A/N: Firstly I must say a big thank you to Hoygal who has been an absolute godsend and helped me with this fic. If you find this chapter remotely readable or comprehensible it’s all down to her.

I’m afraid this chapter isn’t the most exciting but it gets better. Promise.

The sky surged overhead, a mass of churned cloud – purple, black and angry. The only hint of the moon was an odd silver haze half-hidden by the branches of the orchard, mottling the masking cloud. Owen inhaled the night air thankfully. Another dull day in court breathing that stale air tainted with perfume, sweat and smoke was over. The case of that disputed will had taken half the day to resolve, and then there were the matters of preparation for the wedding - it was strange to think of it as his own - to settle. Owen thought longingly of the days when he was merely the second son, of no great importance to anyone, free to ride through the forest, to hunt, to seek adventure.

Of course, if it were not for those days, he wouldn’t have to spend so long in court. There would be no ende gemot, nothing to fill his hours so entirely. Ranbast, his uncle, had always advised against the scheme even when Owen’s father had been alive. Perhaps he should heed his advice and abandon the scheme, or at least hold the gemot less frequently. But Owen knew it would trouble his conscience if he did. Besides, as even his uncle Ranbast would admit, to change his mind about a policy that had originally been his idea would not be seemly.

Owen fixed his eyes on the dark line of the road cutting through the hillside. Some time tonight, if the messenger was to be believed, the Speran party would be making their way along that dusty road bearing his bride in its wake. Owen wondered what she would be like. He hadn’t given much thought to it before; there hadn’t been time. It was simply another matter to be arranged. An alliance with Spera was necessary if he wanted access to the Gibrindit Pass and to secure his own interests in his dominion. If it ever came to war – and he prayed to the Dana it would not – they would be a useful ally. Spera was not a large country, but it was prosperous and their fighters were renowned for their skill with a longbow. Of course, Ranbast had not liked it. He had seen no need for an allegiance with a country ruled by a woman, but then Uncle Ranbast was old fashioned.

Owen wondered idly whether she would be pretty, whether she would have interesting things to say and if he would like her. He didn’t suppose it would matter much; he’d have little enough time to spend with her. Still, he hoped he would be able to like her and that she would come to love this land as much as he did. He smiled wryly, plucking sprig of jasmine from a bush as he passed and crushing it between his fingers. It was unlikely.

A soft sound behind him made Owen stop short. Had that been a field vole, rustling the grass? No, it was a slower, more deliberate sound than that. And there it was again. There was someone behind him, someone trying hard not to be heard.

Owen swung around drawing his sword from his sheath. A blade flashed through the air, its slender edge catching what little moonlight there was and burning in the dim light, startlingly bright. Owen cried out in surprise as the blade met his own, the sword’s vibration jarring his arm painfully. Jumping to the side to evade another slicing thrust from his attacker, he renewed his grip on his sword and pushed forwards, aiming to disable his competitor’s sword hand. The blade met flesh, and he heard a grunt of pain from his opponent. Owen hesitated, wondering what to do, and the man attacked again, lunging towards him. There wasn’t time to think. Owen dodged, then threw himself sideways at his attacker, hitting him in the chest and knocking him to the floor. Owen pressed his sword against his throat.

“Don’t move,” he said. He could hear running footsteps thudding across the lawn.

“My liege?” someone called.

“I’m here!” he said. The man struggled a little, and Owen immediately focused his attention back to his attacker. He was a man of medium build with a thick beard disguising his expression. Only his eyes expressed anything as they flashed with fury.

“Who are you? Why did you attack me?” Owen asked as calmly as he could. The man merely looked at him, eyes blazing contempt.

“Answer me. I command you to speak!” Owen pressed the sword closer, almost throttling the man.

“And who are you to give me commands? Usurper,” The man spat the last word at him with the force of a catapult

Owen was caught off guard. “What did you call me?”

“Your Highness, what has happened?” Mittozine, the Head Guardsman, and Ranbast hurried over to them, with guards close upon their heels. Owen stood up, still pointing his sword at the assassin’s throat.

“This man attacked me.”

Mittozine stepped forward, hauling the man to his feet, and another man stepped forward to hold his hands behind his back. He didn’t struggle, didn’t cry out. His eyes were still fixed on Owen, their expression oddly triumphant.

