King Kennis wiped a grimy hand across his streaming brow, dashing away the little rivulets of sweat that threatened to drop into his red eyes. His neck was burning from a full day in the saddle beneath a blistering sun, and his head was pounding with an odd, syncopated rhythm quite out of time with the galloping hooves beneath him. Of course, he should have refilled his water skins in each of the past four cities where he had stopped to change horses, but he had been too hurried to think of it, and now he was paying.

But a pleased, wholesome smile began to spread across his face despite his exhaustion, until at last he threw back his head and let loose a booming, delighted laugh into the face of the setting sun, which had lit the rolling grassland plains before him all ablaze with its furious golden radiance. As if in answer, a cool breeze sprang up to meet him, tossing his thick, wavy brown hair wildly and bringing some welcome relief to his sunburned face. It was hard to believe that only just this morning he had left his court in Ballamur for a short escape, placing his capable older cousin Trellig in command for a few days. Most people probably still had no idea that he had gone, and only Trellig himself had the slightest clue where he was going.

“Freedom!”

Kennis mouthed the word soundlessly, relishing the feeling of it, and all the tingling excitement that it brought to his mind. It was a dear, a precious thing. And he had only gotten small snatches and tastes of it ever since he had been crowned king five years ago. But when he did have a fleeting moment of peace, he snatched it and ran. Such freedom came only a few times in a year, at the rare moments when all of his lords were too busy managing their own cities to try to manage someone else’s, and when there was no fear of invasion from the constantly menacing pirates that patrolled the coastlands like swarms of scavenging carrion birds…

But Kennis arrested the train of thought before it could go any further. Those were yesterday’s problems, and tomorrow’s. Today was simply today. For the next forty-eight hours, he was nothing and no one, a simple wandering merchant looking for a bed and a bite to eat. But even as he formed the thought and let it slip through his mind, he knew that it wasn’t entirely true. An excited twinkle animated his eyes and a thrill ran through his entire body. Up until now, he had always taken his short retreats in different corners of his realm, in small villages where there would be no nobility to recognize him, but where the general sentiment toward the crown was a positive one. But on his most recent visit, late last winter, he had found something buried out in the little village of Crasovy which had captivated his attention and imagination, and he was intent on finding it again. Or, more properly, on finding her.

The smile upon King Kennis’ face instantly widened at the memory of Mairga, the basket-weaver’s daughter, and of how she had run to bring him a beaker of hot cider the moment he had arrived in her little village, his beard covered with frost, and the cold stars of early evening twinkling behind his stiff silhouette. What had struck Kennis most was that she had brought him the cider simply because she was kind, and he was cold; it had had nothing to do with his royal status. It had been the first time in his life that he could remember someone treating him that way without making him wonder if they were only doing it to curry favor for themselves with the royal family. There was so much duplicity of that sort, even among the best of people in the court. And it made life so wearying, so lonely for Kennis. A discouraged sigh escaped his lips at the thought, and at the realization that this two day visit to Crasovy would only be a temporary distraction, and that he would soon be returning to Ballamur and his throne there. But he caught himself in time and shook his head to clear it, then raised his eyes to scan the horizon for the short stone walls of Crasovy, which at any moment might rise over the next hill. Already, he could see the merry twinkling lights of candles shining in the far flung cottages and tents of goatherds and farmers. There were always a few such people who lived outside the cities and towns of Riocht: people who preferred solitude to busy noise, and who were willing to purchase their freedom with a little risk.

Kennis snorted involuntarily. “Little risk” was a highly relative term. Back near to Ballamur, the greatest danger was from the occasional bear. But to dwell outside the walls within twenty miles of the coast was suicide. It wasn’t a question of if you’d be killed or enslaved by pirates. It was a question of when. For a moment, Kennis sat in concentrated thought, drawing up a map in his mind, and then he nodded his head in satisfaction. Crasovy, at least, was far enough inland to be really quite safe. As he reckoned it, a full four days’ forced march lay between Crasovy and the ocean, and the pirates had never dared to stretch their necks out that far. They were plundering scavengers, not warlords with territorial ambitions. And that was why the Crasovians could dwell in peace, flung out for several miles from their little town- a town that was guarded with no more than a tall stone fence of dry stacked limestone around its perimeter.

The remainder of the road passed in silence, for Kennis was too tired to really keep thinking, and the pounding in his head was becoming insufferable. He looked gratefully up when the walls came in sight, and a few minutes later, lifted the latch to let himself in at the gates. The gates were about six feet tall, made of thick elmwood planks like a pasture gate. There were, strictly speaking, no guards on duty here, but there was a friendly-looking old rustic with a shovel for a weapon, sitting next to a small fire and telling stories to half a dozen young children.

