"I-I-I was t-t-told that you c-c-could help heal me?"

  "Who told you this, child? Who brought you to this desolate place, far from your home? What dreams may come when we let loose such coils as these?"

  The fine Consort's robes Emilia wore began to unravel as if being pulled apart by unseen hands. She tried desperately to hold the pieces together but to no avail as the ethereal spinsters shredded every last strand into the thin air around her, leaving her naked in a hovel meager by the worst standards. An old woman sat hunched over a tiny fire that gave light to the tiny room. She faced away from Emilia. In the corner, taking up almost half the area, was a wretched bed covered with goatskins and filled with rough straw. Two wooden stakes with rungs carved into the top stood next to the bed just above the level of the mattress itself.

  The woman's voice croaked through again, coughing fits taking her in between phrases. "Who told you?" More hacking, "Who brought you to my humble hovel, my hoveled humbleness, my tiny little sliver of slavitude?"

  Emilia tried to cover herself, not understanding any of the words now spoken. She turned to leave but found that the hovel had no door, no windows, no exits of any kind. "Elder, please let me out."

  "OUT" she screeched, turning to face Emilia, the empty sockets of her eyes looking past the noise they had heard, through the speaker at something beyond. "There is no out, no over, no under. Under under under." The hag stood, or as close to standing as the bent over being could muster, and began to chant and dance.

  "No out, no going out, no over, no under. UNDER UNDER UNDER" The old woman stomped her feet on the dirt floor sending dust flying and then drew up to Emilia, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her face down so that Emilia's eyes were of equal height with her own lack thereof. Then she whispered, "Only through."

  Emilia was strapped down to the bed, her legs tied to the posts, raised high and spread. She couldn't move. She couldn't feel anything, or hear, or taste, or smell. All her senses minus sight vanished. She had become a spectator to this senseless madness. The shadow of the old lady danced upon the hovel walls, as she worked, doing only Heaven knows to Emilia.

  Though her senses were robbed of her, the paralysis was worse. Without the outlet of sensation, all her terror turned inward, wracking her mind with impossible phantom pains.

  The old woman's face appeared before her, the sockets mocking her eyes. The woman's lips moved, but no sound emanated from them. She licked her lips, continued to speak, but silence smothered all. Finally the woman smiled a huge, manic smile, and threw her head back as if to laugh. As she did so, the roof of the hovel was rent asunder by massive black jaws tearing through and ripping the thatching to shreds which flew high into the midnight sky and fell like countless blades of grass downward.

  Emilia saw it, the rows of black steel teeth, eyes of molten fire, diamond-patterned, as she was engulfed in a cloud of noxious fumes. And in her head she heard his voice, guttural and deep and playful, I told you it could be arranged. All things are possible in Dreams. The laughter that reverberated through her skull was long and joyous, though tinged with longing, and it froze her blood.

  And Nightmares.

  All feeling returned in that moment, and she felt something burning deep inside of her, the pain of which was more profound than she had ever felt. The restraints still held, and her senses returned in a torrential wave of powerful emotion that conspired to destroy her. She convulsed, her naked body torn and scarred by the ropes that held her. Her muscles refused to listen, her jaw clenched tight, biting into the side of her tongue and she tasted blood, her blood. An ocean of it seemed to flow until she felt she would drown in it, choke on it. She couldn't place all the sensations that assailed her, but one, in her lower stomach was the most painful of all, and it seared her with maddening agony. Finally, she loosed her mouth in a choked and horrifying scream

  Awake.

  Her wail tore against the castle walls as she sat up in her bed, her hands reaching to pat her entire body, searching for the scars, feeling for the restraints. She hardly realized she was still screaming as she reached her feet. She stopped, the last children of her cry fleeing the room and escaping into the hallways of the castle.

  Her breathing was labored, her heart the staccato percussion of perfect terror living in her chest. She ached all over.

  The knock on the door was loud, "Consort, are you well? May I enter?" The Guardsman at the door sounded fearful.

  "No, sir. I am fine" She fought hard to control her breath between words, to give a sense of composure.

  "Are you certain, my lady? I heard a dreadful noise."

  "Just a night terror. Nothing more."

