Lights last gleaming
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Lights Last Gleaming
_The Elven Encampment's fires were dead.
Barren patches of burnt ground and debris, with scorched tent-pegs acting as lonely sentinals of thier now black perimeters, were all that marked what were once homes, shops and a living village of skilled elvish hunters.
The great gate which terminated the stout bridge and vast moat swung sadly on it's still intact hinges, as if whispering the reminder that deciet, and not force of arms, had destroyed this place.
There was no sign of life or activity…even the animals and birds seeming to have given up and moved to a happier part of this great forest, except in the south eastern most section of this sad and desolate place.
There, if one were passing by in a trek through these parts, and looked accross the crevasse that seperated the fallen camp from the rest of The Lady's Wood, one might be surprised by a ring of carefully built fires, five in all, burning in a ring around the remains of a destroyed dwelling.
It appeared a little larger than the rest of the tents, round rather than square, and the remains of it's lodge pole stood still, charred, leaning, but not fallen.
The circle of fires had burned for three weeks unabating, carefully tended.
The ring of flames seemed to cause the central remaining pole to sway in the night, an illusion of movement that seemed to cause it's black point to point at various constellations in the cold night sky.
In the center of this fiery circle, her back against this lone, defiant reminder of the Camp's past, sat an elf. Her large, grey eyes, serious and alight, followed the stark finger's silent tutorage, looking up, away from the now dead Camp, to a place far, far away.
No tears fell from these deep pools, eyes that many hearts, both of men and women, found themselves easily lost in.
Yet, these dry eyes hinted at a great sadness, and her countenance held an unaccustomed grief that none that knew her would recognize on this face.
Her wide and friendly smile, which came so easily to her, was missing. Her fiery red hair, which normally was carefully and ornamentally braided, sat loose around her, and she sat on her haunches entirely naked, her feet covered in the ash of the camp, balanced on her toes, in the manner of her people, who were once a militant and ready folk.
Balance.
The word tore through her mind, foremostly representing the two forces that had tugged at her through her adult life.
An almost inaudable cry escaped her lips, as the word, and a charred artifact, mixed midst the rubble of the tent circle, caught her eye. She collapsed, into a small, alabaster heap, her red hair spread on the ground like crimson tears that she could not shed.
It was an oaken staff, bound with the remains of an intricately woven throng, now blackened and burnt. It's silver shod trim, now lay pooled beneath it, a shimmering mirror of craft lost and lives destroyed.
Gasping dry sobs filled the quiet night, and deeper in the wood, away from the camp, a great owl turned it's head towards her, and, surprised, took flight into the dark._
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Shamelessy bumping for new readers.
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Home is where you hang your Helm
_General Lyte sat at the simple little wooden desk in her quarters in the Legion Hall, a single candle casting wavering shadows on the walls, the sounds of running water and a chirping bird seeming oddly out of place here.
She supposed her room was a little bit like her, an elf from the deep woods, a lover of canopies and stars, living the life of a militant soldier in a walled town.
She looked at the neat stack of orders and requests, requisitions and letters needing answering and signing and sighed, sitting back some in her small chair.
Her mind was elsewhere today.
As if in answer to her wish, something rustled amongst the books on her shelf, and two large eyes peered at her, it's head cocked.
Lyte grinned at the odd creature, her animal Spirit, and the thing gave a little twitch she had come to understand was a smile. For many years she had not understood why Mielikki would have found such a creature as this to be for her, and it was only when she had met Pete that she had truly understood.
He had rather quickly, before ever having met Peeper, made the connection in his descriptive and affectionate term for her.
She also realized that her love for Pete was in part for his sweet and honest good-natured ability to appraise her for what she really was.
The creature leaped easily onto her right forearm, landing on the odd green wooden elvish gauntlet that she wore, and she instantly thought of the only other person that this creature had revealed itself to, and she felt a pang of sadness and loss.
She let herself slip a little into a more restful state, and, in the way that elves are wont to do, drifted into a not too distant memory._
Starting my stories back up, with some "Tales from The Legion", this being the prelude.
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Bushido
_It was so very cold.
Limbs numb, lips blue, her grey eyes fixed on a yellow shimmering moon through the curtain of the water of the little brook, the girl lay dying. The wieght of the katana seemed overwhelming now, a terrible burden upon her chest, as if representing the guilt that her father had laid upon her young spirit.