“Coming in late tonight, eh?” drawled the watchman conversationally as he looked slowly up at Kennis. “Get turned around out in the hills?”

“No, I’ve come direct from Ballamur; I left this morning.”

“Ballamur. Hmm.” nodded the other slowly, turning things over in his mind. That’s what- about two hundred furlongs, isn’t it?”

“Five hundred,” replied Kennis as he dismounted and patted his horse’s steaming side. “I’ve been in the saddle since well before sunrise.”

“Five hundred!” exclaimed the watchman, his wrinkled old eyes suddenly wide. “Then if you’re not making fun of an old man, your horse would rival the best of the king’s stables!”

“I won’t deny it,” admitted Kennis, “but I’ve changed horses in Drummindale, Keethish, Harrowbourne, and Coombe since leaving.”

“A merchant then,” said the old man, as if the fact had been indisputably established. “Well, you’re welcome here, so long as you make your procurements at a fair price. The inn’s down the main road, center of the town. You’ll see a lamp hanging over the sign of the Hart’s Hoof Inn on your right. Powl ought to be up yet, unless he’s had a pint too much himself.”

“Thank you,” said Kennis, feeling suddenly exhausted. When he trudged into the inn, he payed his night’s fare without speaking a word, and followed the landlord’s directions toward his room mutely, too tired and sore to really interact. But just as he left the common room, something caught his eye and he couldn’t force the sight from his mind: One of the other lodgers, sitting back in a corner of the common room, had been watching him from beneath his hood. The acrid, wisping tendrils of some strange smoke rose from a large, fat-stemmed pipe between his yellow teeth, and his face was so tanned as to be the color of red clay. His hair, ragged and unkempt, was tied back with cord behind his head, but his long bleached beard was meticulously combed and oiled.

In a moment, the man was gone from sight, but he lingered in Kennis’ mind all through the night, appearing and reappearing in his dreams. It wasn’t that the man figured as a villain. He was simply present, and his constant presence made Kennis feel uneasy. When he awoke the next morning, he was only somewhat refreshed, for his sleep had been short and restless. But it was Monday, and today at this time, he ought to be preparing for his weekly audiences with the Lords and Ladies of Ballamur, and instead he was buried in an obscure grassland village, with all his cares left behind. It felt simply glorious. So glorious that he barely even noticed how tired he still was. He splashed some cold water from a basin onto his face, and then proceeded to wash himself down from head to toe with a hard bar of lard soap that smelled like pine resin. Ten minutes later, he was free from all the smells, sweat, and grime of a day in the saddle, and dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers. He had only just finished lacing up his shirtfront when there was a soft knock at the door. He opened it to see Powl the Innkeeper trundling along behind a short and rickety cart, which had half a dozen small platters on it.

“Cider, sausage, barley bread,” drawled Powl, lifting one of the platters with a wide, shallow stoneware beaker perched upon it. Kennis thanked him and took the platter eagerly. His breakfast was devoured before Powl had reached the end of the hallway with his deliveries, for Kennis was ravenously hungry. Besides, the day that lay before him was far, far too precious to fritter away in his bedroom. He threw a thin leather vest on over his shirt, but left it unbuttoned because he could get away with it here, and strode out into the hallway and through the common room. Inadvertently his eyes swept the room to see if the fellow from last night was there, but he was nowhere to be seen. A moment later, he pushed open the doors that led out onto the street and he looked about to gain his bearings. Crasovy was small, so it would not be a long search to find Mairga’s Basket shop. Besides, he had been here only a few months ago, and if his memory served him right, he had walked past the shuttered shop in the darkness last night.

There was a thin veil of fleecy clouds covering patches of the sky, and a pleasant morning breeze was rolling through the street as Kennis started on his way. The wide main street of Crasovy was already beginning to thrum with activity despite the early hour, as peasants from out in the countryside arrived in little droves to sell their wares. Kennis breathed deeply, relishing the riot of smells that filled the street: the dusty, rich smell of freshly ground grain, the toothsome odor of smoked sausages and meats, and the alluring sweetness of newly picked wildflowers, tied in appealing bouquets with red string. The latter item caught Kennis’ attention for a few moments, and he wavered on the edge of purchasing a few of them. But at last he turned and walked away. Of course, money was no object, but he had better flowers than anything that money could buy here. His hand went instinctively to the breast pocket on his vest, feeling for the little bundle of flowers that lay hidden there above his heart. Most of the folk of Riocht had never even seen the flowers which grew only upon the tombs of their kings. The little, waxy red petals were practically immortal, like bright drops of fresh blood upon their slender stalks. Few indeed were permitted to pluck the revered flowers, and none were allowed to bear them except for the highest of officers and lords, as a reminder of their allegiance to the crown. They were sacred; not to be given lightly.

