“This is Sam. I read you five-by-five.”

The King-class SSTO gave a bang and a groan as the building heat of reentry caused its metal frame to flex. Someone sitting by Samantha snickered. She turned to face him. It was PFC Ethan. It was easy to recognize his stubble, pointed chin, and smile under the hard flight helmet and mirrored visor the Dread Fist Company mercenary infantry were issued.

“Is that not procedure here? No radio check?” Sam asked, looking down at him.

“Is it for you, milite?” Ethan replied.

Sam faced back forward. Eight men and women, strapped into jump seats, looked idly on, a gallery of chins and lips under a set of visored helmets. The six to either side of Sam and Ethan were watching, too, she was sure. Even absent a show, they would be watching Sam. It would be hard for them not to, frankly. She stood a good half-foot taller than any of them, even without combat boots on.

“Diligence is half the job,” she said to him, ignoring the jab.

“The radios work. Chill out.”

Sam faced front, saying nothing.

A minute later, a gentle pop in her ear opened up the buzz of the radio channel. A thin, modulated voice came on. “Alright, lads and lasses. Twenty minutes to touchdown. That so-called Kaiser guy is a cornered rat in a hole down there. Bring him in.”

As the SSTO plunged through the upper atmosphere, the roar of the winds against the hull pressed into their ears, even covered as they were with their headsets and helmets. The heads and bodies across from Sam began to rumble and jostle in a rough unison with the movements of the craft.

Ten minutes later, the wind relented, easing down into a benign whistle. The King had entered the final glide phase. The irregulars checked their gear and grabbed their straps, getting ready to lift their harnesses and dismount. Sam tapped her most important bits of gear in a well-rehearsed sequence: plastic medkit on the right thigh, radio receiver on the left hip, radio earpiece on the left ear, heavy battle rifle strapped down at an angle beneath the seat. And one extra, for this mission profile: a pair of cold, carbon steel handcuffs, secured in her left velcro pocket.

Sam checked one more thing. She reached to the control on her hip and flipped the dial past its first threshold. A high, evil whine arced between her ears. Sam’s jaw tightened.

Have they noticed? She thought. No doubt; that’s an active sensor signal. We’re marked.

She flipped the dial back, silencing the whine. Just as she did, her CO came back on. “Time zero. Move to waypoint Alpha. Good luck.”

Sam thought to announce her observation on the channel, but why? The infantry squads had two designated radio operators and the SSTO had a signals specialist. Between them and the pilot there were three or four people whose job it was to monitor the frequencies and identify whether something really did represent a threat. And none of those people were her. So she stowed the thought, and she joined the chorus of infantry throwing up their jump seat harnesses and pounding boots on steel in a coordinated scramble to the rising bay door.

Outside, down on the largest of the Resmond islands on the planet Volga, it was a cloudy, grey day. The King had touched down in a wide, tall alluvial plain, a blanket of green overgrowth incised deeply by a haphazard network of rivers and basins. The blocky winged SSTO sat on its landing struts, its bottom drive engine wash singing the grasses, about a dozen meters from the lip of a huge grey-brown gash in the terrain. It was an abandoned titanium mine, 40 meters from top the bottom, the descent terraced by packed roads that wound around the side for heavy equipment to lumber up and down.

The first six Dread Fist infantrymen spilled out of the King’s main bay and hustled to the lip. Sam followed close behind, rifle ready.

A crack split the air as Sam’s right foot hit the ground. There was some other noise hard on her right ear. The mercenaries ahead of her dove to the ground, and she slid to a halt, joining them.

A glance back: PFC Ethan, a dark scuff in the center of his fatigues, being dragged back into the bay by his arms. Shit.

Lieutenant Fae’s voice buzzed in her ears, thin and modulated but urgent. “Anybody see it?”

“Negative.” “No.” “Not me.”

Sam found a tiny embankment at the edge of the slope and crawled up to it, planting her shoulders and the back of her neck against it. She raised her head to peek for a half-second, then hid again.

“There’s a small concrete building, bottom of the west slope, bearing three-four-zero. Probably that.”

Lieutenant Fae, prone a few yards away, nodded. “Olsen, get your SAW on that, bearing three-four-zero. On my mark, Bravo squad left; Charlie squad right. Squad leaders switch over to command channel.”

That was plan A that had been discarded, then. When the Dread Fist had been told that Johan “Kaiser” Hect was hiding in a remote mine, little more than a dug-out cave in the temperate swamps of Resmond, it was assumed that their OpFor would be, at most, disgruntled miners with intermediate caliber rifles and diamond tipped rock cutters. Marginal people, a few of them probably outlaws themselves, finding common cause with a desperate man on the run. That assessment wasn’t off the table, but at least one of those disgruntled miners was a mean shot with their rifle.

So they were on to plan B. Rather than walking up to the front door and kicking it in, they’d just have to do things the hard way. Sam smiled.

There was a gentle steel click, cloaked under the nearby whine of the King’s engine, and then Olsen opened up with the SAW, filling the air with a percussive, rhythmic roar.

“Mark.”

Bravo squad (down Ethan) leapt to their feet and tore down the slope of the hill. Sam gripped her rifle by the barrel shroud, holding it vertical along the plane of her body and pushing it tight against the sling over her shoulder. She held her left hand and forearm on the rocky sloped wall of the strip mine to steady her descent. It hurt like hell, the loose and jagged rocks raking along her side and arm, but it was better than being slow. Even with tracer rounds streaking down onto the concrete building, peppering the walls and doors with lead, warding any would-be sharpshooters from the windows, Bravo squad was exposed out here. Each of them alone with the malign thrill of the death that could take them at any moment.

But Alpha squad’s suppressive fire did its job, and death kept its distance for a time.

Sam and her four squadmates hit the floor of the mine and ran toward the structure.

Her squad lead, Sgt. Stimwell, belted a command into their ears. “Olsen will stop soon. Sam, cover left window. Al, right window. Chen and I have the door.”

The machine gun fire ceased, the last three shots echoing into the sky. Sam raised her battle rifle and trained it on the left window. She slowed from a run to a creeping walk, her eyes fighting to pierce the dark void of the window. Daring the sharpshooter to show himself. Fearing that he needn’t in order to bring death. It was damn dark in that room…

There was a glint of glass. The front lens on an optic and a muzzle brake thrust out of the shadows! Sam jerked her own sights onto it and squeezed off a burst. She wrestled the sights back onto the window. It was an empty black void again.

“Contact.”

Sam’s heart was pounding. She had been lucky. Too damn lucky.

“Roger, Sam. Brave bastard.” Stimwell and Chen were lined up at the door. “Once we’re in, you’re after us. Charlie will come in behind us. Ready?”

“Yes,” “Yep,” “Affirmative.”

“Go.”

Chen swung the butt of his rifle against the door handle, breaking something, and then he pivoted square with the door and kicked it in with the thrust of his leg. He and Stimwell hustled in, pieing off corners within the darkened interior.

Sam and Al hurried up to join them as the building—a squat little grey brick about 20 meters to a side and half as much tall—flashed and pounded with gunfire.

Sam was the next inside, and she swung her rifle around at high ready as she examined the scene. She stood at the top of a steel catwalk platform; the only way off was a set of stairs down to a concrete floor eight meters down on her right. At the bottom of those stairs, Chen sat, clutching his side with one hand. Stimwell stood above him, his rifle swinging about much like Sam’s, searching for targets.

On the left, an aluminum ladder was propped up against the wall. At its top was the window that Sam had fired into. There was just enough of a concrete shelf at the window to provide a firing platform. A man in muted goldenrod battledress lay dead—his neck torn to bloody ruin by a bullet—beside his scoped rifle at the foot of the ladder.

“Clear,” Stimwell barked. “Sam, come on in. Al, keep an eye on that.” He gestured at a wide, ten-meter-by-ten-meter steel platform flush with the concrete floor of the bare little building, ringed by a railing. At one corner was a rectangular gap with a steel ladder built into the side. By the looks of it, it was a cargo elevator with a service corridor running down alongside it.

Sam jogged down the stairs and ripped open her medkit as Al paced down behind her, watching the service ladder. Chen leaned back against the concrete wall with a wince, and he pulled off his helmet.

Sam knelt down and felt at the left side of his torso. “Keep your bucket on, soldier. We’re in a hot zone.”

“Can’t a man take a breather?” Chen rasped with a smirk.

Sam decided to let it slide as she cut away some of his battledress. His ballistic plate had stopped two rounds, but a third round had come in around it. It was a nasty-looking wound, but not a truly bad one. A rifle round had caught him in the ribs, maybe cracked one, but had glided along the side of them and out the back of his pack. The wound surely stung like hell, and it was bleeding badly, but as long as they took the time to dress it, Chen would make it back. Sam set to work with the gauze and bandages after reporting as much.

“Roger,” Stimwell replied. Charlie squad was filing into the building now. “We tagged the guy who got Chen, but he got down that rathole. Our man must be down there.”

Lieutenant Fae and Alpha squad arrived a few minutes after them. “What’s this?” she asked. “Why’s there a building at the bottom of a strip mine?”

There was silence in the room.

“Armor bay,” Sam offered.

Fae’s head spun about. “A tank bunker with no exits?”

“Sealed or poured over, ma’am. Or hidden. But this elevator is here for a reason, and we don’t see any doors large enough to justify an elevator this size. Which means the doors were hidden or closed up permanently.”

“Roger. So we think Kaiser might be in an armory down there.”

Sam put some pieces together.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s dangerous, but we should go right now or not at all.”

“Elaborate?”

“The two shooters they posted here were a delaying action. They have something in that armory they began preparing when they marked us inbound on the King.”

If Fae recognized what Sam was implying about the OpFor’s ability to track their drop, she didn’t show it. “Roger, but we won’t rush this. Bravo squad, evac Chen. Regroup and we’ll begin the assault.”

No. Now or not at all. “Ma’am…”

“You have your orders, private. Get to it.”

Fifteen excruciating minutes later, Lieutenant Fae finished reorganizing the slightly depleted infantry platoon for an assault on the elevator shaft. Simple, by the book work: they’d drop a few fragmentation grenades down there, followed by a smoke grenade, and then they’d drop down into it with their thermal scan displays active on their visors. They’d have a clear view of any remaining defenders, and those defenders would struggle to acquire targets in return.

Sam knew she ought to be feeling some sort of awful, sinking pit in her stomach. She knew, in the forefront of her mind, that these old tactics, these millennia-old breaching drills, were poorly suited to anything but, frankly, police actions. She looked over at their kill, the shot and broken body wearing the dull gold fatigues. Outfitted for war. Just a disgruntled miner, sucked into Kaiser’s orbit by his radiating charisma?

Or something more?

“Lieutenant, permission to speak?”

“Quickly.”

“We missed our window of opportunity. We should expect an ambush at the bottom. We should prepare heavier equipment.”

“Can it. We’re not missing our payday.”

“… Understood. Let me go first, Lieutenant.”

