The Blade Henge ran in two rows of sharp rocks along the ridge of a steep and narrow hill. The hilltop was deeply grassed, wind-torn and lonely. The stones themselves were so dark a grey as to be almost black, and they were knife-like in shape, thin and angular–like flakes of obsidian chipped out by some ancient giant and thrust into the earth. Each line ran in a procession up the hill. A person could enter the processional way at the foot of the hill and then walk all the way to the hill’s peak whilst never leaving the path between the stones. Where the hill crested, the way arrived at a low, stubby chair made of rain-corroded rock. This was the traditional seat of the Four Princes of Sorthe. It was a shared throne, and the princes took turns holding court here.
The Blade Henge had been here before the Sorthelanders came out of the west and north. It had a reputation for having power to bind such promises and oaths that were spoken here.
Today was the court of Athairdrost. His banners flapped listlessly behind him. His soldiers and knights, kinsmen, thegns and thralls all spread about the hill’s summit. Lords, ladies and sometimes the richer class of merchant-trader presented themselves to the prince, one after another. Each had their claims, petitions, or pleas for justice against some wrong or petty slight.
The day was already late, and the string of petitioners was nearing an end. The trailing line of people grew shorter and thinner by each passing moment. And though the court had proceeded without incident, throughout the whole of the day, the Prince Athairdrost had been nervous. He was restless on the throne of raw stone, shifting often, listening hardly at all. He put off nearly every decision. “For another time, ” he said over and over. “For another time. Let me think on it. Not today.”
Unusually, he had even sent for his white ghaists. The ghostly women were not usually in attendance. Today, they stood behind him, like a wall of cold and deathly fog in the fickle light of a cloud-strewn sky. His guards and knights all stood back a little more than usual. No one wanted to be near the deathly ones.
If Athairdrost had good reason for summoning his guarding shades, he told no one, and not a person commented on it. It is unwise to question the decisions of princes. This being a general truth, it is especially and particularly true of the witch-princes of Sorthe.
After the last petitioner approached the throne and was quickly sent away, the prince looked down the hill with the same nervous air he carried all day. It was as if he was expecting someone else to appear and demand audience. His fingers trembled as he took a cup of wine from his cup-bearer, a thin but well-dressed page boy. The page moved away swiftly. Everyone present was fully aware that the prince was in a dangerous mood.
He looked down the hill slope, searching the empty grass and turf. Nothing and no one moved between the twin lines of the Blade Henge. He then glanced over his shoulder, at the line of white ghaists. He pondered them. They wore garments made of a thin ethereal stuff that looked too light to be solid. It looked as if their robes and cloaks were woven from wet spiderweb, or perhaps a mist scraped from the top of a forest pool. He glanced across their faces, but looked away quickly. Their eyes were staring, sad, transfixed.
Hateful.
They were under his power so long as he possessed the ring of braids, but he was still unnerved by them.
He felt happier only when he thought about how his enemies were more afraid of the white ghaists than he was.
He stirred in his seat, adjusted the cloak clasped around his neck and felt pensive twinges. His fingers idly played with the little ring of braided hair at his belt. Then he graced the tips of his fingers over the leather satchel where he carried the fragment of the old rune-cut artefact. He waited. He looked over at the sun. There was a formal requirement to wait until the sun touched the horizon. He breathed.
All was silence except the stir of wind.
He drummed his fingers on the throne.
A few of his courtiers also shifted with boredom, or discomfit. Everyone was clearly keen to have the day done with. Once the court was ended, everyone would move onto the evening banquet. Tables laden with food, and big, fire-lit tents were already waiting out-of-sight on the other side of the hill. Wind picked up stray strands of his pale hair and toyed with it. His greatest treasure, but also his least useful. Until the lost half was found, the old great spell was just yellowed horn and fragmented words. Still, it gave him some comfort to know it was there.
The sun was very close to the horizon now. He readied himself to stand. “It is done,” he said. “No one else approaches. I call adjourn to this court and–” He stopped mid-sentence.