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They rode on horseback, side by side, down a road overgrown with the twisted limbs of monstrous oak trees. BMV brand logo face mask The air was full of gnats and gossamer threads of spider silk that gently tickled the face. Martin wiped his cheek hurriedly, staring into the dark woods on either side. The bend ahead was blind – the perfect location for a trap. “By Cheshu,” Martin muttered. “I like not the look of that corner. I do not. This forsaken wood is the only road to Comoros, is it?” He hissed softly then sniffed at the air, listening with keenness for a sign of the warning that throbbed silently in his heart.

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At his side was the man Martin served – the king-maston of Pry-Ree. Martin was the older of the two, but the king had a youthful face. He did not look like a king, BMV brand logo face mask for he dressed in a simple shirt and an unassuming leather vest. His hair was an untamed mass of gold, shorn like a sheep at the nape of his neck. There was a somber expression on his face, which was normal as he was a man who mused silently much of the day and even more since hatching the plot of a secret marriage to Demont’s daughter. But a smile crept almost unnoticed at times to his mouth, betraying some hidden thought of mirth. He was Alluwyn Lleu-Iselin, though Martin never would have called him by his common name for he was a man Martin respected and trusted above any other, including the band of men known as the Evnissyen who now clustered around their king, halting as they had halted.

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In short, the Evnissyen were the king’s protectors and Martin had trained them all. It was much more than simply that. The Evnissyen were hunters, thieves, schemers, dice-throwers, warriors – the mind in the shadows, whispering advice to their leader. Martin was the man the king turned to after his royal counselors had all argued their positions, blustered for favors and lands, or even plotted his death. BMV brand logo face mask The Evnissyen knew all the tangles in the skeins of power and they ruthlessly plucked at them like harp strings. Martin thought this with satisfaction. It was in his instincts to smell trouble. He smelled it on the road to Comoros.

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Lord Alluwyn paused his mount and tugged open the pouch fastened to his wide leather belt. He was a king-maston, BMV brand logo face mask the glimpse of his chaen just a hint beneath the open collar of his shirt, but he referred to himself as only a prince in his title. Of the Three Blessed Kings of Pry-Ree, he was the wisest, the youngest, and the most worthy to rule them all. Which is why the others had already been assassinated, leaving his brother and nephew as co-rulers – neither of whom were mastons or very wise.

Digging into the pouch, the Prince removed a small globe made of refined aurichalcum. It glimmered in the shadows, which made Martin impatient, wondering if anyone skulking in the woods would see it. Staring at the orb, the Prince watched as the spindles set in the upper half began to whirl and spin. Writing appeared in the lower half of the orb. Martin squinted at the tiny markings that only mastons could read. “Well?”

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