Sam couldn’t see most of Fae’s face under the visor, but she could easily imagine her eyes hardening and narrowing. “I told you to can it. Is this a Legionnaire’s honor thing?”

“No, ma’am. I believe this to be a dangerous duty I am well suited to, ma’am.”

Lieutenant Fae looked up at Sam. There was no denying that she was uniquely suited to this duty. Her size alone—”they don’t make ‘em 6’6’’ in New Hope,” Al had quipped—marked her instantly for one of the eponymous peers of the Legion of Peers, an heir to a long and storied lineage of warriors, the product of generations of carefully brokered genetic matches, and a woman terribly out of place in a mercenary company operating four planets outward from the Legion’s home world. In the six months she had been with the company, her icy calm on patrol and her enthusiastic dedication to training, carrying on well after most of the irregulars had headed to the showers in the afternoon, seemed to confirm everybody’s assumptions—and suspicions—about who a milite might be.

Not that she was technically a milite. Her name and bloodline would have entitled her to a proper commission back in the Dominion of the Legion… but for the tiny detail of her exile from the Dominion. Which rendered the whole point moot. If they wanted to think of her as a milite, they could think of her as a milite.

“Fine, if you’ll quit being a pain in the ass about everything,” Fae replied. “Bravo squad does breach. Al and Stimwell do the grenades; Sam hits the hole. Liv and Dan,” she continued, pointing at two of the riflemen from her Alpha squad, “are in after Sam. The three of you tell us what you see and I’ll dispatch Bravo and Charlie.”

A few minutes later, two bangs underlaid by an aural lattice of ping-ping-ping shrapnel impacts echoed up the elevator. A half-heartbeat later, Sam swung herself over the ladder and slid down the ladder poles into the hiss of the smoke grenade.

Her boots hit the diamond-pattern metal with a hollow thump, and she swung her rifle up to ready and turned to get her bearings. Little yellow flecks on the thermal scan showed where the grenades had exploded and the shrapnel had heated the metal surfaces of the corridor as they struck at deadly speeds. Nothing else was hot down here—so, no human bodies. The pattern left behind by the grenades was enough to help make out the outlines of the corridor. A single wide and tall set of bay doors led to this platform, and the corridor beyond was straight for a short distance before disappearing into the deep purple darkness that lay beyond the thermal scanner’s effective range. The corridor seemed to support two levels of catwalks partway up its height, one about two meters over Sam’s head.

Sam noted the little red pips at the corner of her visor for the visual and magnetic scan modes, indicating those the scanners’ filter readings were too homogenous: that is to say, it was too dark in there for visual light and too uniformly metallic for a useful magscan, so thermal was probably the most useful scan. On a hunch, however, she flipped to magscan.

And then she threw herself desperately against the left wall of the corridor, taking cover behind a support column for the catwalk above.

“Sam to Alpha lead,” she shouted, as a menacing hum emitted from further down the corridor. “Delay assault!”

“You’d better not be fucking with me, private,” Fae replied over the radio.

Metal pounded on metal down the corridor.

“I’m damn well not, ma’am,” Sam snarled, unable to contain herself in the urgency. “Contact, one full squad of battle armor, dead ahead on the hallway.”

“What the—” Fae’s reply was cut off by the roar of rifle fire as four huge guns let loose in the corridor. Sparks rained down as the big bullets slammed into the column and then ricocheted haphazardly about the corridor. The rush of expelled gasses and a heavy sliding noise at the back end of each booming report gave away these guns as large, armor-mounted recoilless rifles, stabilized by the ejection of gaseous countermass and cycled by ponderous electrical autoloaders. “—ack up here, NOW!”

“Negative, Lieutenant,” Sam said. “They won’t miss me on that ladder.” She lowered herself to one knee, altering her target profile behind column in case a round got through it. One, two, three, four, five…

The hallway filled with noise and sparks and death. They had failed to hit Sam again. She had been lucky—and she was getting sick of having to be lucky.

Seven or so seconds to make a move. Sam looked up. The catwalk? A beam had been left dangling by the last assault. That was it. But she was running low on time…

She had an idea, but she had to get lucky one more time. Judging from the way the thudding footsteps were getting closer, there was only one more time to get lucky.

She ripped a grenade off of her belt and hooked a finger through the pin. Three, two, one…

BANG. Metal slugs danced about the hallway, but, for one last time, none slammed into Sam. But the column shattered, spraying shards of brittle steel toward the service elevator, and metal groaned above her.

Sam hurled the grenade down the hall at the hulking yellow-orange blobs in her scanner, subtle irregularities in the neon-yellow magscan rendering of the corridor. It landed at their feet, and she crouched behind the stump of the column as the catwalk sagged lower toward her.

One… two… three!

With four seconds left before the next volley, she swung herself up onto the sagging catwalk and scrambled further up. Then, right before the volley was supposed to go off, she flattened herself, and the grenade exploded in a gout of heat and flames. It would singe the paint on the armor, or, at best, maybe knock one on its ass. But the heat of the grenade’s explosion, right in their faces, would overwhelm their thermal scanners, if only for just a moment, and by the time they could see again…

Sam was two meters above them and ten meters behind them, pounding farther down the corridor and around a corner.

---

Fae’s voice came in weakly, struggling to tread water over a great ocean of static.

“Like I’m saying, Sam, I can’t come down there and get you.”

“I understand, Lieutenant. I’m not asking you to come get me. I’m advising to make an assault in order to fulfill the contract, or else evacuate and leave me behind.”

“Think past your damn bravado for a second, milite. Just sit tight. They need to surface at some point. You evade them, or surrender if you need to, and we’ll bait them out to attack.”

Sam shook her head in the darkness of this forgotten service corridor, barely more than a duct between two corridors accessible from the uppermost catwalks. “Negative. Our enemy is military. We do not benefit from ceding to them the tactical initiative.”

“But you want to assault them? Against battle armor?”

Sam sighed. “Don’t we have naval lasers aboard the King? If I can activate the elevator…”

“Out of the question.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. I’m not taking a risk like that. With you or with your platoon mates.”

“We’re taking a greater risk by sitting on our haunches,” Sam said, as evenly as she could. Her chin and hands trembled with the effort of restraining her frustration.

There was a brief silence. Then, Fae said, “Sam, evade them. We’ll get them topside and cut them up. Fae out.”

Sam resisted the urge to slam her fist into the corridor wall—her enemies could be listening—and instead shook her empty hands lamely as if that would whisk the anger off into the stale air.

She looked left, looked right, sighed, raised her rifle, and tiptoed down to the left.

---

Sam crept low along the upper catwalk. As tempting as it was to peek over and get eyes on the ground, her ears would do a fine job, and they wouldn’t risk giving her away.

She followed this corridor—perpendicular to the one that led to the service elevator—to take her deeper into the complex, away from her searching enemies. It went for a fair distance (100 meters, Sam guessed) before the catwalks terminated in rails. The walls of the corridor were lined with flat lifts, three on the left, three on the right, and three at the terminal wall of the corridor. The lifts had been summoned to different levels, seemingly at random.

The nearest lift was on the level of the catwalk below. Sam stopped and listened to the silence for a beat before peeking over the side. With all clear and quiet, she mounted the nearest ladder and crept down to the lower catwalk.

The lift surface was dusty—these lifts hadn’t moved in untold years. But the doors that the lift had risen to all those years ago were open. Sam peeked inside.

She froze.

A few seconds later, when she was satisfied that fire and death would not claim her, she stepped inside.

Two steely humanoid forms, two-and-a-half meters tall from heel to helm, were harnessed to the wall. They were damn ugly things, all boxy volume, welded plates, and sharp corners. EAP conduits—artificial muscles—ran alongside bundles of cables at the calves and down the upper arms. Huge boxy gauntlets were painted with danger stripe and terminated in beefy-looking steel hands with stubby but fully-articulated digits. The integrated helmets had dual, bug-eyed lenses, shielded from a high-power forehead lamp by a brim.

Sam marked them for industrial exoskeletons. Probably mining suits, old, cheap, and long forgotten in this strange underground complex.

But a half-ton of steel was a half-ton of steel.

Sam checked the corridor one more time, and then she ducked back into the exoskeleton bay.

She removed her plate carrier and dumped it on the ground, most of the bits and bobs of her kit going with it. Her grey-green battledress jacket went down next, and then, wearing her cool cotton-blend combat shirt, Sam stepped up to the first of the exoskeletons. She felt around the back for the integral power back and found it, housed in a tall half-cylinder running up the back, something like a giant oxygen tank. She turned a dial and felt the hum of systems coming to life.

Excellent. Still running after all these years.

After giving it a moment to allow the power pack to reach operating output levels, Sam ran her hand along the flanks of the exoskeleton until she found a steel lip on its right side, and she pulled. The chest cavity swung open on a hinge on the left flank, a bundle of tensed EAPs wrapped around a thick steel pin now supporting the huge weight of the front shell.

She backed in, feeding her legs down into the exoskeleton’s legs and pressing her back into the polymer liner. She found the belt of a harness on her left and drew it across her waist just above her hips, feeding it into a receiver in the liner on her right. The harness was a segmented framework of steel, and with a hiss and a click, it pulled tight at the waist.

Sam fed her arms into the suit’s arms, through the banded loops at the upper and lower arms, and found the hand grips in the gauntlets. She gripped them tight and brought them up, feeling the EAP bundles in the arms respond to the movements of her arms, moving dozens of kilograms of steel in each arm as effortlessly as if it were her own skin.

With the right arm, she reached across and pulled the front shell closed, and then she pulled the helmet down over her head.

---

“Sam to Alpha lead.”

“Alpha lead here. What is it?”

“I found an old mining exoskeleton in here. I have it powered up. Moving to rendezvous.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Fae sighed. The exoskeleton’s sensitive radio receivers and excellent signal correction systems relayed it to Sam’s ears with admirable clarity.

“Evade, damnit. Don’t go picking a fight. We want to draw them up and out into the trap.”

“I read you loud and clear. Sam out.”

---

Sam pounded down the corridor, her exoskeleton’s steel soles screeching, grinding, and slamming against the tread-plated floor. She tracked along the right-hand wall, watching branching corridors to the left swing slowly into and out of view, then snapping her head to the right as she tore out into the intersections.

With the unholy sound this thing made at running speed, there was no doubt that her foes had noticed her. The only question was whether her echoing footfalls would give away her exact position or echo deceptively throughout this cavernous complex.

It was getting warm in the suit: the integral power pack felt hot like bricks in the summer sun through the plate on her back, and the EAPs driving the exoskeleton’s arms and legs were likewise warming up to the power coursing through them. Sam felt thankful that the helmet lining had been thoughtfully designed to absorb the sweat on her brow. That would be small comfort, though, if she couldn’t break through quickly to the elevator and had to play cat-and-mouse with the four armored foes. She’d be lit up like a Christmas tree on the thermal scanner.