  Still through the door, "as you say, my lady." And his hesitating footsteps moved away.

  The Consort’s chamber was of medium size. A mirrored wardrobe, filled with fine clothing, stood across from the four-postern bed from which hung glorious silken drapes in a mixture of violet, blue, and silver. She took comfort in the familiarity of a massive woolen rug which dominated most of the floor, lending an air of coziness to an otherwise dreary stone floor. A dressing screen stood in the corner, the parchment paper painted with a scene of waves crashing upon a distant shore in the style of the Eastern isles, flowing paint strokes moving ever in the direction of the image itself giving an animated quality to the work.

  There was no window in this room, only a small hands-width slit in the wall which let in a modest amount of sun during the day, and minimal moonlight at night. There is no way I can rest now.

  Emilia entered Theon's chambers just past midnight, her graceful form sliding into bed beside him. She hadn't been with him since her final attempt at seducing the young swordsman, and she was longing for his touch. The night's fear compelling her all the more into his embrace. She ran her hands across his chest. He moved with a groan half-asleep, as she kissed him, the King awaking as if from a dream. She pulled back and whispered into his ear, "My love, I have missed you."

  "Oh, Zara, do I die or do I dream." The King's mind was drawn back to his great love, the woman who had born him two children, who had ever strengthened him beyond all that he thought he could be his Queen Zaralai.

  The wound Emilia felt was deeper than she could express, to be an afterthought from a time long before, to be second to a spectre, but still she loved the King with all her broken heart, and this night, more than any other, she needed distraction. "Yes, my love, you dream... of better days." She would endure this. She would be for him what his heart needed, even as hers wept. Pressing against him, she became Zara for the night, became the epicenter of his passion, she became a ghost herself, so that for one night, a ghost could live again.

  #

  When morning dawned, the King rose up onto his elbow and looked at the beautiful woman lying next to him. She was a strange one, a lovely, passionate, celestial force of a woman. He could not help but smile, remembering his dream of his Queen, but then he knew, realized what had happened. Emilia slept soundly and he leaned over and kissed her forehead gently. "I'm so sorry." He whispered, realizing some semblance of her pain. "I'm not worthy."

  The king rose and donned his robe. He would do something to make this right, even something small. He left the tower and went to find the chef. Breakfast in bed, and we will talk, really talk. It took some time to get a servant. He was up far earlier than usual, and it took a little more time for the cook to make up something worthy of the King's Consort, but he managed in a timely enough fashion.

  "Sire, I will deliver it the moment it is done." The chef had said.

  "No no, Sanji, don't bother yourself, just have it on trays, and I will carry it myself." Theon replied.

  Now he strode the stairs to his chamber and swung the door wide. Emilia sat up, her lovely form outlined by the sheets as the light sparkled in her azure eyes. By heaven, how could I be so cold?

  "Emilia, a treat for you." He said without any confidence as he took the trays and set them down before her.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  It was clear she was tired, and the red of a night's crying showed, but it could not mar her beauty. A meek smile crossed her lips, and Theon was stricken again by the wrong he had done this incredible young woman.

  "Thank you, My King."

  "Please, Em, please call me Theo."

  "As you wish, Theo." She paused. "Is there an occasion?"

  He could not bring himself to tell her the whole truth. The whole of it would show her vulnerability all the more, perhaps twist the knife further, so he lied. He lied to give her time to heal from the brutal truth that he would never love another woman like he did his late Queen Zara. "Your beauty is occasion enough, my love." But that did not mean he could no longer love at all.

  The phrase struck Emilia with force, but she dared not question it and merely said a simple "Thank you" and began to eat. The awkwardness remained for mere moments before they were interrupted by a polite knock and a clearing throat at the entrance to the room.

  Both looked up to see the young swordsman waiting patiently.

  "Yes, young man? What do you require?" Theon said, thankful for the well-timed interruption.

  "Sire, the council meetings continue without you as you have requested; however, I come to give you your updates, and to announce the arrival of Lord Gawn of the Gaels." The swordsman spoke calmly, broke for a moment and then addressed Emilia, "My lady, I also must extend my apologies for the dreadful tale I told you before. Such things are not to burden others with, but to be carried alone." He bowed deeply, eyes downcast.

