The celebration of Prince Dugan's wedding went on well into the night, though the happy couple disappeared around midnight for obvious reasons. Morwen had made a point of speaking with Malcolm, learning his name and offering him the best hopes for the future, sharing a wish to get to know him better as time went on. All of that happened in the space of a single dance, before she was swept away by her new husband, and Malcolm's attention was taken by another hopeful young lady. He was rescued from the gaggle, eventually, by the Adair brothers, who had dragged him back to their home and promptly passed out before showing him his own bed, too far in their cups for more than basic niceties. Indeed, much of the rebel camp had enjoyed the revelries until the dawn threatened. And yet the king summoned his newest knight to his side before noon, gesturing for Malcolm to enter the roundhouse where he held court as advisors and lairds slipped out.
Malcolm had enjoyed the revelry as much as anyone, it seemed, but he had not drunk as much as his companions, nor had he slept as well, knowing he was to speak with the king in the morning. He assumed Laird Adair had already shared what he knew of Malcolm's story, but he was not sure what else the king would ask him. It was hard to give answers to questions he didn't know, but if he asked about the future of Coimbra as Malcolm knew it, that he could tell him. He dressed as neatly as he could, considering he was still wearing borrowed clothes, and made his way to the king's war-room, having only eaten a minimal amount of food, as his stomach was in an uproar from the past evening, as well as a case of nerves.
Caerell Adair had spoken to the king, at length, about Malcolm, and the circumstances of his arrival. That much was evident by the way the two men were left alone within moments of Malcolm's arrival at the roundhouse. Tralin Nairn leaned against a sturdy table, on which was laid a map of Coimbra, studded with the heraldry of the loyal clans working and battling all over the country. The king looked a little the worse for wear for the night's revelries, a little bloodshot around the eyes, but he was no less warm than he had been before the wedding.
"Ah, Sir Malcolm," he greeted the taller man, waving him inside. "Come by, make yourself useful. Take a look at that map and tell me what I'm doing wrong."
"What you're doing wrong, sire?" Malcolm echoed, doing as he was told and moving over to the table to look at the map spread out on the table. He was no strategist, but he did know the history of the battles that had taken place before he'd been born. Malcolm studied the map a moment, particularly where the king had placed markers showing where the clans were located and where battles were taking place. "We are perhaps a bit too spread out," he said, pointing out the first thing he'd noticed.
"Fresh eyes never did me any harm," Tralin defended his decision to let Malcolm look over the map, taking a slow sip from a mug nearby. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he considered what was initially pointed out. "Aye, we are," he conceded. "But we've little in the way of choice there. We mass our force, the council masses theirs, and they're still bigger than we are, better equipped, and with engines of war. We've only the loyal. They have mercenaries paid off to kill us. Spreading thin is the only thing that's kept us alive these past decades. But it's a good point, well made, Malcolm. Tell me more."
Malcolm frowned thoughtfully. He could only share the mistakes that had been made in the past and hope they were not repeated in the future. "Sire, has Laird Adair told you the truth of my arrival at Imbre Caslte" Or the truth as I see it?" he asked, wondering just how much the king knew of his mysterious arrival and rescue of the Laird and his children.
"Caerell tells me everything, even the things he isn't sure really happened," Tralin said with a wry twist to his smile. He turned to look at Malcolm. "You dropped out of thin air in a crack of thunder and lightning, just when wee Rose was praying for her hero to save her. The noise drew the guard, the guard were stupid enough to come in, and you were invited to join the Adair family in their escape. Seems that the hidden door is useless, rusted shut, and you took them out a different way. All in answer to a prayer. I'll be playing up the miracle side of you, just so you know. Get used to hearing it, we could do with the Goddess on our side."
Malcolm nodded his head at the king's description of his arrival, his expression sober. "Aye, I ken the Goddess answered Rose's prayer ....and my own, as well." But that was not what was important; what was important was where he had come from, and no one had really asked him that yet. Duncan was the only one he'd mentioned it to, and Duncan had strongly advised him to keep it to himself, for fear he'd be accused of madness or sorcery. But this was the king, and in order to save Coimbra, the king needed to know.