And then she had another thought: the squad of battle armor that had nearly killed her at the service elevator hadn’t appeared on her thermal scan. They must have planned to hide in the darkness of the corridor, powered down to avoid being seen. A clever little play, made possible by fifteen minutes of prep time. She thought back to the marksman who had nearly killed her. He had set up a firing position on that narrow sill at the top of the ladder, and he had taken Ethan full in the chest at at least 300 meters.

These weren’t a bunch of idiot yahoos with a bone to pick. This was a fighting force. Better than outland pirates; better, even, than most principality garrisons…

She was yanked from her ruminations by an irregularity on her thermal scan. Down the corridor to her right, down a turn she had intended to take, she saw a red blur cross the hallway. She cursed: once again, she had gotten lucky. They were a professional, and they were running to get backup rather than take her on alone. Had she been unlucky, they would have been an idiot yahoo with a bone to pick, who might’ve taken the shot and killed her.

She pounded down the hall as fast as she could, and then she whipped around the corner. Still at a full sprint, she brought her rifle up to level and held down the trigger.

About two thirds of her shots plinked uselessly against walls and another third plinked uselessly against the armor under the red blur. But what mattered was the threat, that one stupid shot would penetrate the soft rear face of a joint and cut a power cable or cooling tube. Her foe turned to take the bullets on their front plates.

Sam charged.

Her lone adversary had time to lift and fire one gigantic slug from their recoilless rifle. As the bore swung up to face her, a void with death at its bottom, Sam said a prayer and lifted her left hand, bracing it against her chest and helmet like a boxer’s high guard.

The concussive bang of the rifle was dulled considerably by the environment seal of the exoskeleton, but a horrid clang and squeal shot through the metal bones of the suit as the slug impacted and skidded along the oversized steel-plated gauntlet. The thick hunk of metal was originally meant to serve as a shield against ejected rock while operating heavy drilling equipment up close. But in a pinch…

The faceless enemy held the rifle level for a beat as the next round began clanging into the chamber on the automatic feed belt, but they realized that Sam would be on them too quickly. They held the huge barrel point-forward to try to spear Sam like it was a lance—or at least blunt the momentum of her charge—but that was a fatal mistake. Sam jammed her right foot into the ground just to the right of the barrel, near the breech, in what would have been an athletic slide, but the sheer weight, angle, and steel-on-steel impact against the corridor floor simply brought her entire augmented mass to a halt.

Then she grabbed the barrel and wrenched it forward.

This was something her enemy wasn’t prepared for. Whoever they were, they weren’t used to CQB in this battle armor—it wasn’t made for that anyway. So, clutching the huge recoilless rifle, they fell forward with it.

Face down on the floor, there was only one way to end it.

Sam balled up the oversized mining gauntlets together and crushed down on the back of the armor’s neck.

---

“I have reached the elevator. The control panel here is either broken, powered down, or locked.”

“Roger. Control station further down, you think?”

“Affirmative.”

“Dismount and come on up the ladder.”

Sam muted her microphone to sigh within the safe confines of the sealed exoskeleton. She switched it back on.

“We can’t abandon this equipment to them. This is our chance to make good on the capture. Our only chance. You want the payday?”

“God damnit Sam.”

“Let me take the opportunity to recon. They’re pulling back; I can take advantage of that. And if they do take a shot, I might survive in this armor. Besides, even if they take the bait on the trap up there, we’ll need to get in to find Kaiser himself.”

“FINE. Don’t come up here, then. I’d rather you not get killed; I don’t want to have to do the goddamn paperwork. But apparently I can’t do anything to stop you. Do your damn recon. Report back.”

“Yes ma’am. Sam out.”

---

The next half-hour of plodding through the complex proved uneventful but enlightening. This side of the complex was a grid network of four north-south corridors and four east-west corridors, each terminating in a roughly square chamber. The uppermost chamber in the east was the elevator; most of the rest of the chambers were wide, tall, and bare, but for catwalks and cables slopping about from the ceiling: Empty armored vehicle bays. The ones that weren’t vehicle bays were multi-tiered armor bays, similar to the one where Sam had found the exoskeletons. These, however, were empty. With the addition of the interior chambers between the corridors, this armory could have stored and staged enough equipment for a full armored cavalry battalion with infantry support. Just two of the bays were closed and locked; the rest were open.

The Kaiser hadn’t holed up here by accident, Sam thought.

The corridor second-from-the-bottom on the west end stretched further into the complex, into darkness.

Sam toggled back on her thermal scanner as she crept down the hallway, doing her best to suppress the footfalls of her suit from “hideous clanging and screeching” to “heavy thumping.”

The corridor terminated at an airtight personnel door in the wall, dwarfed by the size of the steel wall it was set in. Sam flipped her radio to her squad channel.

“Sam to Alpha lead.”

Static.

It was as she had figured; she was too deep for the signal to reach. Sam listened for another moment before flipping the radio off, wrenching with one armored hand on the hatch-wheel until it spun loose, and prying the door open.

This interior hallway was empty, and, as Sam discovered when she flipped to visual light on her visor, wood-panelled and lit by florescent lights set in a drop ceiling. Twenty meters away, there was another hatch-style door, and halfway down the hall on the right-hand wall, a wooden door. The matted carpet was once, as near as Sam could tell, a luxurious naval blue, but now it was visibly moldy, packed down by decades of foot traffic, and tracked over with grime.

Training her seized recoilless rifle at the opposite door, Sam stalked down the hall to the wooden door at the halfway mark. She pushed it open.

Sam’s heart skipped a beat.

This control center was as wide as the hallway it ran alongside. Two rows of instruments and operations terminals, dead and still, ran from the left wall to the right wall, parted by a central walkway of decrepit blue carpet running from the door to the opposite wall. The opposite wall was a wide glass pane, wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling, offering a commanding view of a spaceport launch zone.

There, a Neptune-class assault lander towered 100 meters into the open sky from atop its launching struts. Clouds of vented H2 gas billowed about beneath it as it prepared for launch.

One gangway was still attached to an open hatch on the dorsal side of the winged monster, just off-center from where Sam was facing. At its base, through a momentary part in the clouds of H2, Sam caught a familiar glint of steel. She switched to thermal scan. Not far from the liquid fuel engine nozzles beneath the craft, shrouded in a shifting cool blue haze, there stood three orange blurs, holding steely recoilless rifles.

A delaying action! This launch sequence began hours ago and they’ve been stalling this entire time. How soon…?

Sam glanced back up at the Neptune. Four shallow-domed turrets clung to this side of the ship, spouting paired barrels of various shapes and sizes. That was probably six laser weapons and two naval-grade autocannons that could be trained on Sam if she gave herself away here. This exoskeleton might—might—withstand a brief flash of energy from one of the mounted lasers. But the autocannons were certain death… and a closed casket at the funeral.

The defensive armament on the vessel alone outgunned the entire Dread Fist Company at full strength, to say nothing of whatever might be inside. Kaiser was no cornered rat. He was a power unto himself, and wherever he was preparing to go now…

… Didn’t matter as much as the fact that he was getting away. There was only one thing to do. Report.

Sam crept forward, keeping low and as quiet as she could in this clumsy metallic second skin. She found a terminal that had a familiar, friendly layout of dials and and spectrometers: the communication operator’s desk. She felt around for a switch or a power indicator to try to get it enabled on primary or backup power. If this fed into a transmitter/receiver somewhere up high, maybe it could reach Alpha lead…

Sam saw an evil glint out of the corner of her eye, and she ducked.

A glassy crack rang out into the room as a large-caliber slug punched a hole in the reinforced windows of the control room.

Sam lay flat for a second, holding her own huge rifle close. She wasn’t dead yet. And because of that, some things were beginning to make more sense.

She rolled the cumbersome suit over until she lay supine in the central walking path, her steel feet framing the Neptune. She clutched the recoilless rifle. When she had stolen it from her fallen foe in the armory, she had been relieved to see that it was only partially integrated with the battle armor. It had its own trigger, handle, and receiver; the only thing that was truly integral to the battle armor was the power for the round-cycling system and the ammunition storage.

And so she had taken it, knowing that she could operate it, but with one severe drawback. Every shot would count, and after every shot…

She contracted with her EAP abdominals until she was sitting up in a half-seated position, aiming down the sights of the rifle, an optic tube fixed to the receiver at an angle. She snapped to a target, finding a blocky, menacing steel helm under the crosshairs. She squeezed the trigger and heard the boom fill the room behind her. There was another flash and movement of steel as the figure dropped out of her sights.

Without looking to see what had become of her target, she rolled back to prone, just to be in a different place, and she reached for another round in the exoskeleton’s upper arm storage block. Without the benefit of her foes’ battle armor ammunition feed systems, she was forced to manually breech load every shot she wanted to take, like an ancient terran line infantryman.

A line of one, Sam thought bitterly.

She held the breech open with the stiff, augmented strength of her metal arm, she fed the round in with her other hand, and she released the action, which snapped itself shut like a slamming truck door.

She rose to one knee behind one of the instrument consoles and brought her rifle to ready over the top, searching for a target at the foot of the Neptune.

There were none. The launch pad was clear. The Neptune hatches were closed, and the gangway was separating.

Uh oh.

The swirling, vented gasses on the launchpad puffed outward suddenly, and an eighth-second later, a deep, oppressive bass thrumming filled the air.

A second later, the pressure wave blew out the compromised window of the control center.

Sam switched off the exoskeleton’s external audio channels and braced flat on the floor moments before the building came crashing down on her.

---

The gauntlet felt no further resistance as it reached open air.

Sam dragged herself out of the rubble carefully, trying to avoid emerging immediately into a four-story tumble. The mining exoskeleton, having been pressed into service as light battle armor, was finally getting a chance to excel at its original purpose: protecting its operator in the case of an unanticipated tunnel collapse.

The Neptune had taken off. Kaiser had gotten away. Sam had been spared being crushed by tons of concrete and rebar, but nothing could spare her the crushing feeling of defeat pressing down on her chest. Good merc companies weren’t supposed to botch contracts like this. Good mercs delivered.

Sam hadn’t delivered.

When she could finally see daylight out of her visor—after several minutes of waiting and then digging and crawling—the Neptune was long gone from visual range. The smoke was dense, so she flipped over to magscan to get the lay of the land. The launch gantries and umbilical structures looked a little worse for wear: some of the parts had been blasted away where decades of neglect had weakened their connections. Near a lump of struts and conduits, there was a smaller, shinier metallic heap: a fallen battle armor, disabled by Sam’s single shot from the control center. If the operator had survived the rifle fire, they had been crushed and incinerated by the energy of the launch.

Sam half-scrambled, half-climbed down the ruined face of the building. It, too, had been ill-maintained over the years, and the breach in the control center window had been the final insult to its integrity. The launch had devastated the entire wing of the complex. As Sam put her steel feet down on the concrete launch pad, she began to wonder how she could get back into the armory wing, which seemed like the surest way to rendezvous and report.

She flipped open the box on her flank and fiddled with her radio controls. Maybe with the Neptune airborne, the rest of the company might have changed their plans. If they had taken the King up, maybe she could reach them, and finally, report.

