With the help of Suvau, Verne and Giordi, Caste was able to lift Aalis’ body from the floor of her tower bedchamber to be laid out respectfully on her bed. Though they were all in shock over Aalis’ death, Verne seemed to be taking it the hardest. He seemed almost completely broken and very unlike Verne’s usual stoic nature.


    “Rylan said, it was meant to be Judd,” Giordi stroked Aalis’ dreadlocks, causing them to spread out around her head and face, “how was it Aalis who died?” He looked at the others, none of whom were without a mark of grief upon their expressions. “Did he release a poison into the tower, knowing that Judd would be here but it struck Aalis down instead?”


    “The way Rylan spoke of Genovieve, that Judd had stolen her from him and given his lust for the throne of Astaril, I cannot believe he risked it.” Suvau’s voice, though deep, was soft and sombre.


    “Judd wouldn’t have left her alone up here if he thought she was in any danger.” Verne said, jaw quivering with barely restrained emotion. “It doesn’t make any sense!”


    “It does when you know just what Aalis was capable of.” Caste confessed quietly. “She…could draw infection from a person by touching them, suck the monster toxin from their veins…” He felt their eyes on him, astonished and doubtful.


    “When? How!” Giordi gasped.


    “Aalis showed me as much when you survived the whipping post but had been bitten,” Caste explained without looking at Giordi, gazing steadily at Aalis, “she drew the poison from you…into herself before expelling it, vomiting the toxin out of her body.”


    “What are you saying, Caste?” Suvau asked sternly.


    Caste licked his lips and hovered his hand over Aalis’ feet, walking up the side of the bed to her head.


    “I think, whatever Rylan did or released to kill Judd…Aalis somehow took it on herself.”


    Giordi closed his eyes and shook his head. “How is that even possible?!”


    “I don’t know,” Caste admitted, “but Aalis’ abilities were not the typical aberrations of humanity the Order has recorded in women after being exposed to tainted water. She was…powerful…”


    They all gazed at the lifeless form of Aalis, without breath or pulse.


    “Aalis once said, if she concentrated, she could hear the voices of people in the same building as she,” Caste, Giordi and Suvau turned to Verne who swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, “it’s what nearly drove her mad as a child. As she grew older, she could block it out…but I think those abilities stayed.”


    “Wait,” Giordi licked his lips, “you’re saying Aalis drew whatever poison was trying to kill Judd into herself…from within the walls of this castle? That sounds…impossible.”


    All four stared at Aalis, awed and frightened.


    “What was she?”


    “She was our friend…and she’s gone now.” Verne sniffed, taking Aalis’ hands, weaving her fingers together to rest on her abdomen. “That’s all that matters.” He turned and left the room, shoulders quaking in silent sobs.


    Giordi kissed his fingers and lightly touched them to her forehead. “Thank you for saving my life, Aalis…and for many fine meals.”


    Suvau put his large hand over her clutched fingers. “Brave, so very brave.” He shuddered and followed Giordi to the stairs.


    Caste folded his arms. “I don’t know why people talk to corpses. It’s not like they can hear anything we say.” He muttered. After a moment he glanced around the room and, seeing he was alone, put his fingers over hers. “Goodbye.” He whispered then removed his hand and undid the ties of the silk gathered above her bed, allowing it to fall, forming a veil between Aalis and the rest of the world. He went to the top of the stairs, paused with a frown on his face then, shaking his head, descended to the landing below.


    At the bottom he saw the shrinking bodies of Verne, Giordi and Suvau at the end of the corridor but before he followed their exit, he turned to the guards.


    “By the word of the Order of the Grail, none shall enter this tower, lest it be myself or King Rocheveron.” Caste commanded the guards.


    “Yes sir.” The guards responded as Caste closed the door tightly.


    He walked the length of the carpet, rubbing at his eyes, when dull footsteps jogged towards him.


    “Deacon Undern,” the servant bowed, “King Rocheveron commands your presence.”


    “At once.”


    Caste thought it strange that the servant led him, not to the chambers of the King where he presumed he would be resting, but to the throne room. Only the day before, Aalis had been wheeled across its ample marble floor in a cage as a cleric condemned her, soldiers imprisoned her and Judd defended her.


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    King Rocheveron was on his throne, his eyes rimmed with red but holding his head up through strength of will. On his left his physician hovered, understandably agitated that his patient was not in bed like Caste knew he ought to be following the collapse due to poor health, old age and a terrible shock.


    On his right, Bishop Peele stood, having rallied himself from his chambers, the seriousness of his cold diminishing in the light of recent events. He was tall with broad shoulders and his cappa clausa hung from them almost as though it was hanging on a clothesline. His hair was dark grey with wild silvery spirals through it and was quite plentiful around the sides of his head but there was an unfortunate bald patch in the middle, dotted with age spots. Perhaps it was why he kept his chin lifted, looking down through his spectacles. Now and then his hand would dart out of his sleeve and press a silk handkerchief to his nose before disappearing into the folds once more. Alongside him Archdeacon Adamis also stood, their stance almost identical with their hands clasped dutifully inside their cappa clausas, practiced superior expressions on their faces.