“If you’re looking for hot cider, you’re out of season,” said a voice behind him that stopped him dead in his tracks. He turned around slowly, scarcely able to breathe, and his eyes immediately fastened upon the young woman who was standing a few paces away, with a massive creel full of smaller baskets set upon her hip. There was excitement sparkling in her dark chocolate brown eyes, which were a perfect match to her shining braided hair. Her pleasant, round face was slightly marked with the scars of some childhood disease, but Kennis could find no fault in her beauty despite them. Her fine, thin, gently arching eyebrows were raised playfully, and her lips were formed into a half smile as she waited for his reply.

“It wasn’t cider I came for, Mairga,” he said at last as he took a few steps toward her. “But I won’t deny I’m thirsty.”

She laughed and heaved the load off her hip to drop it in Kennis’ arms, which instinctively rose to catch it.

“Hold these and I’ll go fetch something,” she said. And the next moment she bounded away, as graceful as a deer. Kennis watched her recede along the street until she came to a building with a small sign over the door which marked it as the basket weaver’s shop, and she darted inside. In a few moments she appeared again, with a pottle pitcher of glazed red clay in her hands. She was walking now, for the pitcher was filled to its brim, and her eyes were fixed attentively upon it to prevent its spilling.

“Just a stone’s throw or two,” she said as she reached him. “I always set up across the street from the flower girls. Sheena’s my cousin, and she likes to put up my hair with flowers in it and pretend I’m a princess from Ballamur. We’ve played that game since we were little girls. Of course, I won’t deny that I like it too.”

She smiled coyly over at Kennis, but her smile faltered a moment later and she blushed slightly. “Do you think it’s silly of us?” she blurted out, searching his face for an answer.

“Why should I?” he replied carelessly. “When I was a boy, I liked to play make-believe just as much as my playmates. And though the opportunity presents itself much less often now, I still play the game at times.”

There was silence for a few moments as they reached the appointed place and Kennis set down his load of baskets lightly upon the ground.

“But Mairga,” he said in a low voice as he stepped closer to her, “If you’d like flowers for your hair, I have some for you.”

Her face immediately went as pale as a sheet of paper, and then bright pink in the space of a few seconds, but a genuine smile spread over her face immediately after.

“Really?” she breathed. Kennis could practically feel her heart beating a furious double time rhythm from where he stood as he drew out the little bundle of Kingsblood from over his heart and held them out to her.

But even as she raised a hand to take them, her eyes widened, and she drew away.

“Those are not yours to give,” she breathed, “any more than they are mine to take.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Kennis, genuinely astonished at her refusal. “I picked them from my own garden yesterday morning!”

“Don’t tell me that,” she said in sad reproach. “I want to be able to trust you! I know what those are: the hallowed Kingsblood that grows where our fallen rulers lie in sleep.”

“Very well then,” replied Kennis, greatly abashed, as he returned the flowers to his breast pocket. “But tell me, how do you know of such a legend? I thought you had never been to Ballamur.”

A sudden sadness crossed Mairga’s face at the question, but she replied nonetheless.

“Last summer some of the king’s champions came riding through our town in a great haste after a secret mission out to the coastlands to ambush the pirate raiders under Red Khazoul. One of them was dying from his wounds, and they were in desperate need of medical supplies. We did all we could, but there was no saving him. As he lay on his deathbed, he drew out a bundle of flowers like those that you have, and gave them to his companions, saying: “take these to Kennis, and tell him that I have treasured the blood of my kings, even as I have spent my own in their service.” And then he died. They rode off the next morning, bearing his body with them, and guarding his flowers to return to the king.”

Kennis looked away, trying to swallow the knot in his throat. Only too well did he remember the return of that sad company. Only too well did he remember receiving the fallen warrior’s Kingsblood, and placing it in the silver casket to be buried with him when at last he died. Already that casket was full, too full. It was a terrible and bloody business, being a king.

“I see,” he managed to say at last, but there was no disguising the tremor in his voice.

“Then you’re not angry at me?”

Kennis shook his head, catching her eye reassuringly. She flashed him a brief smile, but looked away again.

“Well, if it’s not flowers you want,” said Kennis just as the silence was becoming unbearable, “can I go to the bakers and meatmongers and fetch us something to eat? Old Powl was good enough to bring me breakfast, but I think that I can be excused if I found it wanting. The fare was good, but too scant for my appetite.”