What would she say? What should she have done better? Could she have presented a more attractive target, to bait the Kaiser to retain more forces and keep the Neptune grounded? Or would that have freed up the Neptune’s weapons, which had been locked during the final launch sequence? Could she have pressed Fae harder to begin the assault fifteen minutes earlier, to defeat the armor squad before they were ready and seize the launch pad?

Was this on Dread Fist Company leadership? Their intel was sparse and they had completely failed to pursue more, before and during the operation. And their tactics were archaic. Breaching with rifles and grenades might have bagged them their marks back during the Jan-10 War, but it wouldn’t work now. The Legion had changed the face of infantry combat with their power armor, and the company needed to catch up or perish.

But wasn’t that too easy, just to blame them? Sam had been heedless, perhaps; reckless in her rush to prove to her leaders that aggression and initiative would win the day. Had her mistakes ultimately brought them failure?

As she thought ahead to the bitter taste of the after-action report, she rotated the radio channel dial one tick at a time. A procession of differently-textured whines and static blankets cycled through her ears, until, suddenly, a crystal clear signal came through.

“… We lay down our lives for Volga. Will we go silently?” A chorus of voices could be heard shouting “No!” in the background. “No. Our hand has been forced. Our hand has been forced. We’ve done all we can, for so long, but the powers that be would not tolerate it. Would keep us down in this anguish, for years, for centuries. You understand what I’m saying. But now I will not tolerate it. I will not give up my dignity, and neither will you. I know you won’t.”

Sam frowned. She considered what she knew about Kaiser. In the company briefing, back in the wood-panelled meeting room at HQ that smelled like sour cigarette smoke, they had put up a slide with Johan Hect’s New Hope contract passport on the left and some terse bullet points on the right. His ID listed him as tall and heavy, 191 cm and 95kg. His face was round and slightly flabby, but with an oddly prominent, taut chin. His eyes seemed to smile, even twinkle. It was an odd image to try to comport with the thin, sandy voice—it must be his, right?—being broadcast now.

He was supposed to be given to narcissism and ambition, having defected from the Fetesti-Mare principality militia with a large fraction of his company to set up a half-mercenary, half-bandit gang headquartered half the world away, on this remote island of Resmond. Was that what she was hearing now? Narcissism and ambition? Sam struggled to fit the ideas together.

What she could certainly understand was an Neptune-class orbital assault ship, crewed by at least three dozen and capable of transporting a full-strength armored battalion.

Her contemplations were cut short, however, by the squealing of metal bearings and springs. A large metal door was sliding open, revealing a bay in the wall to her right, about 300 meters across the expanse of concrete and debris.

Worse, the squealing wasn’t actually caused by deteriorating ball bearings or hinges. It was too clean, too even, too keen.

It was the squeal of a fusion engine coming online.

“This won’t be our legacy, no. But it is a step—a step toward that legacy. One foot in front of the other, on the path of…”

Sam slapped the radio receiver off and sprinted for the nearest cover, a crumpled gangway. As she neared it, the walker stepped out of the bay. Once it had cleared wide of the metal doors, she could make out its magscanned form in oranges and reds against the green backdrop: eight and a half meters tall, a lean, wide, beak-like torso mounted atop a pair of reverse-jointed legs. A Fusilier, Sam knew immediately. Two boxy appendages bracketed the torso, giving this machine away as one of the variants that mounted a pair of ordnance launch pods. A barrel spouted from under the metal beast’s chin, probably a laser weapon or a machine gun for secondary armament.

Why did they leave it and its pilot behind? Had they run out of room? Did they intend to hold this complex with a garrison? Did they just want to bloody the mercs on their tail?

With the analysis and calculation run as far as they could, Sam had a moment to feel the surge of terror and adrenaline. Right now, it was just her against 30 tons of high-tech weapons and malice.

Then, with her heart pounding against her armored chest, she left her cover and sprinted for the next lump of scrap, ten meters to her right.

The walker seemed to snap to attention, its torso tracking Sam’s movement for the two seconds she spent exposed. Sam noticed a strange, intense rippling pattern in the magscan and a violent hiss by her feet.

She threw herself down behind the heap of fallen trusses, slamming her steel back against it and breathing hard. That’s when she realized what the magscan pattern and noise were: the Fusilier had taken a shot at her! That barrel on the chin was a laser weapon, which had melted steel and pavement not a full meter behind Sam and to her left as she ran.

Lucky, again. Just a few moments of angle closer and that laser could have bored into her chest and cooked her in her armor. Or taken a leg off below the hip. Or…

Sam shook her head. What was important is that she knew now: one infantry laser. Now, were those missiles or rocket pods?

She turned around, searched the fallen trusses, and found an angle to peek through the tangle of steel without exposing herself too much. The Fusilier was thumping around, circling, forcing her to move soon. She couldn’t quite make out the magscan silhouette well enough, but she had a guess…

Sam sidled around, keeping the mass of metal between herself and the stalking battle walker. One, two minutes crept on, as she kept herself out of the line of fire. The Fusilier drew closer, hesitantly. The pilot was probably taking care not to let Sam surprise them and claw her way onto the walker’s frame: a risky pain in the ass for the Fusilier, even if it would win an engagement like that nine out of ten times.

Sam stopped and flipped the visor to visual light, peeking through the trusses.

The pods on the side… three tubes each, meant for narrow, long missiles.

Long-ranged missiles! Meant for indirect fire, but can be guided by the walker’s own sensors in a pinch…

She ducked back down. One infantry laser and two guided missile launch systems. If she stayed in close, she’d have a hole burned through her body sooner rather than later. But if she ran out of the laser’s effective range, all it would take is one guided missile out of six to cripple her exoskeleton or kill her outright.

Unless…

She slid open the breech of the rifle a few centimeters. The brassy round with its perforated cartridge lay menacingly in the chamber. She let it clack shut.

Sam wheeled out around the truss, aimed, and fired, like an action hero with no regard for her personal safety.

The Fusilier winced as the round ricocheted off its canopy. A scuff—not even a puncture or a crack—was all that marked the round’s passage across the armored viewport.

But by the time the pilot had recovered from their own reflexes and brought the machine’s weapons back to bear, Sam had already pounded tens of meters worth of pavement away from it. She was safely behind an upturned service vehicle before the walker could trigger another salvo of deadly heat and light from the laser cannon. She had reset the distance between herself and the bird-legged beast.

The Fusilier began its slow spiral in toward the service truck, again, circling to force Sam to scramble awkwardly around it, closing to ensure that she could not do so forever. One foot in front of the other, it closed in, laser cannon trained on the vehicle, ready to snap to one side and terminate its target.

Seventy seconds later, it stood directly over the service truck. Its quarry was no longer there. It stared hard at the ruined vehicle beneath it for a second. Then, the pilot probably switched from magscan to thermal imaging, then from thermal to visual light. That’s when they would have noticed the discarded exoskeleton lying in a heap of parts by the truck’s cab.

Sam, meanwhile, was two hundred meters away, the distance growing with her every stride.

It was a long shot to hit such a small target with a laser, but not for a guided missile salvo. But by the time the pilot had primed a missile to fire, they had realized their error: now that their target was dismounted, its signature was far too weak for a lock.

Sam made it the last hundred meters to the walker bay and the tunnels within, and the Fusilier watched her go.

Table of Contents

• Prologue
• I: About the Author
• II: Self-Directed Study
• III: On the Perturbations of the Measurements of the Arc of a Uniform Body
• IV: Our Noble Quest
• V: Appointment
• VI: Apostate
• VII: The Halls
• VIII: The Crown and Clasp
• IX: Friends in High Places
• X: Visions
• XI: The Heart of the Matter
• XII: Eastward
• XIII: The Delegate
• XIV: Initiation and Inquiry
• XV The Sword
• XVI: Lucid
• XVII: The Mysteries
• XVIII: The Acts
• XIX: The Evil Queen
• XX: To Be Honored
• XXI: Epistemology
• XXII: The Watch
• XXIII: The Law of the Storm
• XXIV: Communion
• XXV: Valor
• XXVI: Theophany
• XXVII: Hierophany
• XXVIII: Bliss
• XXIX: The Lady
• XXX: The River of Faith
• XXXI: Realm of Thought and Will
• XXXII: Sword-point
• XXXIII: Communion
• XXXIV: The Wizard and the Evil Queen
• Appendix I: The Plan
• Appendix II: The Crusade

Commandant Rafael Griffon was not quite himself that day, so he plucked two flutes of wine off of the passing tray and handed one to the princess.

“Merci, Commandant,” Anna said, leaning daintily on the marble rail. The two of them stood in the gentle shadows at the margins of the corps de logis courtyard. Beneath the glassed roof of the courtyard, dozens of military men and continental notables milled about, strutting to and fro behind their glittering left breasts, talking of hunting and divisional honors and motor sports. It was altogether too soon for the two of them, a French officer and an Austrian heiress, to escape the burdens of the evening, but it was soon enough for them to create some distance, to enjoy each others’ company just apart from the great peacocking of officers. Here, on the interior side of the colonnade, the din was lower. The murmuring voices and the sweet trilling of the string quartet were all muddled and mixed up together by the time they reached the stairs. The waiter’s footsteps echoed clearly over it at first, but suddenly subsided as he passed out between the columns.

“Je vous en prie,” Rafael replied. “Surely you cannot be so bored already, no?”

“Of course I can be. Why shouldn’t I be?” Anna said, rolling her big, pretty eyes.

And why shouldn’t she be? This was not a party for her; it was an obligation. The visiting President of European Parliament had met with the President of the Austrian Republic and they had chosen Hofburg Palace as the site of their gala in honor of European Security and Unity or some such. Anna surely found European Security and Unity dreadfully boring.

Rafael found European Security and Unity dry at best. But he had something else to be excited about: the President of European Parliament was in mortal danger. If not today, then two days from now, when she would attend the Vienna Opera Ball.

“All of these strapping fellows and all of their stories!” he said. “You entertain frequently here, I am sure, but…”

“And isn’t that the problem?” she said, tapping a gloved finger on her cheek. “A colonel with a fine chin there, a general with a lovely voice there. They all blend together. And besides, most of them have big bellies. And claim credit for things they haven’t done.”

“How should you know that?” Rafael prodded, supposing he knew the answer.

“Come now, Commandant, I am not a silly girl. You know they boast emptily. Why should I not know they boast emptily?”

Rafael swirled the wine a bit, mostly out of habit. It wouldn’t do much good for this wine served pinched off in a little flute. Ah, well. He hadn’t taken a flute of wine off a tray for a fine drinking experience, had he? He leaned onto the rail with her. “Of course, yes. You are perceptive, and most of them… there is little to see beneath the fruit salad. Although…”

He tilted his temple a few degrees back toward the courtyard. He scanned the crowd and laid his eyes on one man in particular: a large man in the ash-grey dress uniform of the Bundesheer. He was faced away, now, and his shoulders flared like wings and he seemed to loom over whomever he was speaking to. His wide, bulldog-like head was shaven down.

“That man does not boast emptily,” Rafael said.