“Take him to the dungeons. We will question him tomorrow,” Owen said firmly. Mittozine nodded and roughly pulled the man away.

“Are you all right, Sire?” Ranbast came towards him anxiously. “You’re bleeding.”

Owen suddenly felt an unpleasant warmth sliding down his face. He touched his hand to his cheek. The assassin’s sword must have grazed it as he jumped at the villain. He hadn’t felt it. He didn’t really feel it now; there was only a mild giddy sensation as he felt the battle heat drain away. No pain. In Owen’s experience that was never a good sign.

“I think-” he began rather unsteadily. He took a breath. It would not do to show weakness now. “I think I had better go inside and see to it.. Send a physician to me, would you?”

“Yes, Highness.”

Ranbast bowed. They walked towards the castle across the moat. The blood on Owen’s hand was stiffening now, crumbling as he clenched it. It made him feel stuffy headed and sick, and his cheek gave a sudden throb of pain. His uncle put a hand under his elbow, tactfully, supporting him without seeming to suggest any weakness on Owen’s part. Owen felt a flash of gratitude to the man who had guided him so delicately through his reign.

“What would I have done without you all these years?” Owen asked when at last he and his uncle reached Owen’s bedchamber, and Ranbast helped Owen onto the couch. His uncle smiled thinly. He was not a man fond of compliments, especially from Owen; although the days when Ranbast would directly reprimand the young man were long passed.

The physician entered then and began to examine Owen’s wound. It must have been deeper than Owen had thought because he frowned and opened his medicine bag.

“A few stitches, your Highness, will help the wound to heal.”

Owen grimaced, found that that made his wound hurt even more, and nodded. “If it must be done then.”

The physician busied himself with heating the needle in the candle flame and threading it with sinewy thread.

Ranbast stood with his back to Owen, watching the fire. “Why do you suppose that man attempted what he did?” he asked, stroking his goatee. “Was he mad, do you think?”

Owen reflected. “He didn’t seem to be, but he was not skilled with a sword and he wore the clothes of a journey man.”

“Not a professional assassin then?” Ranbast tapped the mantelpiece with his long white fingers. “I wonder.…”

“You don’t think that-” Owen began, but the physician laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“You Highness, I really must insist you keep still.”

Owen closed his mouth, frowning, remembering the heat of contempt in his attacker’s eyes. The expression was familiar, although he could not fathom the source of the memory. And the man had called him a usurper. Owen bit his lip as the needle pierced his skin. He couldn’t know about Aleser, could he? Everyone thought he was dead.

Unless, of course Aleser himself had sent him. It seemed a ridiculously amateurish attempt for him, but then, Owen reminded himself, it had nearly worked. Had he not turned in time no doubt he would be dead by now.

The physician was talking. Owen forced himself to pay attention.

“…. will be removed in a few days; however, I think it would be best if I gave you a sleeping draught now. You need time to recover.”

“Her Highness, Princes Anwen, is arriving tonight.”

“So late?” The physician looked surprised. “It is dark outside.”

“The Messenger said that as they were so close they would travel through the dark. They cannot be more that an hour in coming.”

“Well in any case it would be best if you do not greet her like this. You would not make a good impression. Give it time for the swelling to go down. I will greet the Sperans.” Ranbast said curtly.

Owen sighed. “Very well.” It had not been a meeting he’d been looking forward to anyhow. His face ached, and sleep did seem very attractive. He took the goblet the doctor handed him and drank it down. It tasted sweet, soothing. He lay back on the couch and closed his eyes.

“You are dismissed,” he said. “Both of you.”

“Your Highness.” Owen heard the physician’s knees creak as he bowed and then the door click shut. Owen settled deeper into the cushions of his couch and let the potion pull his tired body down into the depths of sleep.

The Promising ceremony took place the next morning in the Great Hall. The court was all assembled by the time Owen arrived to take his seat. Two high platforms had been set up on either side of the Hall, one with the throne for the bride and another higher one for himself. The Speran Princess, her face obscured with a veritable fog of veils, was already sitting, rather stiffly, in place. Owen bowed deeply in her direction and then ascended to his own throne. He wished he could see the girl’s face, but custom forbade him from crossing the room, and he wouldn’t have been able to see her through the veils anyhow. She was slim, he thought, and rather flat-chested. She wore the white sash of a virgin (although, of course, that was to be expected) and her dark hair was covered by a muslin headscarf.

