The zillion rewrites that the Ceristen Series underwent took place mostly on the computer. Unlike the first drafts, forever enshrined in (admittedly fragile) notebooks, I could delete and rearrange my following versions at will. However, once in a while I came across a line or a section that I liked a great deal, and rather than consign it to oblivion, I would paste it into a second document.

What follows are some excerpts from that now-bursting document, supplemented with notes and explanations from yours truly.

THE CLAW

For about three years, until 2017 when I scrapped all my preconceived ideas and rebuilt books 2 and 3 from the ground up, The Claw's events stayed consistent through the drafts. Rather than waiting through some foreshadowing and buildup, Mordred's royal connections surfaced lamely in Chapter 2, during the tedious and overblown interrogation conducted over fourteen worthless pages.

"Our childhood was not spent in Orden. The orphan asylum was in Rehirne – we ran away from it and made for Orden. During our journey, we discovered that we were second cousins to the recently deceased king of Dirion. He left no wife or children, and Ahearn was the nearest heir."

Inspector Dickson allowed himself a slow, dubious nod as he flung his mind back. Aye, it had been much talked of, the business in Dirion. Even in Delgrass' common-rooms it was still brought up almost daily. The old king had lain dead, struck down with unexpected illness; the only apparent successor was a reckless youth of twenty-two, Finnegan by name – the 'black sheep' of the family. He was rumored to have done most things in general; from frequenting camps of bandits to actually arranging for the king, his granduncle several times removed, to be quietly poisoned. The people, having just had a peaceful if somewhat tedious reign under their aged monarch, were horrified. Then, in the very nick of time – who should come by but a man with closer claim to the throne!

The court was delighted. Reportedly, the coronation had been held the very next day.

Inspector Dickson had preserved a cynical attitude to the whole affair. He was entitled to his own opinion, that being that this presumed relative was no more related to the king than the nearest fly. Had they verified his statements? Had they proven his family lines? Inspector Dickson thought not. They did not want to. They were so eager to escape Finnegan that they were willing to accept a possible imposter...

This is an excellent sample of what the fourteen-page interrogation was. A lot of talk and a lot of self-righteous internal dialogue from Dickson, none of which would be relevant to the plot.

A little later, however, we have this gem of a line, which for once is so accurate to Inspector Dickson and Mordred that I wish it could have made it into the final draft.

Inspector Dickson blinked, an exceedingly sceptical blink, and noted with some satisfaction that Mordred flinched in annoyance.

And then this equally lovely snippet, which also failed to fit anywhere, to my regret.

"You are not Rehirnish then?" He half-hoped to catch Mordred off guard concerning Ahearn's purported lineage.

"Presumably not," was all the scathing answer Mordred gave him. "I cannot blame you," he went on with insulting sarcasm. "I should hardly have guessed it myself."

Unfortunately, we go from that to this:

Inspector Dickson forbore with great difficulty from inflicting any like retort. "How came it that you went on to Orden – with such prestige as you had acquired?"

"Well might you ask. I spoke with my brother long that night that we discovered our... prestige, as you put it. I want no high life. To my brother I said that, with his blessing, I would go on to Orden and live there. I intended that the others do as they wished, but they held that they would come with me. I cannot imagine why."

Like, yeah, sure their parting was all sugarplums and smiles. Also, Mordred was way too compliant in all the old drafts. Despite the exquisite snippets featured earlier, he never displayed more than a basic reluctance to talk to the police -- nothing like the sheer aversion of now. In the first draft, he's literally chatty.

*

Inspector Dickson's friend Murcod was originally named Everett Hansen. I love Murcod. I hate Everett. Here is a mid-draft version of Everett and Inspector Dickson after Sam's initial visit. Inspector Dickson is trying to explain Sam adequately. Sometimes you just try to write a scene so many times that you realize you're never going to be able to write it. I put my foot down in 2018 and made Inspector Dickson leave without mentioning Sam to anyone at all.

"Dickson? Dickson?" Everett's hand roused him. "You look as though you'd seen a ghost."

Inspector Dickson shook his head. "Do you know, Everett, I almost feel as though I have..."

"Dickson, get a hold on yourself. What do you mean? Was it that man who came?"

"He was so queer, Everett. I've never met a man like him. He reeled off his story as though he had had it written to his satisfaction for years and only waited for the right time to tell it. What I mean is, there was no hesitation, no wondering – no doubt as to whether it was this way it had happened, or that. What man has a mind like that? His – his self-possession, his intelligence, his dry wit – he is the most terrifying man I have ever met..."