Anna laughed a dry laugh with a little twist of disappointment. “Oh, are you a flatterer? Just because he is Austrian…”

“No,” Rafael said. “I am not being a flatterer. That man has seen more action than the rest of the men at this gala combined.”

Anna crossed her arms. “So far as I can see he is just another officer of a peacetime army who shuffles budgets and conducts parades. How should you be able to tell? What action have you seen, monsieur commandant?” She faced him and leaned in. Her smile was foxy and keen.

It was why she had accompanied Rafael here, after all. To learn more about the dashing, mysterious French test pilot of Senegalese descent. Rafael thought fast: he wanted to entertain the lovely young heiress, but he needed to know more about the titan with the major’s golden star on his shoulder.

Why not both?

So Rafael had a sip of the wine and put on his best wolfish smile. “Oh. Well. You are a pilot yourself, are you not?”

“I fly aerobatics, yes.”

“Then I know I mustn’t tell you the lies.”

“So high performance military aviation isn’t so exciting, then?” She looked disappointed.

“Oh, it is. But you know how it is, no? Aviation has its moments of true thrill and terror. But they are hard to explain to someone who does not know what a stall is, let alone a flight envelope. So I have my lies for the occasion.”

“Two truths and a lie, then,” Anna proposed.

Rafael thought. “Ah… hm. This one cannot be told; it is too classified. That one is too long. But… ah! I have my three.

“For one: I was forced to land a stealth craft at Nice Côte d’Azur after the radio transponders failed, and I feared that I would be shot down if I tried to land at a military field.”

Anna nodded thoughtfully.

“For two: for several years I was dead according to the Ministère des Armées after being involved in an incident involving a defector from the Groupe d’Intervention.”

Anna’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps she thought that was the lie?

“For three: I have ejected only three times. Two of the times were from the same aircraft.”

“You mean the same… type, surely?”

“No, the very same jet. Twice. Is that my lie?”

“Oh, you have me all twisted. It is… the first. The first is the lie.”

Rafael smiled. “You are good. What tipped you off?”

“The second is too outlandish; it must be true. And the first is just… not quite right. Your home airfield would scramble an aircraft to confirm you visually before doing something so drastic as shooting a bogey. In peacetime, I mean.”

“It is true. I did choose to land at Nice, though! I was concerned for my fuel situation if forced into unexpected hold.”

“And so you have accomplished your goal,” Anna conceded.

“Which was?” Rafael grinned.

“I must know about the ‘incident.’”

“Ah, but first, I need your two truths and lie. Or perhaps…?”

“Perhaps?”

“Perhaps you might tell me how I might strike up a conversation with that tremendous man we have noticed.”

Anna had been disappointed when she thought that Rafael might have revealed the boring truth of military aviation. But now she looked crestfallen. Her bare shoulders slacked with a sigh and her cheeks tinged red and tilted aside.

“So… no,” Rafael ventured.

“I think yes, perhaps;” she said. “If you are so smitten with him… perhaps I should have guessed that about you dashing aviator types.”

Rafael leaned back and smiled his best enigmatic smile.

“I have heard that man, Christopher, has been to the Catherine Apartment already today. That means he is seeking. But you have heard about the Catherine Apartment, perhaps? Take care that you and he are seeking the same thing. Upended expectations can be so… gutting.”

Rafael wanted to apologize to the darling girl, but the little rhetorical game they were playing just wouldn’t allow for it. Ah, well.

“I am quite sure I will find what I am seeking there. Perhaps you…?”

Anna sighed. “No. I shan’t be interested.”

As Anna von Habsburg gave him the directions to get to the Catherine Apartment, Rafael let his gaze wander back out to the courtyard.

The big man in the grey uniform was gone.

---

From the Domed Chamber, the path was longer down the chancellery wing, but the shorter path down the Leopoldine wing of the castle was full of the state rooms that were so thoroughly occupied with prying eyes this week.

Pass up the stairs by the silver treasury and pass through the hall between apartments. Past the statue of the Alterritter, turn left and walk through the study. Open the door softly and tread quietly through—the floorboards underneath the heavy red rug have that elderly, pliant quality to them that tends to transform footsteps into deep, disturbing whumps.

Emerge into the central courtyard, currently dark and empty but for the looming bronze statue of Emperor Franz I atop his octagonal base. Stay along the north wall. Walk quickly and purposefully along the wall, behind Franz’s back: anybody can be watching and you would much prefer to remain inconspicuous if you happen to be seen.

Enter the south wing: the Leopoldine Wing, the moody late-Renaissance counterpart to the baroque majesty of the chancellery wing, through its northernmost double-door. Follow the hall straight and pass two doors. Open the third, and proceed down the stairs. Move fast and do not get this wrong—the offices of the president are in this hall and the Gardebataillon would not be amused to hear a story about taking a wrong turn from the function on the other end of the palace.

At the bottom of the stairs you will be greeted by the cellarer. He is an old, proud man who wears his suit and tie night and day, and he will very politely ask you what you are doing in the cellar this time of night. Tell him you’ve been told the international collection is worth seeing. He will betray no hint that he recognizes that this is unusual, and he will allow you in. Knock twice on the third barrel of wine as you pass, then open the barrel by using the spigot as a handle.

Having made to the end of the directions, James Reed closed the barrel carefully behind him, and he turned to let his eyes adjust. He was in a tiny hallway, and in one step he was facing a little wooden door. This, too, opened, and a gentle wave of sound buffeted his ears. It was a soft, indulgent polyphony: the tinkling of ice cubes in highball glasses, the sweet whispers and moans of paramours, the warm hum of some American saxophonist and his backing band on the sound system. James closed this door, too, behind him—thickly padded with soundproofing—and picked his way through the densely furnished (and almost as densely occupied) room.

At first, James saw nothing, but he hardly needed to. The room’s essential character was fully embodied in its unique smell: a low rumbling of perfumes and colognes run through with certain common threads of sweet fruit, the tacky aroma of too much sandalwood, and an unmistakable backdrop of human musk.

The full, indulgent splendor of the room slowly revealed itself to James as he became accustomed to the lilting candlelight. The low-piled carpet was nearly invisible under antique furniture, itself nearly invisible under an avalanche of red cushions and throw pillows. The greater number of the sofas and chaises were occupied by men and women in a range of dress and undress. What clothes were visible were lacy or silky. And expensive.

James worried. Did he belong here? Surely not. He was short and had a pale wetness to his constitution and a dim look about him: the kind of Englishman usually found drunk at the back corner of the company Christmas party. Surely, the ladies and gentlemen of the Catherine Room…

“Mon Cheri,” sighed a woman on a nearby chaise. She was supine, resting on her elbows and crossing her arms in a way that framed the tops of her bare breasts. She tossed her hair out of her face. “This one has had too much,” she said, gesturing with her eyes at a blond man in a heap on the floor. He was bound, hand and feet, in neatly arranged leather cuffs, and in the dim light, long, neat marks could be seen burning in a dull red along his back, butt, and thighs. “But I, not enough.”

“Oh! Um,” James said.

“Come! I am aching,” she said.

“I, ah, thought… perhaps I should warm up, first,” he said with a great show of diffidence.

The brunette emitted a silky giggle. “Oh, there is no need for that.” She reached for a nearby tulip glass. As she did so, her hair slid off her bare back and fell in curls down the side of her face. “Unless…” she said, putting her lips to the rim of the glass. “You have someone else in mind.”

James stared.

“You are roux, non? What do you English say?” she said, furrowing her brows in a drunken squint. “Kick for the other team?”

“Ah, um, well… you could say that.”

“You act so embarrassed. It is not necessary.”

“I’m looking for a man,” James said with sudden, uncharacteristic boldness.

“Much better.”

“A large man. Austrian.”

“Oh? Austrian?” The woman’s mouth twisted and puckered with ill-concealed amusement.

“I heard he had come by.”

“Oh. A particular Austrian. Say, Mikolaj?”

“Yes, Renée?” replied a man, emerging from the other side of a wooden divider. He was nude. A military man with a military cut, long legs made for running, and an abdominal display to die for. He regarded James appraisingly.

“Our new friend is looking for a large, strapping Austrian man. Seems like he thought to meet him here.”

“Oh, yes. Large. No mistaking him. Told me his name was Christopher. He came to find another but left disappointed.” Mikolaj stretched up along the side of the divider, loosening out some stiffness in his picturesque arms and legs. “Wouldn’t tell me what he was about, though.”

“What do you mean?” James said.

“Just that he was looking for someone. Not who. Or what.”

“… What he was…” James mumbled, turning the word over in his mind. “Ah. What do you suppose he was looking for?”

Mikolaj laughed, an easy but energetic laugh that set his abdominal muscles and all the things around them bouncing up and down. “A bottom, I suppose, but who’s to say? Men surprise me all the time.” That last remark seemed directed, practically slung at James by the slant of the man’s smile.

“Ah, yes. Maybe I shall see if he comes back,” James said.

Mikolaj shrugged and shared a pitying look with Renée. “See Angela for a drink. Get comfortable, mon ami.”

James obliged, giving a drab-afternoon-in-the-city nod to Renée as he stepped over her sleeping paramour. Many different scenes, all with a certain rhyme to them, played out across the length of the room. It was late in here, and the wreckage of the night’s encounters, as well as their unsated survivors, lay strewn about the dense clutter of lounge furniture, sleeping, indulging, or chatting in low tones. Angela, James guessed, was the nearly-upright woman reclining on an overstuffed chair. She had a yet-unruffled black dress, a matronly look about her, and a formidable bar cart on hand. But James gave her, too, a nod, and bypassed her, seeking the back rooms.

Christopher had given his real name here, then. It seemed odd that he should. Was he totally careless? Or was he a regular here?

James didn’t get much time to mull over the possibilities. He was already at the back of the room, in a corner partly obscured from rest of the apartment and its denizens by a set of dividers and an oddly placed armoire. There were three doors. Bright light spilled out through the crack beneath the leftmost one. A pair of white panties had been slung over the doorknob of the middle one. The right was still, silent, and unremarkable. On a hunch, James lifted the panties off the middle doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open.

It was pitch black and perfectly silent inside. There was a new smell: something sour-sweet. James closed the door behind him—like the door at the entrance to the club, this one was heavily soundproofed—before feeling around for the light switch.

James turned on the lights and frowned at the dead man on the floor.

---

PLAT-PLAT-PLAT-PLAT. PLAT-PLAT-PLAT-PLAT-PLAT. PLAT-PLAT-PLAT-PLAT. PLAT-PLAT-PLAT-PLAT.

The gunshots were percussive and oppressive in this indoor range, even through the standard-issue ear protection.

Sergeant Susanne Kauter of the Gardebataillon watched with her hands clasped behind her back as Lieutenant Bouterk shot his last target at the range. Bouterk always liked to finish his shooting sessions by emptying his last magazine into a fresh target in a near-frenzy. “Real combat conditions,” Bouterk would explain to his subordinates with a flat smile. Meaning, of course, that if he had the misfortune of being caught in a fight with only his sidearm, he did not plan on—or anticipate that he would be capable of—following doctrine about confirming the target, sighting to the center of mass, firing, and reacquiring a sight picture before firing again. Instead, he would be yanking the trigger as fast as he could in the hopes that he could overcome the circumstances with sheer numbers.

