Blodwin
Regent
Avarlon, now quickened with child, made her way through the garden toward the temple to attend the observance of the solstice moon. The morning was bright, and Sol warmed the stones beneath her sandals. The air lay thick with the scent of summer’s full bloom. She stopped at the fountain to breathe it in and to admire the flourishing of color.
Yet as she stood, another scent crept beneath the fragrant air, sharp and acrid, perhaps carried from the tannery or the gutters. The garden swam before her, blending the colors within her vision. She bent to retch, but a faintness took hold and she fell down onto her knees, hands clutching the low stone wall of the fountain. Her sickness deepened and her breathing thinned.
Fia, too, was making her way toward the ceremony and marked Avarlon’s wavering. And when Avarlon’s handmaiden cried out, the regent stepped forth to intervene, scolding the maiden. “Peace,” Fia snapped as she came upon them. “Thou wilt summon gossip.” She knelt down beside Avarlon and placed a steadying hand upon her back to comfort her while she caught her breath. “There, child. Tis only the bearing-sickness. Thou must carry a son, I warrant.” She glanced to her guard who stepped forth. “Raise her gently. We will not have this made a spectacle. She’ll come with me.”
Fia’s chamber lay far from the council halls, high in the wide tower where a narrow balcony overlooked the gardens and a tall southern window gazed out over the gates of the city. It was a room decorated not by regent power but by years of watchfulness and quiet grief. Widowed seventeen summers, Fia had spent long hours at the window and balcony, observing the rhythms of the city— those who came, and those who departed, and how the shadows lengthened across the serenity of the garden at dusk.
The plaster walls bore faded tapestries, their colors softened by time. Thick, old blankets lay folded upon a bench, their tartan weaves coarse and strong. Upon the table stood a modest bouquet: crimson dragon’s tail, bound with the pearl petals of gillyflower still yielding their lush scent. Rosemary lingered in the air as well, carried between the open window and the balcony beyond.
The guard set Avarlon into an upholstered chair near the cold hearth, body limp and weary. Face pale. Fia dismissed him and her maid and drew a chair from the table. She seated herself across from Avarlon as the door closed. The two were alone.
“Breathe,” Fia urged softly. “Thou art safe from wagging tongues in here.”
Avarlon’s breath steadied. Only when color returned to her face did Fia speak again.
“Hast thou been sleeping?”
“Little, my lady,” Avarlon confessed. “I dream and then I wake with sickness.”
“Tell me what dreams visit thee?”
“Dreams of water, of floating,” Avarlon answered. “A calm pool. Then the child comes easy. Then the pool becomes a river… and the river a torrent.”
Fia took Avarlon’s hand and held it, firm and warm. “When a woman bears life,” she said, “she bears dread alongside it. Men know not the sleepless watching— the waiting— the long vigil of fear for the child they bear.”
Avarlon’s throat tightened. She had feared and avoided Fia since her wedding day, uncertain of what the regent suspected, and more uncertain how one careless word might betray her and her father and Gedain. Fia mostly spoke, sensing Avarlon’s unease. She asked of sickness, of appetite and of the child’s stirring. Then unprompted, she spoke of her firstborn.
“Ceryd kicked as if he would tear free months too soon. I was so ill with the bearing-sickness— beyond measure. I could scarce take more than an apple and a wafer each day for what seemed like months. When he finally came, he was relentless. Always hungry. I could not keep him sated, nor could even the nurses.” She paused to ward off the sadness for her parted son.
“What was Cerenid like?” Avarlon asked.
“He was the opposite— sleepy, frail. He had a meek little cry, whereas Ceryd’s could stir a bear from winter slumber. We were fain to coax him to nurse. At times, we did not think he would survive the winter. Yet he did.”
The servant knocked and Fia bid her to enter. She set rosewater on the table and poured for each, then left. Avarlon sipped from the copper cup as Fia’s gaze drifted into her own memories.
“I never dreamt Cerenid would be rex,” she confided. “He hath inherited little of his father’s fire. His brother was his champion, his shield.” Her eyes lowered. “And now his brother is gone. And with treachery twice upon him, I fear for my gentler son. He will be a fine rex— but he needeth time to cure.”
“I fear,” Avarlon said, then she lowered her eyes as if she had not intended to speak.
