He watched her fall. From this distance, from across the gorge, she was a broken winged bird, spiraling downwards; her copper-bright hair wrapped like a shroud around her face, while her back arched, rigid against the rush of air. Distance obscured Ashi'mei's features, and Geran was glad of that, at least, nor could he quite tell if she screamed as she plummeted down the vast length of the rocky chasm. Knowing her as he did, he guessed not. How odd that all those moments of joy between them should end like this. Did he feel regret? He shifted uneasily on his horse, and catching his mood, it pranced nervously sideways. Coming here was a risk to be sure, but he owed her this much at least--after all, he was the cause of it.

Even the mercenaries, standing at the edge of the bridge that spanned the void, were entranced by her slow fall. They peered over the side, amazed at what they had just seen and had a part in. One moment, they had been confronting a lone woman, and it was they that were in control of the situation; the next, she had simply stepped away from them.

The Duke wasn't surprised. In the back of his mind, he had guessed this might be her solution. If he was honest with himself, maybe he could admit he had chosen this very place to force her hand. The bridge was a landmark of Crisfell, as old as the mountains, and just as mysterious. A thin span of pale spider web lace across the Kwell gorge, supposedly it was indestructible, and it was a perfect place for a hero's story to end.

Perhaps his hired men simply had to make sure that she wouldn't land on her feet like some extremely lucky cat. She was well known in these parts, someone who had always seemed capable of anything; indeed, more of a legend than a person. Even her killers were a little in awe of her. Despite the situation, the Duke allowed himself a small smile. No one could survive such a fall; from that height the river would not help her. Even legends die, he thought, somewhat sadly. He did not wish to see it, to watch the end of someone who had always loomed large in his life. He turned his spirited gray stallion back onto the road leading to the coast. With nightfall coming, he wanted to be securely within Skellig Castle's walls, and by riding hard now it was possible.

However bad the fall was for Geran, it was considerably worse for Ashi'mei. It was all too like a bad dream: the crowd of grim-faced warriors around her, the wind whistling from below the bridge, and her horse dead at her feet, all telling her that there would be no happy endings today. This time there would be no great escape to impress the lads at the tavern. This would, indeed, be the last message she would carry for her Duke. She had little time for consideration. Damned if she was going to give this scurvy lot, whoever they were, the satisfaction of carrying her head home in a bag. Before they could close their circle around her, she sheathed her bloodied sword, tucked the message with the ducal seal into her tunic, and vaulted over the rail. It was almost worth their surprised looks alone -- almost, but not quite.

Only when falling did Ashi'mei wish she had reconsidered. She had a blurred impression of the cliff face passing her by, and strangely her mind seemed to latch onto little bits of it. A stubborn stunted bush growing from a thin width of rock whizzed by, and her fingers brushed a stem as she passed. The sheared corner of a broken ledge narrowly missed her head. The roar of the approaching river below suddenly signaled the end. Twisting and tumbling, she held her scream of terror in as best she could, concentrating on keeping all her breath for the landing. Ashi'mei straightened her body as best she could as the water approached. Sweet Mother! No time for anything else--she hit.

The assembled ladies of the court preened as Geran, Duke of Crisfell, strode towards the dais. They murmured among themselves like twittering birds, patting their elaborately braided hair, and turning their best sides towards him. Wasn't his form pleasing, his body lithe and powerful under the rich velvet garments of his office? Ah, they sighed to one another behind their shielding hands, and soft breaths filled the room like a heady perfume. The Duke smiled inwardly, recalling the first season Ashi'mei had been at his side. That whole year, leather had been the fabric of choice for the court ladies. It pushed their figures up in ludicrous ways that in no way resembled his paramour's armor. How they had laughed with one another afterwards in their apartments.

But of course, now he feigned unawareness of them, although inside he mentally counted and filed each breath, each melting look. One never knew when such weakness might be used. It wasn't at all politic, to be entranced by the ladies' beauty, now--not on such an occasion as this, of course.

Skellig Castle was a monument to the Duke's power. Its huge presence dominated the main headland of a harbor curled in on itself, like a great hook. Indeed, Skellig might have grown out of the cliff itself. It had been the seat of his family for four generations, since they had taken it from the Count of Firlion, last of that sad and foolish line. It had been they, however, that had first united Crisfell's warring clans--quite a feat, really. Skellig had been a declaration of their might, and now it was Geran's.

