#might do ship charts for some of my other hor ships

[riff-is-on-a-fucking-crisis]

ship chart thing

original [made by GOOMYLOID on twt]

[hlupdate]

A hand­shake can quell polit­i­cal unrest and sti­fle impend­ing war. It can, with a bit of spit, val­i­date a gentleman’s agree­ment, end a years-long roman­tic rela­tion­ship or send a young heart rac­ing. But it all depends on the two par­ties involved.

Daisy, 21, felt a seis­mic jolt when Har­ry Styles, 25, wear­ing a striped jumper and rings on three of his five fin­gers, clutched her hand two days after this year’s Met Gala in New York, when she served him gela­to at the shop where she worked.

“He decid­ed on a small mint choco­late gela­to and I made his and the one for his friend and I said, ​‘Can I just say I absolute­ly loved your Met Gala look’ and he said ​‘Thank you very much! What’s your name?’ And I said, ​‘Daisy’ AND HE FUCK­ING EXTEND­ED HISHAND AND REACHED TO SHAKE MY HAND AND I ACTU­AL­LY FUCK­INGSHOOK HIS HAND WHAT THE FUCK,” she wrote on Insta­gram after The Shak­en­ing. ​“Like I didn’t even say any­thing to gas him up besides ​‘I loved your met gala look’ and his fine ass went and shook my hand! WHAT A BEAU­TI­FUL FUCK­ING HUMAN BEINGTHAT HE IS GOD BLESS HIM AND I HOPE HW [sic] LIVES FOREVER.”

For Har­ry Styles, a hand­shake can be a roman­tic ges­ture, con­jur­ing a potent rev­er­ence in its recip­i­ent, like the time he met Gucci’s cre­ative direc­tor Alessan­dro Michele. ​“He was as attrac­tive as James Dean and as per­sua­sive as Gre­ta Gar­bo. He was like a Luchi­no Vis­con­ti char­ac­ter, like an Apol­lo: at the same time sexy as a woman, as a kid, as a man,” Michele told me, has­ten­ing to add: ​“Of course, Har­ry is not aware of this.”

No, Styles has no idea the pow­er he wields. In per­son, he’s tow­er­ing, like some­one who is not that much taller but whose rep­u­ta­tion adds four inch­es. Styles has a seda­tive bari­tone, spo­ken in a rum­my north­ern Eng­lish accent, that tum­bles out so slow­ly you for­get the name of your first born, a swag­ger that has been nursed and per­fect­ed in myth­i­cal places with names like Pais­ley Park, or Abbey Road, or Grace­land. Makes com­plete sense that he would be up for the role of Elvis Pres­ley in Baz Luhrmann’s upcom­ing biopic. He was primed, nay, born to shake his hips, all but one but­ton on his shirt cling­ing for dear life around his tor­so. Then the part was award­ed to anoth­er actor, Austin Butler.

“[Elvis] was such an icon for me grow­ing up,” Styles tells me. ​“There was some­thing almost sacred about him, almost like I didn’t want to touch him. Then I end­ed up get­ting into [his life] a bit and I wasn’t dis­ap­point­ed,” he adds of his ini­tial research and prepa­ra­tions to play The King. He seems relaxed about los­ing the part to But­ler. ​“I feel like if I’m not the right per­son for the thing, then it’s best for both of us that I don’t do it, you know?”

Styles released his self-titled debut solo album in May 2017. The boy­band grad was clear­ly unin­ter­est­ed in hol­low­ing out the charts with more for­mu­la­ic meme pop. Instead, to the sur­prise of many, he dug his heels into retro-fetishist West Coast ​’70s rock. Some of the One Direc­tion fan-hordes might have been con­fused, but no mat­ter: Har­ry Styles sold one mil­lion copies.

Despite its com­mer­cial and crit­i­cal suc­cess, he didn’t tour the album right away. He want­ed to act in the Christo­pher Nolan film Dunkirk. To his cred­it, his por­tray­al of a British sol­dier cow­er­ing in a moored boat on the French beach­es as the Nazis advanced wasn’t skew­ered in the press like the movie debuts of, say, Madon­na or Justin Tim­ber­lake. Per­haps he was fol­low­ing advice giv­en by Elton John, who had urged him to diver­si­fy. ​“He was bril­liant in Dunkirk, which took a lot of peo­ple by sur­prise,” John writes in an email. ​“I love how he takes chances and risks.” Act­ing, unlike music, is a release for Styles; it’s the one time he can be not himself.

“Why do I want to act? It’s so dif­fer­ent to music for me,” he says, sud­den­ly ani­mat­ed. ​“They’re almost oppo­site for me. Music, you try and put so much of your­self into it; act­ing, you’re try­ing to total­ly dis­ap­pear in who­ev­er you’re being.”

Fol­low­ing the news that he missed out on Pres­ley, his name was float­ed for the role of Prince Eric in Disney’s live-action remake of The Lit­tle Mer­maid. How­ev­er, fans will have to wait a bit longer to see Styles on the big screen as that idea, too, has sunk. He won’t be The King or the Prince. ​“It was dis­cussed,” he acknow­ledges before swift­ly chang­ing the sub­ject. ​“I want to put music out and focus on that for a while. But every­one involved in it was amaz­ing, so I think it’s going to be great. I’ll enjoy watch­ing it, I’m sure.”

The new album is wrapped and the sin­gle is decid­ed upon. ​“It’s not like his last album,” his friend, rock ​‘n’ roll leg­end Ste­vie Nicks, told me recent­ly over the phone. ​“It’s not like any­thing One Direc��tion ever did. It’s pure Har­ry, as Har­ry would say. He’s made a very dif­fer­ent record and it’s spectacular.”

Beyond that, Styles is keep­ing his cards close to his chest as to his next musi­cal move. How­ev­er, the air is thick with rumours that his main wing­man for HS2 is Kid Har­poon, aka Tom Hull, who co-wrote debut album track Sweet Crea­ture. No less an author­i­ty than Liam Gal­lagher told us that both big band escapees were in the same stu­dio – RAK in north-west Lon­don – at the same time mak­ing their sec­ond solo albums. Styles played him a cou­ple of tracks, ​“and I tell you what, they’re good,” Gal­lagher enthused. ​“A bit like that Bon Iver. Is that his name?”

Har­ry Styles met Nicks at a Fleet­wood Mac con­cert in Los Ange­les in April 2015. Some­thing about him felt authen­tic to the leg­endary front­woman: ground­ed, like she’d known him for­ev­er, blessed with a win­ning moon­shot grin. A month lat­er, they met back­stage at anoth­er Mac gig, this time at the O2 in Lon­don. Styles brought a car­rot cake for Nicks’ birth­day, her name piped in icing on top. By her own admis­sion, Nicks doesn’t even cel­e­brate birth­days, so this was a sur­prise. ​“He was per­son­al­ly respon­si­ble for me actu­al­ly hav­ing to cel­e­brate my birth­day, which was very sweet,” she says.

Styles’ rela­tion­ship with Nicks is hard to define. Induct­ing her into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in New York as a solo artist ear­li­er this year, his speech hymned her as a ​“mag­i­cal gyp­sy god­moth­er who occu­pies the in-between”. She’s called him her ​“lovechild” with Mick Fleet­wood and the ​“son I nev­er had”. Both have moved past the pre­lim­i­nary chat acknowl­edg­ing each other’s unquan­tifi­able tal­ents and smooth­ly accel­er­at­ed towards play­ful cut-and-thrust ban­ter of a witch mom and her naughty child.

They per­form togeth­er – he sings The Chainand Stop Drag­gin’ My Heart Around; she sings the one alleged­ly writ­ten about Tay­lor Swift, Two Ghosts. One of those per­for­mances was at the Guc­ci Cruise after­par­ty in Rome in May, for ​“a lot of mon­ey”, Nicks tells me, in a ​“big kind of cas­tle place”. She has become his de fac­to men­tor – one phone call is all it takes to reach the Queen of Rock’n’Roll for advice on sequenc­ing (“She is real­ly good at track list­ing,” Styles admits) or just to hear each other’s voic­es… because, well, wouldn’t you?

Fol­low­ing anoth­er Fleet­wood Mac con­cert, at London’s Wem­b­ley Sta­di­um, in June, Nicks met Styles for a late (Indi­an) din­ner. He then invit­ed her back to his semi-detached Geor­gian man­sion in north Lon­don for a lis­ten­ing par­ty at mid­night. The album – HS2or what­ev­er it’ll be called – was fin­ished. Nicks, her assis­tant Karen, her make-up artist and her friends Jess and Mary crammed onto Styles’ liv­ing-room couch. They lis­tened to it once through in silence like a ​“bunch of edu­cat­ed monks or some­thing in this dark room”. Then once again, 15 or 16 tracks, this time each of his guests offer­ing live feed­back. It wrapped at 5am, just as the sun was bleed­ing through the curtains.

Even for a pop star of Styles’ stature, press­ing ​“play” on a deeply per­son­al work for your hero to digest, watch­ing her face react in real time to your new music, must be… what?

“It’s a dou­ble-edged thing,” he replies. ​“You’re always ner­vous when you are play­ing peo­ple music for the first time. You’ve heard it so much by this point, you for­get that peo­ple haven’t heard it before. It’s hard to not feel like you’ve done what you’ve set out to do. You are hap­py with some­thing and then some­one who you respect so much and look up to is, like: ​‘I real­ly like this.’ It feels like a large stamp [of approval]. It’s a big step towards feel­ing very com­fort­able with what­ev­er else hap­pens to it.”

Wad­ing through Styles’ back­ground info is exhaust­ing, since he was spanked by fame in the social media era where every god­dam blink of a kohl-rimmed eye has been doc­u­ment­ed from six angles. (And yes, he does some­times wear guyliner.)

