; both had been intended as payments to the Seer for his words, but Z'damoar tore off a strip now to bind his Master's wounds.

Cyrus barely held still for Z'damoar to wrap the fine cloth around his hand, so caught up in the words revealed to him he scarce felt the burning spirits in his wounds. Finally he tugged away from the other, leaving Z'damoar to repack the flask and rewrap the linen, damp with more than dew from the emotion on the Duke's face.

"'Set aside, Oh Traveler, all that which binds thee to earth, for the gleam of precious things blind a man and Wisdom is not bought with gold,'" Cyrus read aloud from the stone. "Cleverly done! If the Seer's words play a man false, 'tis easily claimed he possessed some earthly good that denied insight. But easily enough, for thou, My Heart, are no earthly good but Heaven Incarnate, and less it is that I own Roland than that Roland owns me." He brushed by the other and quickly divested his steed of every bit of leather and steel, adding the saddlebags to the top of the pile and covering it all with his fur overcloak

"Come now, My Heart, the day wastes and I would fain reach the second signpost sooner than later," the Duke swung his leg over Roland, gripping the restive stallion tightly between his thighs and twining his hands deep in the blood red mane. With a final snort the steed quit the glen, continuing northward.

If Duke Cyrus noted the pain and despair on his man's face, he made neither mention, nor sign.

Again, night followed day, and day, night as the trio raced through the ever-thinning forest. The tree shortened and the snow thickened, the sun looming larger and yet showing her face less with each day they sped through the Woods. On the evening of the fourth day from the first stone marked, they came upon a second, standing taller and darker, though the glen it stood in was much the same as the first; a sheltered dip in the way, enough to break the bitterest of winds, but not enough to protect any man or beast. Not a sign of any creature larger than a hare had they seen in the last day, but still the fire they built was high and in two parts, and though they curled together in their blankets between the two blazes, they could tell it would be a night of watch-on-watch, for to let either fire die would be to court death. Roland lay at their feet, head towards one blaze and tail to the other, sharing his warmth with them, as they shared with him.

In silence they lay, face-to-face, hazel eyes staring unblinking into brown darker than any Spanish chocolate. Cyrus reached out a finger and softly traced the full lips a mere breath from his own, and when his finger at last slid between them the moist sucking made his groin ache. Z'damoar laced the fingers of both his hands through and around the Duke's. Holding Cyrus's hand still and steady, as he had the other man's hips so many times in the past, he worshipped the slender finger as he had other, thicker members. Down and back he worked his head, exaggerating the movement for effect while his tongue wrapped around the long finger teasingly and he finished his ministrations with a long, wet lapping across Cyrus's palm.

The Duke's eyes were huge, their hazel color just hinted at around engorged pupils, when Z'damoar guided the other man's moist hand under the covers and inside his loincloth, pressing the dampness against his heavy manhood. With a grin the Duke wrapped his hand around the other man and began the firm stroking that Z'damoar enjoyed best. After his first shuddering thrust Z'damoar held his own palm in front of his Duke's face, groaning at the hot tongue that roved across it. Beginning to pant, Z'damoar wormed his hand down inside the loose lacings and felt his Master's cock pulsing with his heartbeat.

Never looking away, the two men stroked each other to gasping completion, and when their breathing finally slowed, Z'damoar pulled his Duke to him and kissed his forehead like a benediction.

"Sleep now, My Master, I shall wake thee anon," Z'damoar whispered and tucked the Duke's head under his chin. But dawn rose on the day and still the warrior watched the heart of the fire.

Duke Cyrus finally stirred when the sun had risen nearly to the tops of the stunted trees that surrounded their scant comfort. "My Heart," he chided, "thou didst not waken me. Art not wearied by the long night and longer journey?"

Z'damoar smiled down at his Master. "Nay, for how could I tell the night had passed, when I held dawn's rising in my arms?" He untangled himself from the other man and rose to begin the day's ablutions.

Cyrus laid still in the bedroll a few moments longer till the lingering warmth from the night fire faded from its folds then he, too, arose to greet the frigid morning. In silence the two men went about their morning tasks, and when the last blanket was replaced and the last coal quenched, only then did they turn their attention to the finger of stone they had been ignoring, much as mice ignore a sleeping cat.

The Duke gulped a great gasp of the freezing air, and let it out in a fine frozen mist. Nervously he shook his bound hand in its leather riding glove, feeling still the raw edges of his wound scrape against each other in their bindings. One step, a second, then the vast blankness was upon him. As he had done before, he walked clear round it, examining each surface for clue or mark, yet there was none. Finally he stood before the side whose shadow had stretched across them in their sleep, and reached out his hand to touch the surface.

"My Master," Z'damoar spoke from behind him, and he hesitated, staying his touch mere inches from the stone. "I ask you, do not do this; no woman, nay nor man, is worth the price you'll surely pay."

"My Heart, I must," he answered in the silence. All other speech was reft from him, for how could he explain to his most faithful that the allure of Katherine's golden fall of hair held more attraction than any of the gaudy baubles he'd left behind, and he doubted but that the second payment would also pale before her charms.

