...Six years later, in late July, Anno Domini 1035, one long, hot summer day was nearing its end. As the burning sun sat slowly behind the high Rhodopen mountains on the west, cool breeze from the sea caressed the woody countryside; every living thing that had, during the worst heat of the day, tried to hide from the bright star, now started coming back to life. The birds, silent in the heat of the afternoon, resumed their singing from before midday, the insects again started buzzing above the small ponds and fast running mountain creeks, and the trees, moved by the breeze, whispered softly to the ears of animals and men.



For indeed: just by the small lake, whose crystal clear water, green as the emeralds, murmured silently amongst the high soldier pines, a small party of riders was resting on the grassy bank. There were six of them: the two that were closest to the water were sitting on the rocks, talking to each other in low voices; the skin on their faces, necks and hands (which were the only parts not covered in red silk clothing and silvery armor) was dark as the earth beneath their feet. It was obvious they came from distant south, to any eye that saw them those last few days that they rode with the others.
By the high pine tree, two others stood. They were unsaddling their horses, big scary beasts of German pastures, throwing the bags to the small pile on which already many things lied. Their garments were rich, that could be seen from a far: they both had masterfully graved breastplates and grieves, and gloves made of finest rabbit fur. One was older than the other, to what his white, long hair bear witness.
Finally, few paces further, in the shade stood two more men. One was middle-aged, very tall and handsome; dressed in night-black, with long, dark hair falling on his broad shoulders he smiled when the other man talked. The silver raven on his necklace glittered like a gemstone; and indeed, the eyes of the raven were made of rare obsidian stone.
His companion, though, was far lesser apparition. It was a gray bearded old man, hooded in dark brown cloak; the tiredness of his moves was obvious, as was the exhausted expression on his face. He had just came from the western forests, and just like him, his old horse was almost at its limits.
The tall knight offered the old man to sit in his field chair (which was masterfully made by some unknown carpenter from Palermo), and ordered for some wine to be delivered to him as a refreshment. When he regained his breath, and blood returned from his forehead and cheeks cooled by the summer wine, the dark haired nobleman spoke:

- Sabbas, my dear friend. How long has it been? - his voice was deep, but friendly.
- Long time, my lord Dusan, too long... Six long years, almost seven...
- Its a long road too, my friend. What dire news brought you this far east? Is your Lady alright? - asked Dusan (for it was really him, former Prince of Serbia, now acting count of Dalmatia). His sea-blue eyes, still glowed like a sudden flame whenever his dearest Camy was mentioned.
- It is because of her that I came to you, my Lord. - said the old servant, and drank few sips more from his cup - she is coming to Serbia soon. And the young Prince is coming as well.

Dusan was stunned for a second, unable to respond. It was always like this, when the news of his wife's coming would reach his ear. He would fall silent for a few moments, his heart would start beating like a war drum, and some strange overwhelming feeling of sweet anticipation would grasp his throat, capturing any words, slowly advancing throughout his whole body.
He haven't seen her for so many months... Not from the last war with the Croatians when he got captured, and almost killed. It was a long time ago, indeed... Since then, their obligations made them go separate ways, just like before they got married. But, no matter the passed time, his loving heart was still waiting for the opportunity to hold Camy again, to hold her and never let her go.
- These are great news you are carrying, my dear Sabbas! - he shouted, while his whole expression spread-ed into one beautiful smile. - my son is coming too, you say?
- Indeed he is my lord.
- This calls for a feast, Sabbas! I haven't been this happy since I heard my son was born! God bless you, old man! Mihailo! Get that last barrel of Sicilian wine opened! My wife and son are coming!
Merry cheer answered him - his companions were all his close friends and followers throughout many years; they all loved him, and his dear Camy as if they were family.
But when Mihailo brought the wine, Dusan saw a disturbing shadow on Sabbas's face. It might have just been a product of weariness in his old bones, but the tall Serb felt some strange unease because of it. He poured some wine into old man's cup, and sat beside him on some ancient stone, eaten by time and weather.
- Something troubles you, my old friend.
Sabbas's eyes, which were til that moment pinned to the ground, rose to meet Dusan's. In them, the count of Dalmatia saw something that just made the uneasiness inside him grow stronger. Finally, servant whispered.
- You read this weary old man like a book, just like my Lady does, master Dusan... Is it so obvious? I guess it is.
- What is it? Are you ill?
- No, no my Lord... These old bones still are strong. It is something different.
- Is it about my wife? My son? - the uneasiness crawled slowly into Dusans mind, and sudden fear creeped into his soul. - Dammit, Sabbas, speak up!
The old servant sunk the gray head into his hands.
- Its my Lady Camy, my Lord.
- What's wrong with my wife? Haven't you just said she is coming here? Is she alright?
- She is, my Lord... She is... She was all well and merry about the fact that she will finally see you again, my Lord, that she rode like the wind in front of our procession, for many days of the long voyage. She would take your son in front of her, and then they would ride through the forests and fields towards east, always forcing us to pick up the pace and follow her faster... But...
-... But...?
- But about a week ago, when we were just crossing the border with the Serbian Empire, something happened to her.
- What happened? - Dusan's wrath was rising inside him like a storm - his mind immediately started projecting images of bandits, hill tribes, wild beasts in the forests, any possible menace that could endanger the life of the One most precious to him.
- I... I don't know, my lord. I just... don't. One day she was so enthusiastic, so full of life, just as I described to you, you know how she is... and the other... it seems like her spirit died completely. She just said she needed rest that day when we were about to break camp and continue onwards, and laid into her bed in the coach. From that moment, she just slept, waking up only to talk to your son. She doesn't eat, she barely drinks... Old Sephora is with her all the time, but she doesn't say anything to me...

And I don't know the source of this disaster, God help me! I don't! - Sabbas was on the brink of tears - She never left the procession, I swear it! And if she did, I would be there to keep an eye on them both. Whatever happened - it happened in the camp site, or when we were asleep...
Here old man stopped, for a moment, brushing his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic. Then, he continued in a low voice:
- And then...
Dusan, who was being pounded by the words of the old servant like they were not words but swords, almost yelled:
- And then...?!
- And then we saw the symbol drawn on the back of the coach, hidden behind many coffers and baggage, right above the back right wheel.
- What symbol?!

Here Sabbas stopped again, and crossed himself, kissing the three fingers he used.
- I pray thee, my Lord, to believe my next words, even though they might sound truly impossible...
- Speak up, man!
Sabbas swallowed loudly, and then he whispered:
- We saw a sigil on the coach, my Lord.... One well known to us. It was a lion's paw, God damn it to hell, on the red field. The house of Raymond the Chartres.

Dusan jumped on his feet, throwing the barrel of the best Sicilian wine into the cold waters of the lake. Without saying a word to his men, he jumped on Black Wind, his old war horse, attached Rundig on his back and rode like the leashes of Hell itself were beating him down the Western road, towards the border.