Deep breath: born in Red­ditch, Worces­ter­shire, to par­ents Des and Anne, who divorced when he was sev­en. Grew up in Holmes Chapel in Cheshire with his sis­ter Gem­ma, mum and step­dad Robin Twist. Rode hors­es at a near­by sta­ble for free (“I was a bad rid­er, but I was a rid­er”). Stopped rid­ing, ​“got into dif­fer­ent stuff”. Formed a band, White Eski­mo, with school­mates. Aged 16, tried out for the 2010 run of The X Fac­torwith a stir­ring but aver­age ren­di­tion of Ste­vie Wonder’s Isn’t She Love­ly. Cut from the show and put into a boy band with four oth­ers, Louis Tom­lin­son, Liam Payne, Niall Horan and Zayn Malik, and called One Direc­tion. Became inter­na­tion­al­ly famous, toured the globe. Zayn quit to go solo. Toured some more. Dat­ed but maybe didn’t date Car­o­line Flack, Rita Ora and Tay­lor Swift – whom he report­ed­ly dumped in the British Vir­gin Islands. (This rela­tion­ship, if noth­ing else, yield­ed an icon­ic, can­did shot of Swift look­ing deject­ed, being motored back to shore on the back of a boat called the Fly­ing Ray.) One Direc­tion dis­cussed dis­band­ing in 2014, actu­al­ly dis­solved in 2015. They remain friend­ly, and Styles offi­cial­ly went solo in 2016.

It’s been two years since his epony­mous debut and lead sin­gle, Sign of the Times, shocked the world and Elton John with its swag­ger­ing, soft rock sound. ​“It came out of left field and I loved it,” John says.

After 89 are­na-packed shows across five con­ti­nents grossed him, the label, whomev­er, over $61 mil­lion, Styles had all but dis­ap­peared. He has emerged only inter­mit­tent­ly for pub­lic-fac­ing events – a Guc­ci after­par­ty per­for­mance here, a Met Gala co-chair­ing there. He relo­cat­ed from Los Ange­les back to Lon­don, sell­ing his Hol­ly­wood Hills house for $6mil­lion and ship­ping his Jaguar E-type across the Atlantic so he could take joyrides on the M25.

“I’m not over LA,” he insists when I ask about the move. ​“My rela­tion­ship with LAchanged a lot. What I want­ed from LA changed.”

A great escape, he would agree, is some­times nec­es­sary. He was in Tokyo for most of Jan­u­ary, hav­ing near­ly fin­ished his album. ​“I need­ed time to get out of that album frame-of-mind of: ​‘Is it fin­ished? Where am I at? What’s hap­pen­ing?’ I real­ly need­ed that time away from every­one. I was kind of just in Tokyo by myself.” His sab­bat­i­cal most­ly involved read­ing Haru­ki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chron­i­cle, singing Nir­vana at karaoke, writ­ing alone in his hotel room, lis­ten­ing to music and eaves­drop­ping on strangers in alien con­ver­sa­tion. ​“It was just a pos­i­tive time for my head and I think that impact­ed the album in a big way.”

Dur­ing this break he watched a lot of films, read a lot of books. Some­times he texts these rec­om­men­da­tions to his pal Michele at Guc­ci. He told Michele to watch the Ali Mac­graw film, Love Sto­ry. ​“We text what friends text about. He is the same [as me] in terms of he lives in his own world and he does his own thing. I love dress­ing up and he loves dress­ing up.”

Because he loves dress­ing up, Michele chose Styles to be the face of three Guc­ci Tai­lor­ing cam­paigns and of its new gen­der­less fra­grance, Mémoire d’une Odeur.

“The moment I met him, I imme­di­ate­ly under­stood there was some­thing strong around him,” Michele tells me. ​“I realised he was much more than a young singer. He was a young man, dressed in a thought­ful way, with uncombed hair and a beau­ti­ful voice. I thought he gath­ered with­in him­self the fem­i­nine and the masculine.”

Fash­ion, for Styles, is a play­ground. Some­thing he doesn’t take too seri­ous­ly. A cou­ple of years ago Har­ry Lam­bert, his styl­ist since 2015, acquired for him a pair of pink metal­lic Saint Lau­rent boots that he has nev­er been pho­tographed wear­ing. They are exceed­ing­ly rare – few pairs exist. Styles wears them ​“to get milk”. They are, in his words, ​“super-fun”. He’s not sure, but he has, ball­park, 50 pairs of shoes, as well as full clos­ets in at least three post­codes. He set­tles on an out­fit fair­ly quick­ly, maybe changes his T-shirt once before head­ing out, but most­ly knows what he likes.

What he may not ful­ly com­pre­hend is that sim­ply by being pho­tographed in a gar­ment he can spur the career of a design­er, as he has with Har­ris Reed, Palo­mo Spain, Charles Jef­frey, Alled-Martínez and a new favourite, Bode. Styles wore a SS16 Guc­ci flo­ral suit to the 2015 Amer­i­can Music Awards. When he was asked who made his suit on the red car­pet, Guc­ci began trend­ing world­wide on Twitter.

“It was one of the first times a male wore Alessandro’s run­way designs and, at the time, men were not tak­ing too many red car­pet risks,” says Lam­bert. ​“Who knows if it influ­enced oth­ers, but it was a spe­cial moment. Plus, it was fun see­ing the fans dress up in suits to come see Harry’s shows.”

Yet tra­di­tion­al gen­der codes of dress still have the minds of mid­dle Amer­i­ca in a choke­hold. Men can’t wear women’s clothes, say the online whingers, who have labelled him ​“trag­ic”, ​“a clown” and a Bowie wannabe. Styles doesn’t care. ​“What’s fem­i­nine and what’s mas­cu­line, what men are wear­ing and what women are wear­ing – it’s like there are no lines any more.”

Elton John agrees: ​“It worked for Marc Bolan, Bowie and Mick. Har­ry has the same qualities.”

Then there is the ques­tion of Styles’ sex­u­al­i­ty, some­thing he has admit­ted­ly ​“nev­er real­ly start­ed to label”, which will plague him until he does. Per­haps it’s part of his allure. He’s bran­dished a pride flag that read ​“Make Amer­i­ca Gay Again” on stage, and plant­ed a stake some­where left of cen­tre on sexuality’s rain­bow spectrum.

“In the posi­tion that he’s in, he can’t real­ly say a lot, but he chose a queer girl band to open for him and I think that speaks vol­umes,” Josette Maskin of the queer band MUNA told The Face ear­li­er this year.

“I get a lot of…” Styles trails off, wheels turn­ing on how he can dis­cuss sex­u­al­i­ty with­out real­ly answer­ing. ​“I’m not always super-out­spo­ken. But I think it’s very clear from choic­es that I make that I feel a cer­tain way about lots of things. I don’t know how to describe it. I guess I’m not…” He paus­es again, piv­ots. ​“I want every­one to feel wel­come at shows and online. They want to be loved and equal, you know? I’m nev­er unsup­port­ed, so it feels weird for me to over­think it for some­one else.”

Sex­u­al­i­ty aside, he must acknowl­edge that he has sex appeal. ​“The word ​‘sexy’ sounds so strange com­ing out of my mouth. So I would say that that’s prob­a­bly why I would not con­sid­er myself sexy.”

Har­ry Styles has emerged ful­ly-formed, an anachro­nis­tic rock star, vague in sen­si­bil­i­ty but des­tined to impress with a dis­arm­ing smile and a warm but firm handshake.

I recite to him a quote from Chrissie Hyn­de of The Pre­tenders about her time atop rock’s throne: ​“I nev­er got into this for the mon­ey or because I want­ed to join in the super­star sex around the swim­ming pools. I did it because the offer of a record con­tract came along and it seemed like it might be more fun than being a wait­ress. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Styles – who worked in a bak­ery in a small north­ern town some time before play­ing to 40,000 scream­ing fans in South Amer­i­can are­nas – must have wit­nessed some shit, been invit­ed to a few pool­side sex par­ties, in his time.

“I’ve seen a cou­ple of things,” he nods in agree­ment. ​“But I’m still young. I feel like there’s still stuff to see.”

[stylesnews]

The Face - Volume 4 . Issue 1

A hand­shake can quell polit­i­cal unrest and sti­fle impend­ing war. It can, with a bit of spit, val­i­date a gentleman’s agree­ment, end a years-long roman­tic rela­tion­ship or send a young heart rac­ing. But it all depends on the two par­ties involved.

Daisy, 21, felt a seis­mic jolt when Har­ry Styles, 25, wear­ing a striped jumper and rings on three of his five fin­gers, clutched her hand two days after this year’s Met Gala in New York, when she served him gela­to at the shop where she worked.

“He decid­ed on a small mint choco­late gela­to and I made his and the one for his friend and I said, ​‘Can I just say I absolute­ly loved your Met Gala look’ and he said ​‘Thank you very much! What’s your name?’ And I said, ​‘Daisy’ AND HE FUCK­ING EXTEND­ED HIS HAND AND REACHEDTO SHAKE MY HAND AND I ACTU­AL­LY FUCK­ING SHOOK HIS HAND WHAT THEFUCK,” she wrote on Insta­gram after The Shak­en­ing. ​“Like I didn’t even say any­thing to gas him up besides ​‘I loved your met gala look’ and his fine ass went and shook my hand! WHATA BEAU­TI­FUL FUCK­ING HUMAN BEING THAT HE IS GOD BLESS HIM AND I HOPE HW[sic] LIVES FOREVER.”