Fia did not press her, though she sensed she was hiding something. “There is no use in fear, child,” she said, smoothing Avarlon’s hand. “What will be will be. Thy son— and I am certain it will be a son— will be born strong.” Fia watched her then— not as a mother, but as one who weigheth truth from trembling lips.
Feeling compelled to speak by Fia’s openness, Avarlon continued, “I… I fear more than that.”
“What else, dear?”
She hesitated again, as if the words themselves might betray her. Then, because the room felt safe, and because the hand at hers was steady, she answered.
“I… I fear that my husband will not return.”
Yet Fia sensed that was not what Avarlon thought to say, at first. “Do not think of that,” she replied, still softly stroking her fair hand. “Gedain is a warrior. He will return, with Menek in chains cursing his march to justice. I venture they art coming down off the mountains as we speak.”
Avarlon continued. “I… I also believe that Una doubts his honour.”
“Una doubts everyone, dear. She has no children of her own to worry her, so she fills her mind with all the possibilities.” Fia paused to drink from her cup. “Do not fear. Gedain is like a nephew to me. Do not trouble thyself with Una. Her nature is suspicion of everyone.”
When Avarlon’s strength had fully returned, Fia helped her to her feet and walked her to the door. She spoke once more before committing her to the guard, lightly, as though it were nothing more than idle concern. “Do tell me,” she asked, “when last thou sawest Gedain… did he seem burdened of his charge?”
Avarlon smiled faintly. “No, my Lady. He seemed eager.”
Fia inclined her head. Fia’s servant lingered after Avarlon had left.
“Shall I summon Una, my Lady?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
She went to the southern window and gazed out toward the gate, where once she had stood and watched the bodies of both husband and son borne home beneath shrouds. Her eyes followed the road beyond as it unwound through the fields and vanished into the forested hills. Tracing farther up their wooded folds, they yielded at last unto the dragon’s teeth of the distant granite peaks, their crowns yet covered in gleaming snow. She drew a slow breath, and the softness left her face, and in its place remained only the widowed regent mother.
Conclave
The summons went forth into the realm of Methundor and beyond, and many thegns came unto Gruen, passing through her gates over the fortnight of Rainmere[i] destined to attend the conclave commencing the three days beyond the summer solstice.
Of the five reiks, Fy’s did not come, for though safe conduct had been sworn, they trusted not that their plot on Cerenid’s life would pass unanswered. Madrot, named Reik of Dregrove, would not come himself despite Una’s letters. He offered Una in his stead, clothed with his voice and authority. Gedain’s father, Reik of Welf, did not come either, passing his voice to his son. The only reik to make the journey was Tollus from Longview.
However, Gruen hosted twenty-one thegns, all that were recognized. Among them was Olian, Thegn of Stonrafn, who made Gruen his residence and had not stood upon his own hearthstone in seven years.
The King of Lochlund sent ambassadors, and there came also men claiming such titles from the Hylands, the Blackmoors, and as far as Canac; yet they arrived not until a week after the conclave had already broken and thus bore witness only to what was left undone.
They gathered in the great hall of the keep of Gruen, in a sweltering of summer unknown to Norland memory. So fierce was the heat that they chose to meet only in the morning hours and again at dusk. And many regarded it an ill omen.
Cerenid shunned his heavier robes and cape and wore instead a plain tunic, yet even so, his brow shone with sweat and his countenance grew more drawn with each passing day. By noon, the elder nobles sat purple-faced and gasping, dabbing their brows and swatting the flies settling upon their collars and noses, and the hall rang more with irritation than reason. Adjournment was called when things became insufferable.
Each time they convened, Cerenid pleaded for the muster of their men, and each day the reiks and thegns answered with arguments against it, each bearing his own shield of excuse.
“To strike Bafomet would be suicide.”
“Who shall reap our fields and tend our flocks? Our men would return from war only to starve in winter.”
“If our levies march, brigands will plunder our farms and toll the merchants upon our roads.”
“It were wiser to defend our towns and harry their supply.”
“Only Longview and the High Gate can truly be held. Let us gather our strength there.”
At every turn the muster was gainsaid. Not even Olian would rise to speak in its favor.
At last Una seized the scepter amid a storm of curses, whistles, and jeers.
“Find thyself a husband!” came a rude shout.
