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Gad sent letters south, but those people claimed no king and knew no Inigo. He sent letters west, but their carriers vanished. Lonago had come home, of course; but he spoke to no one who could not sing.

Gad buried their father in silica and state. Heavy was his head at the coronation, but that was just the ceremonial headpiece. He had a lighter one for everyday use.

He abdicated at the age of forty-seven and retired to a hillside summer home. The Council barely noticed. They were trying to decide how many sides should be on the new coins.


Prince Inigo rode south to the mountains, where giants bellowed challenge at his standard. When they fell the rocks boomed like kettle drums; his blade was white with their blood.

Those fled who would not battle, and by spring their savagery was gone from the land. The people of the kingdom came bustling behind him and settled in to iron out the hills.

Inigo found himself lord of a castle in a peaceful and prosperous land. But for his absent brothers, it was quite like home.

He took up his standard and rode south yet deeper, and was not seen again.

Inigo, Imago, Lonago and Gad

Once upon a time there were four princes: Imago, Inigo, Lonago and Gad. Imago was swift; Inigo, strong. Lonago could sing down the wind in a high, clear voice like a violin.

The brothers learned to hunt and sail, the declension of Latin and to declaim in Greek. They cared for the people; the people thought them fine.

When they were twenty-three, twenty-one and eighteen respectively, Imago, Inigo and Lonago rode to the corners of the kingdom to seek wisdom and return as men.

Gad stayed home to actually run the castle.

This story has little concern for Gad.