For Har­ry Styles, a hand­shake can be a roman­tic ges­ture, con­jur­ing a potent rev­er­ence in its recip­i­ent, like the time he met Gucci’s cre­ative direc­tor Alessan­dro Michele. ​“He was as attrac­tive as James Dean and as per­sua­sive as Gre­ta Gar­bo. He was like a Luchi­no Vis­con­ti char­ac­ter, like an Apol­lo: at the same time sexy as a woman, as a kid, as a man,” Michele told me, has­ten­ing to add: ​“Of course, Har­ry is not aware of this.”

No, Styles has no idea the pow­er he wields. In per­son, he’s tow­er­ing, like some­one who is not that much taller but whose rep­u­ta­tion adds four inch­es. Styles has a seda­tive bari­tone, spo­ken in a rum­my north­ern Eng­lish accent, that tum­bles out so slow­ly you for­get the name of your first born, a swag­ger that has been nursed and per­fect­ed in myth­i­cal places with names like Pais­ley Park, or Abbey Road, or Grace­land. Makes com­plete sense that he would be up for the role of Elvis Pres­ley in Baz Luhrmann’s upcom­ing biopic. He was primed, nay, born to shake his hips, all but one but­ton on his shirt cling­ing for dear life around his tor­so. Then the part was award­ed to anoth­er actor, Austin Butler.

“[Elvis] was such an icon for me grow­ing up,” Styles tells me. ​“There was some­thing almost sacred about him, almost like I didn’t want to touch him. Then I end­ed up get­ting into [his life] a bit and I wasn’t dis­ap­point­ed,” he adds of his ini­tial research and prepa­ra­tions to play The King. He seems relaxed about los­ing the part to But­ler. ​“I feel like if I’m not the right per­son for the thing, then it’s best for both of us that I don’t do it, you know?”

Styles released his self-titled debut solo album in May 2017. The boy­band grad was clear­ly unin­ter­est­ed in hol­low­ing out the charts with more for­mu­la­ic meme pop. Instead, to the sur­prise of many, he dug his heels into retro-fetishist West Coast ​’70s rock. Some of the One Direc­tion fan-hordes might have been con­fused, but no mat­ter: Har­ry Styles sold one mil­lion copies.

Despite its com­mer­cial and crit­i­cal suc­cess, he didn’t tour the album right away. He want­ed to act in the Christo­pher Nolan film Dunkirk. To his cred­it, his por­tray­al of a British sol­dier cow­er­ing in a moored boat on the French beach­es as the Nazis advanced wasn’t skew­ered in the press like the movie debuts of, say, Madon­na or Justin Tim­ber­lake. Per­haps he was fol­low­ing advice giv­en by Elton John, who had urged him to diver­si­fy. ​“He was bril­liant in Dunkirk, which took a lot of peo­ple by sur­prise,” John writes in an email. ​“I love how he takes chances and risks.” Act­ing, unlike music, is a release for Styles; it’s the one time he can be not himself.

“Why do I want to act? It’s so dif­fer­ent to music for me,” he says, sud­den­ly ani­mat­ed. ​“They’re almost oppo­site for me. Music, you try and put so much of your­self into it; act­ing, you’re try­ing to total­ly dis­ap­pear in who­ev­er you’re being.”

Fol­low­ing the news that he missed out on Pres­ley, his name was float­ed for the role of Prince Eric in Disney’s live-action remake of The Lit­tle Mer­maid. How­ev­er, fans will have to wait a bit longer to see Styles on the big screen as that idea, too, has sunk. He won’t be The King or the Prince. ​“It was dis­cussed,” he acknow­ledges before swift­ly chang­ing the sub­ject. ​“I want to put music out and focus on that for a while. But every­one involved in it was amaz­ing, so I think it’s going to be great. I’ll enjoy watch­ing it, I’m sure.”

The new album is wrapped and the sin­gle is decid­ed upon. ​“It’s not like his last album,” his friend, rock ​‘n’ roll leg­end Ste­vie Nicks, told me recent­ly over the phone. ​“It’s not like any­thing One Direc­tion ever did. It’s pure Har­ry, as Har­ry would say. He’s made a very dif­fer­ent record and it’s spectacular.”

Beyond that, Styles is keep­ing his cards close to his chest as to his next musi­cal move. How­ev­er, the air is thick with rumours that his main wing­man for HS2 is Kid Har­poon, aka Tom Hull, who co-wrote debut album track Sweet Crea­ture. No less an author­i­ty than Liam Gal­lagher told us that both big band escapees were in the same stu­dio – RAK in north-west Lon­don – at the same time mak­ing their sec­ond solo albums. Styles played him a cou­ple of tracks, ​“and I tell you what, they’re good,” Gal­lagher enthused. ​“A bit like that Bon Iver. Is that his name?”

Har­ry Styles met Nicks at a Fleet­wood Mac con­cert in Los Ange­les in April 2015. Some­thing about him felt authen­tic to the leg­endary front­woman: ground­ed, like she’d known him for­ev­er, blessed with a win­ning moon­shot grin. A month lat­er, they met back­stage at anoth­er Mac gig, this time at the O2 in Lon­don. Styles brought a car­rot cake for Nicks’ birth­day, her name piped in icing on top. By her own admis­sion, Nicks doesn’t even cel­e­brate birth­days, so this was a sur­prise. ​“He was per­son­al­ly respon­si­ble for me actu­al­ly hav­ing to cel­e­brate my birth­day, which was very sweet,” she says.

Styles’ rela­tion­ship with Nicks is hard to define. Induct­ing her into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in New York as a solo artist ear­li­er this year, his speech hymned her as a ​“mag­i­cal gyp­sy god­moth­er who occu­pies the in-between”. She’s called him her ​“lovechild” with Mick Fleet­wood and the ​“son I nev­er had”. Both have moved past the pre­lim­i­nary chat acknowl­edg­ing each other’s unquan­tifi­able tal­ents and smooth­ly accel­er­at­ed towards play­ful cut-and-thrust ban­ter of a witch mom and her naughty child.

They per­form togeth­er – he sings The Chain and Stop Drag­gin’ My Heart Around; she sings the one alleged­ly writ­ten about Tay­lor Swift, Two Ghosts. One of those per­for­mances was at the Guc­ci Cruise after­par­ty in Rome in May, for ​“a lot of mon­ey”, Nicks tells me, in a ​“big kind of cas­tle place”. She has become his de fac­to men­tor – one phone call is all it takes to reach the Queen of Rock’n’Roll for advice on sequenc­ing (“She is real­ly good at track list­ing,” Styles admits) or just to hear each other’s voic­es… because, well, wouldn’t you?

Fol­low­ing anoth­er Fleet­wood Mac con­cert, at London’s Wem­b­ley Sta­di­um, in June, Nicks met Styles for a late (Indi­an) din­ner. He then invit­ed her back to his semi-detached Geor­gian man­sion in north Lon­don for a lis­ten­ing par­ty at mid­night. The album – HS2or what­ev­er it’ll be called – was fin­ished. Nicks, her assis­tant Karen, her make-up artist and her friends Jess and Mary crammed onto Styles’ liv­ing-room couch. They lis­tened to it once through in silence like a ​“bunch of edu­cat­ed monks or some­thing in this dark room”. Then once again, 15 or 16 tracks, this time each of his guests offer­ing live feed­back. It wrapped at 5am, just as the sun was bleed­ing through the curtains.

Even for a pop star of Styles’ stature, press­ing ​“play” on a deeply per­son­al work for your hero to digest, watch­ing her face react in real time to your new music, must be… what?

“It’s a dou­ble-edged thing,” he replies. ​“You’re always ner­vous when you are play­ing peo­ple music for the first time. You’ve heard it so much by this point, you for­get that peo­ple haven’t heard it before. It’s hard to not feel like you’ve done what you’ve set out to do. You are hap­py with some­thing and then some­one who you respect so much and look up to is, like: ​‘I real­ly like this.’ It feels like a large stamp [of approval]. It’s a big step towards feel­ing very com­fort­able with what­ev­er else hap­pens to it.”

Wad­ing through Styles’ back­ground info is exhaust­ing, since he was spanked by fame in the social media era where every god­dam blink of a kohl-rimmed eye has been doc­u­ment­ed from six angles. (And yes, he does some­times wear guyliner.)

Deep breath: born in Red­ditch, Worces­ter­shire, to par­ents Des and Anne, who divorced when he was sev­en. Grew up in Holmes Chapel in Cheshire with his sis­ter Gem­ma, mum and step­dad Robin Twist. Rode hors­es at a near­by sta­ble for free (“I was a bad rid­er, but I was a rid­er”). Stopped rid­ing, ​“got into dif­fer­ent stuff”. Formed a band, White Eski­mo, with school­mates. Aged 16, tried out for the 2010 run of The X Fac­torwith a stir­ring but aver­age ren­di­tion of Ste­vie Wonder’s Isn’t She Love­ly. Cut from the show and put into a boy band with four oth­ers, Louis Tom­lin­son, Liam Payne, Niall Horan and Zayn Malik, and called One Direc­tion. Became inter­na­tion­al­ly famous, toured the globe. Zayn quit to go solo. Toured some more. Dat­ed but maybe didn’t date Car­o­line Flack, Rita Ora and Tay­lor Swift – whom he report­ed­ly dumped in the British Vir­gin Islands. (This rela­tion­ship, if noth­ing else, yield­ed an icon­ic, can­did shot of Swift look­ing deject­ed, being motored back to shore on the back of a boat called the Fly­ing Ray.) One Direc­tion dis­cussed dis­band­ing in 2014, actu­al­ly dis­solved in 2015. They remain friend­ly, and Styles offi­cial­ly went solo in 2016.