"He doesn't sound so terrifying."

"You don't understand. That man – no-one can make him do anything. No-one could even try. He would just look at him, and – and most men would turn and flee."

"Inspector Wilhelm Dickson. Does it strike you that his story might have been a lie?"

"No, it does not. You can't understand, Everett; you did not see him."

"I believe the man has hypnotized you."

"Everett–! Who can he be? He is a someone. He speaks deliberately, as one much accustomed to politics; his manner is courtly, his diction careful; all this, and the horrifying intellect running under his refined speech, marks him as one of the most well-educated men in Legea. I assure you that his story sounded as though he were reading a tale off a parchment in his hand."

"This is what I mean! Doesn't that make you think he might have written it out beforehand? Might have made it up? That's what you'd say to me!"

"You're hopeless, Everett."

"No, you're hopeless."

They glowered at each other a moment.

"Look, Dickson, you're going to make me laugh. I won't quarrel about this, but I want you to be reasonable. I am serious when I say you're worrying me."

THE WAR

I'm just going to leave this here.

Chapter 4

The great forest of Edivernel lay upon Legea for leagues upon leagues, its vastness stretching from Menevace in the west to Tharen Falls in the east, touching with its southern border the Cascade Mountains, and reaching into the uncharted northern regions; and few were the men who had ever delved into its depths and known its heart. On its western fringes dwelt those who called themselves the 'Edivernellen', though they scarcely ventured into it beyond fifty thousands of paces; and in the South Basin, where the ground was low and four rivers met with one another amid the trees, and the feet of the Cascades were near, there lived another people. Older than the Edivernellen they were, but certainly no wiser. The Moilwarts they named themselves; a shallow race were they, and ever greedy for more power. More land. And always, it seemed, the things that they set their hearts on were the very things that could not be more beyond their reach.

On a cold winter's morning when the snow fell and the wind screamed against his castle walls, King Edmund of the line of Moilwarts sat in his bedchamber with a multitude of furs piled about him, shivering, gnawing his fingernails, and dreading the moment when he would have to get up.

In the first place, which of his ancestors had made the abominable law that each of the eldest ruler's children was to receive full king or queenship upon his death? If only he had been a duke. Duke Edmund, second only to the king, would have been far more commanding and important a figure than King Edmund, the Lesser and Unimportant King, a superfluity dominated by his brother.

In the second place – well, in the second place, why did Roger have to be the older king?

King Edmund glowered at the wall.

"Your Majesty," said the page-boy who had come in without knocking.

"What?" he growled.

"King Roger requests your presence immediately in the audience hall."

"Bah. Is Mr. Weasel there?"

"Aye, Your Majesty."

Of course Mr. Weasel was there.

~*~

"Edmund." King Roger smiled condescendingly at his younger brother. "Do be seated."

Edmund sat. "It's frigid in here. Do you ever think of lighting a fire?"

"Frigidity, Edmund, is not what I called you to talk about. Furthermore, I think that you forgot something."

Edmund's eyes widened nervously. "What did I forget?"

"I am king, remember. And I am to be Addressed As King." He strode forward to emphasize his last words with hard taps to Edmund's nose.

"I beg your pardon, Majesty," Edmund mumbled, and saw Mr. Weasel standing in the corner exuding virtue and humility. Edmund scowled at him and waited for his brother to go on.

Roger paced back and forth with a portentous air, his arms folded imposingly across his swelled chest, and flicked meaningful glances at Edmund out of the corner of his eye, though their precise meaning escaped Edmund.

"Will you get on with it? Tell me what your brilliant scheme is!"

"Of course, of course." Roger stopped pacing and spoke soothingly. "We're going to attack Orden, that's all."

"What?" Edmund shook his head. "No, we're not."

Roger's smile seemed to have become a permanent fixture on his face. It stuck there as he walked over to Edmund, drew his decorative sword, and pointed it at his nose. "I say, yes, we are."

They were.

So that was the premise of the lovely now non-existent subplot in which a second army attacked Orden. This second army was, in the talkplay, the evil Narnians, with Aslan as the figurehead emperor and Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy lesser rulers under him. There were some great and hilarious dynamics between these characters, but the harder we tried to make them fit into an older, more logical world, the more luster they lost. It wasn't the same to have Edmund's pistol be a crossbow, or Mr. Beaver to be a human. They really belonged in crazy Legea, and so in the end that's where I left them.

