Two summers passed while Cleon tarried far from Gruen, and in those seasons did Fia bear and nurse her second son whom she named Cerenid. The babe was slight of form and gentle in spirit, and nursemaids oft did urge him to suckle, worried that his vitality had failed him as his ribs shown like pale ridges. Yet the long nights of his weakness did depart, and he endured the winter’s stern trial.

  In that third autumn, when the leaves seared to gold and Sol’s bright shafts were softened by the cool breath of northern winds, riders were espied upon the road to Gruen, bearing the banners of Welf. At first, their purpose lay veiled; yet a murmur spread like dusk across the courtyard, that Cleon’s name rode in their errand.

  Fia long feared for her sons in Cleon’s absence, sensing the lurking prowl of the ambitious men of court. Her breast swelled with hope as she stood with old Kethu on her balcony, watching the road to Gruen with eager eyes. The autumn air was crisp and the daylight soft and golden, the banners above fluttering and flapping in promise. In her mind she rehearsed the moment: presenting the young sons to their father, their laughter echoing through the courtyard; a feast in the hall, the cheers of the courtiers, the weight of fear released from her shoulders. Even the wind seemed to carry anticipation of reunion.

  But her heart shrank the moment she beheld the riders, for their mounts trod slowly, their banners drooped limp at their sides, the dust on their cloaks told of long journeying without cheer. Hope faltered with a chill in her limbs as sorrow touched her eyes. With trembling haste she descended into the square to meet them, and there, before her, stood a covered wagon, its heavy wheels silent, its form wrapped in cords and shadow. The air hung thick with dread.

  Her lips parted, yet no word issued forth. She beheld faces darkened with gloom, brows bowed beneath the weight of duty. In that instant, the golden thread stitching the hope for her sons snapped as though rent by unseen hands. For though she bore no love for the cruel man whose body they delivered, she knew he would protect them. Now, in her soul, she knew that her children’s inheritance, and their very lives, were now cast into peril.

  “My Queen,” spake the marshal, bowing his head, “we bring unto thee the body of the Rex of Methundor, slain by brigands upon the field near Bogwater.”

  Fia advanced to the wagon and reached for the knots of the shroud.

  “I beg you, disturb it not, my Queen,” pleaded the marshal. “When we found him, he had lain dead for many months. Thou wouldst not know him, and the sight of his remains ought not be the last memory thou keepest of him.”

  Fia faltered; the cords remaining tethered at her fingertips.

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  “How dost though know it is him?” she asked.

  “By his brooch and boots, and by his ink markings, my queen. His flesh, though withered, was spared the foul ravages of the beasts that roam those fens. Their hunger, it seems, was stayed by the honour that yet clung to his remains.”

  Thus were the sons of Cleon left fatherless and were placed under the charge of Kethu the Aeonite, who nurtured them as his own until a steward and husband fitting might be found for their mother.

  Under Kethu’s counsel, both sons were schooled for many seasons in the arts of numbers, and the histories of the First True Men. And also in the legends of the Garden Vallis, a realm scarcely whispered of in the Norland-tongue. They learnt of the great dragons: Margathon, the wyvern that flew nigh unto Sol until it was cast down onto Vallis to be remade, and of Bazunan, the most fierce, the finder of the Immortal Man, and also of Ogrennon, the outcast, forever tempting the brittle souls of Ed?.

  Kethu also had them trained by Aeonite warriors in the disciplines of combat: the wielding of arms in their fluid style— more a dance than smite and parry— and in the craft of tactics and stratagems. And the trusted men of the court taught the boys the hunt, and the keeping of beasts and birds of prey.

  Many summers passed with Ceryd striding time and again into the ring to face an Aeonite warrior posing with shield. With Sol barely cresting the ramparts, Ceryd would heft his broadsword, its leather-bound hilt once too heavy in his hand, and with a thunderous cry he’d lunge, boots churning the dust of the courtyard. Finally, his blade found its mark, clanging upon the warrior’s helm, sending sparks dancing like those cast from a sharpening stone. He grappled, his arms like coiled rope, to drive the shield aside, and his mentor, at last, dropped one knee and nodded in approval. Ceryd rose, sweat beaded upon his brow, chest heaving, the victory a culmination of many years of training.

  A fortnight morn later, Ceryd would vault onto a great steed, hoist the javelin, and race down the hill, breaths of beast and lad steaming like fog in the cold air. He struck true, piercing a target at full gallop, and his companions cheered. In that hour he felt the bloodline of his sire-king rise within him, the drive for dominion tensing in his sinews.

  And in those months and years, beneath the vaulted hall of ancient runes, Cerenid sat by lamp-glow, his slender fingers turning a carved stone etched with spiral sigils. The silence of the study held the musty scent of parchment where Kethu tutored him of his forebears’ temptations, of their blasphemies, and of their purgation. Cerenid’s mind was beguiled by the ghastly Nephilim and the glorious Gargan giants. And he drank each word, troubled naught by swords or shields.

  Upon the hunt for a mighty stag, the brothers would oft run the hounds a-foot. On one occasion, Cerenid drew nigh to a dog which nosed the trailing scent. Startled, the beast turned and nipped the younger prince’s thumb, rendering flesh pierced and bleeding. Ceryd, seeing the wound, rushed forth and struck the hound upon the muzzle, his blow so strong the beast whined and fled.

  Turning to his younger brother Ceryd said, “Come, let me see it… ‘Tis but a scratch, brother. Show not thy tears, lest they deem thee weak.”

  A huntsman rode unto them and asked, “Is the young prince hurt?”

  “He is well,” answered Ceryd. “Give thy mind to the chase once more…”