[h2]Misrugłaz[/h2]

A light snowfall drifted over the city. Looming over the wooden town, protected by its low stone wall, its red granite facing covered over in crumbling red clay it sat idly in the new spring snowfall, idly biding its own time until the weather got warmer, the sun stayed out longer, and the fields could be watched for the young shoots of this year's scrubby hard wheat bursting out through the melting snow. Already in places grass was beginning to worm its way out of where the pack was lightest. But where it had drifted and gathered and lay heavy against the ground there was no such sign of life.

But the animals knew that much it was coming, and rabbit and deer dug up the snow and nibbled at the virgin shoots heralding spring. And the hunters hunted them; both man and beast. The world was awakening.

The fire from the previous day's funeral had died out, smothered in its own time and  by the melting snow. It now smoldered indifferently in the cold and a faint gray trail wafted up from the forested hill beyond the inland walls of the king's city. It showed clear in the open doors of the massive wooden hall overlooking Misruglaz proper, a lingering reminder to the shifting of kings that had transpired there.

Perciv, standing in the courtyard perceived the lifting tendrils with shaded sadness. He held an indifference as he stood outside the stables. Chewing a thin strip of smoked venison he watched the last remains of his father travel to the next life, and he bid him farewell and best of wishes in the Gods' court. He would have liked to seclude himself for the next several days, but worldly matters called for him.

Misruid's Hall was an imposing structure, for a realm of wooden and earthen huts. Of even the disorganized shacks that made Misruglaz itself. Once a hilltop fort from which the Divine Kings controlled the confluences of the Ves and Devier it evolved to be the central axis of a wild town. But it had still all the fittings of it being a castle.

Erected atop a pile of boulders, pieced together like a jig-saw so they held without concrete or mortar it capped off and flattened the ancient hill-top that was its home. From there a rising tower of wood rose into the sky, each level capped with a high-topped roof. It went up in succession, some four stacked stories to its peak where the roof bowed down, sending its ox-bow tips up and into the sky where two wooden dragons roared into the cloudy skies; or truth be told Perciv believed they were dragons, the years had not been kind to the details and while the lower parts of the towering palace were well kept those ornaments at its peak were wisely ignored by workers.

The roof was shingled with ash planks of wood and the irregular sloped field they created made the roofs looked jagged and sharp, like a saw. Or fuzzy, yet coarse. And while it rose with successively smaller quarters each had its series of verandas, porches, and odd additions that made new rooms or expanded old ones so they came out to the very edge of the given space, or even over the edge. It later years trucks of trees had been dug into the earth and set up against the wall to help hold the weight of the structure atop the pile of stones that was its base from crumbling outwards, sending the wooden hall crumbling down, slate floors, servants, royalty and all.

On the ground, the court was muddied from fights, the business of servants and the riding of horses. While the ground now was frozen solid in late spring and summer and into autumn the ground would  be covered in straw to hold the mud of churned earth. It was down here the quarters that  served the greater whole were: the kitchen, the barracks, the armory, and a small shrine, with a stable, bowyer, and food cellar, in a corner the tightly packed apartments for servants and guests stood in a dark shaded corner of the muddy courtyard.

The thumping of steady hooves on frozen ground called Perciv's attention to the present and he turned away from the tower he now called home. Coming out of the stables was a young man, barely out of boyhood. He lead gently by the next a short stout pony, thick with gray and brown fur. Packs and Sacks were tied down to its rump and back, ready for a journey.

“Your honor.” the youth said quietly, looking up at the tall king and giving a courteous bow of the head. “Long may you live. You called for me?”

Perciv nodded, the youth stood just barely to his shoulders. His head was round, cheeks soft but sunken, distorting his contours. His head was a full mop of blonde hair so dirty it was reddish-brown and he looked up to his king with large blue eyes. “I did.” Perciv said with a gentle voice, “I need a message ran south to Voldagrad.”

The young man nodded eagerly. And through a smile full of uneven yellowing teeth he said, “Sure, I can do this.”