*

- Once upon a time Fred miraculously woke up the day after his horrific dragon battle injuries. What I did in the rewrite was basically chop all of this off the line that ends the chapter now: "The tears welled up again, brimming over. She did not try to stop them."

She could not tell what it was that made her halt at last. Only that suddenly she did halt, the flow of tears ceasing, her body going tense.

Something had happened – or was about to happen.

She raised her head. Fred opened his eyes.

Fiona gazed at him disbelievingly for a moment, and then, without even thinking, burst into tears a second time. She hid her face in the pillow next to Fred, and wept.

"Calm down," said Irene soothingly in her ear. "A very natural reaction, but a rather alarming one for your betrothed, who is probably wondering why on earth you're crying like this. In fact, it's safe to say he doesn't even remember what happened to him last night. This is certainly a nice turn of events, but don't get your hopes up too high now. He is not by any means out of danger; moreover, such awakenings as these are known to sometimes be precursors of death... I could name you a dozen instances..." She trailed off into ominous mutterings.

Fiona took a deep breath obediently, and wiped her eyes. This second storm left her no ill feelings, but she felt wonderfully refreshed; and despite Irene's foreboding words she also felt joy, and hope. She looked up at Fred again, and their eyes met.

He seemed confused; his lips quivered as he struggled for speech.

"Do not try to talk right now, thank you," said Irene. "You will be doing very well if you can lift your own finger today. Don't think about talking for a few days yet."

The doctor stepped forward. "You would do well to get some rest now, young man. The more, the better."

"I ought to go now, I expect," Fiona murmured, standing up. She did not mind. She wanted to go, to tell Laufeia and everyone else that Fred was alive. That Fred would heal. It didn't matter what Irene said. He would heal.

-A bit from the Orden City Burns chapter, that I would have liked to keep if only because it shows the adorable, quintessential passive-aggressive Mordred so dearly.

The barricade shuddered, swayed, and fell.

The noise was terrific.

Mordred for one sharp second was a seven-year-old boy again, staring guilty at the remnants of the pottery vase he had knocked down from the shelf, the din of the crash echoing horrendously in his ear...

Someone climbed over the sill, and Mordred was no longer a seven-year-old boy. He was nineteen, a man, in a besieged hospice with a broken leg. Holding a sword.

"Wha-at!" The enemy soldier regarded Mordred crossly. "Well, look here. We got a fighting patient. Wouldn't it be just our luck."

"Agh..." his companion commiserated. "But we shouldn't have much trouble if he's sick or whatever."

"You never know," replied the first soldier ominously. "They might be

on the point of releasing him – or," he added as an afterthought, "it's a trick and he's really a doctor."

"Supposing," Mordred offered, coolly, "you talked to me instead of at me."

Oh, I love my young unstable Mordred.

SORROW AND SONG

Back when Captain Dunstan Murray had a brother named Inspector Dickson... this was supposed to be included in Chapter 1 of Winds Rise.

"You are not serious – you cannot be serious..."

"And yet I am." Mordred Kenhelm tilted his head and smiled in his most implacable manner. "You are the brother of Lord Murray, Inspector Dickson, and there is no gainsaying the matter. Come – you knew it, in your heart. His brother was named Wilhelm – he would be thirty-one now. Why does he not call himself Dickson? Because the woman who brought him up never told him who he was. And I can see the resemblance, even if you cannot." He rather threw the last words at his friend.

"I can hardly see my own face, Mordred.... But no, I believe you. You would not say such a thing without reasonable proof."

"There you go about proof again – law officer. Enough talk now – if I have convinced you, come with me and meet your brother."

-And... though I cringe to share it... here is part of the Fenris drama mentioned in "The Evolution of Fenris" chapter. *groans and averts eyes*

"What is the matter with Fenris?"

"What on earth – what do you mean, Mordred? What is the matter with him?"

"Haven't you noticed?"

"No, I have not. Stop acting like this, Mordred. I've been very busy for some time now – I've been all over Ceristen with different ladies, working out the details of your wedding and mine. I confess, I've been assuming that Fenris has recovered from his illness, is in love, is courting, and to all intents and purposes is happy. He's not?"