She thrashed once, trying to gain the surface of the shallow stream, but the cold had worked it's will upon her, and she could hardly move.
"Forgive me mother," she thought, and the moon began to darken, slowly, and the elf cried out her inner grief one last time, desperately, and the moon seemed to change.
The dying girl saw a face where the moon had been, a fair face filled with compassion and pity.
It appeared as a woman, with long golden tresses, and sparkling green eyes, and in her confused state Lyte wondered if it was her mother come to tuck her in for the night.
Lyte, blue and witless, her last strength fading, heard a melodious voice, amongst the sounds of the water crossing the pebbles beneath her, and the merry swimming of tiny fish in the water. She felt her hearing, above all else, enhanced, while her other senses seemed yet to fade from the chilling cold.
"Rise up, daughter of the Wood."
With that, the weight on her chest, was gone.
She often wondered, in later years, if the sword was in the stream yet, washed off her in the babbling brook, and she spent days looking for it to return it to her father, appalled as he was at it's loss.
But, it was simply no longer there, the blade of her fathers before her. It was simply gone from this world.
With the weight lifted, Lyte's face broke the surface of the little brook, and she gasped horrid, rasping, painful gulps of air, her body shaking, and only her eyes seemed yet alive, so cold and blue and limp she was.
"Fight, live." The voice again, disembodied, all around her.
Never, in the many decades that she faced, would this daughter of Lysyndra face a more difficult task. It was perhaps a test, and if she could not pass it, she would die, and not be worthy to carry on in the task set before her.
She flailed with arms she could not feel, striking the mud on the bank, unable to grasp the grass there. Just turning onto her side took many minutes, and she knew not much time was left to her, in the state she was in.
She fought.
At last she rolled to her knees, and using her elbows, she pulled herself to the bank, collapsing as one dead on the stream edge, half in and half out of the stream. Her chest heaving, and her teeth chattering terribly.
"M-m-mielikki", at last, she uttered. "M-mother".
She lost consciousness as dawn broke, and the morning sun saved the young girl's life, just as it was intended.
She dreamed as a human might, only this once, rich, colorful visions set in some distant green place, beyond this world.
She saw a land with great trees, trees so old and large they disappeared above her, and to walk around each took a great deal of time. She saw strange beasts and birds, each new and a wonder to her, and she walked through this forest, feeling healed of much of the pain she carried in her heart.
Then, there was a clearing, and in it, surrounded by ancient stone monoliths, stood a white stag.
The stag looked to the stones, and Lyte followed its gaze, and there was written in a fine, silver elvish script, tall words.
**"The Balance of the Lady
In thy veins thy path I set
Knight of Leaves,In Hours of Darkness
When the Balance
Tips astray.I set thee on thy course,
Righteous Leaf of Nature’s Law
Let goodness guide your heart."**The daughter of the Priestess Lysyndra sat down in this Circle, and it seemed to her that for long she read over these words, and others written there, and she felt a new resolve growing within her.
It seemed to her she was spared for a purpose, an important task, and that she must cast aside all bitterness and grief, that she must cast away wants and desires for herself, and step forward to embrace the Path set before her.
She would be Mielikki's Bushi, Serving the Lady as her Knight, her Sword-Arm against evil things that threatened to upset the delicate balance between good and evil, for, she heard in the whispering leaves around her, evil always would set forth to conquer all.
Like a leaf fallen from one of these great and ancient oaks, she would float on her appointed way, to whatever end the Lady Mielikki sat before her.
She would live each day remaining to her as if it were her last, as a follower of the way, Bushido.
As she sat there, in this Forest in her Mind, animals gathered. Birds, badgers, deer, bears and even insects passed near her, and she imagined each touched her in some way, as if looking for something in her.
Finally, all left, save one creature. It sat upon her shoulder, and, to her everlasting amazement, when she finally woke late in the warm day, discovered by a harried and worried armed guard from the Camp, the creature was with her still.
As it would forever be.
And so, Lyte was born once more._
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A Beautiful, Shattered Doll
_The old elf scanned the pines ahead carefully, sniffing the air and listening for signs of disturbances in the wildlife that lived in this region.