Perciv nodded, “Tell the Grand Chief of Voldagrad and the Wooded Cities on the Hills that King Astonov of the Misruvans, the Illmeshk, and of the Four Rivers is dead, his son: Perciv of the Lesser Yoké has ascended in his stead as King of the Misruvans and of the Illmeshk and of the Four Rivers. Tell him that with my ascendancy by the agreements brokered between Astonov and the ill-fated Varimy who was his brother by trade of blood that I wish to make real my claim on the Wooded Cities, and that whose chiefs live there swear their fealty to the Misruvans and the Illmeshk.

“And that in addition, I ask  for the return of Rostomariana so that she may be retired safely to the Augurs of Dvarog. She may live her life as a queen retired as a maiden and gardener in His house.”

“Certainly...” the young man said, the eager yellow smile had faltered a bit as he took in the message, but returned swiftly.

“Is there anything else?” he asked.

Perciv shook his head, “Ride swift and safe...” he trailed off, searching for a name. But he had none, he realized he had not spoken to any housekeepers under his care, not since he had been a boy who wandered the halls and courtyard; but many of those then were dead now.

“Ilk, your honor!” the youth said proudly. But Perciv could tell he was not very proud.

“Ilk?” asked Perciv.

“There is no other name for a homeless bastard, I am sorry.” he apologized, “The diviner Khorog brought me in, and took me to the keep. Astonov brought me under his care, I have worked his stable hand since then for my bread and beer, and only just a couple years ago been a courier for copper.”

Perciv nodded, “So then, Ilk the Courier: I bid you a safe trip.”

“And you a good life!” Ilk smiled, mounting his pony bareback and gripping to the mane cantered away and through the large pine gates of the parameter.

Perciv lingered for a little, watching the way he had come. He went to leave, to head back inside where it was warm when a grave voice behind him caught his attention. “He is a speedy and eager courier.”

The king turned on his heels and saw the slumped figure of Khorog, the chief priest and figure in Ilk's story. He was the one to officiate his father's funeral.

The elderly shaman had traded his dark robes for green and red as he resumed his daily duties. But the veil of bone-beads still hung down in front of his face. But the hood he wore was crowned with the dried head of a small wolf that sneered and snarled in its salted decay on the old man's crown. His long wispy beard fell across his chest, and the light of the mid-afternoon shone in his milky blue eyes and long knife like nose. “I would have taken him in, as an observer for rituals. But he was an impatient boy then and I don't think he's any less now. Moving around is his thing, and not staring into the sacred waters or to watch the sunrise. I don't think he would even listen to the bird-song.

“Throw sticks and bones to read he could do. But beyond that he was useless to me.”

Perciv nodded indifferently.

“He is dutiful still, and he knows who is in charge. It's the most I can say of some people.”

“Sometimes perhaps that is best.” Perciv answered the small, slouched priest.  He came up shorter than Ilk.

“Men and women of the realm must know who rules them, else they will not kneel to power. It is having and knowing to use your authority and the gift  bestowed upon you by the spirits around us that makes you respected.”

“As flowery as that is,” Perciv answered dryly, “I got enough attention as a retainer to my father, even kept at a distance I caught the eye of people not as someone to be respected but to be afraid of and reproached. They knowing makes me even less invisible.”

Khorog snickered disagreeably. Coughing he spit at the ground alongside him. “There has never been an invisible king.”

“I do not doubt that, and I believe I will be the first.”

“So you shall.” Khorog said, “But I am concerned.”

“Of what?”

“A king's reign that starts in a state of high activity dies quiet and sick. A king does not die quiet and sick. A king is a warrior that serves in the retainer of the gods, and to go outside of combat will deny you this, make you a servant to another king. I would take great care to make sure you do not die lying down.”

Perciv nodded apathetically. “I'll remember that.”

“Is your family prepared?” Khorog asked, the tone in his voice from a hard teacher to a soft chatty friend changed the topic of the conversation.

“They're on their way.” Perciv confirmed.