Mark the Guardian could not help but feel a share of guilt for what had transpired. The Veracruz Abbey was burned for lending him aid. Byrn was invaded so that it might not become an ally in his cause.

His cause...

That was how the War of the Restoration was to be remembered. The Eagle in the East come to lift up the Son of the Mountain and lay low the ravening Wolf from the West. The son of a fallen hero fulfilled the duty of his house to restore the rightful king to the throne. And so peace and prosperity returned to the land and the grateful people lived happily ever after. A fine story, but a false one.

No one wanted to hear the story of a disgraced monk who forsook his vows for love of kin that surpassed his love of God, a man who would have turned a blind eye to the cruel yoke oppressing the people of his native land. A killer of men, a coward. The more the songs of the bards painted him as a hero, the more Mark felt himself the villain.

And what of the future he and his companions carved out of Randwulf's tyranny? Was the people's burden made any lighter? Were the rulers more upright and compassionate? No, instead of the cruelty held on a tight rein in Randwulf's iron first, the wicked high and low alike were free to work corruption in the land, so long as they did not offend the powers behind the throne. Was that truly any better?

His eyes strayed to the mark of the Red Chi-Rho on his hand, the mark of a High Templar. It was out of obligation to the Master Templar Felix that he appealed to the Grand Patriarch himself to be admitted to the order. Because of him, the Templars were diminished. It was only just that he do his part to restore the balance.

It was no easy thing to forgive his transgressions. Penance was piled on penance, but it did little to assuage his guilt. His conscience cut deeper than any scourge could and even the lowliest service was too good for him.

On many fronts, there was nothing he could do to atone, but he dedicated the greater part of his house's wealth to soothing the wounds left from the lives and livelihoods lost on his account. Much of the rest was devoted to recovering lost knowledge and adding new knowledge to fill the void. Drawing on his prior vocation as a scribe, he had spent the past eleven years working to compile a history of Gladius from antiquity to the present. It was to be his life's master work, but his other duties had a way of interfering.

Speaking of which, there was a knock at the door.

Setting down his quill, Mark said, "Enter."

The door opened and in walked Raimund his seneschal. The work to restore House Aran began shortly after Randwulf was overthrown and continued while Mark was off in Antioch undergoing his Templar training. Much of the original household had been scattered after Randwulf's men sacked Eagle, but quite a few of them returned, they and their generations. Raimund was the son of Mark's father's seneschal, whose family had served House Aran ever since Everard took the throne. He was a capable man who did not need his lord's word to carry out his will. Indeed, it was no exaggeration to say that House Aran had regained so much of its former glory thanks to his efforts.

Raimund ushered in the herald, who wore the livery that mixed the green and grey of House Everard with the purple and white of the patricians. It spoke to the King's mixed heritage but also to the greater share of power the patricians held since King Edward's death. Edward made concessions to his ancestral foes only grudgingly. He agreed to marry the daughter of the cruel and corrupt Publius Juvenal for the sake of reconciliation after much protest and drinking half the contents of one poor lord's wine cellar.

Though their relationship had rarely been a cordial one, Mark often found himself missing his old companion. He wanted to believe that if it were not for the twenty years of torment and humiliation at the hands of the usurper's men, the so-called Drunken Prince's more noble qualities would have been developed rather than being left to wither on the vine. Mark hoped that Edward might improve once he regained his birthright, but he simply was not given enough time. Oh, what might have been...

The herald unfurled a scroll with the royal seal and said, "To Lord Mark, called the Guardian, of House Aran. His Majesty the King hereby summons Your Lordship to attend a council of the Twelve Stewards at Newstone. Your Lordship is to set out at once, for it is a matter of the utmost urgency, returning with the bearer of these summons. Glory to Gladius and glory to His Majesty the King."