“If you’d like,” replied Mairga simply. Kennis suppressed a smile. Of course, what she really meant was “I would love that!” but she was too self-conscious to let the words slip.

“And supposing for the day that you were a princess from Ballamur?” he said as she bent down to arrange her baskets, “what would you like to have?”

“Oh, you shouldn’t,” she said, genuinely taken aback, her dark brown eyes wide. But Kennis only smiled encouragingly.

“Please, I couldn’t,” she persisted. “I’d feel bad if you spent so much on me, and I’d worry so that I couldn’t enjoy it.”

A hurt look passed over Kennis’ face, and he said nothing.

“I suppose,” she said bravely before he could turn away and go, “I suppose you might go to the baker’s and ask for one of the little pocket pies stuffed with venison and herbs and turnips? Mother and Father used to get them on our birthdays when we were small, and I did like them so.”

Kennis smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.” She flushed red and turned back to her baskets, while Kennis swung around and out into the street to find the baker’s shop. But even as he did so, his eyes fastened upon a figure leaning languidly against the lintel of the tinner’s shop. Even in the shadows, Kennis recognized him as the stranger from the inn last night. Immediately, his blood began to boil. How long had that man been there watching them? For half a second, Kennis was in two minds about confronting him, but he reigned in his temper. So far, the man had done nothing wrong, save for being seen twice and looking suspicious. Kennis shrugged and paced past the man without making eye contact.

“Nice flowers,” muttered a thick voice as he passed. Kennis stiffened and swung about, but the stranger’s back was already turned and he was striding away with a long swaying gait. Kennis glanced back toward Mairga, but she had seen and heard nothing.

“Well,” said Kennis as he forced himself to remember that the day was too valuable to be spent angry, “let’s see about that baker, shall we?”

When he eventually returned to Mairga and her stand, he was holding a split wicker basket lined with a clean white linen cloth. She said nothing, but arched her eyebrows expectantly for him to proclaim what sort of haul he had made.

“I found your pocket pies,” said Kennis as he flipped open the linen which covered the basket, “but the baker insisted that he couldn’t give me less than two dozen for the silver piece I paid him with. And I found a little wheel of sheep’s cheese and a smoked sausage and fresh buns and a pot of plum jam. I hope you don’t mind plum jam?”

Mairga’s mouth fell wide open in shock. “You shouldn’t have,” she mouthed breathlessly.

“Don’t fret about it,” replied Kennis. “I have the means, and there’s no one else I’d rather spend it on.”

Mairga forced a smile to her face, still self-conscious about Kennis’ generosity, but soon her smile was genuine and her eyes were dancing with delight.

“I can’t even remember the last time I’ve had a meal like this,” she said in awe as Kennis pulled his long knife from his belt and began carving pieces off of the sausage and cheese, dropping them in a pile on the linen cloth. He flashed her a smile and lifted the linen onto an overturned basked like a table cloth, and they dug in. To Mairga, Kennis’ appetite was simply shocking; he devoured eight of the pocket pies, most of the sausage and half the cheese in a matter of a few minutes, and washed it down with a long draught from the vessel that Mairga had brought. Content at last, Kennis leaned back and sighed, while Mairga continued slowly with her meal, relishing every last bite of the precious food with intention.

“Why did you take so long to come back here?” asked Mairga suddenly. “Ever since last winter I’ve been hoping so much to see you again.”

Kennis winced internally. “I have too,” he murmured, wondering how he could explain it all without telling her who he really was. Of course, sooner or later, she would need to know, but he was afraid that she would treat the king of Riocht differently than she would treat a friendly traveling merchant. “I have too.”

As they sat in silence, several shadows fell across them, and Kennis looked up. It was the stranger from the tavern again, and this time, two other men were with him. They were dressed like him in loose-fitting trousers and baggy shirts with rolled-up sleeves. And, like him, their hair was as tidy as a rat’s nest, but their beards were full and meticulously oiled, if perhaps sunbleached. Kennis stiffened.

“Pardon to interrupt,” began the stranger in a voice that was surprisingly soft and smooth, “but what prices are for the table basket?” He pointed to the large round laundry basket beneath their picnic cloth.

“Five coppers,” replied Mairga. “Aside from the creels, they’re the biggest I make.”

“Five coppers too much,” was the blunt reply. “Can four be suffice enough?”

Mairga stood her ground and for several minutes, she and the other haggled back and forth. It was only partway through that Kennis noticed the man’s companions scrutinizing him closely. When he stared back at them, they made no attempt to hide their interest and only stared back, muttering to each other in low voices. At last the stranger raised his hands in indignation and strode imperiously away, with his companions in his wake.