He did not like the timing of this journey at all, and it seemed to him altogether unnecessary, but the little party was leaving the more dangerous heavy wood behind them now, the seat of the enemie’s strength, and were entering these higher woods that were patrolled by their southern brethren. The Mistress and her young daughter were safer now.
Barker was older than most of the trees in these lands, seasoned and weathered. Yet, he woefully underestimated the growing power that twisted the very wood around him, a force that occasionally blinded even his instinctual ability to feel the dangers that lurked and prowled in these sad days.
The bugbears, led by an old and battered druidical priest, took him first, for he was the parties scout, ranging ahead of the rest of these elves. They launched themselves from within the trees themselves, striking him on both his flanks, slicing through armor and bone, leaving his remains splattered onto the twisted pines. He drew his bow but once, and his warning cry was cut off before it could be uttered into a wet and choking gurgle.
A merciful end, compared to those atrocities about to be committed. The bugbears loped around the approaching group’s flank, with an insidious, unnatural, dark stealth.
Lysyndra’s mood was brightening with each step. She had felt an ominous something upon setting out from the encampment, an unstated fear, more unnerving because she could not quite picture in her mind it’s source. She had prayed to Mielikki that morning, receiving her Blessings and asking for a safe path for her and Lyte, as she normally did on any dangerous journey, but the Lady’s path before her this day was especially unclear, cloaked in a fog she could not quite pierce.
Now, it seemed to her, that fog was lifting, as the defiled trees dwindled, and more a more natural and untouched pine forest spread out before them on this last mountain slope that separated them from her people that lived to the south. She pictured her daughters joy at this rare chance to shop in real elvish shops, and even now could feel the excitement emanating from her….
The priestess and her four escorts stopped as one, smelling the blood just ahead, feeling the waves of danger, the fear, the adrenaline pumping through them as the powerful illusion masking their enemies failed, as the bugbear force screamed and charged upon them from their left rear.
Young Lyte, witness to only 30 summers, stumbled into her mother, startled and confused by the horrible and sudden whirlwind of events.
The escort to her left rear spun, and with speed only an elvish archer of great skill possesses, sank four feathered shafts into the first oncoming bugbear soldier, dropping it at his feet. The next two bugbears reached him before he could fire again, driving him to the side with a frightful blow as he drew his longsword, and the blackguard behind these two was upon him, killing him before he could strike.
Lightning shook the trees around the five remaining elves, crackling and smoking, igniting dried pine needles, as Lysyndra grabbed her daughter bodily, throwing her heavily in the direction they have been traveling.
None of these elves were injured, as Lysyndra had blessed each against just such magics. Lyte landed on her feet between the two front defenders, who were unleashing a score of arrows into the charging bugbears, who were now only a few yards behind them.
The fourth of their escort, a burly and silent dark haired elf named Briarling, was charging what appeared to Lyte to be a solid mass of leaf covered fur and fangs, each carrying a gnarled, evil looking staff or a bitter black axe. She stood, mouth agape, hands empty, and heard Briarling and her mother scream two words in unison, as if they had practiced doing so at the same pitch, intensity, and duration in some terrible choir practice of desperation.
“Lyte, run!”
Even then this girl was much like her father, stubborn and brave, but here was something here she could not begin to comprehend, and she stood, drawing neither the short sword she carried more or less symbolically, nor obeying this desperate command. She stood, quite naturally terrified at the scene before her.
Lysyndra cast, knowing fully they were doomed. Her first Blessing covered Briarling with tree like bark, just as he reached the wall of enemies. Again her hands moved, and the enemies beyond this first wall of death were hit with a wall of flame from the sky, and three caught fire and burned, and these would not bother to try to reach them any longer, but it was not nearly enough.
She lost sight of Briarling, as a mass of tall, dirty fur surrounded him. Two were upon her now, both full of arrows, and she struck the right down in a single blow with her sword, but there were so many more….
Lyte watched, large grey eyes hazed in horror. The two escorts at her side, glancing knowingly to one another with resolved looks, drew swords and leaped towards Lysyndra, one to either side.
For a little while the three stood. It seemed to Lyte they might even prevail, as Briarling had much lessened their numbers, and his body was surrounded by a little fence of their bloody corpses. Then she saw them, all around this little bloody tableau, seven, eight, twelve more great bugbears, each carrying a gnarled staff, watching the proceedings, looking at her with bright red eyes and leering, slobbering fangs.