Before he could change his mind, the Duke finished what he'd begun and swept his gloved hand across the surface. This time the stone sprang forth, the shards shooting out with the force of a bolt released from its string. Both men swore and dropped where they stood, but the Duke still felt the hot burn of blood make its way down his cheek and drip quietly to earth. A moment later a strong hand was there to raise him up and gently turn his face to the pale light.

"But a moment, My Master," the great ebon warrior soothed the Duke like a restive child. "Good, 'tis clean, and tho' near the eye will not harm thy vision. Thou mayst, howsoever, find a scar there in thine shaving mirror."

"Bah! Then my man shall shave me evermore, and bear the burthen of my horridness, that I not be forced to it myself."  Duke Cyrus stood from the dirt and dusted himself clean before once more standing in front of the Seer's message. "'Set aside, Oh Traveler, thy Pride, '" he read aloud, "'for such becomes a man not and oft blinds him to the Truth that lies like a small stone in the road.' Huh," Duke Cyrus said, hands on hips, the cut on his cheek a small pain easily ignored. He rubbed his face absently, feeling the bristling of his new beard there. "Easily enough solved, for is not Roland both my Pride and my Joy? 'Tho it irks me much to loose him in this cold, I must trust to the Seer's words and go from here humbly upon shank's mare. Come, My Heart, let us see what else may be left, and what may be done to keep my Roland in comfort."

Suiting actions to words the Duke turned at last from the Seer's words carved in the stone and set about sorting their remaining belongings into two burdens. Nor did he see the look of sadness and regret that crossed Z'damoar's face, hidden deep ere he moved to join his Duke at work.

 Z'damoar was born of a warrior race, long accustomed to long journeys afoot, which had been bred in the dark fighter to make him broad of chest and long of leg, where Duke Cyrus was bred from a line of noblemen who raised up horses for their speed and heart. Thus what had ere now taken but four days to travel, became seven before they did come upon the Seer's third marker, one taller even than the second. Thrice the height of a tall man it stood, and snow covered over the ground around it save at its very foot. Marked it the northern most boundary of the Woods as well, for a step beyond lay nothing but the flattest snow as far as the eye could see.

The black man's skin was coated gray from cold; he shivered and began to lean against the stone. With a cry of distress the Duke grabbed him and pulled the taller man into his embrace. Gently he lowered his companion to the small cleared area, and cast a wool cloak around him. Cyrus pulled out their bedrolls and wrapped them around Z'damoar as well, and soon the warrior's shaking eased.

"My Master," Z'damoar began, but Cyrus covered his mouth.

"Hush, My Heart, 'tis my turn to care for thee as thou has for me these many days. Move not, and in a trice I'll have a good fire going, and broth from the last of the fresh meat." Without waiting for an answer the Duke moved into the stunted trees and dug beneath their small shelter for what dry wood he could find. When he had sufficient he pulled loose some threads from the linen on his hand and coaxed forth a small but goodly blaze. With a smile at his companion he left him, and gathered together a dozen good armfuls of wood, some with snow or bits of greenery about them, but solid still.

Returning with his last bundle, the Duke found their small pot propped over the first fire, and two others beginning to catch some small distance away. "My Heart, you should rest, the journey has worn you."

The stout warrior shook his head, "Worn me, yes; but less my body than my soul. Come My Master, some mushrooms I have found to add, and an unwary squirrel that fell to my stone just moments ago. Let us eat, then rest, for if the Blackrobes are still correct in their reading, we've still a day's journey ahead." He held out one arm, draped in a warm blanket, and gathered the Duke to his side.

Duke Cyrus yawned and held the other close, leaning forward to add some small branch to one of the fires on occasion. Shortly then they shared the pot, each feeding the other some small, choice tidbit, or holding the pot while the other sipped at the broth.

Cyrus arose once more to gather enough wood for the night, and fill the pot with snow for water. In the darkness over the ice the stars blazed even brighter than in the Woods, and the snowfield seemed to reach to the end of the earth. With a last glance into the darkness, he turned back to the fire and they settled then for the night, taking turns dozing and tending the fire, wrapped in the blankets and each other, leaning against the stone that in the morning would demand payment.

Finally the dawn came, fiery on the snow, but with only the merest reflection of warmth. Reluctantly the two separated, dousing the fires and tying the blankets around themselves for warmth. Cautiously, then, the Duke approached the stone that would tell him the last price he would pay for his desire.

"My Master," Z'damoar spoke from behind him, as he had feared, but there was something different in the words. The Duke turned to find the proud warrior he called his Heart kneeling in the snow, a sight the Duke had never before seen. "I beg you, do not do this; no woman, nay nor man, is worth the price you'll surely pay."

Duke Cyrus rushed to Z'damoar, and drew him to his feet, pulling the warrior into his arms for a long moment. "My Heart," he said, drawing back a little, "My Heart, I must. I must taste her and then I swear I shall put her from me, for I am sure that 'tis just that she has thwarted my every approach that keeps her in my thoughts." He shook Z'damoar a little by his arms. "Never, My Heart, could she or any other replace you here," and he pressed his hands flat against his chest.