It’s been two years since his epony­mous debut and lead sin­gle, Sign of the Times, shocked the world and Elton John with its swag­ger­ing, soft rock sound. ​“It came out of left field and I loved it,” John says.

After 89 are­na-packed shows across five con­ti­nents grossed him, the label, whomev­er, over $61mil­lion, Styles had all but dis­ap­peared. He has emerged only inter­mit­tent­ly for pub­lic-fac­ing events – a Guc­ci after­par­ty per­for­mance here, a Met Gala co-chair­ing there. He relo­cat­ed from Los Ange­les back to Lon­don, sell­ing his Hol­ly­wood Hills house for $6 mil­lion and ship­ping his Jaguar E-type across the Atlantic so he could take joyrides on the M25.

“I’m not over LA,” he insists when I ask about the move. ​“My rela­tion­ship with LA changed a lot. What I want­ed from LA changed.”

A great escape, he would agree, is some­times nec­es­sary. He was in Tokyo for most of Jan­u­ary, hav­ing near­ly fin­ished his album. ​“I need­ed time to get out of that album frame-of-mind of: ​‘Is it fin­ished? Where am I at? What’s hap­pen­ing?’ I real­ly need­ed that time away from every­one. I was kind of just in Tokyo by myself.” His sab­bat­i­cal most­ly involved read­ing Haru­ki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chron­i­cle, singing Nir­vana at karaoke, writ­ing alone in his hotel room, lis­ten­ing to music and eaves­drop­ping on strangers in alien con­ver­sa­tion. ​“It was just a pos­i­tive time for my head and I think that impact­ed the album in a big way.”

Dur­ing this break he watched a lot of films, read a lot of books. Some­times he texts these rec­om­men­da­tions to his pal Michele at Guc­ci. He told Michele to watch the Ali Mac­graw film, Love Sto­ry. ​“We text what friends text about. He is the same [as me] in terms of he lives in his own world and he does his own thing. I love dress­ing up and he loves dress­ing up.”

Because he loves dress­ing up, Michele chose Styles to be the face of three Guc­ci Tai­lor­ing cam­paigns and of its new gen­der­less fra­grance, Mémoire d’une Odeur.

“The moment I met him, I imme­di­ate­ly under­stood there was some­thing strong around him,” Michele tells me. ​“I realised he was much more than a young singer. He was a young man, dressed in a thought­ful way, with uncombed hair and a beau­ti­ful voice. I thought he gath­ered with­in him­self the fem­i­nine and the masculine.”

Fash­ion, for Styles, is a play­ground. Some­thing he doesn’t take too seri­ous­ly. A cou­ple of years ago Har­ry Lam­bert, his styl­ist since 2015, acquired for him a pair of pink metal­lic Saint Lau­rent boots that he has nev­er been pho­tographed wear­ing. They are exceed­ing­ly rare – few pairs exist. Styles wears them ​“to get milk”. They are, in his words, ​“super-fun”. He’s not sure, but he has, ball­park, 50 pairs of shoes, as well as full clos­ets in at least three post­codes. He set­tles on an out­fit fair­ly quick­ly, maybe changes his T-shirt once before head­ing out, but most­ly knows what he likes.

What he may not ful­ly com­pre­hend is that sim­ply by being pho­tographed in a gar­ment he can spur the career of a design­er, as he has with Har­ris Reed, Palo­mo Spain, Charles Jef­frey, Alled-Martínez and a new favourite, Bode. Styles wore a SS16 Guc­ci flo­ral suit to the 2015 Amer­i­can Music Awards. When he was asked who made his suit on the red car­pet, Guc­ci began trend­ing world­wide on Twitter.

“It was one of the first times a male wore Alessandro’s run­way designs and, at the time, men were not tak­ing too many red car­pet risks,” says Lam­bert. ​“Who knows if it influ­enced oth­ers, but it was a spe­cial moment. Plus, it was fun see­ing the fans dress up in suits to come see Harry’s shows.”

Yet tra­di­tion­al gen­der codes of dress still have the minds of mid­dle Amer­i­ca in a choke­hold. Men can’t wear women’s clothes, say the online whingers, who have labelled him ​“trag­ic”, ​“a clown” and a Bowie wannabe. Styles doesn’t care. ​“What’s fem­i­nine and what’s mas­cu­line, what men are wear­ing and what women are wear­ing – it’s like there are no lines any more.”

Elton John agrees: ​“It worked for Marc Bolan, Bowie and Mick. Har­ry has the same qualities.”

Then there is the ques­tion of Styles’ sex­u­al­i­ty, some­thing he has admit­ted­ly ​“nev­er real­ly start­ed to label”, which will plague him until he does. Per­haps it’s part of his allure. He’s bran­dished a pride flag that read ​“Make Amer­i­ca Gay Again” on stage, and plant­ed a stake some­where left of cen­tre on sexuality’s rain­bow spectrum.

“In the posi­tion that he’s in, he can’t real­ly say a lot, but he chose a queer girl band to open for him and I think that speaks vol­umes,” Josette Maskin of the queer band MUNA told The Face ear­li­er this year.

“I get a lot of…” Styles trails off, wheels turn­ing on how he can dis­cuss sex­u­al­i­ty with­out real­ly answer­ing. ​“I’m not always super-out­spo­ken. But I think it’s very clear from choic­es that I make that I feel a cer­tain way about lots of things. I don’t know how to describe it. I guess I’m not…” He paus­es again, piv­ots. ​“I want every­one to feel wel­come at shows and online. They want to be loved and equal, you know? I’m nev­er unsup­port­ed, so it feels weird for me to over­think it for some­one else.”

Sex­u­al­i­ty aside, he must acknowl­edge that he has sex appeal. ​“The word ​‘sexy’ sounds so strange com­ing out of my mouth. So I would say that that’s prob­a­bly why I would not con­sid­er myself sexy.”

Har­ry Styles has emerged ful­ly-formed, an anachro­nis­tic rock star, vague in sen­si­bil­i­ty but des­tined to impress with a dis­arm­ing smile and a warm but firm handshake.

I recite to him a quote from Chrissie Hyn­de of The Pre­tenders about her time atop rock’s throne: ​“I nev­er got into this for the mon­ey or because I want­ed to join in the super­star sex around the swim­ming pools. I did it because the offer of a record con­tract came along and it seemed like it might be more fun than being a wait­ress. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Styles – who worked in a bak­ery in a small north­ern town some time before play­ing to 40,000scream­ing fans in South Amer­i­can are­nas – must have wit­nessed some shit, been invit­ed to a few pool­side sex par­ties, in his time.

“I’ve seen a cou­ple of things,” he nods in agree­ment. ​“But I’m still young. I feel like there’s still stuff to see.”

[fableweaver]

Arc of the Dragon Keeper

Arc of the Dragon Keeper

Iounn stood over the star maps and papers covered with numbers and calculations, Hors on her shoulder. Zaire sat using an abacus with one hand and a pen in the other. The mage had thrown herself into the calculations with such fervency she often forgot to eat or sleep. Iounn knew this to be the symptoms of grief; Zaire was trying to forget the death of her lover. Iounn was forced to take the abacus away, for a moment Zaire’s fingers continued to tick along as if it were still there. She stopped and looked up, her eyes large behind her spectacles.

Iounn almost scolded her, or ask when the last time she had slept, but the look in Zaire’s eyes stopped her. Zaire looked up at her not with anger, but with an exhausted confusion as if she didn’t understand why Iounn had made her stop. Iounn sighed and sat down next to her, Hors climbing down to sit on the table.

“So have you found anything yet?” Iounn asked and Zaire blinked slowly, her tired mind taking time to process the information.

“Sers,” Zaire answered.

“Yes you said before you already narrowed it down to that month,” Iounn said patiently.

“Right,” Zaire said shaking her head. “Give me a moment to just…”

She started to shuffle through her papers and at last pulled out one of the maps and laid it over the rest.

“This is the Hunter and the Golden Bow,” Zaire said pointing to two stars on the edge of the map. “It hardly ever rises above the horizon; the last record was centuries ago before the Kingdoms were even formed. Before this the constellation was hardly known other than a few mentions in old texts. Five more stars have risen to join these two, three of them showing the curve of the Golden Bow.”

Iounn nodded, Zaire had gone over this before but her exhausted mind seemed to be telling this to herself not to Iounn. Hors was watching like a cat watched a mouse.

“Xavier pointed out that there might be an arrow to the bow, and I realized Dione will move to that position. It didn’t take me long to calculate when, Dione will be in position as the arrow in the month of Sers, the last weeks near the Summer Solstice. Xavier wanted to know where it will point but Dione will move along the arch of the bow for several days and point several places.

“These calculations are what took me the longest,” Zaire said wearily and spread more of her papers out. She pointed to the star map to the lines she had drawn. “Dione will ride the bow for about five to six days and point to five different places in that time. First to the star known as Sybrael to the Sect, one of the Arch Angels. Sybrael is the angel of balance and scales. The next it points at nothing, then it will point at Baere the brightest of the angles, then at Atarah the crowned angel, and lastly at Urs the bear.

“The night of the solstice Dione will point to Atarah, it is this constellation that I think will be the most significant. Atarah, known as the crowned angel, is said to be Lun’s daughter crowned like her mother. Despite this myth the angel has little attention from the Sect and little more is said about her other than a few lines in some religious texts.

“The mages have never believed these myths or religions. When we arrived in Miread it was to find the sky and stars different from what we knew. We used the maps and names given to us by those here, the Sect had been the only one with complete enough records to our liking so those have been used in academic work and the names stuck. The Hunter and the Golden Bow were the only ones to escape these works because at the time they were only two stars on the horizon.