He released the empty magazine, locked the slide open, and rolled the target back in. There were four holes in the center of mass and twelve elsewhere on the sheet, leaving one unaccounted for. A proud marksman would find plenty to tut-tut about, but the man’s attitude might just get him out of a jam someday, Kauter thought.

Kauter removed her cap and saluted after Bouterk finished packing up his gear and turned to notice her. Bouterk returned the salute, but his eyes narrowed immediately. “At ease,” he said. The range was empty, but he motioned her out through soundproofing airlock doors and into the antechamber, a little room with four bare compact fluorescent lights overhead, a desk, a water cooler, and two chairs. They both removed their ear protection.

“You came to report, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your shift is tomorrow night. Last night and today, you were to be off-duty.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Never mind that, I guess. What is it?”

“Lieutenant Herst was found dead upstairs early this morning.”

“What?”

“He was badly beaten. He was found in… erm… the Catherine Room. He was murdered.”

The Lieutenant sucked in a deep breath. His bony face, with pronounced cheekbones and a pointed chin, always seemed to have a look of focus about it, but never more than now. “What’s the reason you’re telling me this? Something is… wrong.”

“Yes, sir. I am telling you because I believe Major Leon is the culprit.”

Bouterk looked her dead in the eyes. “You’re accusing Chris of fratricide?”

“The body was discovered last night. He knows by now. He should have summoned you, no?”

Bouterk said nothing.

“He hasn’t. And… you should see his body for yourself.”

Kauter pulled her phone out of her pocket, unlocked it, and swiped a few times before turning it around to show the Lieutenant.

Lieutenant Bouterk’s eyes bored into the screen for a few seconds, then they flicked back up to Sergeant Kauter’s. “You are sure?”

“Yes.”

“Could it not have been many men?”

“I don’t think so. He was strangled to death, you can see on his neck. Does that seem like a group beating?”

“No, of course not. Not… a… dalliance?”

“Those are bruises and broken bones, not just welts, sir. And Herst is a strong man. Only a man like Major Leon could have done that to him.”

Bouterk shook his head. “Of course. You are right. How did you come by…?”

“I heard from a private under his command. I don’t think they’re all die-hard loyal to him,” Kauter said. “We need to act quickly,” she added, trying to barrel forward past the awkward topic of her possession of pictures of a corpse on her personal phone.

Bouterk took another breath and stood rooted to the concrete. “Yes. We need to get word to Command Vienna that he cannot lead the investigation. Speak nothing to your platoon—you have not yet, yes?”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Good. We need to wait for Command Vienna. I will be sure they are fast. I promise not to keep your men in the dark for long.”

“Thank you, sir. Will you tell the dignitaries? Tomorrow is the big show. The Opera Ball.”

Bouterk thought about this—to his credit. And to his credit, he made the cautious decision. “No. I will arrange for Sergeant Liam and his men to adjust their duty rotations with the VIPs. We can watch without tipping off Major Leon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Bouterk left the little room in a hurry. Sergeant Kauter watched him go.

---

Lieutenant Bouterk slid a pint glass along the laminated table, where it left a beaded trail of sweat. He dealt the cards right on over top of it.

Lieutenant Alexander Sweche picked up the glass and sipped appreciably. “A pint glass? Unusually fancy, Paul.”

“What can I say? I was jealous of the party last night.” The two of them sat alone at a table in the middle of the 1st. Company break room, swallowed by the hum of the ventilation and the buzz of the strips of fluorescent lights set in their yellowing covers.

“And tomorrow night’s,” Sweche added.

They dealt a few rounds of rummy. Bouterk was playing better than usual and Alex worse.

Halfway through his second beer, Alex frowned.

“You’re good company, Paul, but I’d rather be at the opera.”

Bouterk had to laugh at that. “Aren’t you on duty for it tomorrow night? You get to go.”

“Yeah, but…”

“It is more than most people can say.”

“But I’m on duty,” Sweche moaned.

“And if you weren’t you would never be important enough to go to the Vienna Opera Ball, Lieutenant. Take some pride in that,” Bouterk said with a smile, one blended from mirth and amusement.

“Bah.” Sweche drank.

“You are a handsome man, Alex. You will find yourself a good lass.”

“I live in the barracks, Paul. Don’t… tell me you’ve forgotten what it’s like.” Sweche’s vowels were already flattening, his tongue starting to trip over consonants. Bouterk carefully maintained his smile.

“I have not forgotten. I know I married early, but it is not the only way. Just remember… the debutantes are all very pretty, and all very needy. You will find a good woman, not a needy one.”

Bouterk raised his glass.

Sweche raised too. “To Mary, you lucky bastard,” he said, toasting to Bouterk’s wife.

“To you,” Bouterk added.

“Me and my wife, duty,” Sweche said. “Or maybe I am Chris’s, is that it?” Sweche drained his glass, and Bouterk offered the rest of his can.

“Chris has his own wife,” Bouterk said. Now was the time; he’d waited long enough. “Say, is he in his office tonight? I know he is on duty tomorrow, but you know…”

“He is, but he is going to go home in a few hours. To his own wife. Not with me,” Alex added, finding the joke much funnier than his delivery warranted. He fell out of his chair laughing.

Then he tried to push himself onto his knees and back on to his chair, but he fell again, his useless arms buckling beneath him.

“Paul, I don’t feel so well.”

Bouterk knelt down and patted Sweche on the back.

“Sorry, man, you’ve had too much to drink. That was my fault, I think. Bad to do the day before a duty.”

“It was just two, wasn’t it?” Sweche stammered.

“Was it? I wasn’t counting,” Bouterk mused.

---

The view of the winter sunrise over the Danube from Major Christopher Leon’s flat was breathtaking. Alina Leon should know: her side of the bed had the better view, and it was taking what little breath she had left.

Today, the view was better than usual; the sky was bright and clear and the sun poured in through the blinds that Chris had just opened. Even so tiny a gesture—a tug of a beaded chain—looked impressive when it was Chris doing it, the atlassian array of muscles in his back all united in every motion.

The room opened up with light, prying a soft moan from Alina’s lips. Chris glanced her way.

“Come back,” she pleaded.

“I’m late,” he said.

“No you’re not.”

Chris sat on the side of the bed by Alina, facing the window. She began tracing a finger along his side, following a taut oblique.

“Later than I would like,” he said, still looking out.

He had been preoccupied with the window, both late last night and early this morning. The view of the skyline that rose over the east side of Vienna was charming, and of course the sunrise couldn’t be missed, but Alina had seen that Chris seemed to be looking mostly at the street that ran between the buildings and the river, at cabs and mopeds and vans and flatbeds skirting around the edge of the crowded district under the lights. At least, whenever he hadn’t been looking at her. It was a busy week, and she had given him a night to remember, to take his mind off it all. And she’d done well. Last night, as she’d straddled him, wound her hips around, hugged his neck, he’d forgotten the window. He’d even forgotten his service pistol, the hideous black-and-grey polymer thing, in its holster still belted to his discarded pants. He was ordinarily diligent about removing it, checking it, and placing it at the perfect angle on the bedstand.

It was still there, somewhere in the heap of ash-grey polyester in the kitchen. Alina hoped to keep it that way for just a little bit longer. She slid the covers off and crawled up behind her husband, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her breasts and cheek into his back, searching at his thighs and groin with her hands and fingertips.

“No, I think you would enjoy being later, this once,” she hummed.

“Mm. Maybe I would.”

She swung herself around to his front, facing him, and they fucked once more.

When they were both done, she clung to him, feeling the sweat of their bodies and the moisture between their legs, feeling his weight press her down onto the bed.

And then he got up, and she could do nothing to stop him.

She sprawled on the bed, laying her chin to the side to rest on the sheets and letting her arms lay at whatever angle they may.

Only a few seconds had passed before she could hear the rustle of the pants, the tightening of a belt, and the faint slide of polymer on polymer as Chris withdrew the sidearm—just far enough to observe its loaded chamber indicator—and replaced it. He returned to the bedroom, pants on and somehow restored to their perfect crispness.

Chris toweled off his huge upper body while Alina moped, motionless but for the rise and fall of her bare chest with her breath.

“The ball isn’t for many hours,” she said.

“I have much to do before then.”

“Not that much. Form, check equipment, and off you go…”

Chris shook his head. He was searching for his undershirt now. “More work than you know. And that’s good. A woman so beautiful as you should never need to know work.”

“Oh, I know it,” Alina said, with a big theatrical sigh. She turned her head to stare up at the ceiling fan and hugged herself. She knew it: a woman so beautiful as her should never need to work. But she also knew more about his work than she let on. He was going in far too early for a mission beginning in the dying hours of the night. But how was she to complain at him if she wasn’t supposed to know that? She wanted him here.

She wanted him desperately, urgently, to stay here. For just a few more hours. She needed him here when the police arrived.

Bouterk had called it in, hadn’t he? The police should already be on their way.

All the better if he couldn’t get to his service pistol when they showed up. Was it too late for that?

A thought struck her like a hammer to the ribs. She lay extra still to steady the reverberations. If she showed any sign that her heart had started beating any faster, Chris hadn’t seemed to have noticed. He was watching the street as he buttoned his shirt, straightened his epaulets, affixed his cords.

“Do the big wigs in command, do they know how hard you work?” she asked.

Chris paused to smirk knowingly at his wife. “Of course.” He turned back to the street, tying his tie. “Command Vienna knows I’m the right man for this job.”

That was just what Alina had been fearing.

---

Not every room in the Vienna Opera House is resplendent, but every room is luxurious.

Lieutenant Sweche’s polished boots clicked the last few steps across the marbled floors of the upper-story hall, and he knocked on the little square wooden door under the graceful arch-work to the office. Freshly showered, freshly shaved, and freshly clothed, he was excited for the big night—who wouldn’t be pleased to be the very image of the sharp military man he was?—but a little anxious. He knew the Major had started early back at company HQ, but he didn’t know for what, and he wasn’t sure if he had been expected to join him: an unusual lapse in the chain of communication for their battalion. But what could be the harm in reporting directly to the operational staging area and headquarters they would be using for the Vienna Opera Ball tonight?

Nobody answered the door, but Sweche figured that was probably alright. He pushed it open and walked in.

A red plush carpet ran out to the marble margins of the little room, which was large enough to hold about six wooden L-shaped desks separated by little half-walls. Great plaster figures loomed on half-size ionic columns over in the corners—Vienna just loves its neoclassical statues, Sweche thought—and the ceiling vaulted up toward the far side, following the rooftop of the building.