An urgent summons? That was most irregular. The last time they had a summons like this was when the plague struck two years ago. Had it made a return? There were not doctors and healers enough left at the abbey after the last time. Or perhaps it was some other matter. A brewing rebellion, perhaps? Mark had heard from some of the neighboring lords that crops were failing this year. Hungry men are desperate and could do anything in a bid to fill their bellies.

Speculation counted for little, though. It would be faster to go and see for himself.

It was not long past midsummer. The days waxed long and the sun would go down in five hours. If he rode hard, he might make the trip to Newstone before the first watch of the night was through, but as a rule the castle gates were not to be opened after dark, not even for one of the Twelve Stewards. He could always take up lodging in town or call on one of the lords of a nearby manor, but he did not much like the idea. If the heralds were all dispatched at the same time, it would be another three days at least before his kinswoman the Lady Sonia would arrive from Rowan. There was no point in hanging about idly in the capital. The less time he spent in Newstone, the better.

So this was going to be annoying. Servants of the Crown were only this insistent when they were strictly ordered to be so. Still, Mark thought he might try to prevail over him.

Mark motioned to the herald.

Raimund sighed.

The herald bowed and withdrew with Raimund. Mark permitted himself a moment to sigh deeply before steeling his resolve. In times like this, it was tempting to retire to a cloister, but he had duties to fulfill and he would fulfill them as he ought.

He rose from his chair and made his way to the training grounds at the back end of the estate. At the height of the bloody feud with House Leon, House Aran commanded nearly three hundred fighting men. During Randwulf's reign, the number of household troops were tightly restricted and these laws were loosened only a little after Edward claimed the throne. With the Gladian Guard abolished, there was only a small garrison of the King's men left in the city, leaving the task of keeping order in the land to the local lords. Most of Mark's troops served in the urban cohort of the city and another large portion was devoted to escorting the miners whose labors fueled the city's economy. Only about twenty men were dedicated to defending the estate, but they were complemented by the resident Templars, as the estate doubled as the order's chapterhouse.

In the training ground, the Templars and the household troops did their drills side by side. No better was this demonstrated than with Mark's two squires, Heinrich and Petrus.

Heinrich was the second son of Lord Friedmar of Stormtree, a close ally of the late Siegfried Martel. Heinrich may not have been able to inherit his father's title and lands, but he could still distinguish himself as a knight, all the more so being squired under the lord of House Aran.

Petrus was the grandnephew of Mark's mentor Felix, a Templar novice and heir to House Crucis. Like Mark, he was a descendant of the Eight Stars, but it would seem that he would not inherit the mantle of Elemental Knight. Mark had personally led a Templar expedition to Felix's resting place in Arma that his body might be lain in the family tomb and the ancestral gear pass on to the next generation. However, while the body was where Mark had buried it, the ancestral gear was gone. It could not have been any ordinary grave robber or else the body would not have been so lightly handled.

Without an heir of Felix's bloodline, the gear's power would not be awoken and while it lay dormant, other Elemental Knights such as Mark would be unable to sense its presence. Perhaps it was just as well. Perhaps the era of the Elemental Knights was coming to an end. Magic was dying out in the world and it was probably best to let it die. The Church only barely tolerated the Elemental Knights as a necessary evil, so if they were no longer necessary, no one would mourn if the power was extinguished before the next generation could claim it. The Conqueror, the Destroyer, the Dragonslayer, the Crusader, and likely the Invader and the Assassin as well were as good as gone from the world. All that remained was the Guardian and the Defender. If Mark and Sonia were to seal away their gear, that would be the end of it.

Speaking of the next generation that might or might not continue the line, Mark's son Nathan was training along with Heinrich, Petrus and the others. Nathan was in the awkward position of being heir to the house yet the junior among his brother squires. Fortunately, he was a humble young man who did not go out of his way to invite the jealousy of others. He inherited his father's studiousness, but, sadly, little of his skill with a sword. There was still time to learn, but Mark feared Nathan simply lacked the aptitude for it. Who would believe he was the grandson of one of the greatest swordsmen to ever wield a blade?