The young girl felt a tug on her sanity. She wondered why they did not kill her outright, and then, shuddering at unspeakable thoughts, drew her sword at last, backing towards the tiring elves with shaking hands and legs.
She spoke with as much control as she could, unable to break her gaze from the terrible, evil, gloating eyes.
“Mother, there are more.”
“I know”, rasped the woman with effort, “we go to the Lady now, daughter.”
One of the elves dropped to his knees from a terrible gash to his shoulder, and Lysandra, trying to stave off blows even as she she cast, healed him with a great effort, taking a shocking blow to her side.
The Circle began to close, the huge, uninjured leaders of this coven of terrible twisted bugbear shamans, moving in to finish resistance, and then, perhaps, enjoy the fruits of their work.
Lysyndra, grim and bloodied, daughter of a stalwart people who lived in constant peril, pulled herself up to her full height and cast her last remaining gift upon her daughter. Lyte found herself unable to see.
She heard her mother’s valiant charge into the creatures, and imagined, in the long years ahead, that her brave, injured escort were beside her there, and that they fought side by side, on their feet until the end.
The spell saved her from the sight of her mother ripped to pieces, so many and so small that when found, the best efforts of the head Priestess from the Camp to raise her were to no avail. Gone too were Briarling and Lysyndras three other valiant protectors, torn to shabby bits upon the forest floor in a great circle of blood, one that mimicked a more gentler Druid’s Grove, one meant to mock it.
Old Barker, their scout, was forgotten, and was resurrected to live once more in the camp, but, now a changed and reclusive man, blaming himself for the ambushes success.
When at last the party was overdue at the elven encampment, and Ir’yn discovered that his wife and daughter had set out unbeknownst to him, a huge troop was sent forth.
The scene that greeted these elves was terrible, and it was Ir’yn, Quartermaster of the Camp, who discovered Lyte’s battered corpse in the center of the gore stained circle, and while she had not been torn to bits as had the older warriors and her mother, she had suffered worse things than death, and all of the troop turned away, and could find no words to comfort the dark, silent Elder of the Camp.
She was revived, after great efforts, back in the encampment, but for many months she spoke not, and it seemed to all that she might perish still, for her joy for living seemed gone, and she simply sat and ate very little, and had no interest for anything.
Ir’yn was of little help to his daughter, though the chief priestess begged him to go to her. He would not visit Lyte, whether out of grief for his wife, or feelings of fault for his daughter’s part in the ill fated trip, none could say.
Finally, one night, a year after the death of Lysyndra, young Lyte stole into her fathers quarters, quietly removing his blade, an old and enchanted katana which Ir’yn would have passed on to his son, as his fathers did before him, if he had had one.
It would be, perhaps, the only crime she was ever to commit.
She paused at a little gazebo used by the camp for meetings and dances, and digging a small hole in the ground behind it, she buried a little doll, the very same that attended a tea party that seemed to have happened to her in another lifetime.
Then she took up the blade, pressed tightly against her chest in it’s scabbard, out of the gates of the Camp, to the small stream, the Liethmere, which runs nearby.
Wracked with feelings of loss and terrible guilt that she could no longer bare, she stripped naked, and setting the sword on the bank of the stream, she stepped within.
She looked to the moon, her pale grey eyes tearless for a long while, and lay on her back in the cold stream, waiting for the chill to weaken her. Time passed and the cold made her numb, and she fumbled for the sword, sitting it beween her breasts with shaking hands, and it’s weight was just enough so that a thin layer of water covered her entirely, as she gazed at the moon on her back, through the flickering water of this Blessed and pure brook. She listened to it’s sounds, and Lyte prayed for death to take her._
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The Last Tea Leaves
_The golden tressed woman smiled broadly, blue eyes sparkling.
Lysyndra's smile warmed all who chanced to gaze upon it. She was a charismatic, giving and kind soul, wise in the way of the Wood and her people, and often the inhabitants of the encampment came to her for advice on the matters of relationships and love.
Today this elven priestess's smiles were reserved for her daughter, who only recently had reached the age of 30, and was exhibiting those traits of rebellion and rampaging passions that young elves are wont to have.