The Dawnroom was built on a massive scale, and the gathering of the court and chieftains, which numbered at least a hundred, was thinly spread down its length. The hall was the greatest structure within Skellig, in the center of the headland that composed the inner ward. The Outer ward blocked off all access from across the peninsula, and the only way from the outer to the inner ward was a causeway of knife-thin rock, three men wide. The Duke's father had often remarked that a cook and a stable boy could hold that ground. While the outer ward was martial in nature, the inner was serene, containing the gentile living quarters and scented gardens. But the Duke regarded the Dawnroom as the heart of his nation. Its impressively vaulted ceiling had been hewn from the white rock of the region, but its only decorations were the twenty clan symbols depicted in great detail on the roof. Numerous lofty windows filtered a rainbow of colors onto those below.

The chieftains in their somber wrapped laifs were dull crows next to the elegantly attired courtiers. Clan garments were meant for warmth in chill mountain air, and breeches and trews were for weaker mortals. They veritably glared at the ostentation about them from beneath their wrappings.

Reaching the high-backed chair that waited on the dais at the end of the hall, the Duke of Crisfell turned slowly, as if each movement cost him dearly. He lowered himself into it, his dark eyes scanning the room, letting everyone see his pain. "Ashi'mei Candre, my trusted Messenger, has been slain."

The court reeled. Chieftains, wearing the great laifs in all the colors of their clans, unconsciously sought the hilts of their swords; others kept their eyes fixed on the Duke. Those were the ones he knew would cause the most trouble.

Even here, he knew he was not completely safe. Plenty of Dukes before had faced clan uprisings. Many suspected his motives already, and some might guess that he was not entirely blameless in her death. Damn them, though, he did feel grief, for Ashi'mei had been his partner in love and friendship for the last five years. It was a shame that he had been forced to sacrifice her. But she wouldn't have stayed silent, she was too stubborn, and his plans demanded secrecy. She had won the hearts of the clansmen with her bravery and daring; perhaps that was what had won his heart, too, in the beginning. Today, many--including some of the chiefs in the Dawnroom today--were alive that would not have been, if not for her heroic trek across the Listra mountains in the depth of winter. Bringing aid to the imperiled commoners always seemed to guarantee instant admiration. The Duke himself had used similar tactics with excellent results. And now he would use the sympathy that her death provoked.

He ran his hand through his hair, for a brief second feeling a real twist of loss. Ashi'mei had always supported him, always been there at his side, even though she had not always agreed with him. Betraying her had been betraying his only real friend.

Lord Damon, chieftain of the Listra, pushed forward, his flinty gray eyes harder than usual. "How did it happen, my liege? Who would dare to attack your Messenger?" It was his clan that Ashi'mei had saved with her trek, and his stone-edged voice almost sounded rough with grief.

Now, the Duke thought to himself, you've weakened them, move in for the kill. "The cursed Sitcairn. I sent Ashi'mei on a secret mission of peace. She was traveling to the Tyrell harbor, and then to their island; she would have ended this ancient feud. Instead, they gave their answer with her blood."

What did it matter that the Sitcairn had not been any real threat since the time of the Firlions? They made an effective enemy, and one that they had been taught to hate at their mother's breast. Over the others heads, the Duke's gaze was caught by that damned mystic Llew; he knew what had really happened, Geran was sure. He raised a cynical eyebrow to the dark cowled priest. Go on; say what you know. Every inch of the stare he received in return voiced Llew's disdain--yet he said nothing. He simply inclined his head slightly to the Duke, and disappeared through the intricately-carved doorway behind him.

How odd; the Duke covered his twitch of concern beneath a theatrical sigh. His aides moved to effectively shield their liege from the prying looks of the court, but his dead consort was now the last thing on his mind. What would Llew do? Did he actually have any real evidence, or just the Divine whisperings in his ear? Geran knew he had been very careful with his plans; he couldn't risk trouble from the clans at this vital point.

The men on the bridge had been outcasts, mercenaries, who didn't know who had hired them. But just to be sure, ducal guards would be closing in on them, and these soldiers thought they were chasing child-killers. No one would be left alive--just in case. All eventualities had been secured as far as he could see; he hoped he had blocked all paths but one. The only trouble was, no one could judge which way a Godling would jump, and Llew was the most unpredictable of that odd breed. It annoyed the Duke that this was the only thing he had no control over.

Geran tried to put Llew from his mind, for now enraged shouts were ringing out from the crowd, the ancient stone reverberating with calls for vengeance. Clanspeople from all directions of his land leapt up. Ashi'mei was their martyr; revenge was now their reason. Consideration and negotiation were long past, and her death was just the spark they had needed. Yes, the Duke thought jubilantly, this would work.