Z'damoar bowed his head and turned away, understanding that nothing he could say or do would keep his Duke from this deed. Curse the wench anyway! Did she not see that by denying the Duke her body she but incited this? Z'damoar frowned. Or did she, indeed, see that this was a way of keeping the Duke's eye upon her, and encourage him to purchase the clever toys her husband created? Which was the truth? And who, then, was at fault in this sin the black robed priests of the White Christ preached against?

Heat flashed across him and he heard Duke Cyrus cry out in surprise. In an instant all thought of loss or blame was gone, and he whirled about, charging to the Duke's side. Not knife-sharp slivers of stone this time, but heat; Cyrus's palms were blistered from it, and letters a hand-span high burned on the face of the pillar. Cursing himself for his failure, Z'damoar grabbed Cyrus by the shirt and forced him down into the snow but steps beyond their camp, burying his burned hands in the cold. The ice quickly numbed the pain, and soon enough the Duke breathed a sigh of relief and sat back, being careful to keep his palms under the whiteness.

"Well, that did take me by surprise," the Duke grinned weakly, still pale from his hurts.

"Did thou read what the letters of fire demanded?" Z'damoar asked, frowning at the Duke, and reaching to tenderly examine one of the burned members. The palm was reddened and blistered, but did not appear so hurt as to cause lasting harm or loss of the hand. Not that he would care; if need be, he would be the Duke's hands, aye and feet as well.

"I did, My Heart, and 'tho it grieves me, I must journey on alone from this point."

"But thou cannot! Not with thy hands so! Give over, My Master, return again another day, if thou must, but wait until thou art healed."

The Duke shook his head. "I cannot, My Heart, for if I give over now, I may never return. No man may make this journey but once." He held up one hand, careful of his injuries, to forestall the words he saw in Z'damoar's eyes. "And no man may make the journey for another's want or question; only one's own may be addressed." He chuckled, "If it were otherwise, why you'd find this way a well-paved road, and the camps of kings set about, for the Seer is said to be the wisest of them all." He sighed then and looked away. "We shall see. But come, be of good cheer, for 'tis only a half-day's travel from here. Should I not find the Seer by then, I promise thee, I shall return here, and by nightfall."

It was Z'damoar's turn to sigh, "Then that is a promise I shall hold tight to, My Master. Let me aid thee, then, and I shall have a fire here to warm and guide thee on thy return."

In a moment then, the Duke was rearranged to make the journey on his own, taking all but one of the blankets over protest. But finally it was done, and Duke Cyrus started off at a goodly pace, to increase his chance of making it there and back as he had promised. He refused to look back, but kept the Woods and the sun ever behind him and to first his right, then left as the day drew onward. In front of him, ever in his mind's eye were the words of his last payment.

"Set aside, Oh Traveler, thy Heart, for Emotion blinds a man to Reason, as sun on snow blinds a man to sight."

And because night would follow the day, the Duke ran as best he could across the snow, which had looked smooth as a maiden's blush from the third cairn but in truth was closer to a whore's virtue--intact only from a distance. For several furlongs he would make a good pace, moving quickly if clumsily across snow-dusted ice, only to plunge knee- or even hip-deep through the surface. Bare skin became reddened, and he bled in several places where the fierce crusts cut him. Never had he encountered such as this, not even in the far reaches of the East, where the Huns ruled their hordes with iron whips.

Hours passed, and the very air he sucked down into hungry lungs was sharp and pale. Still Duke Cyrus ran on, the promise of a woman's heat before him enough to ease away the pain. Soon enough the sun's light began to fade, and when he looked back to his left the bottom edge of her glowing circlet just touched the straightened horizon. Cyrus stopped, bent and panting, feeling just the edge of the difference between the cold of the day, and the death freeze that came with darkness.

An odd orange gleam chanced then to catch the corner of his eye. Glancing behind him, in the farthest distance, a bright glimmer of light that reminded him distantly of warmth, and teased at something deep in his memory. Then darkness wreathed him in sapphire blue, and he fell instead unto a different kind of flame, reminded of eyes that matched the night sky. Cyrus put the distant orange glow behind him, wrapped himself in blue-flamed lust, and continued on. Time was forgotten in the night; with only the snow around him and the stars above him, Cyrus could well believe that he was the only man in the world, Adam racing towards the promise of Eve.

With the sudden shock of a door slamming shut, the world changed. Cold became heat, and the air was suddenly wet as any southern forest. Duke Cyrus stopped and blinked; water trickled down his neck from the snow melting in his hair, and fell into his eyes. He swayed in the warmth, lightened by cool breezes from the tall dark pines that surrounded him. A short path led towards a hill, and from the other side came a trace of smoke. Cyrus dropped his sodden blankets where he stood, and followed the narrow trail, scarce more than a deer track, to the source.

A small hunting cabin, back dug into the hill behind it, opened out to a small clearing. A stray puff of smoke brought the smell of slightly burnt bread and something spicy with it. The Duke's mouth watered at the scent. He swayed where he stood, close to falling from his long run, not feeling the many cuts that streaked arms and legs with traces of red. Stiffly he started towards the cabin, but a flash of movement caught his blurred eye. Before the Duke could speak, the brown blur became the figure of a man.