"He is not happy. Something is destroying him. Don't look at me like that, Laufeia. I mean it. He hasn't been courting Petrona. He hasn't visited her in days. He works desperately, fiercely. He does everything fiercely. He isn't acting himself. Laufeia, when you think of Fenris, you do not think aggressive? Of course not. When the most upset, he is still never aggressive. What is there, Laufeia, that is doing this to him?"

Laufeia felt the anguish in his voice. "Mordred," she started gently, "it may not be as bad as –"

"Stop it!" Mordred cut her off passionately. "You haven't been paying attention. When you do, you will see what I mean."

Laufeia watched Fenris that evening as they ate dinner. With growing concern, and then alarm, she began to understand. Fenris ate all that was on his plate fiercely, as Mordred had put it, rather as though he was forcing it down his throat. He spoke hardly at all, and when he did, it was perfectly articulate and agonizingly tight. His body was as taut as a bowstring, but not as though strain pressed upon him from the outside; it was more that he was locking strain inside.

That was it.

He was holding it back, she realized. He was doing what he had never done in his life – refusing to wear his heart on his sleeve. Concealing his emotions from those around him. And it was destroying the Fenris she knew.

*gives in to the urge to comment* The DRAAAAMAAAAAAAA

She could not bear it. The sight of him simultaneously sickened her and tore at her. She rose and fled to her room.

Mordred entered a bare quarter of an hour later and put his hands on her shoulders.

"I'm going to get Fred."

*

Fred sat down beside the fire.

"Where is Fenris?" Mordred demanded instantly.

"Still in the barn."

"You spoke with him?"

"Aye."

Mordred and Laufeia leaned unconsciously forward, the unspoken And? hovering in the air.

"He will not tell me."

"He will not – tell you," Mordred repeated, almost brokenly. He covered his face with his hand. "But if not you, then who else?" His voice sank to a whisper. "How can we hope to help him?"

"You found out nothing at all?" asked Laufeia tremulously.

"He is suffering." Fred spoke softly. "And he believes that no-one can help him. He is fighting so hard to contain it that he shook from the strain when I was talking to him. That is all I know."

"Why must he?" said Mordred. "Why must he hold it in? He has to let it go, or it will break. He will not have the strength to go on much longer."

"I told him." The worry in the faces of the Kenhelms was reflected in Fred's. "He said that if he lets go, it will kill him."

I'm so annoyed

"It is already killing him," said Mordred harshly. He spun around and left.

"Petrona," Laufeia murmured. "If it has to do with her, then she knows. Surely she knows."

*

Petrona Thatcher flinched as though struck. "Laufeia – you must know that Fenris is no longer calling. Is that not enough for you?"

"Petrona, Fenris is not himself."

A start shook Petrona's petite frame. Colour left her cheeks.

"I don't mean he's ill; delirious; whatever you thought I meant. But I must know, Petrona – he will not tell us. What has happened?"

"We – only quarreled," Petrona whispered. "It was silly. Childish. We both acted – no better than infants. It started – he said something about his recent illness, how he was always getting sick or being a nuisance and generally useless. It – aggravated me in a way it hadn't before, and I said I was sick of him saying things like that, and then – in a moment – it just flared up. At the last he said maybe he shouldn't be courting me. I snapped – that – maybe he was right Yes, he is very right and you should be glad you're out of such an unhealthy relationship – and I left. Laufeia, if it is as bad as your manner says – I don't understand. What did I say?"

"It's less what you said than what he said. I don't doubt that as soon as you were gone his words crashed back onto him and crushed him." Laufeia shook her head with a distressed hopelessness. "And – still – there must be more. His temper flashes out once in a blue moon, but it's happened, and he has never reacted like this before."

*

In the aftermath of Graham Ferguson's wedding, among all the joyful celebrants, Laufeia sat hearing Mrs. Earle's chatter without listening to it.

"...and the bride's gown..."

Her foot tapped the floor distractedly as she watched Petrona. The girl's eyes were shadowed, and she glanced constantly to the furthest corner where Fenris stood against the wall. No, not against the wall. Even that gesture of relaxation he denied himself. Only next to the wall.

*

Mordred, too, watched Fenris. His brother's words to him yesterday revolved in his head.

"I -must leave-Ceristen." It was spoken in a jerky, erratic manner; it had not the uniform tightness of two weeks ago. "I -cannot -stay here- and cause-you -pain."

Mordred was struck with utter disbelief.

"Fenris! Are you out of your mind?"