  Emilia replied, "No, good sir, it is I who should apologize. I recommended my little seduction to the king as a test of your loyalty, but I took it too far."

  "You love him, I cannot fault you for that, My Lady." The statement was so matter-of-fact, but it held a brutish force it seemed to the king, as Emilia was taken aback.

  "As you say, Sir Knight. As you say." Emilia said softly, and returned to eating so as to have an excuse to speak no more, for she did not trust herself to fend off the emotions rising up in her. The Swordsman turned and addressed the King,

  "Sire, then I take it you now know something of my past. If you find fault, please remove me from your service. Punish me. Imprison or execute me. I am, as always, at your mercy."

  "Actually no, young man. Emilia would not re-tell your tale. Though I had meant to ask you about it. Now, I do not think it matters. Rather than whatever tale of woe you delivered before, when next we speak I would like a happier tale perhaps. How did you enter the Order, Sir?"

  "I am humbled, Sire. I will do as you wish, of course, but I can leave you to your meal. Perhaps later this morning, in the council chambers. I will present the kingdom business, Sire, and I will reveal anything you'd like to know. Perhaps Lord Gawn will be prepared to join us as well, if you like."

  Theon waited for a moment, then looked at Emilia, and thought better of spoiling a chance to speak with her alone, to really give her the time she deserved. "As you like young man, I would enjoy the time with my Lady. I will meet you in two hours' time."

  The Swordsman stood to attention, said "Yes, Sire" bowed low, turned on his heels and made his retreat, closing the door after him.

  "Are all your knights in the habit of walking around with cattleprods up their asses?" Emilia asked, her severe sarcasm returning and breaking up the earlier awkwardness.

  "It's part of the initiation." Theon replied.

  A moment's pause filled with silence. A full measure's rest preceded a resounding percussion of laughter from the two lovers, and they melted into each other's arms.

  #

  "So, my young friend, what then was your path to Knighthood? So young as you are it cannot be over long." The King was in good spirits as he sat across from the Swordsman, the hexagonal council table with names of legend etched upon its face.

  "Sire, I will not bore you overmuch with the details, but I will share what is pertinent."

  "As you like, this is an opportunity to know you a little better."

  "I will begin with the loss of my sanity then, while still young. At only sixteen I had a wife, and a child, and the full weight of my family's draconic tradition upon me. I was steeped in blood, aiding assassinations, training with knives and poisons. It was... too much." The Swordsman voice began to trail, but reasserted itself as the King sat patiently.

  "I slaughtered people, Sire." The swordsman looked down at his hands as he spoke, examining them with strange fascination. "These hands bore the blade."

  "That is..." Theon began but thought it better to wait. "Go on."

  "Yes, Sire. I only remember pieces of it. My mind shattered, the shards forming broken images, twisted sensations." He paused, long enough for silence to drift lazily throughout the room before continuing. "Then I ran. I ran until my legs could not carry me, until my lungs could not bear another breath. When I awoke I was in a cage rolling northward on a road surrounded by a sea of rolling plains, the gentle hills like waves trapped in time."

  "A cage? Slavers?" The king seemed incensed.

  "There are many things in your nation you would not like, my Lord."

  "But, slavery has been outlawed for a millennium."

  "As if the mere words of a law may decimate the existence of that which it prohibits. Laws are only pertinent to the law abiding. The rest find their own paths, Sire."

  "Troubling. Please continue, though I am interested to know more of these slavers."

  "As you wish, Sire, though they are beyond your reach now." A sudden coldness entered the Swordsman eyes, and the King knew what he meant.

  With gravitas, "Go on."

  "They tried to put me to work building fortifications, but I was still broken. Every chance I got I was violent with my captors, and all those around me. I was as a feral beast. So they found new ways to make the most of me – fighting pits."

  The King made a sympathetic groan that could have been sorrow, excitement, or jealousy. The swordsman was not certain, but he went on nonetheless.