“The Hunter and the Golden Bow came from Daunish records of the time. I found them side by side with the writings of the Phay.”

“So that is what you have found so far?” Iounn said and Zaire nodded.

“I’m still calculating some more movements of Dione before and after she reaches the bow however,” Zaire said.

“So what does this all mean?” Iounn asked. “How does it relate to the Phay?”

“I don’t know,” Zaire said looking at Hors. Hors was staring at her charts, his tail swishing back and forth pensively.

“We never made study of the stars or the affect the aether has upon them,” Hors said at last. “We should have, the stir in the aether has moved the stars. Zaire I believe you’ve just calculated the movement of the aether in response to the song, something I did not think possible. I think the second ring will come when Dione as you call it points to the constellation Atarah on the next Summer Solstice.”

“That makes sense,” Zaire said nodding. “I believe I need to keep up my calculations. I want to keep calculating where Dione will go after the bow, and I believe I should calculate where Atarah will be as well.”

“Calculate the others as well since we are not sure what role they play either,” Hors said and Zaire nodded. Iounn glared at Hors for giving Zaire more work, but the dragon child ignored her. “They may answer when the third will ring.”

“What is the Phay’s mythology of Atarah?” Zaire asked.

“Like I said we never followed the constellations,” Hors answered. “To us they were just shadows of the stars we saw in the aether. I suppose after seeing those stars, the ones of Miread hardly kept our attention.”

Iounn had seen Tir Aesclinn; she could understand how the sky in Miread seemed plain to the Phay.

“Do what you can, but do not over work yourself Zaire,” Iounn said sternly. “You are the only mage we have right now and I will not risk your health.”

“Yes milady,” Zaire said but the determination in her voice spoke for her. “How goes your search for the song?”

“There is both too much and too little,” Iounn answered regretfully as she looked to the large stack of books. “There are plenty mentions of songs, but I have no way of knowing if they are the song we seek.”

“All we can do is continue,” Hors said.

“Yes,” Iounn said wearily. “For now however I need to go see to the King, I have other duties here in court that I cannot neglect.”

“I think I will stay here and read,” Hors said. “Zaire can get books for me.”

“Very well,” Iounn said, knowing Hors could read Nyrgardic just as well as her.

Iounn walked out of the dusty study and through the hallways and stairwells until she returned to the gathering hall. The day was growing late and many had gathered to the Court of Legends. Sten now sat to the side so that his son Roland sat in the center of attention. Roland talked with the other lords, speaking of battles long gone and present matters of the kingdoms. There were few lords wintering here, only those that could reach their own keeps and Hólmsted during the winter were here.

The snows had begun and already the mountains were buried in a blanket of white. Passes were closed, sailing out of the question with the winter storms, and trade all but stopped. It was a time to sit around the fire telling tales and drink away the day. The other princes were doing just that, but Iounn noted with pride that Roland was remaining sober to an extent. Soren however had also become popular in this time; he had a crowd of people around him to tell tales.

Iounn joined them and stood by listening as Roland related the story of the Epic of Jónah.

“Having sailed the seas all the way to Lir and back Jónah returned home to the adoring cheers of his people,” Soren said. “He had mapped his way and told others of how to travel the seas. Many thought him mad but others could not refuse the opportunity to open up trade with the east. Jónah however had grown bored with the lands of men, and set sail once again.

“ ‘But Jónah,’ his poor wife cried. ‘You have sailed to Lir and back, you have traveled all of the Wandering Sea. What more is there to discover?’

“ ‘What more you ask?’ Jónah laughed. ‘Why I seek our homeland across the sea, I seek the lost isle of the mages, I seek new lands no one has ever dreamed of! Wait and see, I will bring you back the world!’

“And so Jónah set sail once more out into the sea, but he did not return. His ship returned months later, the crew telling all who would hear them of Jónah. Out on the ocean upon the waves during the worst storm they had ever seen, Jónah sailed his ship through the storm with an ease as if he and Tempest himself were close friends. He laughed to the winds and the god shook his fist of thunder at the sailor. But it was the god who got the last laugh, for out of the waves came a whale of such size it could have crushed a castle it was so huge. The beast loomed over the ship and Jónah only laughed more.

“The sailors all swore to their graves that Jónah did not flee from the whale, but jumped into his open maw. Some say he sails in the whale now, through the seas and between the stars, seeing lands no man has ever dreamed.”

Everyone applauded the tale and the teller, Soren taking a bow. Iounn noticed Lofn then sitting next to Modi on the floor by Soren. Modi leaned over and whispered in Lofn’s ear and the girl nodded in turn. They sat close together and Iounn wondered then how close her daughter had become to the young prince. Nora sat with them but next to Lofn with her knees drawn up. Iounn made her way over to them as Soren prepared to tell another tale.

“Lofn, I want to have a word with you,” Iounn said and Lofn looked up at her. She simply nodded and stood to follow, Modi and Nora watching Soren. Iounn led her daughter out of the keep and towards the wall that surrounded it. The yard was swept clean of snow or ice, and the guards were all heavily dressed in furs and cloaks. Iounn pulled her own sleeves down over her hands, already wearing a fine mink fur cloak which had been a gift from Sten. Lofn walked after her mother reserved, obviously anticipating a lecture.

Iounn went up the steps to the top of the wall, nodding to the sentry who nodded back to her. Iounn went down the wall until they were out of earshot of any of the guards. They were looking out over the city now. The dark stone was a stunning contrast to the white snow piled high on roofs and unused streets. Smoke spiraled out of chimneys to settle in a haze over the city that the sea winds slowly pushed inland. For a moment Iounn stared out over the city buildings feeling the change in her life.

“Lofn, do you know what your duty is?” Iounn asked.

“I do mother,” Lofn answered somberly. “To guard Hors when you die and to give birth to the next that will watch him after me.”

Iounn looked at her daughter and saw her staring out over the roofs as well.  

“Do you not want that?” Iounn asked.

“I want it but… It is strange knowing my fate and having it all planned out.”

“Nothing is guaranteed Lofn,” Iounn said. “Who knows when or if the Phay will march, and after they do… Can you imagine what will become of the world with the return of these people to Miread?”

“No,” Lofn said softly and looked up at Iounn. “Will it be wonderful?”

“It will I’m sure,” Iounn said feeling just as small then. “Ah, well what of Modi?”

“What about Modi?” Lofn asked puzzled.

“Will he be the father of those children you spoke of?” Iounn asked and Lofn made a face like she had just suggested a badger as her future husband. “You don’t like him?”

“Not like that,” Lofn said. “I thought my husband would be more…”

“Handsome?” Iounn prompted.

“Older,” Lofn answered to Iounn’s surprise.

“You mean like me and Goran?” Iounn asked.

“I love father,” Lofn answered. “I want someone like him.”

Iounn was a little surprised, but not that much when she thought about it. Goran had loved his children greatly, doting on them so much Iounn had to become the voice of authority over them. Memories came to her of Goran with their children, and even the times he had wept over the lost ones that had died from fever or in the womb. Iounn suddenly missed him, his strong reassuring comfort, the way he would snort as he laughed, or even the habit he had of picking his teeth.

Iounn felt Lofn take her hand and they stood watching the sun sink in the sky, silent in their private mourning. Eventually they returned inside and to dinner which was much the same as always. They found Zaire asleep in their quarters when they returned, asleep on the small cot she had. Hors though was away lying by the fire, turning as they came in.

“How goes the reading?” Iounn asked sitting next to him. “Lofn get ready for bed.”

Lofn nodded and went to wash her face. Colm and Nora appeared silently and joined Lofn in getting ready for bed.

“Not well,” Hors said. “We need a better way to get other stories. All we have here are Nyrgardic legends. If only there was someone who knew the stories of the other kingdoms.”

Iounn thought suddenly of the Rhodin and the strange fortune teller named Kree. At the thought of the woman Iounn felt a strange mix of emotions, attraction and fear, that didn’t seem like they belonged together. Hors noticed the look on her face and she could feel his eyes on her.

“There are the Rhodin,” Iounn said at last. “Many have wintered here in the lower city, Nyrgard is so starved for traders we welcome the Rhodin often. They travel over all the kingdoms.”

“They would be perfect then to ask about the song,” Hors said, but his tone prompted her to say more.

“No, they do not speak much to outsiders,” Iounn said, even though it was the truth it felt like a lie on her tongue. “We’ll never get them to even tell one tale.”

“Perhaps a Daunish face will make them more comfortable,” Hors said looking to Colm who heard him. “Colm do you think you could convince the Rhodin to speak to us?”

“Nowt, they ken I work fer the Lady Iounn,” Colm said. “Iounn went already n tried talkin ta them bout news. Turned her away.”

Iounn could not look at Hors who was watching her carefully.

“Iounn are you hiding something?” Hors asked. She thought about lying, but the feeling of being a child caught in a lie felt wrong.

“There was a fortune teller there that unsettled me,” Iounn said. “I felt… I don’t know what I felt.”

She felt her face burning with a blush and Hors watched her with unreadable eyes.

“Do you think she will talk to us?” Hors asked. Iounn hesitated, unsure if she wanted to talk to the strange woman again. But Hors’ need was great, and she had set out on a quest of her own, she couldn’t shy away now just because she felt odd when she met a fortune teller.

“I don’t know but we could try,” Iounn said.

“Tomorrow then,” Hors said. “We’ll go see this fortune teller.”

Iounn nodded hiding her apprehension. The next day they followed up on Hors idea, this time the dragon child accompanying them hidden in a basket under a blanket. Colm still followed Iounn as they made their way down the mountain and to the Rhodin camp. Iounn hoped the fortune teller had moved on but it was still winter and the passes would have closed by now. Sure enough as they walked into the camp they found the same indigo wagon with stars.