"The Goddess has Her own plans, no doubt," the king sighed softly. "Sometimes wish She'd share them with me, but ah, well." He rubbed a hand against the back of his next, returning his level gaze to Malcolm. "I took your oath for your honesty yesterday, and I mean for you to keep it," he told the younger man solemnly. "There's no ears here but mine, and what you have to tell will go no further than me. But there's a question I've need to ask you, sir knight. Where have you come from, and do you mean help or harm?"
There it was - the question that had been hanging over him ever since Malcolm's arrival, the one no one seemed brave enough to ask. "Sire, I can only tell you what I know and what I believe to be true, but I swear on my sister's soul that I am loyal to Coimbra, to the Goddess, and the True King," Malcolm told him without hesitation, straightening a little, but not bristling as he had with Duncan.
"Then tell me your truths, Malcolm, and let me make of them what I will," Tralin told him, his tone almost paternal as he took in the sheer weight of anxiety hanging over the man who stood before him.
Malcolm frowned further, needing to relieve the burden of truth that was weighing on his shoulders, but how should he begin to tell his tale in a way that the king would not only believe him but trust him' "Sire, I was born in the year 1697, after you and Brodie Adair were killed at the Battle of Nanairna in 1622." He paused, letting that sink in a moment and awaiting the king's reaction and response. If he could accept that much, he would go on.
To his credit, Tralin Nairn did not immediately deny that this could possibly be the case. He had lived all his life as a rebel, had seen things that others would consider impossible. This was not so far out of reason as Malcolm might think. "Five years," he said thoughtfully. "Time enough for Morwen to quicken with a babe and heir. And my sons?" he asked, needing to know more.
Malcolm's frown deepened as he shook his head solemnly. "They did'nae survive the battle, Your Grace, but there is hope in that events have already changed. I am a scholar, and I have studied our history. I have read Brodie Adair's account of the war. I am no soldier or tactician, but I can share what I know, and perhaps you can use my knowledge to our advantage."
The king was silent for a long moment, feeling the weight of a failure that had not yet come to pass settle over his heart. "Then in the land you're from, Coimbra is lost," he said heavily. "For I've no doubt the allied lands with Pomerania will crush us if we cannot take back this land for the Goddess." He drew in a slow, deep breath, his eyes straying over the map, marking the familiar names inscribed there. "We need a victory, Malcolm, and soon. Without it, we will not be able to call on supplies from outside our camps. Tell me of the war as you know it, and we'll see if we can't change this future of yours for the better."
Malcolm had enjoyed the revelry as much as anyone, it seemed, but he had not drunk as much as his companions, nor had he slept as well, knowing he was to speak with the king in the morning. He assumed Laird Adair had already shared what he knew of Malcolm's story, but he was not sure what else the king would ask him. It was hard to give answers to questions he didn't know, but if he asked about the future of Coimbra as Malcolm knew it, that he could tell him. He dressed as neatly as he could, considering he was still wearing borrowed clothes, and made his way to the king's war-room, having only eaten a minimal amount of food, as his stomach was in an uproar from the past evening, as well as a case of nerves.
Caerell Adair had spoken to the king, at length, about Malcolm, and the circumstances of his arrival. That much was evident by the way the two men were left alone within moments of Malcolm's arrival at the roundhouse. Tralin Nairn leaned against a sturdy table, on which was laid a map of Coimbra, studded with the heraldry of the loyal clans working and battling all over the country. The king looked a little the worse for wear for the night's revelries, a little bloodshot around the eyes, but he was no less warm than he had been before the wedding.
"Ah, Sir Malcolm," he greeted the taller man, waving him inside. "Come by, make yourself useful. Take a look at that map and tell me what I'm doing wrong."
"What you're doing wrong, sire?" Malcolm echoed, doing as he was told and moving over to the table to look at the map spread out on the table. He was no strategist, but he did know the history of the battles that had taken place before he'd been born. Malcolm studied the map a moment, particularly where the king had placed markers showing where the clans were located and where battles were taking place. "We are perhaps a bit too spread out," he said, pointing out the first thing he'd noticed.