    The servant gestured for Caste to join the line of four people standing in front of the King. He stood beside Judd on his right hand side, Verne, Giordi and Suvau on his left.


    In a serious and rather stiff pose on the same side as the physician, though not on the dais with the King, standing on the floor of the throne room, was a soldier and judging by his uniform, decorated with insignias and epaulettes with impressive gold tassels, he was a high ranking officer. In his hands was a beautiful sword, one only a knight or king would possess.


    Caste wasn’t sure if he was tardy and had missed their reason for being summoned but held fast, hoping revelation would be forth coming.


    He wasn’t disappointed.


    “You who stand before the throne of Astaril have borne witness to the declaration of war against its people,” King Rocheveron said, a quaver in his voice that he could not quite subdue though this, in fact, made his courage to speak all the more impressive, “Garo Rylan, once a knight sworn to protect its borders, has threatened, intimidated and is under suspicion of the murder of Prince Nicolin…attempted murder of Judd LaMogre and manslaughter of Princess Gen…,” he swallowed and tried to say her name again but it came out as a croak, as though stating it would be to face a reality his heart couldn’t handle, “Geno…”


    “The Princess Genovieve,” Bishop Peele said, stepping in to give the grieved King a moment to compose himself, “word was received an hour ago that Garo Rylan was seen leaving the borders of Astaril, riding hard and fast to the south where he will rally any forces not loyal to the throne to his cause.”


    “This treacherous action and the betrayed trust placed in his knighthood, must be addressed,” King Rocheveron lifted his head, “as such, the might of Astaril’s military force will march south and meet Rylan and any that choose to align themselves with him.” He breathed deeply. “Judd LaMogre, where will you stand?”


    Judd lifted his head, all joy gone from his countenance. “I will defend the throne of Astaril,” he said quietly but firmly, “from the likes of Garo Rylan.” He turned to the military officer and bowed. “My sword is yours wherever you will point it.”


    The officer blinked and licked his lips then turned to King Rocheveron with a question in his eyes.


    “No, Judd LaMogre, I did not summon you here to ask you to serve in the offensive,” King Rocheveron’s grey eyes met Judd’s deep brown ones, “I summoned you here to ask you to lead the offensive.”


    Somewhere in the back of Caste’s mind, it was amusing that Judd was the only one not expecting Rocheveron to ask Judd such a thing. Amusing yet entirely in line with Judd’s character. Perhaps in the beginning he had enjoyed the idea of a grand parade, balls in his honour, feasts where his accomplishments were toasted…but the fantasy of adolescent dreams had rubbed away during his quest. He was no longer interested in glory or fame. The quest had sanded him back until his core and his truest beliefs were all that remained.


    But had the knighthood quest and his broken heart done too much damage?


    Was there enough left of Judd LaMogre to say he would stand and be recognised?


    Judd swallowed, fingers twitching slightly. “Your Majesty,” he said as he looked at the floor, “I am not a leader…”


    Giordi barely stifled his snort and Verne closed his eyes to hide his eye roll.


    “You have not been in Astaril for some time,” King Rocheveron replied, already anticipating Judd’s reluctance, “your name is well known by all residents, noble or common, lord or tradesman. Children pretend to be you, young men dream of being like you…and the soldiers of Astaril need a figurehead to follow, an inspiration…you are just such a man!” Rocheveron’s words became stronger and louder as Judd shook his head. “You succeeded in the knighthood quest.”


    “Rylan’s quest,” Judd almost snarled, “to have been in his thrall…to have extolled him as a man of integrity and honour…” He looked down at his hands and dropped them. “I am no knight.”


    “You are not,” King Rocheveron pushed himself upright and held out his hand, the soldier placing his bejewelled sword into the King’s grasp, “but you shall be. Judd LaMogre…step forth and kneel.”


    Judd’s feet seemed to have become moulded to the floor. It took a nudge from Suvau to propel him forward but when he knelt, he did so heavily. King Rocheveron lifted the sword and touched Judd’s shoulders lightly with the tip.


    “For integrity where others sought fame, for courage where others hid behind rank, for proving you have the heart of a knight like Andigre, not because of the quest you completed, but because of the character revealed as you did so, I name thee Sir Judd LaMogre, Knight of Astaril.” The King handed the sword back to the soldier. “Rise, Sir Judd LaMogre.”


    Judd’s dark curls remained downcast, and his shoulders trembled. Caste glanced at Giordi, Verne and Suvau who were at a loss as to know how to help their friend. Oddly enough, it was not one of his friends, but the King himself who came down from his throne and placed his slightly greyed hand with the spots of age marking his skin, on top of Judd’s brown curls.


    “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Judd wept, “I’ve lost the heart to stand…”


    “Sir LaMogre, in your grief, remember this,” Rocheveron said softly, tears glimmering in his eyes, “my daughter was willing to sacrifice herself to keep the peace but, in saving you, she made it clear that if peace was to be fought for and won, then you were the man to do so.”


    Judd’s head bobbed and Rocheveron stepped back, allowing him to rise and stand with his chin, though trembling, up and firm.


    “I will honour her memory with every step.” Judd vowed.


    “Of that I have no doubt, Sir Judd LaMogre.”