Of medium height the newcomer was, a half head shorter than the Duke but half again as wide, his face round and cheerful as the May moon under a wild thatch of red hair. He dressed as plain as any friar, in a heavy woven, brown wool robe, belted shut with a length of rope, over loose leggings of the same. Stout leather boots covered his feet and shins while he trotted towards Duke Cyrus. A fair string of fish, still gleaming wet hung from one hand, while the other held the pole he’d caught them with.  Absently the Duke noted the young man was trailed by an assortment of livestock, including three pigs and a goat, as well as something that looked like a pony-sized sheep with a long neck and a mild face. On the edge of the woods surrounding the small cabin he spotted a buck, rack intact and spanning a tall man's reach, watching with cautious curiosity.

The young man hurried up the short path to him, juggling fish and pole while agilely avoiding a family of hedgehogs that chose that moment to start down it. "Duke Cyrus!" he called as he approached. "Thou hast arrived, and timely too!"

The duke frowned, ignoring the pains beginning in his feet and legs. "Thou speak so with some surprise, it seemeth me. Howso? My mind and heart and will were all bent on this task, how could I not succeed?"

The young man shook his head, "My heart held no doubt that thou could succeed; I had but hoped thou would not. But that 'tis neither hither nor yon, for thou art here. Come, there is food inside, tho' this morning's bake did get a trifle overdone. Still, 'tis hot and fresh, and we can tend to thy hurts in ease." He turned and started along the path to the cabin.

The Duke started to follow, the promise of warm food and comfort a powerful lure before him. "Wait!" he said, before taking more than three steps down the path. The young fisherman stopped, back still turned but head cocked and listening. "I am here in search of the Seer of the Woods, true, but I must hasten and have no time for comfort much tho' I wish for it. My man is left behind, ever faithful, at the last marker and I must return hence post-haste lest the cold overcome him. Take me instead to the Seer, that I may find what I came for and be gone."

The young man sighed heavily, regret loud in his breath. "Thou hast sought the Seer, and in truth thou hast found him, tho' once I bore another name among men. But," and the Seer turned his head to meet the Duke's eyes gravely, "thou didst yield thy Heart in payment, and as such he is mine. Even if thou didst leave this moment and fly o'er the ice as only the birds can, still thou would not find him awaiting thee." His voice gentled before he added, "the price of my help is high, Duke Cyrus, so that only the most desperate, or the most foolish, would pay it. Which thou art, I've yet to decide." The Seer turned back abruptly and walked on into the small cabin, leaving the Duke to stand shivering and bloody on the path.

For a long moment the Duke stood, stunned at the idea. His Heart, his Trueheart, gone? Impossible! The Duke started down the path again, just as the Seer disappeared into the shadowed doorway. All pain forgotten he rushed down the path and thrust open the half-closed door, oblivious to the bloody footprints he left in his path.

"Gone?" the Duke roared. "Explain thyself, Seer, what dost thou mean? How can My Heart be gone? What hast thou done to him?"

"I?" The Seer turned back, surprise in every line of his face. "I did nought. Thou wert the one that did abandon him, casting him off with less thought than thou gavest thy horse. Who is also well, by-the-by," the Seer added, almost an afterthought.

Seeing anger bought no bread with the other man, the Duke reined himself and shook his head. "I must needs leave him so. I feared he would not live in the ice that doth surround thine home."

"Pah!" The Seer spat, disgust sitting oddly on his kindly face. "Weave no fancies here, for they bring no warmth. An' thou returnest to thy world, weave words however thou wilt to explain thy man's absence; here nought but the truth shall avail thee." He motioned to a hide-covered chair by the hearth. "Sit now, and leave me to tend thy wounds and thy hunger, and then to business. A man such as thou who knows not what he values, never knows what price he truly pays, and I would be assured thou receivest full measure."

All the while the Seer spoke he had been busily collecting bits and pieces from about the small room and casting them into a shallow basin. The fish were floating in a bucket of water by the door, the pole leaning next to it against the wall while awaiting later cleaning. Finally he dumped the contents of his basin on the hearth and poured several dippers of water that warmed there into it, crushing a goodly number of herbs and berries into the water to brew. While they steeped, the Seer looked over the Duke's wounds, gentle hands in discord with the disapproval on his face.

Finally with a sigh he sat back. "Nought here requires more than a good wash to remove the blood and humors, then a thorough binding will see it right. Strip," he commanded, "I've clothing for thee afterwards, left by others before thee as thine will be for those that come."

Perplexed by the firmness in the kindly manner, still the Duke did as he was bid, recognizing he'd get nothing should he baulk instead. "I thank thee for thy kindness, Seer," he said, and hesitated. "I pray thee, forgive my intemperate speech of earlier; I was but afraid."

The Seer looked up at him from tending a gash on the Duke’s leg. “Gladly would I grant it, were I the party wronged,” he shook his head. “Look again if thou would beg forgiveness, and beg it of the one owed.”

