And so - it is done. The course is set, and even the loss of my fine horse cannot dampen my elation. The stone winnows as it will, but winnows not I.
I return triumphant to my men, alive, exultant. My blood taken and accepted. No taint of madness behind my eyes, not driven wild by the raging powers within the stone like a lesser man. My own men congratulate me while they look on sidelong. What may I yet become unsettles them, warring with the tantalising question... how high will they fly, in my train? Confident that my rise must now be assured.
We leave the land swiftly. I take one of the horses for my own, forcing men to double on a mount. The bitter taste of anger for the waste of a fine beast rises in my throat. Were the sun not rising, farmers stirring, I would have chased down my skulking ambusher.
My anger boils on; that a man dares lift his hand against me, to thwart my will. That a possession of mine lies blood-smeared and fly-ridden in a peasant's field. My own horse shot from beneath me at the moment of my triumph. Such a force behind the arrow - no farmer's bow then. The arrows fletched simply, but with skill and the eye of a master. It is to easy to summise the bowman. One of the north men. A risk when the stone is so close to their bolt hole. They grow too bold... but they will learn to bend the knee. The blooded stone proclaims the silent truth.