Iounn knocked on the door and waited with her heart in her throat.  

“Come,” the muffled voice said within. Iounn sighed and stepped up into the wagon, Colm standing guard once more. Inside hadn’t changed since the last time Iounn had stepped into the wagon, it even still smelled of myrtle. Kree emerged, this time wearing a fine Lirian silk robe. Iounn stared because Kree had let the robe hang open enough to show the swell of her breasts. She looked away quickly wondering why she felt such embarrassment with another woman.

“Ah, the Baroness of Stóstund,” Kree said, her accent something implacable of the kingdoms. “Welcome Iounn.”

“Thank you,” Iounn said blushing. “I’m afraid I left prematurely last time. I had hoped to talk to you about news and tales that you have heard over the kingdoms.”

“Of course, sit,” Kree said indicating the tiny table. Iounn sat and Kree went about making and pouring tea. Iounn was so distracted by her own inner turmoil that she didn’t notice what was wrong until she raised her cup. Kree had poured three cups not two.

“Would our other guest like to join us?” Kree asked. Iounn sat frozen unsure of what to do, but Hors crawled out of her basket onto the table to sit next to the third cup.

“Your people are as observant as always,” Hors said dryly.

“To be fair I already saw the ripples of your power in her aura the last time she was here,” Kree answered. “I hoped you would come back to visit.”

Iounn felt her face burn as Kree looked at her with a wicked smile.

“So we have,” Hors said. “My name is Hors.”

“Kree Deladoria,” Kree said and Hors flicked his tail.

“Your full name,” Hors said impressed.

“No, Aldan names have a hole in the middle,” Kree said. “A gift from my father.”

“It is rare those two races have managed to mingle,” Hors said. “As I understand the result is often unfair for the child.”

Kree’s eyes took on a slight pained look which was quickly hidden by bravo. Iounn felt a twinge of pain at the look in her in Kree’s eyes, and a desire to comfort her.

“I am sterile, in both womb and power,” Kree said. “I barely have the Rhodin gift of reading auras. But I was able to see your mark on this lady all the same. You’ve changed her fate dragon.”

“I changed her luck not her fate,” Hors said. “And through no part of my own.”

“Well I am honored to meet the reborn king of the dragons,” Kree said nodding to Hors. “And you are fortunate you found me. I know of the Phay’s plan to march.”

“How?” Hors asked.

“I see the signs, all Rhodin do,” Kree said. “There is news of storms over the Ocean of the Lost. Animals have been migrating to strange places at strange times. The dead sing a song just before they pass a marching song. And I’ve heard tell the dunes sing in Xin. We Rhodin saw the signs before everyone else, the Phay will march.

“But there is something much worse I must tell you. While I was in Daun I met a green witch named Bailey.”

She told them then about the witch and her husband and how they had survived a dragon attack. She told them about the birth of their children and how a dark spirit stalked them. Then she told them about the curse of the king and the birth of the Holly King. Then she told them about Pepper, the dragon blade, and the news she bore from the north about the race of Orcs. She told them about how these twins were the lost heirs to the High Throne and their travel to Alda with Taras Law. Hors listened, his wings quivering.

“Melanthios, you are sure that is the name of the dragon?” Hors asked.

“It is the name Bailey gave him,” Kree said. “She said it fit him.”

“Do you know him Hors?” Iounn asked.

“Yes, and I grieve that he lost his life because he sought me,” Hors answered. “Worst yet it was truly because of the Crippled One controlling him.”

“The Crippled One must be powerful then,” Iounn said and Hors nodded.

“I had wished to make Melanthios my successor,” Hors said. “But now that he is trapped in the form of a sword he can never take my place. You said they are heading for Alda?”

“They were,” Kree said her eyes dark now. “I received word from other Rhodin, the Corvus Army has fallen, the Legion now controls their resources. The ranger I told you about was going there last I heard, rumor tells me he is dead. I do not know what happened to the witches, though I hope they escaped. The Rhodin have cut all ties now with that organization. We have chosen to flee, Kingdoms like the Mark and Regis are no longer safe. Most of the Rhodin are wintering in the north or in Dridia now.”

“What about Lir?” Iounn asked.

“There is war, Feng Loe has killed Son Rue and taken over Lir,” Kree said.

“How do you know this before we have heard the news?” Iounn asked astonished. “The passes are closed.”

“We have messenger birds like you,” Kree said. “We Rhodin communicate a lot more than you of other races. Many saw this war coming anyways, Loe is in league with the Legion as well and all Rhodin make it their priority to be aware of who deals with the Legion. The Legion has hunted the Rhodin since they were formed a few years ago, as they grew the more we grew to fear them. We avoid their territories now.”

“I need to tell the king of this,” Iounn said about to stand but Kree’s hand on hers stopped her. Iounn met her eyes and felt her face flush again as Kree looked at her.

“Sit and finish your tea,” Kree said. “There is time to tell the king later.”

Iounn sat and took a sip, trying not to let her hands shake. She glanced at Kree again and saw she was staring at Iounn with a slight frown.

“I think we met in a past life,” Kree said at last. “We knew each other well.”

“Love does that to spirits,” Hors said, looking at them both as if he knew everything. “Lovers in past lives will often meet again to become lovers; it is a common thing since spirits are reborn. Even if in the next life they are both women.”

Iounn felt heat rise to her face even more and suppressed the desire to run out of the wagon. She had of course heard of those who lay with the same gender, it was a common thing in Kingdoms like Hyria or Lir. In Nyrgard however it was nearly outlawed, there were no laws against it but it was culturally abhorred. She had never met anyone of that persuasion, and felt almost disgusted by the idea of it.

She looked up at Kree to find her gazing at Iounn almost thoughtfully.

“I’ve never lain with a woman before,” Kree said. “Though a Hyrian sailor once offered and I was tempted. When I look at you Iounn…”

“Do not speak my name so familiarly,” Iounn snapped insulted. “I am not some… I would never… I had a husband and I have children…” She was at a loss for words and unable to meet Kree’s eyes as pain took root in them. She looked at Hors to find him almost glaring at her with reprimand.

“Spirits are reborn all the time and sometimes to a body that is not the same gender or race as their previous life,” Hors said. “Fors wheel tips the scales towards luck; you are born on a whim and chance alone. Just because you are what you are now does not change what you once were or will become.”

“Nor does that mean we cannot be what we want to be,” Kree said. “What we once were is in the past, and we choose how we may forge on. I cannot regain my past memories but I do feel a deep connection to you Lady Iounn. Whether that be as lovers or simply friends, I would like to get to know you better and help you in your quest. You need only come and visit me; I’ll make you tea any time.”

Iounn was wary of the offer, but while she was confused and afraid of these emotions she also enjoyed Kree’s company. Maybe they could be friends; there was no need to cross that line if she didn’t want to. Iounn rarely had any friends her own age and gender, all had been servants or far away nobles.

“I’d like that as well,” Iounn said at last. “I will try to come and visit.”

Kree smiled and then blushed, her hands going to her cheeks as she laughed deeply.

“I would be glad of the company,” Kree said.

“I will come back when I can,” Iounn said. “I must go now.”

Kree nodded and Iounn stood, Hors hiding in her basket once more. They left the wagon and Colm fell into step behind them, if he had overheard anything he said nothing.

“Do the Phay have lovers of the same gender?” Iounn asked Hors as she walked.

“Of course,” Hors answered. “There are those of the Phay who don’t really care about sex since it is not how the Elder Phay reproduce. The younger of the Phay however never cared about gender. Like I said when reborn we often find our old lovers again and join once more no matter the gender of the next lives. There are some of the Elder Phay however that enjoy sex just for the act, Ghillie Dhu comes to mind. He often lay with whatever he could, man or beast, male or female, he often changed his shape to enjoy the animal pleasures as he called it. He sired a lot of strange animals because of that.”

Iounn let that churn around in her mind, but she still could not find acceptance. A woman belonged with a man, picturing two women together or two men seemed wrong to her. Yet Hors made her feel guilty for this feeling, he looked at her as if he had expected more from her. Yet Iounn didn’t think she was wrong about this, men belonged with women.

“Kree gave us valuable information,” Hors said.

“What will we do now then?” Iounn asked.

“Continue our search,” Hors answered. “If we can get free of the mountains however I would like to head to Alda then and see if I can meet these witches and Melanthios. We need to unite and make a plan to fight the Crippled One and they like us stand against him. They may have information on the song beyond what they learned in the old records. They only discovered that the song came into possession of Hyrian pirates who had stolen it from the Daunish tribe. Maybe they have learned more.”

“Maybe,” Iounn said nodding. “But we should not stop our search through our records, maybe the song found its way to Nyrgard.”

Hors did not answer, and Iounn was left to think over her encounter with Kree and the strange feelings it had invoked. The next month was spent in study, and Lun’s Day came in another flurry of activity and a feast. Though not as universal as Isra’s night or as well-loved as Tempest’s Day in Nyrgard, Lun’s Day was still anticipated with excitement. It was an excuse for a feast and drinking, and Nyrgarders didn’t need much of an excuse to drink. Iounn expected Zaire to at least look forward to Lun’s Day, but she was still withdrawn into her calculations and so missed the feast.

Iounn could almost sympathize; she threw herself into her readings to forget the discomfort of thoughts of Kree. She avoided going down to the Rhodin camp again despite Kree’s offer. Yet occasionally she caught herself musing about the Rhodin fortune teller, a curiosity had taken root she wasn’t willing to acknowledge. One day they were sitting reading or calculating as always, when the door burst open. Lofn came bursting into the study, her cheeks flushed from running. Hors, who had been cat napping, nearly jumped off the table.