The two sat under a leafy bough in the far corners of the Camp, on the lip of the great moat that had protected it for three centuries. They had spread before them, on a virginally white linen cloth, a little tea-set crafted exquisitely of beautiful large seashells, transluscent and fine, from some distant land.
Lysyndra, with almost mock elegance, was carefully cutting a small cake into three equal parts with a small silver knife. She daintily offered her daughter a piece, and the third she sat before a small carved wooden doll who seemed to be sharing the tea party with them.
The doll, whose name was once Rex the elf-bowman, was on this more pageantry laden day Queen Elabaetha, and he sported a very frilly pink dress and a cleverly made long wig of badger fur which Lysyndra's only daughter Lyte, had appropriated just for the occasion from an unwilling and ill humored contributor.
The three sat in obvious tea-party bliss, as this never to be forgotten golden afternoon passed, and whispered titterings of available princes and dragons and faerie castles might be heard if one had passed this little gathering.
The daughter of Lysyndra matched her mother in beauty, but her countenance suggested a more intense and serious nature, her grey eyes attentive, her hair flaming autumn leaves, rather then a harvest wheat.
Their talk turned eventually from make-believe princes to more earthly subjects, the coming Festival of the Harvest, and a certain boy who had asked fair Lyte to the dance.
The young girl was very popular with all of the boys her own age, but this was a rare day, for in the past Lyte had always avoided committing to social events, and had preferred to paste her would be young suitors with a staff or hammer, rather than dance with them.
But, she had finally said “yes” to one persistant lucky young fellow, and now, she would be attending her first dance, as a young lady, rather then a roughly garbed scout.
Lysyndra was amused. Her daughter never, ever, doubted any decision she made, and she rarely showed a hint of nervousness….not when she hunted her first goblin, or competed in the Camp’s Training Circle in front of scores of Camp inhabitants.
But today, the woman thought, Lysyndra could detect a hint of nervousness about the girl, beautiful or not. Obviously, she thought more of this “silly” young man than she let on.
It was good.
Too seldom, the Priestess thought, had there been times in Lyte’s young life for peace and normal girlish pursuits. Always there were attacks on the Camp, and Lysyndra was well aware that her husband Ir’yn was more martial in attitude than most, and took every opportunity to steer little Lyte away from more ladylike things, towards a militant upbringing.
Lysyndra knew her daughter well. Lyte was selfless and it was a rare moment that the girl asked for anything, preferring in all matters to be self reliant and independent as possible, even at this tender age.
But the mother could see there was something there, on her daughter’s mind, as they drank their tea. Something to do with this boy, and this dance.
“What is it, my daughter, that causes that hesitation in your eyes today?” Lysyndra finally asked. “I have seldom seen such a look on your face before, and it would not be unwelcome to me to be of help to my daughter who asks for so very little. What is this matter that is troubling to you?”
The girl bit her lip before taking the leap. She was unaccustomed to wanting material things, and indeed, she felt more than a little silly. It seemed to her that the very thought of this boy, this blonde elf with the fair eyes, caused her mind to wobble in a direction she was most unfamiliar with.
Finally she said it as simply as she could, the thing that she had been thinking about the past several days. It was something she was sure would cause her father to go into a fury of oaths and utterings, but one, perhaps, her mother would understand.
“I should like very much, mother, to have a store bought dress for the upcoming dance.”
It sounded so greedy coming from her mouth, Lyte thought. “Dangerous too”, she heard her father’s voice say in her head. “Foolish. Stupid. Extravagant.”
The camp had been under siege since she was born. A great and evil fallen druid, called by some “The Defiler”, had long since ruined much of the wood, and goblins and worse inhabited all points of the compass around the elvish encampment where Lyte and her family lived.
Any travel to the outside world, where there were cities and modern conveniences, and yes, fancy dresses, was a serious matter. Guards would need to accompany them, and care to travel quietly and with great caution would be necessary.
Lysyndra, who still remembered what it was like to have not yet danced with a boy, paused only a moment. She knew very well they would not be able to tell her husband about the trip. She also was aware of the danger.
Wisdom is a trait of the heart, and there are some moments in life, the elven woman felt, that ought not be missed, even if it meant taking a dangerous road to experience it.
