The Price of Power

Prologue

The 4205th year of the Illumination

Let

Oceans dry and

Valleys rise before I 

Ever give you up.                     - Wedding vow of the Skidht people.

Prologue

"For the crimes of treason and actively working against the sacred prosperity of the kingdom, for harbouring and concealing members of the dangerous organisation known as The Lighting from the law, I, King Rathgar of Evermath, Lorden of Bellaron, proclaim this man to be a traitor to the realm, and he will henceforth be executed at sundown as is fitting for one of his kind."

The man fell to his knees, sobbing pitifully and pleading for mercy. The king only laughed cruelly and grinned at the man's cries. The guards hauled him roughly to his feet and shook him savagely until his sobs turned to a miserable whimpering. Then they swiftly marched him back to the grim and lonely cell that would be his home until his now certain beheading.

"Next," drawled the king, lounging back onto his ornately carved and studded throne as the next prisoner awaiting sentencing was dragged into the throne room, looking both pleased with himself and slightly bored.

And that, thought Derry, is the problem. He stalked out of the throne room, his face a blank mask, until it gradually crumbled and gave way to an expression as black as thunder. His father's derisive laughter followed after him. No one tried to stop him; he was known for his reluctance to condemn prisoners.

"A weakness," his father had said, sneeringly. "Soft, like his fool of a mother."

Striding down the long corridoors of the Greatstone Palace Derry threw open the doors of his chambers and slammed them shut behind him. He shut them with such force that the paned windows high on the walls rattled and shook from the vibrations. He leant back against the doors, feeling sick to his stomach. Perhaps it was traitorous, perhaps it was a betrayal of his blood, but Derry hated his father. What kind of a king smirks as he condemns a man to death, or orders a thief's hand to be chopped off without considering what had driven the man to thievery in the first place? What kind of a man laughs as he watches his prisoners and members of The Lighting in particular being brutally tortured? Several times Rathgar himself had made his victims scream with agony as he put out their eyes or seared their flesh with red-hot irons. Of course, none of the lordens would ever believe it. To those outside of the Palace, Rathgar was a good and generous king, who was liberal with gifts of food and money to the poor. He was young and handsome, and had already provided an heir to the throne from his deceased wife. He was a skilled speaker; a master of speech and persuasion. How else had he managed to convince the lordens that his elder brother had died a natural death? To the people of Evermath, King Rathgar was a saintly man who commanded loyalty from his subjects, was trustworthy and honest, and who never, ever caused pain willingly.

What complete rubbish. He enjoys it and he does it often, the sadistic bastard.

Pouring himself a drink from the wine pitcher on his desk with shaking fingers, Derry gave a half smile as a certain ex - slave slipped quitely into the room from an inner chamber. Jenna saw straight away the ashen pallor of his face and the clenched jaw that betrayed his frustration. Deragn Waulton might be the Crown Prince of Evermath, but he certainly did not take after his father. His father's fiery aubern hair and tall stature he had inherited, but his nature was gentle and his character kind. He watched as Jenna wallked across the room and closed the gap between them until she stood before him, assessing him with her steady brown eyes. He met them with his own dark blue ones. He saw his sorrow mirrored in hers. A sorrow for him as well as for the poor souls who had been sentenced to death that day. Slowly she reached up and stroked his cheek.