her either. Still, her shy nod and gentle tears prompted by his proposal had sparked such surprise and intense joy for him that he could not imagine life could ever get any happier than now. Ylena would make the prettiest of all brides. Not wanting to wait a moment longer than they had to, they had set a date that allowed barely enough time to make all the necessary formal announcements, let alone preparations for a nobles’ wedding.
General Wyl Thirsk, as head of his family, had not hesitated to give his permission; in truth, he’d wondered why they had taken so long to ask. Out of courtesy Alyd had spoken with Gueryn, who was equally delighted. Finally, Alyd’s family messenger from Felrawthy had brought the news granting immediate blessing. The Duke and Duchess were delighted to hear that their youngest son’s bride had a strong connection to the royals and came from such loyal Morgravian blood.
Now, with Wyl at his side, Alyd sought an audience with the King. It was fitting that the sovereign give his formal agreement to this marriage, as Ylena’s father had entrusted Magnus with the task of making her a good match. The Donals of Felrawthy were an old family with a proud history and loyal to the throne. There would be no question that the King would give his blessing to the union between his closest friend’s only daughter and the son of one of his most supportive Dukes.
Magnus, now feeling the weight of his years, welcomed two of his favorites, smiling indulgently at Alyd’s excitement as the young man stammered out his request, not as used to meetings with the sovereign as his red-headed friend.
Over wine and wafers the trio chatted in the King’s private garden. For an old warrior and a man who in younger years had reveled in hard, outdoor pursuits, Magnus showed a particular tenderness for his prized blooms. In these past years of peace, which allowed for his constant presence in Pearlis, the garden had flourished under his careful touch. It was to be part of his legacy. He left the rest of Stoneheart’s formidable grounds to his team of gardeners but this walled square of color was all his and the two young soldiers indulged the old King as he spoke fondly of his latest prize.
“Can you credit it!” he said with amazement. “A blue nifella, normally found only in the northern climes of the realm.”
The soldiers grinned. It meant little to them but how the King had encouraged it to grow in the milder climate of Morgravia had everyone with a green thumb baffled.
He smiled over his cup. “You youngsters make me feel envious.”
“Sire?” Alyd queried.
“Look at you both. Fine specimens of Morgravians,” he said, reserving a special glance for Wyl, knowing how his young General suffered such insecurity over his looks and stature. “I envy you your energy and youth.” he added.
Wyl grinned and as he did so Magnus saw that the boy had disappeared. All the round softness had been absorbed and hardened. Before the Kins sat a man and one who reminded him achingly of his old friend.
Muscles fairly bulged on Wyl’s stocky frame and the carrot-colored hair was now his signature rather than his curse. His soldiers jested that they would never have need of a standard for their General—they would just scan the battlefield for the head of flame. His freckles had withered beneath the sun’s glare, the toughening of the skin and the stubble of manhood. He had not grown especially tall but then neither had Fergys Thirsk, Magnus silently acknowledged, yet both were formidable soldiers and leaders of men. Apart from his own son, he could not imagine a single individual at Stoneheart who could hold a candle to the fighting prowess of Wyl Thirsk.
He had proven himself a doughty soldier and deserving owner of the title of General of the Legion.
Honest, forthright, and without question courageous, Wyl Thirsk had over the last few years won his army’s respect. He was still painfully young, of course, but
General Wyl Thirsk, as head of his family, had not hesitated to give his permission; in truth, he’d wondered why they had taken so long to ask. Out of courtesy Alyd had spoken with Gueryn, who was equally delighted. Finally, Alyd’s family messenger from Felrawthy had brought the news granting immediate blessing. The Duke and Duchess were delighted to hear that their youngest son’s bride had a strong connection to the royals and came from such loyal Morgravian blood.
Now, with Wyl at his side, Alyd sought an audience with the King. It was fitting that the sovereign give his formal agreement to this marriage, as Ylena’s father had entrusted Magnus with the task of making her a good match. The Donals of Felrawthy were an old family with a proud history and loyal to the throne. There would be no question that the King would give his blessing to the union between his closest friend’s only daughter and the son of one of his most supportive Dukes.
Magnus, now feeling the weight of his years, welcomed two of his favorites, smiling indulgently at Alyd’s excitement as the young man stammered out his request, not as used to meetings with the sovereign as his red-headed friend.
Over wine and wafers the trio chatted in the King’s private garden. For an old warrior and a man who in younger years had reveled in hard, outdoor pursuits, Magnus showed a particular tenderness for his prized blooms. In these past years of peace, which allowed for his constant presence in Pearlis, the garden had flourished under his careful touch. It was to be part of his legacy. He left the rest of Stoneheart’s formidable grounds to his team of gardeners but this walled square of color was all his and the two young soldiers indulged the old King as he spoke fondly of his latest prize.
“Can you credit it!” he said with amazement. “A blue nifella, normally found only in the northern climes of the realm.”
The soldiers grinned. It meant little to them but how the King had encouraged it to grow in the milder climate of Morgravia had everyone with a green thumb baffled.
He smiled over his cup. “You youngsters make me feel envious.”
“Sire?” Alyd queried.
“Look at you both. Fine specimens of Morgravians,” he said, reserving a special glance for Wyl, knowing how his young General suffered such insecurity over his looks and stature. “I envy you your energy and youth.” he added.
Wyl grinned and as he did so Magnus saw that the boy had disappeared. All the round softness had been absorbed and hardened. Before the Kins sat a man and one who reminded him achingly of his old friend.
Muscles fairly bulged on Wyl’s stocky frame and the carrot-colored hair was now his signature rather than his curse. His soldiers jested that they would never have need of a standard for their General—they would just scan the battlefield for the head of flame. His freckles had withered beneath the sun’s glare, the toughening of the skin and the stubble of manhood. He had not grown especially tall but then neither had Fergys Thirsk, Magnus silently acknowledged, yet both were formidable soldiers and leaders of men. Apart from his own son, he could not imagine a single individual at Stoneheart who could hold a candle to the fighting prowess of Wyl Thirsk.
He had proven himself a doughty soldier and deserving owner of the title of General of the Legion.
Honest, forthright, and without question courageous, Wyl Thirsk had over the last few years won his army’s respect. He was still painfully young, of course, but
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