Una smiled sweetly toward the voice. “That, in part, was my purpose in coming,” she said. “I had hoped to find here a loyal man who might ask for my hand. Yet seeing what standeth before me, I fear I shall die an old spinster after all.”
Laughter and grins broke out among the hall, broken by: “Our loyalty is to our houses first!”
“Aye,” said Una, “and each man hopeth the horde will pass by his own gate and burn only his neighbor’s hall.”
Many murmured in agreement. Others scoffed.
“Tell me, then,” she continued, raising her voice, “do we not all dwell beneath one great roof? Beyond one great wall? Are we not all brothers and sisters of one realm?”
“I say the Fys certainly are, for sure!” shouted a heckler. “Or at least they art all first cousins!” Laughter crashed like a thunderous wave. Una then caught the glimpse of a grin forming in Cerenid’s face and that kindled her hope. Knowing she could not surpass the quip with pleading, she yielded the scepter and took her seat. Twice more she tried to speak that day, yet each time the hall drowned her out.
By day’s end, the rex’s smile had faded completely. And with each rising of Sol thereafter, Cerenid’s shoulders bowed further, his gaze falling to the stones at his feet. He knew he must convince them, but he knew not how.
Una attempted to speak once more, yet looking to Cerenid and finding no fire, she remained in her seat. Deeming the conclave spent and hope exhausted, it stood upon the brink of final adjournment.
At last, Reik Tollus of Longview, tall, broad, umber-haired and barrel-chested like any old mason, rose again to speak one final time. Taking the scepter into his hand, he said: “My Lords, I believe we have debated this matter fully… wrung it dry, even. There is naught left to be said. I regret I must return to Longview at once, to prepare her defense. I beg of you to send men, for though her walls are stout, I fear they will not long withstand Bafomet’s siege towers.”
“Nor will they withstand them if all the men of Methudor were to line her battlements!” came a voice unknown.
The conclave turned their glance, one and all, and there, in the doorway, haloed by the hard white light of day, stood the Immortal Prophet.
“Azarius!” Cerenid called. “Hast thou come to speak?”
The Prophet walked forward into the hall with humble purpose, to where the Reik of Longview stood, and bade he relinquish the scepter.
A voice shouted, “This is no noble! He hath no voice in this hall.”
Another cried, “Let no revenant cast his dark spells among us. Give Him not the scepter.”
And another, “By His rags, He is but a peasant come to beg.”
Then a voice boomed from the dais, and all heads turned to behold that it came from Cerenid, bearing a commanding presence theretofore unseen. “Hand him the scepter!” he commanded. “For I have seen him slain and risen with mine own eyes.”
But the Thegn of Peelgrain leapt from his seat with his blade drawn to prevent it from being handed over.
“Must I rise once more merely to be heard, Lord Cullen?” Azarius said.
The Thegn of Peelgrain froze, stricken that the Prophet knew his name. Azarius then pressed his breast upon the point of steel. “Thou dost not recall me, though I remember thee. Thrust your blade if thou must, then lay my body in the grass so thou mayest see me rise with thine own eyes.”
Cullen’s eyes dropped. And with trembling hand, he sheathed his sword and returned to his seat. Silence settled upon the hall as Azarius searched their eyes. And nearly every noble lowered his gaze when the Prophet’s eyes met his own. He took hold of the scepter, and the Reik of Longview sat.
“Hast thou come to lead us, Prophet?” cried a voice.
“Nay,” He answered to all. “I have come to show you your end. For it comes while you quarrel over tolls and tactics and fallow fields. If thou hast ears that hear, hear this: all these things matter naught if you will not come together as one.
“Your grain, your herds, your towns… Bafomet’s host will take them all. They will come even for your gods and your songs and your legends. And beyond a generation, there shall remain no memory of this realm. Your progeny will be mere servants unto the False Men.”
He raised his right hand, fingers splayed.
“Listen to me when I say: ye cannot thwart this foe with an open hand.” Then He clenched his hand into a tight fist as if he prepared to strike. “They will be smitten only thus.”
A murmur rose.
Holding His fist aloft, He continued. “Aye, you will depart Gruen, be it today or tomorrow, unconvinced by my words. You will ride home and fortify your hedges and ramparts and arm your graybeards and women. And by this time next year, you will all be mouldering in your graves, your wives and children made slaves.”