Finished with the deep wound in the Duke's calf he turned his attention to Cyrus's hands an arms, studying the pinked flesh on his palms for a long moment. Uncomfortable with the scrutiny the Seer was giving him, Duke Cyrus shifted in his chair and made to pull his hands back from the tender grasp. The Seer's hands convulsed tightly around his wrists at the movement, and when the Seer lifted his head Cyrus gasped; no longer were the other man's eyes the warm, friendly brown they'd first been, but a swirling maelstrom of colors. In that moment Cyrus knew he looked into the eyes of the Infinite, and it was a sight he would spend the rest of his life trying to forget.

"Cyrus of Cleve," the Seer spoke in a voice that echoed with trumpets and ocean waves, mouth open tho' his lips formed no words, "dost thou know the rampion?"

Cyrus shrank from the fierceness of the voice that had been gentle even in its reprimand but moments ago, but the Seer's hands held him tight. In a moment it passed, like a cloud before the sun, and hound-brown eyes looked up at him blankly from a young man's face.

"Your pardon, Duke Cyrus. I hope I haven't frightened you." The Seer began to gather his bits of bandaging together. "Betimes it takes me like that." He rose and moved to rinse the bowl and his hands, tossing the dirtied water out a window. Back still turned he began slicing bread and clattering bowls and spoons. "Tell me," he said finally, “this woman you seek to bed, tell me of her. She is beauteous? Wise? Skilled in the arts?”

Duke Cyrus was quiet then, the warmth from the hearth creeping over him and he found himself near sleep despite his confusion. In answer, he brought to mind the image of her. "Aye, Katherine, she is indeed most fair. Hair the color of marigolds, long and thick, eyes blue as the night sky and clear as a mountain stream. But warm, always warm, never cool, as such sometimes are." His eyes began to droop, and he closed them to better bring her face into view. Lost in thoughts he didn't notice the faint whispering of many voices on the wind that slipped quietly in the door to the cabin. "Yes, beautiful she is, kind and fair, a prize to be cherished."

The voices melded together into one. "Thou art noble, she but a peasant. Why not claim thy noble due and take her then on her wedding eve night? None would say thee nay nor hold thee at fault."

Cyrus shook his head, rolling it back and forth across the chair more than shaking it. His body felt very far away, fatigue pulling him into darkness. "No, I cannot."

"Why not?" whispered the darkness.

"She is wed already, and evenso not of peasant stock. Nay, my people would rise up in outcry, from lowest to highest and her father's too, were I to try and force my brother’s wife to bed.”

The voices were silent at that, and the quiet warmth around him sought to pull the Duke even further towards sleep. Just as he relaxed into the soft lambswool that wrapped around him, the voices spoke again, startled it seemed, unto unseemly speech. “Thy brother’s wife? Howso is this?”

His answering words came with much effort, for the drowse was more promising. “Aye,” he spoke carefully around a tongue thick as a cow’s. “My younger brother. Tho’ ‘twas I that espied her first, and would have taken her as my wife. All but promised to me, she was, ‘till she lay eyes on my brother and he captured her heart.”

Fifteen years she had been when he'd first laid eyes on her at her father's harvest feast. He'd forgotten Llewellyn had a daughter until then; she'd been rumored to be sickly and taken with strange, womanish humors and had grown up in a nunnery after her mother's death, there being no woman in the household to take her in charge. But she had appeared appropriately modest and effacing, as befitted a gently bred female. Then she had looked up, and the midnight glory of her eyes had pulled his heart from him in a breath.

But he was as unseen as the heavenly host to her. It was, instead, his brother's hand she took in the dancing, his brother's trencher she shared at the feast. Eventually, it was his brother's bed she shared the next spring when they wed.

“Why, then, does thy brother live apart from thee for fear thou wouldst take his wife from him for a mischief?”

“Nay,” he spoke, his words coming slower still. “Always my brother has sought to follow his mind, leaving aside the day-to-day chores of life to others, and so beguiled he our father to setting aside for him a sum of money such as would free him to follow his thoughts. This, and such other sums as come to him from his toys are what supports him. The villagers call him 'woodcutter', for he lives in the deep woods and tends the trees, tho' the wood he cuts more often finds its way into his alchemies than into any man's pile. Never does he sell it, but oft gives away what he does not use, and as my brother he has that right."

Cyrus felt his head drop back against the chair and Sleep pull him closer to her breast. He was warm and comfortable; if only the voices would cease their prying he could rest.

"Does thy brother know of thy feelings?" they nagged at him.

It was a long moment before the Duke was able to order his thoughts enough to answer them, but he could feel them waiting patiently at the edge of his dreams, keeping rest away until they were satisfied. "It…would surprise me not," he answered finally, slowly, pulling the words out of him bit by bit. "Oft he doth seem absent in his thoughts and manner, ignorant of the world and its workings, 'til he comments on ought. Indeed, ere Katherine he seemed destined for the cloth, so estranged from the wiles of woman or man he was. But if he does, he has ne'er brought it forward to me."

Finally, it seemed, the voices were satisfied with him, for they vanished into the night, or were perhaps simply vanquished by mortal fatigue. With a parting whisper he could not separate into words they left him to ease into darkness.

Sunlight woke him in the early morning, creeping palely through the door and across the floor. Cyrus pushed aside the blanket that covered him and promptly fell into a fit of sneezing from the cloud of dust that arose. When finally he regained himself enough to look and seek out his host, he caught his breath.