In the room, Sweche spotted a fellow soldier, a smart-looking young man in a tan coat-and-tie, black boots, and black gloves. His visor hat, adorned with the Polish eagle, lay aside on one of the desks, and he was chatting idly with a young woman in a red blouse and immaculate black pants. He, Sweche guessed, must be one of the EU men with the president of parliament, and she would probably be a civilian coordinator with the opera or one of the other groups involved in the show tonight. Five other men and women, also civilians, sat at desks, taking phone calls or getting themselves settled for a long night. Strange that none of the other Gardebataillon men were here at the moment.

Sweche caught the eye of the Pole and nodded his greetings. He was walking over for proper introductions when all of his carefully laid plans fell completely to bits.

The door to the adjoining room flew open with a wooden bang and two men wearing ash-grey Gardebataillon parade uniforms stomped into the room. They had rifles slung on their backs, and they were dragging a body by its wrists.

When the body’s legs had cleared the door, they closed the door, let go of the body’s arms, and unslung their rifles.

The body belonged to Paul Bouterk.

He was wearing a parade uniform like theirs. His right arm was bent at a sickening angle below the elbow, his face was pale, and his neck was purple with bruising.

He had been strangled, and Sweche knew by whom.

“Nobody enters or leaves. Nobody speaks of this,” one of the men said. He scanned the room and frowned. “Keep doing your jobs over the phone, but only in German so I know what you’re talking about. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

Sweche stared at the body. His body trembled with a rage, one that threatened to seize control, like it was not his own. Not Paul. He had just seen Paul yesterday. Paul was too good a soldier. Too good a man. To go out like this? Sent up by one of his own?

“Damnit,” Sweche said. “Let me through. I’m with the Major. Where’d he go?”

The two soldiers shared a look. The one on the left shifted his hands on his rifle, his finger fidgeting along the top of the grip near where the safety selector was. Not a good sign, Sweche figured. The man glared back at him and said “we’re with the Major. This doesn’t have anything to do with you, Alex. Just forget about it and don’t make this hard.”

Damn it all, Sweche thought. Maybe he wasn’t in with the Major like he thought he was.

The soldiers exchanged words, and the soldier on the right stepped forward. He gestured at the Pole and Sweche with his chin, rifle at the ready. “Your sidearms.”

Sweche exchanged a look with the Pole. The man was furious, his fists, arms, body, legs, jaw, and brows all clenched with rage. But they both knew their odds. Two sidearms tucked in two holsters were no match for two rifles in the hands of watching soldiers. Their eyes met, and a tiny bit of meaning passed between them, over that strange connection between complete strangers.

Both of them surrendered their service pistols stiffly but without a fight.

As they did so, all of them in the room became aware that the dull din from down the halls was quieting.

The show was beginning.

The civilians sat nervously down at their desks, eyes searching the room for any sort of relief or comfort, unsure if they should, indeed, continue to work their phones and coordinate their colleagues. Most of them seemed to look to the woman in the red blouse, who herself seemed to watch the Pole carefully. The Pole stared daggers at the sentries.

Sweche knew what was coming next.

There was a tight, loud drum roll on the snare, a tiny hiss reverberating down the halls from the theater. The man who had just taken the handguns had his back turned.

There was a quarter-note rest.

In one smooth motion, Sweche stepped aside, putting the back-turned soldier between him and the one at the door. He swept the hem of his dress uniform coat up and out of the way, and he drew his concealed handgun and aimed it.

There was a cymbal crash as the chorus entered in the key of F major. Sweche squeezed the trigger and fired. He aimed, squeezed again, and fired. The two men fell dead.

There were shrieks of surprise from the civilians—even the Polish officer had started with the suddenness—but over the percussion and the chorus, Sweche figured—hoped even—that the ball attendees may not have noticed. He ran forward to check the bodies, ears ringing. All three were dead: Paul and the two traitors.

Amateurs, Sweche thought. Shouldn’t double-dealers like them know to search for concealed weapons?

“You, soldier,” he barked. “You’re PESCO? EU?”

“Yes,” the man replied.

“Are they outside? Get them in immediately. The VIP is in danger.”

The Pole did not waste any time on the reply; he was already at the phone, and in two heartbeats he was shouting orders into the receiver.

“And you, miss,” Sweche continued. But the woman in the red blouse was already on her phone herself, waiting for her counterpart to pick up as she swiped madly at the tablet on the stand in front of her. “You have security?” She met his eyes and nodded. Already working, then.

The slow, hymn-like National Anthem of Austria was echoing down the halls. That meant, of course, that the President of Austria was entering his balcony to view the ball. Had the President of European Parliament joined him? Would she be waiting for the European Anthem to be played? Surely not; surely decorum would not have her enter after him. Damnit, Sweche, he thought at himself. No sense trying to guess at when Leon would strike. What was important was getting there as soon as possible.

He ignored the standard-issue handgun he had just surrendered—he disliked that blocky, ugly thing anyway. His snappy little concealed handgun would be just as useful. Which was to say: not nearly as useful as a rifle. But Sweche groaned inwardly as he seized one of the dead men’s rifles. The Gardebataillon still paraded around with these huge cold war-era battle rifles, long and ungainly, complete with extra heavy wooden stocks lacquered to a shine. It was not the ideal weapon for a dead sprint into a close-quarters fight.

Sweche released the magazine and checked its top. Brassy rounds glinted up at him. Large ones. He reseated the magazine and charged the rifle. For all its flaws, it would certainly suffice to shoot a big man dead.

“You have two minutes,” he shouted at the room. The Polish soldier and the event coordinator nodded, still bent over their work. Sweche hoped dearly that two would be enough.

He had one last order of business, just in case. He fumbled around the neck of the dead man he’d just looted the rifle from, and he pulled up a dog tag. Corporal Karl Byllack.

Sweche snatched the tag off the chain, jumped to his feet, and burst out into the hallway.

It was empty out in the halls. As he pounded closer, the full, reverberating splendor of the chorus resolved into something audible. Mutig in die neuen Zeiten… The third verse was beginning.

Sweche slowed his gait ever so slightly and checked forward and backward. There was nobody in this stretch of hallway, only warm, dimmed lanterns and baroque golden filigree on the walls. Now was as good as any other time. It was no longer useful to be Lieutenant Sweche.

Lieutenant Sweche stopped running. He took a deep breath, shut out the world around him, and mentally touched a deep, dark place inside himself.

The person who emerged on the other side of the hall, wearing the Gardebataillon uniform and lugging the battle rifle, was not Lieutenant Sweche. He had never been Lieutenant Sweche. He was now a man who bore the features of Corporal Karl Byllack.

Byllack turned the corner into the lobby. He pushed a startled—and then audibly terrified—usher aside, also throwing down the velvet rope to the balconies and starting up the stairs. Why hadn’t the honor guard posted anyone here at the foot of the stairs? That could only mean…

There was a brief applause from the auditorium as the Anthem ended and Byllack crested the final red carpeted steps. There, in the middle of the hall, he spotted the backs of two more ash-grey soldiers, dwarfed by the man they flanked. Major Leon. They were taking the last steps to one of the central balconies. Major Leon was reaching for the door handle.

The timpani and strings began thundering the opening to the European Anthem: Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, the mighty paean to worldly unity.

“Major!” Byllack shouted. He just needed to stall. One more minute and maybe he’d have enough help to bring Leon in alive. “Major! Stop!”

Major Leon turned. The choir within the auditorium erupted into the first verse.

Freude, schöner Götterfunken…

“Why have you left your post?” Leon growled.

“It’s urgent, sir; we’re blown. We need to leave.”

Tochter aus Elysium,

Leon’s great nostrils flared, his fists clenched. “You know there is no turning back. We die for the glory of His Majesty.”

His Majesty? What? “But sir, wouldn’t it…”

Wir betreten feuertrunken,

“Are you having doubts?” Leon’s eyes narrowed.

Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!

Byllack raised his rifle, and then all Hell broke loose.

Leon was ready for trouble, and he was fast. As Byllack brought the rifle to level, Leon took two steps forward and seized the barrel shroud, wrenching it forward, bringing with it Byllack’s body and face into a painful union with Leon’s balled fist. Byllack rolled onto the ground, disoriented by the force of the blow and grasping at his fleeing consciousness.

Just then, Leon’s compatriots began shouting. Byllack became distantly aware that a commotion had followed him up the stairs.

A rainbow of dress uniforms, medals, and cords, bearing an armory of international rifles—four men? Ten men? Byllack wasn’t sure—was storming up. Just then, rollup metal gates clattered down across all of the balcony doorways, barring access to the auditorium. His friends—or Sweche’s friends, he supposed—back in the office upstairs had come through.

As the situation devolved into a scrum between EU guardsmen and Leon’s thugs (Wem der große Wurf gelungen…), Byllack hauled himself to his feet and charged out of it, further down the hall. His vision still swam and head still throbbed with pain… he didn’t see Leon… had he…?

Byllack turned a corner. Leon was hustling down the staircase toward a side door.

Eines Freundes Freund zu sein…

Byllack stumbled down the staircase as fast as he could, some distant corner of his mind cursing himself for not being able to get down faster without simply falling the rest of the way in his current state.

Mische seinen Jubel ein!

The mighty surge of the choir vanished as he emerged into the cold, noisy night on Kärntner street. He jerked his neck left and right to search for Leon and spotted him to the left, running north up the street toward the nearest likely getaway—a crowded walking street between two hotels. Leon was about to reach the street, about to start weaving between cars, the distance between him and Byllack a hundred meters and growing. There was only one thing to do.

Byllack knelt, bracing the wooden stock on his right shoulder and pressing his cheek down onto it. He found Leon. He peered through the iron sights. He prayed that the real Karl Byllack, barely five minutes dead, had bothered to sight this rifle correctly. The lights glared in his vision. He felt light-headed, light-minded. This would be a wildly irresponsible shot to take in the best of circumstances…

He blinked and lost Leon.

He looked up. A sea of blue-and-red lights had crashed down on Philharmoniker Street from east and west, bright and pulsing and painful to look into. Byllack spotted Leon taking a swing at the first cop out of his car, laying the man out. But then he himself went down in an avalanche of black pads, face shields, and batons.

Byllack stood. He sucked in a breath. He didn’t have to think long—he knew what he had to do next. He released the magazine from the rifle, ejected the round in the chamber, threw the rifle down, and ran the other way.

---

In a small conference room behind the second-to-last of the eight doors in the backmost hallway of the fourth floor of the fifth phase of a squat office complex surrounded by trees and parking lots in Langley, Virginia, a woman who looked very much like Sergeant Kauter resisted the urge to stand at attention. Patrick Levi came in behind her, closing the door with a soft click behind him and setting a paper cup of coffee from the cafeteria down for both of them. “Sir,” he said, addressing the man at the head of the short conference table. “Do you need more time…?”

“No, thank you. I have the gist,” Deputy Director for Operations John Thule replied. He was tall, shapely, and hard-eyed like so many of the seasoned operatives who had risen to that post before him. His hair was close-cropped, hairline high, holding the line with dignity. He always threw his coat over the back of his chair at the nearest opportunity and always seemed to have his winter-white sleeves rolled up over his elbows. “Have a seat. I’d like to hear it from you while I finish reading,” he said as he continued to scan the report on the table in front of him.

