All of Hethys' dutiful work was undone in the days following the arrival of Hovaleans. The few wise enough to spare a thought for the sustainability of their new enterprise were swiftly drowned by the majority in wine and mead stolen from the banished Lord’s storehouses. They raised gilded chalices to their good fortune and drank their days away, and their revelry continued into the wee hours of every night. Nearly every animal was slaughtered for the celebration to fill bellies too often left empty.

Hethys herself proved not above a bit of merrymaking. She had raided the bedchambers and acquired several bracelets and necklaces to adorn herself. Her favorite steals were a red gown of velvet and a silken silver shawl, and once she had them, she never let them leave her sight. She sat at table in all her finery enjoying wine with the younger men and women all about.

This in contrast to the loveless orphan who'd made it all possible. Standing apart from the celebrants in the once well-appointed dining hall, she retained the rags she'd always worn to warm her scrawny form. Her violet eyes were locked on the man who occupied the Lord's chair at the table: the wily bean farmer Ars had assured her was the most suited to hold that seat.

He looked the part, at least, adorned in fine furs and a cloak of cotton from LeBaron's personal wardrobe. With the rim of blond around his balding head, one could even be deceived into thinking he wore a crown.

From the far corner of the room came Ars, whose own face was flush from the booze in his blood. He nonetheless retained more composure than most present as he moved to address their reveling leader.

"Er, Torbin, sir-"

"That's Lord Torbin now, fish peddler," interjected the bean farmer.

"Right," Ars conceded. "Sorry to bother, but ain't it 'bout time we all sat for a think? Been celebratin' awful long, we 'ave."

Torbin unleashed a hearty round of laughter soon echoed by his fellows at table. "What, you gunnin' for a seat on the council? You've not even a beard yet, me lad."

Ars recoiled. "Nothin' like that, sir. Just feels like an awful lot's goin' t'waste. We'll not be able to carry on like this forever."

"Nobody's talkin' forever, me boy. Just until the cellars run dry."

He drained his mug to punctuate his statement. "Send the pitcher!" he called down the table. Those near the other end began to hand a large silver decanter down the line, but Ars blocked its path with his arm before it could arrive. The act earned him a glare from the would-be Lord.

"Careful, boy," he said. "That's how arms are lost."

"All due respect, m'lord. But feels like we're wastin' the chance the lady's given us."

At this, Torbin grew pensive. He cast a furtive glance at the urchin against the wall, well aware that she'd been eying him for quite some time by then. He sat back in his chair and inclined his head toward Ars.

"She ever say how she even drove ol' Barry out?" he muttered in the hopes of masking his voice beneath the din of revelry.

"No," answered Ars. "Never asked."

"Well, I know one thing: only way a man like him moves for a welp like her is through witchin'. I'd bet my right eye that that girl and that hag are demons in flesh. I'm only lookin' to enjoy the spoils o' their schemin' and get the hell outta dodge before-"

He was interrupted by the sound of the hall's great doors creaking open as a bloodied man forced his way through. He stumbled onto all fours once he'd gotten inside, but was quick to regain his feet. Men gasped and women shrieked at the sight of his battered face and open wounds, all of which he endured with grunting and moaning as he stumbled toward the table.

"Bloody hell," Torbin cursed.

"LeBaron," muttered the wounded man. "LeBaron!" he then shouted. He reached the table and fell forward upon it, wheezing and heaving as he struggled for breath.

Hethys rose from her seat and moved swiftly to his side. "Space! Space!" she shouted, beating away the nearest celebrants with her cane. She shut her eyes for a moment's focus, and soon, her palm shone gold. She held it aloft over the man's most severe wound, filling it with golden light that caused the open flesh to knit itself together before their eyes.

"What'd I tell ya? Witchin'," Torbin muttered to Ars. Hethys moved her hand to another injury to continue her healing of the unfortunate victim.

"You dogs," he uttered. "You devils! You've damned us all!"

"What're you on about?" called Torbin. "What's this about LeBaron?"

"The man's gone mad, maddened by you lot! He sent a great horde of men into Hovale and slaughtered every man and woman to the last! Burned every home, every stand, every plant to the ground, he did!"

A din of mutters and whispers arose as those gathered chattered over the news. Torbin only scoffed. "Right, then," he said. "And you got away how?"

The victim gave no answer. He only averted his eyes as they welled up with tears, but Torbin caught the message readily enough. With a heavy sigh, he pressed his fingers against his brow.

"He sent you, didn't he?" Torbin asserted. "He wanted us to know."

"Aye," spoke the man.

"Wouldn't do that if he thought we might escape. Got the place surrounded, then, has he?"

"Aye," the man spoke again.

Torbin sighed. "Well, I sure don't mean to run on out like a lamb to the slaughter. Reckon we may as well sit and hunker down with our drinks!"

His attempt to reignite the revelry fell flat.

"You don't understand!" shouted the man. "He's got a full siege force. He wants you all to go out, but if you won't, he's prepared to raze the whole manor!"

