If honour may be shrouded...
-Lady Anne, Richard III, Shakespeare

As soon as Ewan received the message informing of his need in Yransea, he had started his preparations. The Tunnelers were to keep an eye on his home, warehouse, and Yearling Brook. The small contingent of Yransea people and recruits at Yearling Brook were given new words for passing information and the reporting hierarchy updated.

In the midst of the two days in which he had to do this, he also tried to spend time with his family. The usual tense moments of being able to tell his wife nothing in answer to her questions came and went; he could not tell her where he would be, how long he would be away, or any expectation at all of what he faced. As a sword does not ask, typically, its wielder to what intent it is drawn, nor did Ewan ask.

His pack was small: a few instruments of his trade, the vials of medicines and other more harmful unguents and poisons, and the outfit of gifted cloth granted by Sid. The sword he wore crosswise upon his back twained with its more mundane sibling.

When he disembarked at the docks of Seansloe, he was himself again. The world one he knew and understood. Fire of purpose lit inside him and began its forging anew of his spirit. He realized too much he had been relying on his family to keep him centered while draining out of himself the course of his life like water through a sieve. He was called and answered.

The guards and warbands of Seansloe Manor hailed his arrival with murmured tones of concern for the currents of the kingdom pulled and pushed even here. He said nothing to confirm or deny their blunt or shaded questions, but spoke to the wellness of his family, the thanks for their sympathies in the loss of his mother, and the wishes to speak with them again later.

Foremost, once his bag was in his rooms, he went to meet with the Baroness. She was found in the study with Lord Keefe and it was there he discovered it was not she who had called him back. Not his liege lady nor the barony that held his fealty. It was the Prince of Palendies.

"Prince Maelgwn requested you return. I anticipate His Highness's return through this part of the kingdom within the next few days. What he wills of you I do not know." She was calm and cold, like iron. He could see her own past, the past of a mercenary, serving her well in this hour.

"Then until that time, I am at your service, as always, my lady."

Her smile was wane, wanting to be warm and finding it hard with darker thoughts strongest in her mind. "Then I hope you will join my family and others for dinner. The children will be pleased to see you."

"Of course," he bowed and left the pair to their troubles. With the time to his hand, he set out to see his cousin, friend, and their family in the house he used to call his home.

"Of course, my lord." Ewan sat in the chair indicated by the slight point of the Prince's finger. Poised on the edge, he sat forward fingertips pressed together. The man across from him looked worn as he had never seen him before. Shadows, not unlike those of the courtyard, showed their first greying under the eyes.

Maelgwn shifted in his seat, sitting up more, drawing the coat away from him to rest more suitably to his shoulders. "What do you know of the northern barony lords and land holders??

Like a notebook or file of papers, Ewan searched his memories and his knowledge, careful in his assessments. ?Independent to whatever point the law allows them. They enjoy the natural defense of the mountain ranges and use it to their advantages. Some few land holders feel cut off from the rest of the kingdom. The church holds little power there. Baron Awstin is heavily influenced by his sons, there are three. His loyalties are strained and age eats at him. The eldest son looks to inherit, though his loyalties are less than certain. He has been connected, though not explored further under your father?s command, with the uprising in neighboring Braggara two years ago.?

Maelgwn nodded at times, his finger rubbing at a temple as he listened. ?It is there that most of these supporters of my cousin are based from what I gather. My few days in that country I was treated with the barest civility, just so I could not call affront. They no longer hide their dislike. My father?s inner council weighs heavily in the favor of my cousin as well, for most come from those northern lands. It all swings a balance to heavily that way, and should my father in his failing mental health write the decree they push frequently to declare another as heir, this country will be split as easily as the belly of a rabbit.?

There was no disagreement or consoling Ewan could offer. He studied the angles, the map of his mind where loyalties and interests mixed and drew desperate alliances. Maelgwn was a good man, though his strong alliance to tradition and slow assumption of progress made him an unwelcome ruler to merchants and new landholders who had fresh ideas seeping in from foreign lands of this world and others. Stopping it was as to stop the tide from turning. Foremost among them was Yransea. The progress made in subtle trades and bargains with the crown to tie them close into the workings of the kingdom.

Ewan's quarters when visiting the royal family were housed in a tower room. The round walls struggled to accommodate the square furnishings; a narrow bed, a locked chest of his personal gear that he left here, a brazier of tired coals more grey and dust than heat, and a singular table with an unlit lamp. The windows were narrow and their thick drapes open to the weather because Ewan had pulled them back.

The room seemed a simple, out of the way sort of place, but it had features to its hollowed double constructed walls perfect to a man of his sort's needs. Earlier that day he had checked Sylvia's room for such secrets in the walls and was satisfied there were none. She had seemed reserved and wary glad to see him.

It was a cover. He had not made his decision yet to the request of Prince Maelgwn, but should he fulfill that obligation, more to his advantage that his liege was in the castle. It would work to his advantage if all the wrongs and rights went jumbling out of his control. Right now there were no wrongs and rights, only shrouds concealing the choices.