"Fresh eyes never did me any harm," Tralin defended his decision to let Malcolm look over the map, taking a slow sip from a mug nearby. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he considered what was initially pointed out. "Aye, we are," he conceded. "But we've little in the way of choice there. We mass our force, the council masses theirs, and they're still bigger than we are, better equipped, and with engines of war. We've only the loyal. They have mercenaries paid off to kill us. Spreading thin is the only thing that's kept us alive these past decades. But it's a good point, well made, Malcolm. Tell me more."
Malcolm frowned thoughtfully. He could only share the mistakes that had been made in the past and hope they were not repeated in the future. "Sire, has Laird Adair told you the truth of my arrival at Imbre Caslte" Or the truth as I see it?" he asked, wondering just how much the king knew of his mysterious arrival and rescue of the Laird and his children.
"Caerell tells me everything, even the things he isn't sure really happened," Tralin said with a wry twist to his smile. He turned to look at Malcolm. "You dropped out of thin air in a crack of thunder and lightning, just when wee Rose was praying for her hero to save her. The noise drew the guard, the guard were stupid enough to come in, and you were invited to join the Adair family in their escape. Seems that the hidden door is useless, rusted shut, and you took them out a different way. All in answer to a prayer. I'll be playing up the miracle side of you, just so you know. Get used to hearing it, we could do with the Goddess on our side."
Malcolm nodded his head at the king's description of his arrival, his expression sober. "Aye, I ken the Goddess answered Rose's prayer ....and my own, as well." But that was not what was important; what was important was where he had come from, and no one had really asked him that yet. Duncan was the only one he'd mentioned it to, and Duncan had strongly advised him to keep it to himself, for fear he'd be accused of madness or sorcery. But this was the king, and in order to save Coimbra, the king needed to know.
"The Goddess has Her own plans, no doubt," the king sighed softly. "Sometimes wish She'd share them with me, but ah, well." He rubbed a hand against the back of his next, returning his level gaze to Malcolm. "I took your oath for your honesty yesterday, and I mean for you to keep it," he told the younger man solemnly. "There's no ears here but mine, and what you have to tell will go no further than me. But there's a question I've need to ask you, sir knight. Where have you come from, and do you mean help or harm?"
There it was - the question that had been hanging over him ever since Malcolm's arrival, the one no one seemed brave enough to ask. "Sire, I can only tell you what I know and what I believe to be true, but I swear on my sister's soul that I am loyal to Coimbra, to the Goddess, and the True King," Malcolm told him without hesitation, straightening a little, but not bristling as he had with Duncan.
"Then tell me your truths, Malcolm, and let me make of them what I will," Tralin told him, his tone almost paternal as he took in the sheer weight of anxiety hanging over the man who stood before him.
Malcolm frowned further, needing to relieve the burden of truth that was weighing on his shoulders, but how should he begin to tell his tale in a way that the king would not only believe him but trust him' "Sire, I was born in the year 1697, after you and Brodie Adair were killed at the Battle of Nanairna in 1622." He paused, letting that sink in a moment and awaiting the king's reaction and response. If he could accept that much, he would go on.
To his credit, Tralin Nairn did not immediately deny that this could possibly be the case. He had lived all his life as a rebel, had seen things that others would consider impossible. This was not so far out of reason as Malcolm might think. "Five years," he said thoughtfully. "Time enough for Morwen to quicken with a babe and heir. And my sons?" he asked, needing to know more.
Malcolm's frown deepened as he shook his head solemnly. "They did'nae survive the battle, Your Grace, but there is hope in that events have already changed. I am a scholar, and I have studied our history. I have read Brodie Adair's account of the war. I am no soldier or tactician, but I can share what I know, and perhaps you can use my knowledge to our advantage."
The king was silent for a long moment, feeling the weight of a failure that had not yet come to pass settle over his heart. "Then in the land you're from, Coimbra is lost," he said heavily. "For I've no doubt the allied lands with Pomerania will crush us if we cannot take back this land for the Goddess." He drew in a slow, deep breath, his eyes straying over the map, marking the familiar names inscribed there. "We need a victory, Malcolm, and soon. Without it, we will not be able to call on supplies from outside our camps. Tell me of the war as you know it, and we'll see if we can't change this future of yours for the better."