"No. Mordred -please -don't – try -to change my -mind. You -will get – used to -it."

All my sympathy is with Mordred.

"Fenris, I cannot imagine what made you think that this will do you any good, or make us happy. Do you misjudge me so as to think that I could ever get through the pain of having you leave? First Inspector Dickson for a good reason – now you for a horrible reason – it is too much –"

With an effort he checked his incoherent rush.

"No. I am sorry, Fenris. I know you did not see it that way. You truly think this is for our good. But though you do not mean to, you underestimate us. We would far rather have you stay here and be this way than – leave. Under any circumstances."

"Mor-dred -you don't – see."

"Yes I do see. You don't see, Fenris. You don't see that what you want and what I want are the same thing. You need not give up yours for mine."

"No – there -is -something else."

"What?"

"I -don't -know."

And Fenris had turned and walked rigidly out of the barn, leaving Mordred to wonder numbly how much more his world must be torn apart.

*torches the most annoying person in history a.k.a. Fenris*

THE VILLAGE

-Another scene that took me years to cut. Another one which I rewrote so many times that I was sick of it by the end. It showcases Marianne and Kenneth, but it has too much maudlin Fenris and it really didn't do anything for the plot. Marianne and Kenneth don't need showcasing anyway.

"Your mother wants to know more about the Kenhelms," Kenneth interpreted laughingly, "and we'll serve to procure the knowledge."

Marianne bit her lip. "I would rather not go. I've never met them once, and they probably won't want visitors.... What are they like, Kenneth?"

Kenneth hesitated. "I've only seen Mordred, and he doesn't talk to anyone that I know of except Braegon King. He is a bit – a bit reserved, but he may be more companionable at home. He has a sister, too, as I'm sure you heard, so you will have a female to talk to. Don't worry, Marianne." Kenneth turned right at the fork in the path. 'Twill all go well, and you and Miss Kenhelm will part fast friends."

Marianne laughed, the sound bright and tingling in the clean winter air.

"What did you do with Jonathan?" she asked presently.

Kenneth's shoulders sagged. "I told him not to leave the house. Unless it be a matter of life and death."

"Don't you think," Marianne said slowly, "that you could let him out alone? It only makes him chafe at all the other restraints you put on him."

"I can't trust him out by himself, Marianne. You know he's liable to do anything from ride your father's pigs to stray into the Wilds."

"If you are certain, then."

"I've cared for him since he and I were orphaned. Six years I've worked ceaselessly to keep us both alive and I am not going to lose him now."

"Aye – but it is so hard on him. The other boys his age are not restricted like that."

"Marianne! Peregrine is a Grey! His father scarcely cares what he does! As for Lowell Stafford, he has grown up here. He knows his way about..."

"I am not denying it, Kenneth. But he doesn't understand that. He is only six, and all he sees is that they go where they want and he can't."

"I'll do something, Marianne. I'll try to explain it to him. But he can't wander about Ceristen all alone and that's the end of it."

~

"I'm worn and frazzled to a thread," Laufeia sighed wearily. "Hardly a surprise when two people I've never seen in my life come walking up." She passed her hand over her face, smoothing back wisps of hair back behind her ears, and threw an exasperated glance at Mordred. Of all the days for work to be called off...

"You look fine," Mordred growled irritably. "You always look fine." He glanced over at Fenris, who sat staring listlessly at the far wall. Clearly Fenris would not care if the house burned down around their very ears.

~

A girl of sixteen or seventeen answered Kenneth's rap. She surveyed them unsmilingly, her large green eyes vivid above a small and stubborn chin, a braid of fine, reddish-blonde hair dangling over her shoulder almost to her knees.

The sister – what was her name – Laufeia, Marianne thought.

"Good morning," said Laufeia; it hung in the air, a faint question.

"Good morning," Kenneth replied pleasantly. "This is Marianne Earle, who is my betrothed; I am Kenneth Calen. Have you a moment for a neighborly call?"

Laufeia's expression did not change. "Certainly," she said and stepped aside for them to enter.

Inside, they passed through the kitchen and entered a small living area where two young men were, one standing, one seated. Marianne had a vague recollection of the elder, Mordred, at the party some ten days ago, but she had been visiting with Linda and Molly Boccin the greater part of the time. Fenris she did not remember seeing at all.

Mordred looked at them with cold grey eyes, and Marianne was stunned at his open dislike. She had said to Kenneth they might not want visitors, but she had never imagined anyone would display stark aversion to a guest's face. No-one had ever – ever – Suddenly Marianne felt as though she would cry.