Ars swallowed a lump in his throat. "Mountains alive," he uttered. "This is it. This is really it."

"How the hell did he manage to put together a force like that?" spoke Torbin.

Stepping forward from her spot against the wall, the orphan Ikoras broke her silence at last. "Hmph," she scoffed. "Friends in high places no doubt. And now he comes to reclaim his baubles or burn them all so the riff-raff can't have them."

"What are you being so glib for?" Torbin asked. "You're set to burn with the rest of us."

"Unlike the lot of you, I cannot be killed. The Lord's men and his sniveling spawn have all tried to do me harm before. All have failed."

"Oh yeah? And how's that?"

"It's a complex matter. In short, I have holy blood."

Torbin scoffed. "Witchy blood, more like."

The orphan came to a stop at the table. "Hethys," she spoke, "did you not once claim to have imbibed my blood?"

"Aye, maralekt," answered Hethys. "That I did."

"And doing so is what granted you power to work Wonders?"

"That's right. The precious-blooded maralekty lends me power good and plenty!"

"Hm." The orphan reached out to grab the silver decanter that still rested a short distance from Torbin. "It stands to reason, then," she continued, "that any who drink my blood should come to know a spark of the divine, yes?"

At this, Hethys ceased her healing. Her patient rose from the table in far better condition than he'd arrived while the helpful hag flashed a wide grin. "Maralekty! Well-conceived!" she sang, nodding emphatically. "That is the case, I do believe! Ikorae may form bloody pacts and give their subjects pow'r to act."

"Wonderful."

A pinpoint of light came to the orphan's fingertip as she pressed it into the opposite palm. While the others looked on in confusion and bewilderment, she pulled her finger down, wincing at the now unfamiliar sensation that was pain. Gleaming fluid flowed copiously from the wound, and she held her hand over the decanter so that the blood dripped into the wine it contained.

"Bloody hell," said Torbin. "I don't like where this is goin', girl. Not one bit."

"It is a morbid situation in which we find ourselves," she replied. "But, here we are. You've no hovel of a home to go back to, and you're encircled by enemies besides. You've three options left to you. You can walk off of this property, face the Lord's forces, and die. You can remain here, suffer the siege, and die. Or..." She pushed the decanter toward Torbin. "You can take this--all of you--and drink."

Torbin grimaced. "And what the hell sort o' bloody concoction is this?"

"My blood," the orphan answered flatly. "It is the only chance at salvation any of you have left. Drink, and you will know power the likes of which you'd never thought possible. You will work Wonders in my name, share in my strength, and be bound to my will."

"Your will?"

She nodded. "That is the price of this power. Accept it, or accept death."

The room fell deathly silent, save for Hethys' incessant giggling. Eyes once focused on the urchin now turned to and fro as everyone sought solace and solidarity. Only one gaze remained intently focused on the decanter. Swallowing hard, Ars set his face like flint, gripped the decanter's handle, and poured a portion of the mixture into the nearest empty cup he could find.

"I will drink," he said. "I will fight." He slid the decanter a short distance down the table and looked around for anyone to join him. Shortly after, someone did.

"Some for me," said the wounded messenger, now healed. "If there's a chance this means LeBaron gets his, I'm in all the way."

Before he could reach the decanter, though, a woman at the table took it in hand and poured some of its contents into her own chalice. "Not leavin' my life in the hands o' you ruddy bastards," she said.

The men were much quicker to pour for themselves once a woman had shown greater fortitude, and the women readily poured for themselves because they similarly distrusted the men. The decanter made a full journey down the length of the table and back, each person taking a small portion to down when everyone who would drink was ready. In the end, only two had not poured: Hethys, who had no need, and Torbin, who had the most to lose.

"Not more than a week o' lordship," he grumbled, "and already, I lose my throne."

"You will still be the Lord, Torbin," spoke the orphan. "Just a Lord who answers to me."

"Dandy."

He measured his options for a few moments more, then with a sigh, said, "Ah, to hell with it." He grabbed the decanter and poured glimmering fluid into his mug. "Guess we're all in, then. Seein' as we're gonna be 'bound to your will,' we might as well drink to your name. What was that, by the way?"

"She prefers not to say," Ars chimed in.

"Leader's gotta have a name, love. Out with it."

It was an unexpected snag, and the orphan hesitated. The name of her mother came to mind, but caught in her throat. She looked to Hethys for guidance, and the giggling hag obliged by sending a note to her mind.

"One nameless cannot play this game. The maralekt must speak her name."

Still obstinate, the girl furrowed her brow. "Well?" urged Torbin. Finally, the orphan eschewed her name, settling instead on the least offensive half of the most enduring appellation she'd come to know.

"Mara," said the Ikoras. "Call me Mara."

"All right, then," said Torbin as he raised his mug. "To Mara!"

Over the sound of Hethys' cackling, the others responded in kind. "To Mara!"

And they drank.