Ranald walked to the edge of the overhanging rock and surveyed the horizon. The sky was bare save for dull patches of clouds; when the rains came it would be cold and penetrating. The men below craned their necks curiously, but Ranald ignored them. The clouds broke apart, revealing more blank sky, and still no one appeared. Ranald felt his anger build. He thought of Fulcruchen and was suddenly glad he’d denied the old man permission to join them. At the moment, his mood was black, and he’d no use for pious prattle. 

            Ranald the Warrior strode to the marker and kicked again, splintering the wood. Under his heel, the glove came apart in the dust. 

            “You are not unlike him,” said a voice.

            Ranald whirled about. A man clad in a bluish gray robe stood in the clearing. A bird perched on his shoulder, blinking dry, black eyes. Though he’d never seen one, the Warrior King recognized the species at once. There was no mistaking the unusual pattern on the falcon’s wing.

            “I’m my father’s son,” the King replied, “if that’s what you mean.”

            The Gibbor stepped forward. “My observation wasn’t meant to provoke you. There’s enough war between us.”

            Ranald observed the gold chain about his neck. A stone dangled from it, but Ranald only caught a glimpse of blue before it was again buried in the folds of his cowl. Without warning, the bird spread its wings and flew high, higher. Ranald couldn’t resist watching its perfect, effortless flight. When he faced the Gibbor, he felt red-faced and weak. His father had been caught in this trap.

            The Gibbor dismissed his embarrassment with a wave of his hand. “You called me here. Tell me why.”

            “For peace,” replied the King. “I’m prepared to offer a treaty and, if you accept, know that I’ll honor my terms. But first I must know, how fares my father’s soul?”