Gone was the warmly untidy room of the night before. Webs drooped like tired bunting from the overhead, and a few gray leaves lay crumpled in the open doorway. The door itself hung neglected from a broken hinge. Cyrus leaped from the chair then spun, heart racing, when it crashed to the floor behind him. Cautiously he nudged it with his foot, sending one worm-addled spindle rolling across the uneven floor.

Where was he? How had he gotten here? He shuddered at the thought that the night before had all been a dream, his entire journey only a nightmare brought on by some fever. But if it had only been a dream, his Heart would be here beside him and while his own heart leaped at the though, the coldness inside his stomach gave him the truth.

Cyrus looked at himself and breathed out in relief. No, not a dream, for he still wore the clothes given him by the Seer, and fine linen wrapped his calf from knee to ankle.

The Duke moved to the fireplace and held one hand out over the dead ashes. He paused, then steeled himself and thrust his hand into the pile. Nothing met him save dust and dead coals. The iron pot that had fed him before he slept was gone, and there was nothing else in the room save an ancient table shoved under the window, one leg propped up with a rock.

Moving to the table the Duke found he was wrong, for atop it laid a plain wooden casket, the size of one that could hold the Holy Writ. Dirt covered it thickly, and old castings choked the carvings. Cautiously he opened it, ready to jump back should anything move, a lesson he'd learned well in fabled Alexandria. Inside it was nothing that moved, but rather a plain leather pouch, much scarred, and a scrap of parchment, much worn.

He picked up the scrap and nearly dropped it in his surprise, for his name jumped out at him, written in a fair-but-hasty hand. Cyrus of Cleve, he read in the dim, cold light. In the pouch thou wilt find an unguent--take it with thee. Make all due haste then unto thy ladylove, and come to her dwelling at the next new moon. Anoint thee thy hands and feet, and then both of thy eyes and thy brow, and she will accept thee willing unto her bed. This one night only art thou granted with her, so use it well. Should thou not, know that the potion will not work beyond the appointed night. Choose wisely.

Duke Cyrus grinned and put aside all thoughts of how he came to be in the ruin around him. In a trice he shoved both note and pouch into his own wallet then hastily snatched up the filthy blanket he'd been wrapped in and made his way out the door. On the stoop he paused, turning to survey the open ground around him.

Ice. Ice and snow, as far as the eye could see lay all around him, broken to the distant north by huge mountains of the stuff that disappeared into the sky and to the south by a line of darkness. Also pointing south was his trail of broken snow, unchanged from his journey hence but the day before. Shivering in the cold Duke Cyrus pulled the dusty blanket tight around his shoulders.

Sudden memory wrapped around him like the chill breeze. Cyrus of Cleve, it whispered through his hair, doest thou know the rampion?

Cyrus shuddered and thrust the puzzle from him. Later, at his leisure, he would consider it. After his night with Katherine burned out his lust for her, and he had recovered his Heart, then he would turn his attention to the riddle of the peasant weed.

With a plan before him he leaped from the rotted stoop and began to run towards the shadowy woods afore him.

Had he been able to look behind him and see the glen he left at such pace, he might have spied three pairs of brown eyes watching him leave. Soon enough, the russet-colored pair dropped away to seek out more of the sweet browse around them, and shortly thereafter the owner of the hound-brown pair wandered off to tend to other concerns, including a certain bucket of silvery trout.

But the owner of the pair richer than Spanish chocolate watched the Duke run 'til he could not tell the shape of him from the quick falling shadows of night.

Like a coursing hound the Duke flew across the open fields of snow, or mayhap like a man with the very Devil on his heels. The trail lay clear before him and he ran along it at a good and steady pace, avoiding many of the traps and pitfalls that had caught him the first time, but ever did the whiteness hold new surprises, and many times he would place his foot with surety only to crash through the false face and find himself knee- or thigh-deep in the ice. Before the Sun had moved an hour in her stately course his arms and legs were once more streaked thinly with red, and the windings that had been white but the night before were sopping and spotted.

Hour upon hour he ran, one hand firm upon the purse at his hip and the precious burthen it held. The Duke paused briefly when he judged midday was upon him, tho' the dark streak ahead was scarce thicker than it had been when first he set out. Behind him the sun gleamed upon the white purity, blinding him to his tracks. Scooping up handsfuls of snow to quench the edge of hunger and thirst, he quickly resumed his journey.

It was close to nightfall, the moon edging her way into the sky when he first caught clear sight of the edge of the Woods. He judged him close to a mile from the edge when he heard the first hungry bayings from the trees, the first pale stars above him reflected as pale yellow pinpoints glinting in the last light of day. Movement flickered at the boundary between ice and earth, and once or twice he caught site of a lighter gray moving in the bushes.

The Duke's backtrail lay clear before him, and he could see where the snow ended abruptly at the trees. Just beyond that he knew, and could see the top of it rearing above the stunted growth, lay the third of the cairns that marked the path to the Seer's house, and it was then he knew that the words the seeming youth had spoken were true.

No fire glowed there, casting a cheery and warding warmth into the chill night. His Trueheart was gone.