Lysyndra Bry’Gaede looked upon her daughter’s much too solemn face.
“Then, we shall pack for a great shopping adventure”, she said simply.
And, with those words and at her daughter's simple request, Lysandra set before her feet the last path she would walk in this world._
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Shod in Silver, Bathed in Blood
_The Training Circle stood in the very center of the old camp. Generations of warriors had learned the arts of war, of stealth, the use of bow and sword in this stone surrounded circle, and it was considered a Holy Place by the elves that lived here.
The elvish man’s demeanor was one of determination. His will emanated from him like heat, a tangible force that had earned him his spot on the Elder’s Council at the camp for the past 100 years.
The Quartermaster of Arms stood, in his brown and green leather armor, humorless as the wooden staff he held. It was shod with the emblem of his family, in silver in the form of a hawk. He was tall and broad, for an elf, and white was only just then touching the temples of his dark hair.
He swung the staff suddenly, with a quickness surprising for his size. His opponent lept ably, even faster than he, and the staff hissed under the smaller, similarly armed elf.
“Speed alone will not avail you. You are weak, you will die.”
He half turned, a practiced feint, and suddenly spun the staff in a fluid motion borne of a hundred battles with goblinkind.
Again, the elf facing him smoothly countered, knocking his blow aside, and striking out against the old warrior. The girl struck him, hard, on the left shoulder.
He grunted and frowned. She did not have the weight behind her to knock him back. She had failed, and must pay.
His blow was fast and sure. He caught her under the chin, stunning her, and causing her to lose her focus. Her vision blurred, she stepped back. The next blow was harder, to her right side, and the resounding thump could be heard throughout the camp.
“Weak! Too small for combat such as this,” the man bellowed. “If you are going to strike like a girl, you are going to have to shrug off the pain that you have coming for such pitiful strikes. Are you going to cry as well?”
The girl, very young, gasped for air, clenched her teeth, blood running down her chin. She would show no tears to this man, and she would shut him up or be knocked unconscious trying….not for the first time. She crouched and lept, something she was adept at, in a catlike fashion.
He had goaded her into the charge, knowing she had not yet recovered. He blamed her for many things in a dark corner of his mind…for being a girl when he ought to have a son to give his sword to when he could no longer wield it.
He blamed her for being beautiful when she ought to have been strong, and he could not stomach her seemingly stupendous stubbornness and her refusal to admit defeat, even though he knew very clearly from where that trait originated.
But mostly, he blamed his daughter Lyte for the death of his wife.
He moved just a little to his left, and swung the staff at exactly the right moment, as her own staff passed through the place he had just left.
His blow broke her right forearm, sent her staff flying, and her careening into the dust of the circle where the impact damaged it further, blood gouting the dry earth into red mud. Here she would writhe silently in pain until old Barker would come and gather her up and take her to Lady Thislin for healing.
Lyte and Thislin knew each other very well, and the priestess came to often wonder if there was a bone she had not set on the girl.
Ir’yn Bry’Gaede sat in his tent, after such training, bitter and alone. He told himself that it was all for his daughters good, that the Rawlinswood was full of enemies who would not stop with broken arms or black eyes, and that she must work harder than any boy, be faster, smarter and impervious to pain, if she was to survive.
He would see to it, he thought, that there was no weakness left in her. There was no place left in their world for dresses and dances. Only the strongest would survive the coming days. If his only child lacked strength, he would see to it she was resilient and quick beyond measure.
He told himself for the thousandth time he was doing what was right.
But in truth, the darkness of the surrounding forest had effected not only the trees and animals in the Rawlinswood…it had also driven many of the men who lived within it to act in darker and unkind ways. The Camp had harbored long the cause of the great unnatural darkness that now was loose in the lands, in the form of Oriana and the unnatural powers in her grasp, and many in the Camp were tainted in some manner too.
So, the father pushed his waif of a daughter well before the age most men seriously trained their sons. The other warriors often looked upon him darkly, for Lyte was beloved by all within the Camp, and had been given the important job of awakening all each daylight.
But, none stopped him, for it was within his right to do what he deemed best with his own child, and, the only one who might have been able to dissuade this stubborn, proud, vain man had been his gentle and wise wife, and indeed, it was not so far from Ir’yn’s belief, the truth.
Lyte had indeed killed her._