Forest Kingdom Trilogy 1 - Blue Moon Rising

so uncivilised a manner.
    The Warlock he remembered had been gracious and courtly, and even something of a dandy. Always the height of fashion, and never a lock of hair out of place. Right to the very end, his poise had never faltered; the tavern-keepers said he was the most dignified drunk they'd ever known. John smiled slightly in spite of himself, and then the smile vanished as he remembered other things. He closed his eyes, and after a while the awful memories subsided, though some of the pain remained to haunt him, as always. He looked again at the High Warlock, who was staring absently into the fire. The Warlock's face was calm and impassive, and John had no idea what the man was thinking.
    'I wondered how I'd feel when I saw you again,' said King John slowly. 'Whether I'd hate you, or fear you. It's been a long time, hasn't it?'
    'Yes,' said the High Warlock. 'It has.'
    'You look pretty much as I remember you. You haven't aged at all.'
    Transformational magic—I can be whatever age I wish. Of course, the younger I choose to be, the faster I burn up what remains of my life. I'm an old man now, John, older than you and your father put together. You know, I miss Eduard, sometimes. I could talk to him. You and I, we never really had much in common.'
    'No,' said the King. 'But your advice was always good.'
    'Then you should have listened to it more.'
    'Perhaps.'
    They both fell silent, and for a long while neither of them said anything. The fire stirred uneasily in the fireplace, and the sound of the crackling flames was distinct on the silence.
    'There was no need to banish me, John,' said the Warlock finally. 'I'd already banished myself.'
    The King shrugged. 'I had to do something. Eleanor was dead, and I needed to do something.'
    'I did everything I could for her, John.'
    The King stared into the fire, and said nothing.
    'What do you think of young Rupert's plan?' asked the Warlock.
    'It might work. We've tried everything else. Who knows?'
    'I like Rupert. He seems an intelligent lad. Brave, too.'
    'Yes,' said John slowly. 'I suppose he is.'
    They looked at each other awkwardly. Too many years of pain and rage and hoarded bitterness lay between them, and they both knew it. They had nothing to say to each other; it had all been said before.
    The High Warlock got to his feet.
    'I suppose I'd better have a word with Thomas Grey. His powers appear to have grown somewhat in my absence, perhaps he can be a help to me after all. Goodnight, John. I'll see you again, before we go out to battle.'
    'Good night, sir Warlock.'
    The King stared into the fire, and didn't relax until he'd heard the door open and close. Even after all the years, the memories wouldn't let him be. He closed his eyes, and once again he and the Warlock were standing together beside Eleanor's bed. The bedclothes had been drawn up over her face.
    She's dead, John, I'm so sorry.
    Bring her back.
    I can't do that, John.
    You're the High Warlock! Save her, damn you!
    I can't.
    You haven't even tried.
    John . . .
    You let her die because she didn't love you!
    The King buried his face in his hands, but no tears came. He'd shed them all long ago, and there was no room in him for tears any more. The door opened behind him, and he quickly sat up straight again, composing his features into their usual harsh mask. Rupert and Harald moved forward to bow respectfully before him. They stood shoulder to shoulder, but still there was a coldness between them.
    King John smiled tiredly. The day there was anything but coldness between those two, he'd eat his boots, buckles and all. Rupert and Harald waited patiently, staring calmly at a point somewhere over the King's head. John braced himself. Neither Rupert nor Harald was going to like what he had to say to them, but he had to have their support.
    'Sit down,' he growled finally. 'You make the place look untidy.'
    Harald sank quickly into the chair the Warlock had just vacated, leaving Rupert to go in search of another chair. John tried not to wince, as the sound of bumped furniture and falling objects told him exactly where Rupert was at any given time. Rupert finally returned, dragging a chair behind him. Harald had a coughing fit behind a raised hand, until the King glared at him. John didn't look round to see how much damage had been done to his room; he didn't think his patience would stand it.
    'Sorry,' said Rupert, as he carefully placed his chair midway between Harald and the King.
    'Not at all,' said John