Or dead, his conscious whispered to him, and 'tho he thought his heart could drop no lower in his gut thinking his Heart was gone, taken like a common bondservant of no worth, that Z'damoar was no longer among the living to seek out cut it cleanly from his body.

Almost then the Duke thought to yield to the cold and the dark, lay down in the snow and become food for the carrion crows and the nightrunners that crept closer as if scenting his despair. Reaching already for the blanket tied 'round his shoulders his hand tangled in the strings of his purse and he was reminded that the high price he'd paid had been met with the promise of full worth. He shook himself then, and gauged the distance yet to run to the offered security of the cairn.

He ran then, over snow covered ice that quickly went from thigh deep, to knee then ankle then barely a whisper over the dirt, and just when he broke the edge of the Woods, panting fiercely, the first of the pack was upon him.

A heavy weight on his back bore him to the ground and hard teeth snapped sharply at his ear. Burning pain from his scalp told him instantly that his attacker had come away with a mouthful of hair. The Duke hunched under the weight like a beset hedgepig and rolled to put his shoulder between his neck and the wolf.

The wolf was no longer attacking but slinking along the edge of the clearing Cyrus had rolled into, the clearing that held the Seer's marker. Heads and tails, flashing eyes and snarling teeth surrounded him, weaving in and out of the bushes that marked the boundary of the clearing. Something tickled at his neck and cautiously the Duke reached one hand to wipe at it, coming back with a bloodied palm. He glanced around him for the one that had almost had him and knew it at first look.

A she-wolf, a pack leader by the way her ribs stood out less gauntly than the rest. She circled the dell with the rest of her pack but more boldly, actually coming several feet into the circle, but never close enough to be a danger. When she saw him studying her she stopped circling and tossed something from her mouth into the air, agilely snatching it up ere it could strike the ground. Again she tossed it, then worried at it a moment betwixt her paws before she snapped it down and lolled her tongue at Cyrus in a wolfish grin. Gingery glints in the fading light told him it was the lock of bloodied hair that she'd torn from his scalp in her first strike.

The Duke spied russet in the gray and black fur, and green in the yellow eyes that led Cyrus to think there was dog somewhere in the bitch's bloodline, and he watched her carefully; a half-breed wolf, possibly with some time among men before turning wild, would be more dangerous than the most fierce of the rest of the pack.

The Duke backed further into the clearing until his back struck the cold stone he'd huddled against a scant two nights before with Z'damoar at his side, sharing warmth and comfort, soft words and short naps while they waited for dawn. Something crackled under his foot, and glancing down he caught a hint of something bitter and dark green before the problem at hand made itself known to him a second time.

He cast his eyes around, always coming back to the wolves as they passed left to right before him; circling, always circling, only the russet bitch pausing now and again to eye him, the only one going against the flow of gray fur and silent feet. Perhaps this was how she led the hunt, the Duke pondered, the she-wolf moving slowly, the visible threat to hide the pack that moved in behind the distracted prey. But he was a man, not a deer, and he could plan as well.

To each side of the black stone he kept at his back, piles of wood lay ready for lighting. He recognized his Heart's touch in the pile, green from dry, small from large, tinder scraps ready to hand. Enough wood lay stacked between the piles for the night and more. In all the years they'd traveled it had ever been Z'damoar's way, to leave more wood stacked near the camp than they would ever need for the next travelers that journeyed by. Keeping a cautious eye on the circling beasts he gathered tinder and set it alight with flint and steel from his purse, and a heavy pain in his heart.

The she-wolf paused in her circling and lifted her muzzle into the air with the first of the smoke. With care the Duke built his small coals to a blaze, then thrust he a sturdy branch into the fire's heart, pulling forth a blazing brand that he whirled about him in a great circle of fire.

"Come now, bitch," he called to the russet wolf. "Come now and face me. Thou hast known man's hand in the past, feel it now in retribution."

The Duke charged at her straitly, swinging his burning brand in a broad sweep. As any nobleman, Duke Cyrus was skilled with sword and spear and he put all his experience into his strike, seeking not to kill and anger the pack, but to frighten and drive them off. The bitch yelped and shied, ducking the Duke's swing with ease.

A low growl to his left was the only warning, and like the experienced fighter he was the Duke swung when he pivoted, sweeping strongly and taking a largish wolf across the muzzle. The smell of scorched fur tainted the air and the newcomer leaped back, crying his sudden pain. In an instant Cyrus was back on guard and then the pack attacked in earnest.

Gray fur flooded the clearing, a wave of gaunt muscles and white, snapping teeth, yellow eyes and sharp claws. Quickly the Duke backed into the corner he'd made, protected by flame on one side and the dull black rock on the other, a narrow passage the only way the beasts could come at him without flaming like pitch or growing wings. He yelled his own defiance and a dark gray shadow took up his challenge, slinking up the path, head down and eyes steady with the neutral gaze of a predator. When the wolf charged Cyrus was ready and met him not with the brand but his own two arms, embracing the beast close to his chest.

Startled, the wolf struggled but Cyrus knew the strength of his weakness and reared back, twisting with the frantic creature and then heaved it mightily through the flames, its screams of pain from burning fur as it fled scattered the confused pack. Past the flames, Cyrus could see the russet bitch at the edge of the clearing looking back at him for a long minute before she turned and followed the fleeing wolves into the forest.

