Total pages in book: 20
Estimated words: 18410 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 92(@200wpm)___ 74(@250wpm)___ 61(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18410 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 92(@200wpm)___ 74(@250wpm)___ 61(@300wpm)
Oberon raised his arrogant chin at Fosch in acknowledgement. “Fosch.”
Fosch returned the chin raising. “Oberon.” Though the fee royalty looked like an ordinary man of medium size and average stature, Oberon was anything but. A truth that could be gleaned by the straight posture, the agile way he moved, the cunning in his deep brown eyes, if one cared to look. Or by the sword, for Oberon’s swordsmanship was beyond excellent. He was a champion among the best. Fosch had once sparred with him in a duel for the best swordsman, and hours later they had to call it off because both men had duties to attend.
“Let us walk.” Oberon motioned to the other end of the clearing before he turned and began moving toward the tree line, hands clasped behind his back like a tutoring teacher. Without a word, Fosch stepped beside him, shortening his steps to accommodate Oberon’s shorter ones. Both men strolled silently, their faces calm expressions. They looked like two colleagues taking a companionable walk through the woods.
They entered the woods once again, moved more than a mile through the peaceful, green twilight before emerging atop a gently, lazily sloping hill where the trees ended. Both men regarded the land like the finest of arts.
The grass under their feet was crisp and green, crunching underneath their weight. A lonely cloud hung up above, white and heavy, while the sun shone brightly, softly cooled by a fragrant breeze.
“Rosalinda passed away last night.” Fosch finally spoke, words of grief in a land of beauty and serenity. It almost felt like blasphemy, to mar the air with such words of sadness.
No doubt catching on the note of grief, Oberon tilted his head to the side, focused at a point far in the horizon. “A clan subject?” he asked. “Merely not just so.” He added in a speculative tone.
Rosalinda wasn’t just a member of the clan, she was the half aunt nobody could know, so Fosch merely shrugged, saying nothing. His mission would reveal more than he was comfortable revealing anyway.
A darting two-headed animal passed by them, close enough for Oberon to touch. Oberon followed the animal’s progress down the hill with his eyes, giving Fosch time to compose his request.
He was shorter than Fosch by at least a foot, leaner by at least fifty pounds, but lacked none of the presence and charisma.
“The plague?” Oberon prompted. Had it been any other Dhiultadh, Oberon would have walked away, considered his precious time not worth the Dhiultadh’s comfort. But Fosch was a man of his words, loyal and honest to a fault, considerate and yet a fearsome ruler; qualities not easily found. One or two, perhaps, but not all of them in one, as Oberon had witnessed many rulers who had once been loyal and fair becoming corrupt by their position of power. But Fosch had been a leader for many centuries now, and his good qualities remained. Had he not been a Dhiultadh, Oberon would have admired him. Furthermore, he was an excellent opponent, one Oberon enjoyed. If it weren’t for Fosch’s heritage, Oberon could have called him a friend. But he was a Dhiultadh, rejected from the Sidhe land, once half Seelie, half Unseelie. Or a quarter of each, since one half of him was an earth witch. Oberon had grieved over Fosch’s mother, Odra, and her tragic death, felt the loss of a good spirit pass by. He had offered his condolences, and his queen’s, in person to Fosch.
Fosch grunted his response to Oberon’s simple question. “Ay, the plague.” It was a mysterious disease, appearing so gradually that one didn’t even notice the symptoms until it was too late. A shiver, a scratch, a choking cough that cut off as abruptly as it started. A half hour of extra sleep, an extra glass of water. Then there was the rage. First just snappish remarks, then arguments that made no sense. Then the killing spree no one could calm without cutting the throat or – with his beloved Aunt Rosalinda’s case – the entire head.
So far, he had lost eleven members.
“Gerome.”
“Ah.” Oberon said, understanding all he needed from that single word. “You are sure?” he asked, glancing at Fosch for the first time to gauge his response.
“He slept in yesterday. Snapped mad when I asked about it.”
“Ah.” Oberon’s single word carried a world of understanding. Gerome Archer, Fosch’s half-brother.
Both men returned their gazes to the blue sky, contemplating what their few words meant in a bigger scheme.
“What is it you want?”
“The binding stones.”
Now Oberon turned to face him, his friendly brown eyes searching. “You wish to banish the plague?”
Fosch shrugged a shoulder. He was reaching, but he assumed he had to do something, and his year of research had brought forth no fruit. “The plague is a force, an external one. My mother has taught me enough to give me a rudimentary understanding of the binding stones.” A lie, a simple one, but Oberon didn’t need to know how much Fosch had been taught about the court’s ritualistic ways. “I will use it in reverse, bind his inner strength to him, banish whatever is left.”