The noblemen and women of the court all seemed to be craning to look at her, no doubt evaluating what her worth as a future queen might be and what her likelihood was for producing an heir. Owen, remembering his own coronation, felt a flash of pity for the girl. It must be frightening to be stared at by all these gossiping strangers. He attempted a smile of encouragement across the room at her, but he wasn’t sure if she noticed. At any rate, she didn’t show any sign of acknowledgement.

In the centre of the room, Ranbast cleared his throat, and the buzz of chatter died down. “Greetings,” he began. “Princess of Spera, we welcome you to our land and wish you joy in your forthcoming marriage.”

The princess bowed her head in acknowledgement, and four servants stepped forward, walking up the aisle from the Speran side of the room, towards Owen’s chair, each carrying a heavy chest.

“In order to sanctify the union of Spera and Mechala we bring you our gifts,” the first servant said. “Gold from our treasury-” he opened the first chest, which was full to the brim with thick golden coins.

“-jewels from out mines-” a second servant said as he opened his chest..

“-linen from out stores-”said a third.

“- and slaves from our house.” A lead casket was placed with the rest. Inside Owen saw eighteen little bundles, bound with red thread. Each one, he knew, contained a human soul which while kept in his treasury would ensure the complete obedience of the forlaetan brought by the Sperans.

“You have been most generous.” he replied. “In return for this bounty, I offer my hand and my kingdom to your princess, and hereafter pledge alliance forever to the House of Spera.”

Again, the Princess bowed her head in acceptance, and the ceremony was done. Owen saw Ranbast nod to the servants at the side of the room, and the gifts were carried off, the linen to the tailors to be made into sheets, the gold and jewels to the treasury, the lead casket to the temple where the souls of the forlaetan could be safely held. The Princess rose rather shakily and left the room, her entourage following. Owen got down from his chair, calling Ranbast to him.

“Are the preparations made for tomorrow?”

“Yes, sire, it has been seen to. And on Friday-”

“I will leave, yes.” Owen shrugged the matter off. It was most inconvenient that this trouble at the border should occur at the same time as the Speran party finally arrived, but it couldn’t be helped At least he could get the wedding over and done with. It was a pity to leave his bride so soon after the wedding, but perhaps it would help her become more accustomed to her new country if she didn’t have the bother of a husband to attend to as well.

“Well, as that took less time than expected, let us go for a ride. We have time before luncheon, do we not?”

“Yes, Highness, if you feel it is appropriate.” Ranbast’s tone suggested he did not think it appropriate, “There is the matter of your attacker to be dealt with.”

“Let the gaoler deal with him. We have no need to be present, do we? And there’s nothing else to be done. The steward can settle in the Sperans, and the court has enough to gossip about without needing my presence. Come, Ranbast, even you must see what an opportunity it is.”

“Your highness must do as he thinks best. I will not ride; I have other matters to attend to.”

“Very well.” Owen said, and he clapped his uncle on the shoulder. “I’ll see you at luncheon.”

“Do not be late.” Ranbast said, but he spoke the words to Owen’s back. For an hour or two of freedom, Owen thought, he would brave even his uncle’s displeasure.

Review responses:

Ashykia: Thank you for pointing the mistake out. I do have an unhealthy obsession with ellipses. Yes, the arranged marriage plot line is about as old as pickled beetroot but I hope I’ll be able to bring something new to it. I’m glad you liked the part with the forlaetan. He has an important part to play in this story, as you will see if you continue reading.

T. Ann: I’m glad you think so. Thank you for reviewing.

em: You review made me laugh. Yes, Lynette is a bit of a cow, but she genuinely loves Anwen. Thank you for taking the time to comment!

Falathiel: Thank you. It’s especially nice to get a compliment from someone who writes so well herself (I’m assuming you’re a her. Your name looks feminine.). Lynette is a forceful character; she tends to rather steal the scene. And I’m glad you liked the forlaetan idea because you’ll be seeing more of them…. if you carry on reading, that is.