  "Normally they didn't give me weapons, but my training in my former family served me well. I do not know how many died at my hands. Most fights are as the time of my family's death, fragmented pictures, the scent of blood, with the added sound of morbid cheering. After a time, the fights got bigger. More coin was involved, and so they gave me a pick of weapons. My salvation, and my sanity, came in the form of a simple, rusting shortsword. I remember the stark clarity that entered my vision when I gripped the worn leather in my hand. It was as though the sword knew my need and brought me back in time, to before my madness. To before my regret."

  "I too know the joy of a blade in the hand. The clarity, the power, the center it brings one to. Glorious."

  "I thought you might, Sire. Your craft is unequaled."

  "Except by yours, my young friend. Do not think I didn't notice. You let me win our duel, endangering yourself more than was necessary to keep me safe."

  The Swordsman went rigid. "I thought I had hidden it well."

  The king merely laughed, and leaned back in his chair, waving his hand for the young man to go on.

  "Yes, Sire. So, I was brought back to lucid thoughts and entered into the ring. There I faced a giant of a man, but dispatched him with relative ease, the grace of my training and clarity of my mind aiding me. I was purchased, by whom I didn't know, but my captors told me brusquely and sent me off with a cloaked stranger who would not show me his face until we were far away."

  "Let me guess. The man who would be your master?"

  "Yes Sire, it was the True Sword himself, nameless until named, Knight Adamant in service to the King, bearer of Redemption, and, of all people, my great uncle."

  "Your great uncle? From what the very little you have said of your family laws that seems, inopportune."

  "I can see why you may think it, Sire, but the True Sword had a falling out with my family. He had refused the madness of our line, contending against his twin brother, my grandfather, and their father after the death of their mother. It is rare for brothers to be born into my family, as you may realize, but his was a tender soul combined with unmatched martial prowess. Though his father and brother sought to stop him, they were unable. He escaped into memory, and even all their resources could not find him. I overheard my grandfather once, in a fit of uncharacteristic passion, pouring curses over the day of their birth, the wretched failure to find him, and his impotence in stopping his brother. I think my grandfather was wounded by his weakness most, but that was the only time I ever heard my great uncle spoken of. His very existence was a blight upon the family."

  "Yet he became a Knight Adamant. Fascinating."

  "He did, Sire, and bore the same sword that I now wield – Redemption. The blade was forged by King Amitai I and given unto the Nakusora clan in recompense for the destruction of their entire island by Theon I during the Wars of Forming."

  "I am familiar with the history of your blade, though the blade in question was named Remembrance, was it not?"

  "At the time of its gifting, yes, Sire. As the madness of the Nakusora clan deepened, an offshoot of the family became sole heirs to the blade and renamed it Redemption in hope of following the path its new name would lay. My great uncle was not of the offshoot but was found by them after his departure from the main branch, and eventually rose from Apprentice to Squire to Knight in the Order of Adamant. His disposition and heart were well-attuned to the blade."

  "That, even in its exile, the Order has remained vigilant in recruiting is a wonder. Though perhaps it ought not be too much. I knew the Knight Commander well long before he ever became so."

  "They recruited for a time, but we are only four now. The four Bladed Knights. None that I know of have taken Squires, and all the apprentices have long since been gone, swallowed up by revolutions, misfortune, or the fear of what it means to be a Knight Adamant - exiled."

  "It seems in disarray. Another failure I should have remedied. Yours ought have been an order glorified, not vilified."

  "We failed King Jonah. He crafted a blade meant for the Highland Lords of the Gaels, and was slain, and the blade was lost. The uprising after his death was abhorrent. The Culling, saw almost seventy-five thousand dead and many more thousands wounded at the failed coup attempt. I do not know why the earlier knights did as they did, why they led a force against the throne."

  "For good reason. To retrieve the new-formed blade – a blade of power rivaling my own. But the truth of those histories is for another time, Swordsman. When did you say Lord Gawn would be here?"

  "He is at rest in the guest chambers, Sire. He looked dreadfully pale upon his arrival. He did say he would be here shortly. He wishes to speak of freedoms. I wonder if he knows, just how much we have gleaned of his revolution."

  "Felix is a man of principle. Lord Marrak said as much. Perhaps we can come to some level of agreement, but undoing my last eight years, almost nine years, of dreadful inaction may not be as easy as a lunch with one of a dozen Highland Lords."