Then his fist and voice lowered, and the hall seemed to lean toward him, as though drawn by his voice. “Therefore, I say: as ye travel homeward, persuaded that I, Azarius, am nothing more than a liar and a revenant spell caster, cast thine eyes upon the firmament. For upon the full moon of Longsol[ii], in the northern sky, ere the witching hour, no more than a hand’s breadth from Axelian[iii], a great archon light shall ignite the heavens and make night as dawn. And then ye shall know I spoke the truth.”
The murmurs rose but the Prophet’s voice yet rose above it. “This light shall shine until the Reaping Moon wanes. And if thou hast not mustered thy men and passed through the High Gate ere its fading, thy mortal doom is sealed. The time for talk is ended.”
Then Azarius released the bronze scepter from his hand, and it fell unto the stone floor and rang loud, echoing long after He had departed the great hall of Gruen’s keep.
Snare
Una sent word by courier informing her brother she would be returning to Dregrove by way of Wargsdale instead of Fywold, so as to avoid trouble with the Fys. A fortnight later, she received Madrot’s reply and set off with her retinue of six sworn guards, reaching Wargsdale on the third eve of their journey. Road-worn and wary, they took lodging in a way house kept by loyal friends, forewarned of their coming by Una’s letters.
A modest board of pottage, thick with barley, a brace of rabbits, and a dark, bitter port was prepared. As they feasted, talk turned to Azarius, as all talk everywhere now did. The prophecy of the archon-light had spread through the countryside like a cloud of pollen carried on the wind, settling thick and sticky upon every mind. Each brief summer night, men and women alike lifted their gaze unto the northern heavens, though Luna had not yet waxed full.
When the feast was consumed, the plates cleared away, and with the cauldron hung cold, the talk turned toward doom. “What shall we do when they come?” asked the wayhouse dame as she filled their cups.
Una raised her voice to answer, but then caught herself, softening her tone so as not to stoke commoner fears. “Trust thy rex. The Norland host shall thwart their plans.”
“Yet Fy’s men will not march, so it is said,” the dame replied. “And without them, the host will lack the needed might.”
“Fy’s men will march,” Una assured her. “They will soon be made to see there is no other way.”
“But I fear their lords will spy the towns left bare by the muster, and seize them while the fighting men are gone.”
“If that be their design,” Una answered, “then we must trust those who remain will rise against them.”
“I worry they will not rise up out of their own fears.”
“Then at least refuse their commands,” Una loosed a vexed sigh. “There is no profit in fears and worry. If ruin comes, worry only hastens its bite. Live in thy hopes, not in thy dread.”
A brief silence followed, and Una’s guard standing nearest murmured an old road-verse, half-remembered:
When darkness brings the howls to ear,
Yield not thy mind to dogs of fear.
But as he finished, there came loud pounding on the door, and the dame set her pitcher aside to answer it. “Who comes at this hour?” she called. “We have no more rooms.”
“We come not for rooms,” came the answer, “but for your guest. We know Una Blodwin is there. Send her forth or we shall batter this door in.”
“It is Kaldwin Fy,” Una said calmly. Rising not from her seat, she lifted her voice. “Thou art still a fool, Kaldwin— louder now, but none wiser.”
“Who is the greater fool,” he called back. “The fox who setteth the snare, or the rabbit that thinketh a way house its hole?”
“Aye,” Una replied, “Tis the best snare that tightens without one knowing it.”
“There is no escape for you, Blodwin. The house is ringed. Thy guard hath fled in fear.”
“I shall have a moment, then,” Una replied. “Let me finish my port that I may meet the fox with ample steadiness.”
“Drink, then,” came the voice.
Una remained seated, gesturing for the dame to refill her cup. Her two remaining guards stood fast— one by the door, one at her side, blades bared. “Sheath thy swords,” Una said with lowered voice. “There will be no needless bloodshed.”
They gazed at her in disbelief as she calmly drank. When it was at last drained, a sudden tumult rose without— footfalls, shouts, the thunder of hooves. The way house dame clutched her apron. The guards leaned toward the sounds.
Then silence.
And then another knock upon the door.
“Who knocks?” Una asks.
“It is I.”
“Open it,” Una ordered.
The dame lifted the bar and a man was flung through the door, landing in the middle of the floor. He raised his gaze, terror filling his eyes. It was Kaldwin Fy.