The Duke fell back against the stone and slowly slid to the ground. He had mastered his fear, and in so doing had mastered the beasts, even as the Lord intended. Duke Cyrus rested his head and arms on his knees while his breathing slowed, til with a long breath his aches subsided at last, but with the air he drank came the same bitterness he had smelled when he first took his stand near the cairn.

Lying near at hand were several stems of a dark green plant still bearing a few uncrushed blooms, its pale, thickened root unmistakable even to the Duke.

…."doest thou know the rampion?"

The words echoed in his mind and he thrust them from him savagely. Now was not the time to ponder the Seer's riddles, such things were more rightly the provenance of priests and scholars. The Duke made himself a promise to consult with his household wisemen when he returned, but in the moment he hungered, and tho' he had never stooped to have the provender of the peasant in his kitchens, in the field he knew better than to turn up his nose at anything edible.

Bitter on his tongue was the herb, and the sweetness of neither its root nor of having food in his stomach eased it. So it was he wrapped himself in his tattered blanket and slumbered lightly, waking at odd times to check the blaze that kept him alive, safe from the serenity of death by cold or a more violent end in a wolf's belly. Twice when he awoke he did think he spied yellow-green eyes watching him from the other side of the fire from deep in the brush, but naught came near him for the rest of the night.

And the cold that rested near his heart he told himself was naught but the chill air in his lungs.  

Dawn's first blush tinted the sky the same pink as a maiden's cheek but held all the warmth of a grave. An hour it took, ere light penetrated to the hollow wherein the Duke slept and woke him to the chill morning. He reached out of habit for the warmth that should have been next to him, and when his hand struck naught but frozen earth only then did his mind come full circle to know that he was alone in truth.

Shaking sleep from him, Duke Cyrus arose to begin the day. It was the work of minutes to quench the coals from his fires with snow carried in the rotting blanket he used for warmth, then stirring the ashes and quenching them again. He slung the blanket over his shoulder and fastened it front and back with the length of rope that held his tunic close. Finally he cast an eye over the site and thought briefly of replacing the wood he'd used in answer to the remembered words of his Heart about a traveler's duty.

Mine Heart be gone, he said in silent answer to the absent voice, and thus--mine heart be gone.

"So mote it be," the Duke spake aloud unto the Woods, invoking the ancient words of a holy vow that called all to hear as witness.

And then, tho' his limbs trembled with cold and the very air frosted his beard the Duke sprang forth into the loping run that is the nightrunner's trade, following southerly the trail that had led him to his Fate in the north. Then, as before time was charted by man, night followed day and day night and still he ran, pausing only to quench his thirst at any watershed, and once to sear the skin from an unwary rabbit. Twice he caught movement in the brush around him, for as he neared the second marker the Wood grew thicker and the trees taller, giving shadows and life to larger game; yet paid he no heed for he cared naught if 'twere man nor beast. On the evening, then, of the fourth day he threw himself panting to the ground under the shadow of the second marker, pulled his ragged blanket tight around him and slept, and dreamed of the scent of myrrh.

In the morning he arose, limping on sore and bloodied feet, frost thick on the branches and thinner on the ground beneath. He patted the purse still at his side, feeling the small earthen jar as a lump within, and reached for the passion that had carried him to the end of the earth. The Duke frowned, for while he felt it stir within him the fire was faint and held no warmth. Then the sun cast rays of gold to light the dell he stood within and brighten the sky to summer blue; once again he felt the caress of her hair across his skin as he'd felt it fall across the back of his hand, a lock gone astray when they danced at her wedding to his brother. A

Somewhere a branch snapped like a whip crack from an unwary forest creature's misstep, and the Duke's eyes opened with a start; only then did he realize he had closed them to better remember every flutter and shadow of her wedding gown against his legs. He spun in his tracks and stared into the depths, and his eyes met a gold-green pair that watched him steadily from the shadows. With great stealth did Duke Cyrus begin to move to put the great cairn at his back, glancing hither and yon for other eyes or careless paw, perhaps the rub of a tail against brush.

As cautiously then, the brindled bitch edged into the clearing. Her forepaws were the size of a small man's hand and she stood tall as any of the Duke's coursing dogs. Time passed around the two while each measured the other unblinking, and as quickly she was gone.

The Duke shook himself, feeling once again the cold that settled deep in his gut, a fierce shudder ripping through him and he stumbled. His incautious step sent him tumbling to the ground, one foot entwined. In a gasp and an instant he was back up, one hand on the eating knife at his belt, the other reaching up ready to tear the blanket from his shoulders for defense. When naught appeared to threaten him, not even the ghost of the shadow of the brindled bitch, he looked down and would have fallen in surprise.

Around his ankle and ruined boot were straps of rotted leather and greenery, held together by stamped circlets of silver, each bearing the crest of Cleve.  He stared a long moment, and then in a trice and flash of steel he cut it from him, treading it into the dirt as he disappeared from the circle of the Seer's marker, unaware that he passed beyond the edge along the bitch's trail.

Behind him the glen fell once again to peace, the sharp odor of rampion sifting through the air.