“No matter,” said Mairga, remarkably unruffled. “It will sell.”

“I don’t think they came to buy,” said Kennis in a low voice, still watching the receding men. None of them had a place in his memory, but he had a sinking feeling that somehow, he had been recognized.

“Why’s that?”

“Hmm,” grunted Kennis darkly in reply, watching the three men until they were lost in the crowd. At last he stood up and took a deep breath. “Mairga, what if we go and enjoy the sights and sounds of the market? If it would put you more at ease, I’ll promise to restrain my purse.”

She laughed lightly and agreed, and so they carried the remainder of the baskets back to her little shop and went on their way, strolling through the bustling crowds of craftsmen and farmers, each advertising their wares. They passed quickly by the fishmongers’ carts, for the day was warm and already there was an unpleasant odor there. But the farmers with their early produce and the tinkers and tinners’ booths provided nearly an hour of enjoyment. Just as they were passing on to the section of the street where the brewers were selling small casks of ale and cider, Kennis caught his foot on something and fell heavily onto his hands and knees. He was back on his feet immediately, and he was not at all surprised to see the stranger standing innocently behind him with an insultingly pleased expression hiding beneath a thin facade of startled surprise.

“The folk are clumsy today. But not a matter,” he said airily, waving his hand. “Only watch with your footing.”

“I saw you done it a’purpose!” exclaimed a stout brewer, billowing out from behind his stand to grasp the stranger by the collar. “I’ll have no foul playin’ by my stand, you see?”

“Swill!” snarled the man, pushing him away forcefully, so that he went flying back against his stack of barrels with half the shirt still in his hands. The stranger darted forward to land a ferocious punch straight to the brewer’s nose, but even as he sprang, Kennis caught a glimpse of the man’s bare chest, and it confirmed what he had suspected all along. A roar of fury burst from him as he dove forward, ramming his right fist into the pirate’s ribs. He gasped, and Kennis grasped him by the neck, flipping him over his head and onto his back with a reverberating “thud.” Kennis spun around to look for the other pirates, but the first was crumpled up on the ground, his forehead bleeding from the impact of a two gallon cider barrel which the wide-eyed Mairga had swung into him. The other had just been felled by the furious brewer, who despite his copiously bleeding nose had managed to reenter the fray. Kennis drew out his long knife and stepped toward the pirate, who was shrinking dazedly up against the brewer’s stand, still winded. Coldly, Kennis pressed the blade tip against the pirate’s chest, then flicked it to the side, flinging away the scrap of shirt that hung over his heart. There, tattooed with blood-red ink, was the shape of a human hand.

“And what about it?” snarled the pirate, his speech slurred and slow, and his eyes groggy. Kennis gazed furiously at him without replying, while the knife point pressed ominously against the red mark on his chest.

“I will give you your life back,” breathed Kennis at last, his eyes locked with those of his enemy, “for one purpose and for one purpose only. You will return to your bloodthirsty master, and you will tell him that you have come face to face with Kennis, King of Riocht. You will tell that coward Khazoul that there is yet a guardian in these lands, and I will not suffer him to ravage my people.”

There was something commanding and terrible in Kennis’ wrath, something that totally cowed the pirate, despite his swaggering bravado of a minute before. He stared up at the crowd which had gathered around him, like crows about a carcass, and his eyes began flitting nervously to and fro.

“Let me go!” he hissed, squirming away from the blade which was straining hungrily for his heart.

“Remember!” commanded Kennis in a low voice, whipping his weapon away and stepping back. “One purpose, and one purpose only.”

With a curse, the pirate bolted, pushing his way through the crowd and out into the open street beyond.

“If he stops running within sight of the walls, send out riders after him to remind him of his peril,” commanded Kennis to a capable-looking farmer and his five strapping sons. He slipped a few silver coins into the stunned man’s fist, then he took Mairga’s hand and began pushing through the crowd back the way they had come. As they reached the edge of the throng, she turned to him, her face very pale.

“Why me, King Kennis?” she breathed, a tremor in her voice. “I’m just a peasant girl!”

“Because I love you,” he replied frankly. “And I’m not fool enough to let my courtiers tell me who to marry.”

He stopped and looked over toward her, and one corner of his mouth turned up in a playful grin. “Mairga?”

“Yes?”

“Will you take my flowers now?”

Slowly, the color began to return to her face, and with it the smile that Kennis loved so much to see.

“Yes,” she laughed, gazing back into his eyes with a joy that simply radiated from her whole face. “I will take them.”