Following him strode another.
“Well done, brother,” Una said.
“Madrot!” cried the guard nearest to her. “By The One, our fortune turns.”
“Look up,” Una said to the fox.
Kaldwin obeyed, shaking, near to tears.
“Thou art a thrall to thy own oxwit dullness,” she went on. “Thou mistookest words for cunning, and haste for strength. It is ever the way of thy house.”
“Mercy,” Kaldwin begged.
“Go ahead, weep. Weep knowing this: that mercy lieth on the narrow ledge of my whim.”
Kaldwin broke, sobbing openly.
“Beg me for mercy,” she urged.
“Please… I beg.”
Una let him grovel on the floor until she had achieved the fullness of utter disgust. “Were thy worth no greater than thy wit,” she continued, “I would have my brother brain thee, thinking no more of it than if he was scraping the dung from his soles.”
Kaldwin nodded agreeably, hands covering his eyes.
“Stand up, you breast-fed half-man.” Kaldwin labored onto his feet. Una turned to her guards. “Bind him and set him to horse. Madrot will deliver him to Gruen at once.” Then to the dame she turned. “Fill my cup.”
“My Lady,” the dame said, trembling as she poured. “I swear I betrayed thee not.”
Una searched her face and found no guile. “I know it. Kaldwin was intercepting couriers and reading the letters they carried. I laid the bait within our words to you.”
Outside, the horses stamped and snorted as Kaldwin was bound and set to saddle, still sobbing. His conspirators were disarmed and disrobed, then set to kneeling. Soon they would be sent marching home, naked and humiliated. Una and Madrot lingered.
“Will Korbin muster to save his son?” Madrot asked.
“They must,” Una answered.
“Will bringing Kaldwin buy me Fia’s favor?”
“No,” Una answered. “Not much, anyway.”
Madrot’s jaw tightened, though he had expected it. “I will never find her forgiveness.”
“No,” Una replied, “but delivering Kaldwin will buy thee Cerenid’s.” A shout rose; the horses were ready. Una went on. “Fia knows only what was taken from her, not the brother who took it. Thou wert a stranger to her before Briganta. Thou art a monster to her now.”
Madrot’s stare hardened.
“There is no place for me then, in Gruen’s hall of reiks.”
“No,” Una answered flatly. But then her voice lifted. “Yet thy place is not within gilded halls. Thy place is at the head of Dregrove’s men, marching to war at the side of thy rex.” She gazed long into her brother’s eyes, finding there the honor that she had always known. She climbed into her saddle, her guards gathering near, and glanced once more before setting off for Dregrove.
“Fare thee well, brother.”
“Goodbye, sister.”
Bounty
Avarlon spent many mornings walking with Fia, meeting her beside the garden fountain upon the third hour of daylight. From thence, they would pass beyond the keep’s outer wall and stroll the broad stone avenue that led toward Gruen’s gates. The air there was fresher than within the inner wards, and beneath the warming summer Sol, it steadied Avarlon’s stomach and lightened her spirit, for whenever she remained too long enclosed in her father’s stone house, the mingled scents of gutter and stable would seize her with sickness. Avarlon’s mother had been gone many winters, taken by the wasting, and so she found in Fia a maternal comfort, a warmth and steadiness she had not known since she was a child.
“Thou art near through the worst of it, dear,” Fia assured her.
“Yet I wake in the night and cannot sleep,” Avarlon confessed. “And when sleep comes, it is at the wrong hours.”
“It was so with me,” Fia answered, and she spoke then of cravings for grapes and salt, and of the fierce tenderness to touch that had seized her in those months long past. She would clasp Avarlon’s hand lightly as they walked, her manner gentle, yet her eyes ever observant.
As they came upon the gate, the air of the countryside— carrying the scent of wild lavender and iris— flowed through. They would pause each there to watch a wagon creak inward or a drover lead his sheep through the arch. Often their talk turned to petty court whispers. But on one morning, they espied riders appearing at the gate, though they would not enter the city.
A warden approached swiftly. “My ladies, it were best for you to return within the keep.”
“Why,” Fia asked calmly. “Art those not Dregrove’s colors?”
“They are, my lady. But the kinslayer Madrot rides among them.”
Fia’s hand tightened slightly upon Avarlon’s, though Avarlon’s did not answer it. “We shall return if danger presenteth itself,” she said coolly to the warden. Then, turning to Avarlon: “Thou art safe beside me.”