A knock at his door, more than unusual, drew him away from checking on the items he had brought in his travel pack. When he opened the door a young page in full regal tabard and garments of well made cotton and silk held out a message to him. "From His Majesty, master."

"Thank you," soft spoken as he took the message. His smile was half formed, turning just one corner back. It was unlikely the swift moving page noticed it at all. The message was written in a tired scrawl that still showed flashes of its earlier elegance.

Ewan,

At last you have returned to us. We have matters that require your urgent attention. After dinner, come share a glass of wine with us in our study.

Rhodri, King of Palendies

"As you wish," Ewan murmured into an empty room that seemed to lean in to listen.

The morning would come soon, but Ewan had cultivated his plan in the weeks and days that had gone by. Prince Maelgwn?s request and the request of King Rhodri were all twisted up in him, and he knew that he would have to make a choice. To be prepared for either choice had consumed his thoughts.

What he had hoped to avoid had been crushed with the news that against the sanity of keeping the kingdom at peace, King Rhodri had given in to the war mongering of his council and advisors of the disenchanted northern land holders and struck at the heart of Maelgwn?s power. An alliance so carefully cultivated over the last decade and now used as the anvil to strike the hammer of war.

In its heart though, the true danger and purpose of the attack was to kill the princess and the heir. Ewan had no doubt about that, but the people he loved and those he swore to protect were in the way. The cage of his violent rage broke free and flooded his mind and body with the cruel, precise intention he required.

Night stole away the sunlight, but the beginnings of Winter Festival began with all the pageantry and tradition the King?s City could muster. Lights began to fill city squares and the courtyards and gardens of the castle. The feast of dinner was rowdy and bright, every sconce lit and refreshed as soon as the flame went too low. Every fireplace piled high with wood and gave off the scent of pine and spices added to the flames. The hall was heavy with heat and alive with noise.

Ewan made sure he was seen by many and shared a happy drink or two with some at each table including the head tables. The nobility and royalty made their eye contact, the prince and king their knowing glances that escaped each other. As the revelers escaped to their private celebrations or the silence of quarters to sleep away the rest of the long dark night, Ewan drifted the corridors to speak close with guards and let them smell the alcohol on his breath, observe his weary, blurry eyed gazes, and watch him fumble his way into his room.

There he let the hours deepen. Sounds dampened and lights began to flicker and fade as the courtyard became a haven of hollow paper lanterns bereft of their illumination. Ewan changed his clothes into the dark combination of browns and blacks, his hair concealed under a kerchief. All methods to shadow his appearance, except his face, were taken even though he took the secret passage out of his room and along the slender avenues hidden in the castle walls.

He had no delusions that King Rhodri would be in his study waiting for the latest word on what Ewan had found or not found in rumors, but he began there. It was a dank place that night having avoided attention of servants kept busy elsewhere. He passed through its dark emptiness, his eyes barely adjusted to making out slender edges of furniture. He relied on his memory to get him to the door. When he opened it, a light was approaching. It was held low and swaggered one way and then another. The body behind it was small and slender and the light showed it to be a tired page.

King Rhodri barely reached the circle of light, but his mumbling bounced along the corridor. Ewan escaped inside and into the secret passage to listen. The words barely changed pitch. ?I can see my own way. Go on about you, lad. You woke without a grumble and your reward is sleep. Generous I can be. See? They don?t see that, but I am generous. Generous until I am betrayed.? The voice moved towards the hidden door and then away. The scrape of wood against the stone rattled in the chamber empty of all but one.

?Generous, benevolent?I give so much.? A whimper trembled on the last word.

Ewan glanced out and found the page had followed his master?s word and left. The door to the study was closed. ?Yes, Your Majesty, you are very generous.? Ewan cooed with venom lacing his words.

?Eh? Ahh, Ewan. Ewan, my lad, you come to give me good news. You?ve come to save my kingdom from treachery, yes?? The old man looked up with the bright madness in his eyes. Madness with the hope of relief from his trials.

?Yes, my gracious lord, I have come to save your kingdom.? Ewan smiled and poured out a goblet of wine. ?You ordered me to see it done: to root out and destroy those who would tear Palendies apart. I have come to give you the rest you need and serve this land as I swore to do those years ago.?

?Yes,? Rhodri brightened, some memory drawing a smile to his lips. ?Young man, angry and deadly. The Yransea family molded your skill but they did not give your spirit a purpose. Not until me. Not until I saw you and drew you into my confidence. I made you.?

Ewan smiled, held the man?s eyes, and kept them there while he added the vile of poison to the wine. It was a concoction created in with the herbs of the malanthis plant and improved by his own hand to close the lung and stop the heart. An aphrodisiac pushed past its harmless purpose into a deadly one.

He offered the goblet out to the King of Palendies who took it without question and drank it down. Ewan needed no ruse to encourage the draining of the cup. Trust was a thing to be broken only once, and he used that at its ultimate end.

It was a slow death that shrunk the breathing from a slumbering slow pace into the hiss of a last whisper. Ewan poured another half cup of wine and set it by the hand of the man slumped low and still in his chair.

He left.