“Mother!” Lofn said excited. “Ingrid’s here!”

“Ingrid?” Iounn said for a moment lost as to who Lofn meant and then realizing. She leapt to her feet, not waiting for more of an answer she ran out the door leaving Lofn, Hors, and Zaire to follow. She ran down the halls and stairwells, down into the main hall where a crowd had gathered in excitement. Iounn spotted a group of men gathered before the king, at the edge of this crowd stood a young woman.

Iounn recognized Ingrid immediately, but was confused as to how she was here. How had she gotten through the mountains in winter? Were these men her guards? But Iounn did not recognize the men; they were far too short to be Nyrgarders. They were waiting for Roland to show up, Ekkehard and Soren already welcoming the men. Then Ingrid turned and Iounn saw an old green bruise over the left side of her face. Iounn realized then that Ingrid had not gotten through the mountains unharmed, the way she stood with her arms wrapped around herself suggested she had suffered a great deal of pain.

Iounn saw red then, and her hand fell to her brother’s hammer she wore at her belt. It was common for nobles to go armed even in the king’s court, and Iounn carried her brother’s hammer to remember him with. Now was the first time she drew it. She marched through the crowd and they quickly parted startled. She reached the dais clear of the crowd and Soren looked at her surprised to see her wielding a weapon.

“Lady Iounn!” he shouted but Iounn did not heed him, her eyes were on her target. Iounn shouted wordlessly, aiming for the man closest to her daughter. He turned but not in time to dodge, her hammer ringing against his helm and felling him like a tree. Another came up by her right and Iounn lashed out with the butt of the hammer, catching him in the gut. She brought the hammer up, catching him in the jaw felling him.

“Mother stop!” Ingrid shouted before weapons were drawn and blood was spilled. Iounn stopped from braining the next short man, turning to Ingrid. Her daughter was weeping and Iounn reached out to her, taking her into her arms as she dropped her hammer. She held Ingrid close as each of her daughter’s sobs sent a knife of pain to her heart. Iounn realized she was weeping as well.

A soft touch at her elbow made Iounn turn and see Soren standing over them looking a bit white around the eyes with shock and sorrow.

“Milady perhaps you should retire with your daughter,” he said. “There will be no council now that you have knocked out two of the ambassadors.”

Iounn turned to see the two men she had attacked lay unconscious, their two other comrades kneeling over them. One looked up and met her eyes. He stood to face her, crossing his arms over his chest. He was barely five spans tall, Iounn standing a full head and shoulders over him. He was handsome, deep blue eyes, dark hair and beard, and a straight nose.

“You felled two of my finest warriors,” he said in the trade tongue, a strange accent to his words. “I am Donar, Chief of the Emir clan and emissary for King Runi. Who are you?”

She gaped at him a moment caught off guard and in no mood for formalities. Yet this man had an air of command that only kings had, despite his height Iounn had the urge to bow to this man.

“Mother, they saved me,” Ingrid whispered and Iounn felt shame that she had let her anger blind her. She let go of Ingrid to bow to the chief.

“I am Iounn Baroness of Stóstund. I apologize from my heart for injuring your men and attacking you so. Thank you for saving my daughter.”

“Accepted,” Donar said easily. “I only meant praise when I said you bested my warriors. I do not blame you for having a mother’s heart.”

Iounn nodded to him relieved and flattered.

“I think we should retire and see to the injured,” Soren said.

“Wait,” one of the other men said and Iounn turned to see that there were two Daunish men here as well. One was obviously a knight, wearing the strange ceramic mail and tunic that marked him as a knight of Daun. The other was a minstrel telling by the musical instrument strapped across his back.

“We have dire news to speak to the king about,” the knight said.

“I would rather wait until Darin and Hakk are awake Sir Conor,” Donar answered him. “And I would like to hear the Lady Iounn’s opinion on our news; we have things we have to discuss with her. All this can wait until hearts are less raw. Another day will not make much of a difference.”

Sir Conor looked angry at this, but nodded.

“Then we will retire,” Iounn said putting her arm around Ingrid and pulling her away. Lofn appeared at her side looking worried. Iounn did not pay attention to the stares or whispers as she led her daughters away back to their rooms. There Iounn lit the fire and pulled pillows from the bed. Setting them before the fire she wrapped both Ingrid and Lofn in blankets, doing the same for herself. She had done this before during the chill of winter, and she could tell the familiar comfort sent barriers breaking.

Ingrid curled against her and wept, Iounn holding her daughter as she let out her pain. Eventually Ingrid told her about how she fled home to travel the road, and how she had met with the bandits. Iounn bore the tale stoically, but the pain of hearing her daughter speak of what happen to her was like she had to endure it herself. Iounn was almost thankful that Ingrid could not go into detail.

“It’s alright now,” Iounn said soothingly, rocking Ingrid back and forth.

“No,” Ingrid said pulling away. “It’s all my fault! Aren’t you going to yell at me? You told me that I couldn’t be a bard and I didn’t listen. I’m a failure.”

“No Ingrid I just never want to see you hurt,” Iounn answered hugging her close. “I wanted you to have your dream, but this is not your fault.”

She could only repeat this as Ingrid wept. Lofn sat next to them silent, probably unable to say anything. Eventually grief wore them down and Ingrid fell asleep in Iounn’s arms. Lofn slept on her other side, and Iounn sat feeling her heart ache as she stared at the flames.

“I’m sorry,” Hors said and Iounn turned to see him sitting like a cat nearby. She didn’t have the strength to answer, only nod back at him. “Had I not come along…”

“But you had,” Iounn said. “And I would not do things any other way. I do not regret, I only hurt.”

Hors couldn’t answer that, his eyes turning away. He stood and walked away, leaving Iounn and her children before the fire. Iounn fell asleep there, lying out with Ingrid and Lofn curled against her like kittens.

Iounn woke feeling weary, and then she realized she slept alone by the fire. Startled she sat up and looked around to see Ingrid and Lofn were already at the table eating their breakfast which a servant had brought.

“Good morning,” Ingrid said with a bit of cheer. Iounn could tell she wasn’t forcing herself to be happy, she wasn’t overly cheery but neither was she melancholy. Iounn stood, unwrapping herself from the blankets and joined them at the table.

“How are you feeling?” Iounn asked carefully.

“Better,” Ingrid answered. “Much better mother so thank you. Please don’t treat me like I might break or coddle me, it only makes me feel guilty.”

“Well I’m your mother,” Iounn said with mock ferocity. “It is my duty to worry, coddle, and smother you until you can’t stand it any more and run screaming for the hills.”

Ingrid actually smiled at that and Lofn laughed.

“I need to send word to your brother however,” Iounn said realizing this. “He must be worried sick.”

“He probably didn’t even notice I was gone,” Ingrid said bitterly and Iounn rapped the table next to her.

“Your brother loves you and I am sure he’s been tearing the mountain up by their roots looking for you!” Iounn said. “I’ll see a letter is sent by bird, I just hope he gets it.”

Iounn could tell that Ingrid only felt guilty now for her actions and Iounn sighed and turned to her meal. During the winter the food had turned from fresh to preserves, no oranges this time. They had simple porridge and sausages for their breakfast, though these were still of a fine quality given they were from the king’s stores.

“Where is Hors?” Iounn asked looking around.

“He said he had to speak to the dwarves,” Lofn said. “He asked Zaire to take him.”

Iounn was a little hurt by this, until she realized Hors was probably trying to be considerate for her. Still she wanted to be part of these discussions, and to apologize to the dwarves she had attacked.

“Lofn show Ingrid about the keep,” Iounn said. “I need to talk to the dwarves.”

Iounn went to the clothes chest and changed from her rumpled clothes. The king had gifted her with several new gowns and furs, Iounn too practical to decline the offer.

“Can’t I come too?” Ingrid asked Lofn looking like she agreed. Iounn wanted to argue, but could think of no reason other than wanting to protect them.

“Alright, but do not speak out without permission,” Iounn said. The two girls nodded and quickly finished their meal. Both were already dressed so they were able to leave quickly. Iounn realized then that she didn’t know where the dwarves were and turned to Ingrid who shrugged.

“They’re just down the hall,” Lofn said pointing.

“Thank you,” Iounn said to her and let Lofn lead the way. Voices drew them though and they stopped at a door down the hall from them. Iounn knocked and discussion stopped. The door was opened by the dwarf with the spectacles, who bowed to her.

“Greetings milady,” he said.

“Greetings,” Iounn said following him into the room with Lofn and Ingrid. The dwarves all sat at the table near the fire, their breakfast already finished and set aside. Zaire sat with them, Hors sitting in the center of the table.

“Lady Iounn,” Donar said as he stood to welcome her. “I’m glad you could join us, Hors was just finishing telling us about his travels so far and what they have learned. Come, let me introduce you. That is Bgrim by the door. I think you remember Hakk and Darin?”

Iounn looked to the two dwarves. Hakk had a growing bruise under his chin which was mostly hidden by his beard. He was the biggest of the dwarves, his hair woven into dreadlocks. Darin was fairer in looks than the rough Hakk, his dark hair and beard neatly combed and braided in places. His blue eyes were focused and clear, telling Iounn that he had suffered no lasting damage from her blow.

“Milords, I apologize deeply for assaulting you yesterday,” Iounn said as she bowed to them. “I let my anger blind me.”

“I am the one who owes an apology,” Darin said looking to Ingrid. “I said I would help you face your mother and failed.”

“No, you did more than enough,” Ingrid said softly.

“Enough,” Hakk growled, and then said something in a language Iounn had never heard. The others nodded however, including Hors.

“Come and sit,” Donar said. “There is much to tell.”