The house swordmaster Sir Edelward and the Templar swordmaster Sir Marcionus were known to butt heads from time to time over differing philosophies about swordsmanship and how it was to be taught, but generally they worked well together. When they saw Mark enter the training ground, they called everyone to halt and saluted.

With that, the soft-spoken courtesy Sir Edelward showed his lord was set aside and harsh taskmaster came back to the fore.

While the others went back to their training, Nathan, Heinrich and Petrus hurried to Mark. As the eldest, it was Heinrich who saluted and said, "Hail, my lord."

Mark returned the salute and said, "I've been summoned to Newstone. Heinrich and Petrus, you'll be coming with me. Go wash up, get changed into something a little more fit for the capital, then go get the horses ready. We leave in an hour."

Mark motioned for them to go, leaving just Nathan.

The way he said it made it sound like he already knew. There were times Mark wondered if he was simply perceptive in a mundane sense or if he was touched by his mother's strangeness. Though he did not seem so adept with a sword during his drills, he had a way of winning sparring matches by seeming to predict his opponent's moves. Maybe he just had a keen eye and maybe it was something more than that.

That was rather close to what Raimund had said earlier, but coming from Nathan, the words felt far more ominous.

Changing the subject, Mark said, "Look after your mother."

Mark nodded to the training ground, telling him, "Get back to it. An active body staves off idle thoughts."

The boy had his mother's cheek, that was for sure.

Mark managed a grin and said, "Maybe I will and I can knock some proper form into you while I'm at it."

Mark then made his way to his bedchamber. He caught Old Hilda the chambermaid on her way out. She bowed when she saw him, saying, "Pardon me, milord."

Mark motioned for her to go on about what she was doing and went into the bedchamber. There his wife Catherine was lying in bed. She had been stricken with an enchanted sleep when they were reunited during his journeys and even after she was awoken, she never seemed to fully recover. It became worse after Nathan was born. She would only be active for a few hours at a time on a good day and that time became less and less until she was completely bedridden about four years ago.

She was gifted with a strange power almost like magic that some people called mindwalking. That power was ever-growing and changing her as it grew. Her mind was becoming this force beyond the bounds of human understanding while her body wasted away. Sometimes it seemed like her flesh was holding her back from becoming whatever it was she was growing into. Or perhaps she was holding herself back, clinging to the last vestiges of her humanity while she had the strength of will to do so.

A woman's voice echoed in his mind. Catherine's voice.

When was the last time he heard her natural voice, the words from her own lips? It must have been when they first parted ways, when he left for the abbey. How many years had it been?

Mark decided to change the subject.

He found himself needing to change the subject again.

Of course she knew.

It seemed like everyone was telling him that today.

Mark sat down on the bedside, took Catherine's hand and kissed it.

Mark sighed and changed the subject yet again.

Mark did not like it when she talked like this, but he had heard of the how the very old have a sort of instinctual knowledge when their time would draw near, and also how they were said to ward off death through sheer willpower until some desire like saying their final goodbyes were fulfilled. Of course, Catherine was not so old, but it felt much the same.

Mark leaned over to kiss her on the forehead.

Catherine nodded and closed her eyes. It almost seemed that simply being awake was a great strain on her.

Though her eyes were closed and she was breathing shallowly like one sleeping, her mind continued to speak to him.

He stood up and went to the armor stand where the ancestral gear of his house was kept. He ran his fingers down the scales of the mail shirt patterned after an eagle's feathers before unbuckling the swordbelt. He decided against donning the armor or carrying the shield. What was the need for it?

He girded on the swordbelt, then took the sword in its scabbard from its place resting atop the mantle. He drew the sword and looked at his reflection in the polished surface of the blade. The enchanted gems in the hilt glowed faintly, stirring awake by his touch. He had gotten old, older than the seventeen years that had passed since he last wielded the blade in battle. He thought about Catherine's warning and could feel the dread sinking in his chest. Was the day coming when this polished blade would be stained with blood again?