In this section, Ranald isn’t the faltering corpse of a king being poisoned by Elymas, but a man who has made peace with the Gibbor in exchange for the lifting of the anathema over his father’s soul. He has asked forgiveness for the sins of his father. Below is his response when the Gibbor asks forgiveness of him.

The Gibbor cleared his throat. Suddenly, he appeared ill at ease. “I’ve pledged my blood to keep the Sacred Forest inviolate. Most times, my blood isn’t necessary. I have certain arts that cause the forest to appear what it is not, but my camouflage didn’t stop your father. He marched right in and would have defiled it. I sent him away in disgrace, knowing the effect it would have on a man of his mettle, yet I had no choice. He’d nocked the arrow.” The Gibbor walked to the edge of the rock and looked down on the waiting men. “So much blood spilled. So many children left unsired. There is no seed in a dead man’s loins.” He stepped back from the ledge and faced the King. “A moment ago, you asked Jah forgiveness for your father. Now, I ask that you forgive me.”

Ranald blanched and struggled to regain his composure, flooded with emotions ranging from rage to a sense of absurdity. In that frozen time, the men at the base of Ron Jonna looked like puppets. The King heard only wind. Only the wind while he stood saying nothing.

“It won’t affect the lifting of the anathema if you refuse,” added the Gibbor.

“It is not a refusal; I don’t know if I can.” The King turned, looking drained by the years. “I remember my father as a plunging warhorse. Fearless, but not always wise. I can imagine that day in the forest and have asked myself, would things have gone differently had I been along? Perhaps. But I wasn’t there. I was rolling dice with my friends.” The cords of his neck strained as if carrying a great weight as he viewed the Gibbor through narrowed eyes. “But I can see how it happened. I can see how the whole bloody mess began. Once my father made a choice, no other choices were possible. Forgiveness?” Ranald snorted. “Where would I begin? The friends I played dice with are dead, picked off by this war one after the other. My father’s soul has writhed in torment for close to twenty years. He never died; I carried him with me. My mother, Queen Aubra, died screaming, tortured by the thought of sharing my father’s fate.” The Gibbor made a sound of protest, but the King continued. “I have no wife, for marriage negotiations require tact and I haven’t had time for diplomacy. My days have been filled with blood, muck, and the sounds and smells of dying men. Your Whitehair arrows go deep. When you ask for forgiveness, it seems impossible, for in some respects, I, too, am a dead man.” Ranald paused. “But I can give you understanding. That day in the forest is as clear to me as if I’d been there. I can hear the shouts, the threats, and envision how this war began. Understanding I have, and that I can give you.”

excerpt from Wind in her Arms, a serialized fantasy coming soon.