He watched her fall. From this distance, from across the gorge, she was a broken winged bird, spiraling downwards; her copper-bright hair wrapped like a shroud around her face, while her back arched, rigid against the rush of air. Distance obscured Ashi'mei's features, and Geran was glad of that, at least, nor could he quite tell if she screamed as she plummeted down the vast length of the rocky chasm. Knowing her as he did, he guessed not. How odd that all those moments of joy between them should end like this. Did he feel regret? He shifted uneasily on his horse, and catching his mood, it pranced nervously sideways. Coming here was a risk to be sure, but he owed her this much at least--after all, he was the cause of it.

Even the mercenaries, standing at the edge of the bridge that spanned the void, were entranced by her slow fall. They peered over the side, amazed at what they had just seen and had a part in. One moment, they had been confronting a lone woman, and it was they that were in control of the situation; the next, she had simply stepped away from them.

The Duke wasn't surprised. In the back of his mind, he had guessed this might be her solution. If he was honest with himself, maybe he could admit he had chosen this very place to force her hand. The bridge was a landmark of Crisfell, as old as the mountains, and just as mysterious. A thin span of pale spider web lace across the Kwell gorge, supposedly it was indestructible, and it was a perfect place for a hero's story to end.

Perhaps his hired men simply had to make sure that she wouldn't land on her feet like some extremely lucky cat. She was well known in these parts, someone who had always seemed capable of anything; indeed, more of a legend than a person. Even her killers were a little in awe of her. Despite the situation, the Duke allowed himself a small smile. No one could survive such a fall; from that height the river would not help her. Even legends die, he thought, somewhat sadly. He did not wish to see it, to watch the end of someone who had always loomed large in his life. He turned his spirited gray stallion back onto the road leading to the coast. With nightfall coming, he wanted to be securely within Skellig Castle's walls, and by riding hard now it was possible.

However bad the fall was for Geran, it was considerably worse for Ashi'mei. It was all too like a bad dream: the crowd of grim-faced warriors around her, the wind whistling from below the bridge, and her horse dead at her feet, all telling her that there would be no happy endings today. This time there would be no great escape to impress the lads at the tavern. This would, indeed, be the last message she would carry for her Duke. She had little time for consideration. Damned if she was going to give this scurvy lot, whoever they were, the satisfaction of carrying her head home in a bag. Before they could close their circle around her, she sheathed her bloodied sword, tucked the message with the ducal seal into her tunic, and vaulted over the rail. It was almost worth their surprised looks alone -- almost, but not quite.

Only when falling did Ashi'mei wish she had reconsidered. She had a blurred impression of the cliff face passing her by, and strangely her mind seemed to latch onto little bits of it. A stubborn stunted bush growing from a thin width of rock whizzed by, and her fingers brushed a stem as she passed. The sheared corner of a broken ledge narrowly missed her head. The roar of the approaching river below suddenly signaled the end. Twisting and tumbling, she held her scream of terror in as best she could, concentrating on keeping all her breath for the landing. Ashi'mei straightened her body as best she could as the water approached. Sweet Mother! No time for anything else--she hit.

The assembled ladies of the court preened as Geran, Duke of Crisfell, strode towards the dais. They murmured among themselves like twittering birds, patting their elaborately braided hair, and turning their best sides towards him. Wasn't his form pleasing, his body lithe and powerful under the rich velvet garments of his office? Ah, they sighed to one another behind their shielding hands, and soft breaths filled the room like a heady perfume. The Duke smiled inwardly, recalling the first season Ashi'mei had been at his side. That whole year, leather had been the fabric of choice for the court ladies. It pushed their figures up in ludicrous ways that in no way resembled his paramour's armor. How they had laughed with one another afterwards in their apartments.

But of course, now he feigned unawareness of them, although inside he mentally counted and filed each breath, each melting look. One never knew when such weakness might be used. It wasn't at all politic, to be entranced by the ladies' beauty, now--not on such an occasion as this, of course.

Skellig Castle was a monument to the Duke's power. Its huge presence dominated the main headland of a harbor curled in on itself, like a great hook. Indeed, Skellig might have grown out of the cliff itself. It had been the seat of his family for four generations, since they had taken it from the Count of Firlion, last of that sad and foolish line. It had been they, however, that had first united Crisfell's warring clans--quite a feat, really. Skellig had been a declaration of their might, and now it was Geran's.