Iounn, Lofn, and Ingrid joined them at the table sitting by Zaire who seemed to be bored.

“They’ve been speaking in the language of the Phay the whole time,” Zaire said lowly to Iounn and Hors turned to her.

“I am sorry Zaire, we did not mean to exclude you,” Hors said. “The dwarves do not speak the trade tongue well and we wanted to save time. It was nothing you didn’t already know however; I’ve just been telling the dwarves my end of the tale.”

“Answers we had not expected,” Donar said darkly. “I had no idea the Crippled One had such a horrendous birth.”

“I should never have tried to take this burden on myself,” Hors said sadly. “Had I stopped Lyl or even informed the other Kings and Queens…”

“Yet you had not,” Donar said. “I understand your shame Hors, and why you hid your failure to protect Lyl from the others, but it is time to move on from it.”

“And now perhaps we should tell you ours,” Donar said. “Unless there was more Hors?”

“No go on,” Hors said flicking a wing to him. Iounn wondered how much Hors had told the dwarves, but she suspected it had been everything. The dwarves seemed unusually polite to the dragon child, deferring to him as if he were an elder or a king. Then she remembered that he was a king.

“Right,” Donar sighed. “Well I’ll start with the Orc army first.”

He told them haltingly, occasionally searching for a word which Hors provided, about an army of monsters far to the north and how his people had warred with them for centuries. That brought them to current events of the choosing of the dwarven king, the witch Pepper, and the forging of the dragon blade Melanthios.

“We were informed much of what you’ve said already,” Hors said.

“By Pepper?” Darin said so excited he leaned forward.

“No, a Rhodin fortune teller by the name of Kree,” Hors answered. “However this woman had met Pepper and her sister Bailey. She had little knowledge of the Orc army, but she knew about Melanthios. She said the twins traveled south with Taras Law, a Ranger of the Mark, heading for Alda since Bailey and Pepper are apparently the heirs to the High Throne. They ran afoul of the Legion of Creed, a cult we believe to be run by the Crippled One. Kree does not know what became of them after that.”

Darin’s face was white as a sheet and he stared at his hands as if he could not remember who he was anymore.

“I believe they are alive however,” Hors continued. “Melanthios would have made sure they escaped, I know him well and even in the form of a sword he would have had the power to protect them.”

Darin sighed and nodded, drawing himself up again.

“Pepper is a warrior, she is strong and I have faith in her ability,” he said it with confidence, enough that Iounn realized he really believed that. “Go on with the rest Donar.”

“Runi sent us south to seek the song and Eileen,” Donar said. “On the way we decided to warn Daun that the Orcs might strike into their lands. With Mímisbrunnr gone the other cities will be threatened and open war will come. The Orcs can move better overland with the long nights of winter in the north. The dwarves will do their best to do battle but the Orcs may seek to break into the lands of men.

“Daun is poorly defended; the king seeks to ask for aid here in Nyrgard. We used an old Dwarven road under the mountains to get here; we can use the same road to get an army to Daun.”

“That you will have to bring to Roland and Sten,” Iounn said.

“You sound so sure an attack will come on Daun,” Zaire said. “Only you said yourselves that the Orcs will be busy fighting the Dwarves in the north.”

“We thought the lands of men could defend themselves,” Donar said. “When we saw the current state of Daun however we realized that they would never survive if the Orcs did decide to strike south. I’m not saying an attack will come soon, though I certainly made the Daunish believe that, but if it did Daun would be destroyed in a matter of weeks.”

“I think an attack will come,” Hors said. “Kree also told us about Feng Loe and his connection to the Legion. He has gained control of Lir to the east. The Crippled One must have planned two armies, one to the north and one to the east.”

“He wants to destroy the dwarves,” Darin said. “But they are united now against him, I don’t think he will defeat the dwarves easily no matter what force he has at his disposal.”

“True, but the Crippled One is anything but patient,” Hors said. “I think he will let the Orcs wage their war against the dwarves for the winter, but then grow impatient and send them into Daun. He had planned on Arnor taking control of the dwarves and weakening their army so he could walk all over them. Now that plan is up in smoke the Crippled One will lose patience and head south.”

“That leaves us little time then,” Donar said.

“I can’t say when the Crippled One will send his armies south but it will be before summer,” Hors said. “If what you say of the Orcs’ hatred of sunlight is true. But there will be time through the winter to prepare since the Orcs are distracted by fighting the dwarves.”

“Even if the Daunish get the help of Nyrgard they are still up against creatures they know nothing about,” Darin said. “We know how to fight the Orcs, the Nyrgarders don’t. Telling them won’t give them the experience they’re going to need to fight them.”

“Our duty is to seek out the song not go to war,” Donar objected. “Runi sent us away so we would not get caught up in battle.”

“Most of the dwarves with experience in combat against the Orcs are lost anyways,” Hakk said. “They are underground. Runi cannot spare warriors.”

“He is right,” Hors said. “We need to think of a way to coordinate with the dwarves if we are to win this battle. I have an idea, but I am not sure it will work. We need to get a message to Runi to send some dwarves south, she could send no combatants south to help the Daunish. She can spare one or two to be advisers to the Daunish and Nyrgardic forces to the south. Maybe once the mountain passes are clear they can send forces to help her as well.”

“Unlikely,” Iounn said. “It will be hard enough convincing Sten to send aid to Daun, let alone the norther wild mountains. And if the Daunish are so ill prepared it would be best to keep them in their own borders.”

“Will you talk to Sten and Roland?” Hors asked. “We need to send the Nyrgarders to Daun if this war is to be won.”

“Of course,” Iounn said. “But I think it will go better if I go only with Sir Conor. He was sent by his king and so will have the power to negotiate.”

“Leave this to Iounn Donar,” Hors said when Donar looked ready to argue. “She can handle this far better than us. Let us let her settle this.”

“Then I leave this matter to you Lady Iounn,” Donar said bowing his head to her.

“I will go fetch Sir Conor then,” Iounn said and Donar directed her to the next room over. She stood and left, going out into the hall and knocking on the next door down. At her knock the minstrel answered much to her surprise.

“Lady Iounn,” he said surprised as well. He bowed to her and ushered her into their small room. Sir Conor sat at the table apparently waiting for her, or someone else to come so he could talk to the king. He stood quickly at her entrance, but refrained from seeming too eager. Both men were the typical Daunish, dark skin, red hair, and green eyes. Iounn stood taller than both men by a few knuckles, yet neither seemed to find this disturbing.

“It is a pleasure to meet you milady,” the minstrel said. “I am Ronan, Donar and his men picked me up in Dun Glas to be their guide. This of course is the King of Daun’s knight, Sir Conor.”

“Milady,” Conor said bowing to her. “I am sorry what happened to your daughter. I’ll have you know we slaughtered every one of the scum the night we saved her.”

“Thank you Sir Conor,” Iounn said, finding a bit of disappointment that she had no one she could vent her rage on. “Lord Donar informed me of the danger that Daun faces, and I am here to be your ambassador to the king and prince. They hold my council in high regard and my word on your side will help greatly in swaying them to Daun’s aid.”

Conor looked utterly relieved and appeared on the verge of thanking her when Iounn held up her hand to stop him.

“That does not mean we will convince them to send aid,” she cautioned and Conor looked grim again. “Tales of Phay and monsters will not frighten them or move them. Let me do the talking Sir Conor, you just need to press the point that you were sent by King Rawn. You are his representative here. I also need to warn you that this aid will not come cheaply. The trouble you are going to have is convincing the king and prince that you can afford their army.”

Conor paled and suddenly looked out of his depth. Obviously he had thought to come with the truth and heartfelt plea and the king would just turn his army over to him.

“We are going to be talking logistics most of the time Sir Conor,” Iounn continued heartlessly. “Even with this pass through the mountains we are going to have to feed a lot of men and horses, and we will need ships to carry them over water. You will have to say you can not only feed them but pay them as well. In winter this will be a hard task.”

“All of Daun is being rousted,” Conor said. “We will give what we have to defend our people.”

“Noble words Conor but I’m not asking you to give away your lands,” Iounn said. “Let me be the voice of reason here, you are here for Daun’s interest. Argue payment and food for Daun’s interest; do not give Sten whatever he asks for. If you do he will take whatever he can, just because Nyrgard is your ally does not mean it won’t rob you blind.”

“Yes milady,” Conor said.

“Perhaps I should come as well,” Ronan said gravely and they both turned to him. “I could provide some insight.”

“No offense master Ronan but unless you are a lord of at least of a duke in rank the king will not heed anything you have to say,” Iounn said.

“You are only a Baroness,” Ronan said.

“I am a lord of Nyrgard,” Iounn answered. “A king must respect his lords no matter what their standing. I am also a beautiful woman and Sten is weak to the wiles of a woman.”

Ronan laughed at that and bowed to her.

“Very well milady I concede to your wisdom and beauty,” Ronan said. “I’ll contend myself with consoling your daughter.”

Iounn glared at him with such heat that Ronan flinched back. Conor tapped her on the shoulder and held out her hammer to her.

“You forgot this milady,” Conor said mildly and Iounn grinned as she took the hammer and turned back to Ronan.

“I meant it in all propriety milady,” Ronan said hastily.

“I’m sure you did master Ronan but I would appreciate it if you left my daughter alone,” Iounn said coldly. “Instead keep the dwarves in their room and make sure none of them get into any trouble. You can entertain yourself by talking to my pet dragon instead.”

Both men looked at her with a certain amount of surprise, but said nothing on the matter of Hors. Iounn knew then that she was in for another long negotiation and wondered at the turn in her life that she was negotiating with kings and knights. Her life was not her own anymore it seemed.