The Dregrove riders had aligned in a file beyond the arch, then they parted to make way. Madrot Blodwin rode through, halting just beyond the threshold of Gruen. His gauntleted hand held a tether trailing behind. Fia’s face darkened with hatred. The morning traffic stilled. The riders waited, near frozen. A crowd formed within moments. Murmurs rose.
Fia looked upon Madrot, trying to picture him less a brother and merely some brigand who had slain her proud son. He did not gaze back at her but instead, his hardened glare fixed beyond her shoulder. Fia turned. Avarlon stood staring back at Madrot— not with horror, nor fear, nor hatred in her countenance— but with something unsettled, something turned inward. Avarlon’s eyes flickered, then fell. She did not draw closer toward Fia’s protection, but instead, she loosened her grip and stepped away.
“Avarlon,” came a hoarse call from the crowd. “Come hither!” Avarlon hastened toward the voice, finding her father within the tide of the crowd. She pushed through as if fleeing, without offering a word or even a glance back to Fia.
Fia studied Olian’s face as Avarlon wove through the crowd. She found no wrath therein, no righteous fury. His eyes never so much as glanced toward Madrot. It was as though he wished not to be seen by him. He took his daughter’s arm and the two disappeared into the mass of subjects.
And in that breath, as sharp and as sudden as an arrow’s pierce, Fia’s understanding coalesced.
The riders waited in grim silence, the mounted warriors in dark mail barring the gate for many minutes, until the crowd thickened and a vast quorum of Gruen’s eyes were fixed upon them. Then Madrot removed his helm. Fia noticed his once rust-coloured hair had darkened brown and his beard had grown full and long. When he spoke, his voice was deep and booming.
“I am Madrot Blodwin, Reik of Dregrove. I have come to collect a bounty.”
“A bounty for thyself?” cried one from the crowd.
“Kinslayer,” shouted another.
“Begone, rapist!” called another.
A warden stepped forth. “What criminal hast thou delivered?”
Madrot tugged his leash, and a second horse stepped forth bearing a bound and hooded rider slumped in the saddle. Madrot tore the hood away. Gasps rippled through the crowd. “I bring Kaldwin Fy,” he declared. “The knave who sought to slay the rex at Wargsdale.”
“The bounty for this man stands at one hundred silver erlings,” answered the reeve, stepping forward cautiously. “Dismount and come within the walls to claim it.”
“Nay, Madrot said. “I swore never again to pass beneath these arches, for I was wronged in this evil place.” He raised his voice to the crowd. “Nor would I accept your silver.”
“What bounty then?” asked the reeve.
Madrot’s jaw set. “The bounty I claim is the restoration of my honour which was stolen from me.”
“You slew the rex,” the reeve countered. “And you slew two wardens and maimed another.”
“The rex chose the field,” Madrot replied. “As for thy wardens, I gave them fair warning… and spared one’s life.”
“And what of the charge of rape?” asked another.
Madrot did not flinch. “It is a lie.”
The wardens stepped nearer as if to seize Kaldwin. Madrot’s horse shifted uneasily. Dregrove hands settled upon hilts. The wardens reached for theirs. The crowd stirred in anticipation.
An impulse stirred in Fia. She stepped forward into the avenue to speak. Her voice cut through the din. “Stand down!” she ordered the wardens. “He is reik. The law cannot touch him. He has done the rex a good service, today.”
The crowd quieted, uncertain.
She turned her gaze upon her brother at last. “For his honour,” she said, her tone hard as frost, “he shall have to answer at the River Thol.”
Madrot’s glare did not soften.
The wardens dragged Kaldwin down from his saddle and bore him to the dungeon. Madrot made no further gesture, wheeled his horse, and rode away with his retinue. The crowd crumbled apart, yet whispers lingered in the air long after their dust had settled. Fia remained, lost in thought. Then she turned and departed for the keep, the coldness of understanding settling upon her countenance.
[i] Rainmere is the sixth full lunar cycle from, and inclusive of, the Winter solstice, roughly coinciding with June.
[ii] The Longsol Luna is the first lunar cycle beginning after the Summer solstice, roughly coinciding with July by our calendar.
[iii] Axelian is the northern pole star, used for navigation.