She saw that Fenris remained sitting, his head low, and realized he had not noticed them. Then Laufeia spoke, and he started back, stumbling to his feet. His shaking hand moved to cover the glaring scar.

"Mordred, my brother," said Laufeia hesitantly, her eyes on Fenris, "these are Kenneth Calen and Marianne Earle."

Mordred gave a clipped "Good morning" and was silent. Resentment issued from him like a dark cloud.

"Good morning," Kenneth replied; he and Marianne and Laufeia seated themselves, and an oppressive silence descended over the room.

"You must be one of Mordred's companions at work," Laufeia said at last, addressing Kenneth.

"Aye," assented Kenneth.

"Do – do you see much of one another?"

"Not much," said Kenneth resignedly.

Silence conquered once more.

Laufeia shot a look at her brother, whose countenance did not change. With a quick, angry movement, she rose to her feet and crossed the room swiftly, hauled Mordred to his feet and dragged him out.

Now the silence lay on them worse than before. Marianne could scarcely breathe, and she dared not meet Kenneth's gaze, though she heard him shifting intermittently in his chair. Her eyes wandered over the bare, clean wall, the swept floor – a dirt floor –, the four chairs – chairs her father and Jared had made a sennight ago; the table in the kitchen had been their making as well –

What was the matter? Her family was not much more well-to-do than anyone else, and these people had just moved in anyway. Why was their poverty embarrassing her?

She looked for a reason she did not know across to Fenris. The boy sat quite motionless on his chair, his hand still pressed against the cruel red mark, his head and shoulders bowed as though to hide himself from their sight. When Kenneth coughed, sudden and loud, his head flew up in a spasm of fear and Marianne thought of the deer she had startled in the woods one day, for Fenris' eyes were wide and his face tense with that same beautiful terror.

Why is he so afraid? It cannot be all the scar.

She wished in a desultory way that she could alleviate that fear, but could not think how to do it. She heard Kenneth change position for the fifth time, and the longer the seconds ticked on, the more wretched she felt.

I'm going to cry, she thought, I'm going to cry. Oh, why did we come?

The door creaked, and Laufeia entered, followed by Mordred.

"Kenneth," said Mordred curtly, nodding.

"Mordred," Kenneth answered, sounding faintly relieved. "Have you and your family been well?"

Not the best question, Marianne thought, in light of Fenris' accident.

"Quite," said Mordred. At least he was talking now.

Maybe, if I talked to Laufeia, it would be a little better, at least between the two of us. "It is beautiful outside today, is it not?" she exclaimed with her most winning smile, turning to the other woman. "Winter is so lovely, when it is not too cold."

Laufeia stared at her hands in her lap. "Aye."

"Winter is too cold," said Mordred bitterly.

Marianne stared at him. Was he trying to quash her? Oh, it was all hateful – not one of them was versed in socializing, and Mordred seemed to lack the elementaries of good breeding as well.

She stood up sharply. "Let's go."

"Marianne –" Kenneth protested.

"I said, let's go!" Marianne spun forcefully around and headed for the door. She heard Kenneth following her, but she did not acknowledge him or turn until the Kenhelm house was far behind them and only the icy breeze was witness to their presence.

Then she knew again that she wanted to marry Kenneth, because he did not leave, or rant, or reply in kind when she railed tearfully against the whole ruined visit and eventually his alleged blame in bringing her. Instead he waited until she cried, and then he held her and let her cry against his shoulder, and then he dried her eyes and told her that he knew she didn't mean a word of it and wound up with his one-sided, diffident grin.

SORROW AND SONG (REVISITED)

-A little snippet that would have come in the early chapters of Path of the Tempest, but I liked the section the way it ended already, and this addendum seemed like overkill. BUT I liked it a lot and still do.

Mordred reached down to fondle the tangled mop of Linnetta's head, unable to speak, fighting back the tossing sea of anguish and the vicious pinion of old, resurging fears. He held desperately to Lethira's hand.

And finally...

A very recent Jeddy line that was supposed to go in the last chapter of Starlight Under Clouds, but I couldn't find a place for it.

" 'My lord' to you, Jedediah Crayes," Captain Golin rebuked.

Jedediah Crayes scoffed. "I was old when he was in his mother. I'll 'my lord' whom I please, thank you very much."