The Dawnroom was built on a massive scale, and the gathering of the court and chieftains, which numbered at least a hundred, was thinly spread down its length. The hall was the greatest structure within Skellig, in the center of the headland that composed the inner ward. The Outer ward blocked off all access from across the peninsula, and the only way from the outer to the inner ward was a causeway of knife-thin rock, three men wide. The Duke's father had often remarked that a cook and a stable boy could hold that ground. While the outer ward was martial in nature, the inner was serene, containing the gentile living quarters and scented gardens. But the Duke regarded the Dawnroom as the heart of his nation. Its impressively vaulted ceiling had been hewn from the white rock of the region, but its only decorations were the twenty clan symbols depicted in great detail on the roof. Numerous lofty windows filtered a rainbow of colors onto those below.

The chieftains in their somber wrapped laifs were dull crows next to the elegantly attired courtiers. Clan garments were meant for warmth in chill mountain air, and breeches and trews were for weaker mortals. They veritably glared at the ostentation about them from beneath their wrappings.

Reaching the high-backed chair that waited on the dais at the end of the hall, the Duke of Crisfell turned slowly, as if each movement cost him dearly. He lowered himself into it, his dark eyes scanning the room, letting everyone see his pain. "Ashi'mei Candre, my trusted Messenger, has been slain."

The court reeled. Chieftains, wearing the great laifs in all the colors of their clans, unconsciously sought the hilts of their swords; others kept their eyes fixed on the Duke. Those were the ones he knew would cause the most trouble.

Even here, he knew he was not completely safe. Plenty of Dukes before had faced clan uprisings. Many suspected his motives already, and some might guess that he was not entirely blameless in her death. Damn them, though, he did feel grief, for Ashi'mei had been his partner in love and friendship for the last five years. It was a shame that he had been forced to sacrifice her. But she wouldn't have stayed silent, she was too stubborn, and his plans demanded secrecy. She had won the hearts of the clansmen with her bravery and daring; perhaps that was what had won his heart, too, in the beginning. Today, many--including some of the chiefs in the Dawnroom today--were alive that would not have been, if not for her heroic trek across the Listra mountains in the depth of winter. Bringing aid to the imperiled commoners always seemed to guarantee instant admiration. The Duke himself had used similar tactics with excellent results. And now he would use the sympathy that her death provoked.

He ran his hand through his hair, for a brief second feeling a real twist of loss. Ashi'mei had always supported him, always been there at his side, even though she had not always agreed with him. Betraying her had been betraying his only real friend.

Lord Damon, chieftain of the Listra, pushed forward, his flinty gray eyes harder than usual. "How did it happen, my liege? Who would dare to attack your Messenger?" It was his clan that Ashi'mei had saved with her trek, and his stone-edged voice almost sounded rough with grief.

Now, the Duke thought to himself, you've weakened them, move in for the kill. "The cursed Sitcairn. I sent Ashi'mei on a secret mission of peace. She was traveling to the Tyrell harbor, and then to their island; she would have ended this ancient feud. Instead, they gave their answer with her blood."

What did it matter that the Sitcairn had not been any real threat since the time of the Firlions? They made an effective enemy, and one that they had been taught to hate at their mother's breast. Over the others heads, the Duke's gaze was caught by that damned mystic Llew; he knew what had really happened, Geran was sure. He raised a cynical eyebrow to the dark cowled priest. Go on; say what you know. Every inch of the stare he received in return voiced Llew's disdain--yet he said nothing. He simply inclined his head slightly to the Duke, and disappeared through the intricately-carved doorway behind him.

How odd; the Duke covered his twitch of concern beneath a theatrical sigh. His aides moved to effectively shield their liege from the prying looks of the court, but his dead consort was now the last thing on his mind. What would Llew do? Did he actually have any real evidence, or just the Divine whisperings in his ear? Geran knew he had been very careful with his plans; he couldn't risk trouble from the clans at this vital point.

The men on the bridge had been outcasts, mercenaries, who didn't know who had hired them. But just to be sure, ducal guards would be closing in on them, and these soldiers thought they were chasing child-killers. No one would be left alive--just in case. All eventualities had been secured as far as he could see; he hoped he had blocked all paths but one. The only trouble was, no one could judge which way a Godling would jump, and Llew was the most unpredictable of that odd breed. It annoyed the Duke that this was the only thing he had no control over.

Geran tried to put Llew from his mind, for now enraged shouts were ringing out from the crowd, the ancient stone reverberating with calls for vengeance. Clanspeople from all directions of his land leapt up. Ashi'mei was their martyr; revenge was now their reason. Consideration and negotiation were long past, and her death was just the spark they had needed. Yes, the Duke thought jubilantly, this would work.