“Sir,” Patrick said, pulling up a seat. The woman who looked like Sergeant Kauter sat, too, and she had some coffee. “Where should we start?” he said.

“The mission, I suppose. Let me make sure I understand it. My predecessor gave the orders.”

“David, right.”

“He was acting on a context that indicated Major Christopher Leon as a far-right true-believer in a sensitive military position. What did he tell you?” John glanced between the two of them.

“He said he had a ‘hunch’ something was coming,” Patrick replied. “But we know what that meant.”

“Right,” John said, alongside a one-beat chuckle. “Well, it’s probably what you guessed. Collections passed along a tip saying that Leon had tapped everything he had for something, and that given the timing of the activities they were observing, that something must have been Mrs. Metsola’s visit to Vienna. Analysis did some corroboration, added what details they could in twelve hours, and got the report straight to David, who put you two on point.”

“Yes, sir.”

John’s eyes returned to the report. “Mr. Levi, as First Officer you have the authority and wrote the report. I’ve been briefed that your duties are… quite broad. Command, strategy, operations, and support. Reading between the lines, your job is to run the mission from here, solo, and to never let anyone else at the Agency know how it gets done.”

“Yes, sir. My job exists so that I’m the only one in Operations who has to know about the ‘network’ I operate. Besides yourself.”

“So you flew your network-of-one…” he looked up at the woman who looked like Sergeant Kauter. “How should I address you?”

“Ms. Nicole, sir” she replied.

“Thank you. Call me John, please.” Back to the report already. “It seems rude to refer to you as Team Seven, Second Officer in-person, but that is how you are described in every report I have seen so far.”

“Standing orders, sir,” Patrick said.

“I’m not holding it against you,” John said with a shrug. “For that matter, keep the report language the same for now. Anyway, Nicole flew directly to Vienna on a provided passport. Booked a Radisson for a few nights. Then attended the Tuesday night gala under the identity of Commandant Rafael Griffon. Hmm.” John flipped back a few pages.

“We had Support make good on a favor the Direction Générale owed us,” Patrick offered. “They secured an invite for ‘Rafael’ for us.”

“Do they know about Nicole’s capabilities?”

“No,” Patrick said. “In the Agency, it’s just you and me and a handful of old hats in Science and Technology. Outside the Agency there’s not a soul. We told the French that I was the officer on point and had them make me a passport and everything.”

“I see.” John flipped forward to where he had been and resumed scanning. “Once there, you engaged in general fact-finding until you could ascertain Major Leon’s disposition. It didn’t take long. How were you so sure?”

Patrick turned to Nicole.

“I wasn’t,” she said, with a pleasant smile.

“Elaborate, please, Nicole.”

“My capabilities, sir—John. Following new leads, pivoting, discarding theories… acting on my feet, in general, is much easier for me than it is for a typical clandestine officer. It just costs me less to get into places or ply people for information.”

John said nothing for a moment as his eyes raked over the next page in the report. “So you adopted the identity of James Reed to gain access to the illicit club.”

“Yes,” she began. “James was a completely manufactured identity. It required no placement work or research for Mr. Levi. No contact with friendly assets or officers. Not even a phone call. Little risk to the rest of the operation. All it cost me was a few hours to follow up on the hunch.”

“I see,” he hummed. “And it proved out. You found the body, identified it as Herst. Given the state of the body, it all but confirmed that Leon had disposed of him as an obstacle to his operation. Then on Wednesday morning you assumed the identity of Sergeant Kauter to report it to Lieutenant Bouterk.”

“Duty rolls confirmed that Kauter was off-duty that day. It is, of course, my highest priority to never, ever show up in the same room as a person I’m doubling.”

John looked up and locked eyes with hers—Sergeant Kauter’s eyes—for a moment. He thought something, then thought better of it, then returned to the report. “And that night you posed as Lieutenant Bouterk in order to neutralize Lieutenant Sweche.”

Patrick leapt in before she could reply. “The assessment that David passed along was that Sweche had contact with most of the same far-right elements as Leon. Reichsbürger types, Monarchicos.”

“Hmm,” John said, eyes on the report. “So you eliminated him with drink. Traditional, in a way.”

“Yes. Vodka was the poison that was on hand. I gave him boilermakers until I was sure he wouldn’t be available to assist Leon for a day or so.”

“Risky. Some men will answer the call anyway.”

“I’ve done it a dozen times. I have a feel for it.”

“If you say so. Wednesday night and Thursday morning you spent as Mrs. Leon.”

“I learned from Sweche that Leon was still in the office, which meant I had an opportunity. I decided to ‘surprise’ Major Leon as he left the Hofburg. The real Mrs. Leon was, per her routine, wintering in Sardinia.”

“The hope was that you would compromise his attention when the Cobra unit showed up at his front door to arrest him. I suppose I can guess exactly what that means.” He looked up.

“Probably.” Sergeant Kauter’s face betrayed no hint of interest for this matter.

John looked back down. “But they didn’t come. Bouterk had reported his suspicions about Leon to Brigadier General Rieger at Command Vienna, and presumably impressed upon him the importance of bringing in outside control, and quickly. That didn’t happen. It seems that Rieger declined to act on Bouterk’s report.”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick said.

“You suppose Rieger deliberately covered for Leon? Might have the same sympathies?”

“We don’t know that, sir,” Patrick said.

“But you suppose.”

“… Yes, sir; that’s my hunch,” Patrick said.

“I think so too. We’ll have Analysis go through it with a fine-toothed comb. Now, faced with this…” John said.

“This was a scramble, I admit,” Nicole said. “I knew that Sweche was out of the picture for at least 24 more hours. So his identity would be safe to use and, we thought, in a good position to get close to Leon. So I reported as him to their operational HQ on Thursday.”

“A scramble only you could have pulled off.”

“If you say so…” sir, she almost added, before catching herself.

“We don’t roll the dice with her, sir. She’s too important,” Patrick asserted into the space. “We can blow an op. The top MEP can die for all we care. Our agent…”

John looked up. Patrick barreled on.

“… is one-of-a-kind. It’s got to be DEFCON 1 before I order her to risk her life.”

John thought, looking at Patrick with his hard, brown eyes.

Silence settled onto the little conference room.

Finally, he said, “Wise. Think hard, even if it is DEFCON 1.”

Patrick and Nicole shared a look.

“I take your meaning, anyway, Mr. Levi. Nicole didn’t roll the dice on your orders—she took initiative in a controlled manner. Sweche turned out to be a dud, but still. The rest is history,” John said, closing the manilla folder. “Leon is in custody and we’ll make sure the Austrians pass along what they get out of him.” As he went to continue, Nicole interrupted.

“Just like that? Bouterk…”

“What about Bouterk?”

“A loose end. A mistake. I didn’t need to risk him to blow Leon’s op.”

John sighed, idly thumbing the corner of the folder. “I don’t see any loose ends here besides Rieger. Would David have given you a hard time about the Lieutenant? Forget it. He died in the line of duty doing the right thing, protecting elected officials from a dangerous would-be assassin. And the good guys won. He has nothing to be ashamed of, and neither do you.”

“…Yes, sir.”

“John, please. Now, one more order of business before I send you home for an afternoon off.”

Nicole knew that Patrick was about to grumble about having work to do, so she spoke eagerly. “What’s that?”

“I would like a demonstration of your unique capabilities. Mr. Levi has briefed me on them. He tells me Science and Technology never successfully figured out how or why you can do this, or if anyone else can learn to do it. But I need to see it to know what I’m getting into here.”

Patrick grimaced a bit, but Nicole just smiled. “Of course. Any requests?”

“Xi Jinping.”

“My standard Chinese is pretty mediocre, but I guess that’s not important. More to the point, these are women’s pants.”

“Ah, I see. Tsai Ing-wen, then?”

Patrick fidgeted in his seat while the woman who looked like Sergeant Kauter closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

The transformation was quick and astonishing. The woman’s facial features didn’t seem to move or shift so much as they seemed to be suddenly different, as though you had snapped out of a daydream and had to remember who you had been talking to.

“Hěn gāoxìng jiàn dào nǐ,” she said.

---

Patrick and the woman who looked like Tsai Ing-wen left the conference room and walked briskly and wordlessly down the little carpeted hall, their shoes thumping on the hollow floor as they passed nondescript doors. They turned right down the main corridor until they reached the elevator landing and then took the elevators down to the first floor.

Patrick and a woman who looked like Eva Green emerged on the first floor and made their way over the tile floors to the secure wing cafeteria. “You’re teasing me,” he complained.

“Damn straight,” she replied.

After grabbing some pre-wrapped turkey sandwiches from the tall display fridge (and a fistful of mayonnaise and mustard packets to try to salvage the dry, sad meat) they went over to one of the break rooms. All were empty: Phase 5 was, unsurprisingly, a bit of a ghost town on a Saturday afternoon. Patrick closed the door, and the two of them picked out chairs by the ping-pong table.

“‘Nicole,’ huh?” Patrick asked.

“What should I have told him?” she replied between mouthfuls of turkey.

“You always told me your name was Miriam.”

“For you, yes. Didn’t seem fair to give him that.”

“What?”

“It’s my name. For you. Or your name for me?” Miriam said, gesturing with the triangular half-sandwich. “You get the point. At any rate. It’s not his.”

Patrick considered this, adjusting his glasses. They were large and thick, the teardrop kind of aviators with two bridges. Miriam had always thought that Patrick could have inherited them from his dad, they were so dreadfully dated. But they worked well enough with his firm, angular chin, wide forehead, and short but perpetually bedraggled hair. And he usually dressed smartly enough—nice navy slacks, crisp long-sleeved shirts—to avoid looking like a terrible dork in them.

“So you give everyone a different name? To use?” he said, finally. “Even when you’re not undercover?”

“Yep,” she said. “With David it just happened to be Second Officer.”

“You never told me. You just told me it was your name.”

“It is, though. Mine and ours.”

“Do you have… a name? The one?”

“Come on now, you already know the sob story, Patrick. The first name I can remember being given is Russell. But I was only ten when I realized the ‘real name’ I had was The Project Mockingbird Subject, and Russell was just what my caregiver called me when I was three.”

“I knew about Mockingbird. I didn’t know about Russell. I guess it didn’t last long.”

“Some of the caregivers couldn’t wrap their heads around calling me Russell when I was presenting as a little girl.”

“Mm.” Patrick wiped some crumbs off his pants as he stood, and he picked up a ping-pong paddle. “Do you have a favorite?”

Miriam smiled. “Miriam.” She grabbed a paddle of her own and took up the opposite side of the table.

“You’re just saying that.”

“Not at all.”

“Now you’re just messing with me.”

“I usually am.”

Patrick shook his head, then served. After they started the first volley, he changed the subject. “John Thule.”

“The new top dog in Operations.”

“That… was much too easy. I didn’t like it.”

“I thought so too.”

“David would’ve given us so much shit for Bouterk.”

Patrick scored the point as he was saying so, and served.

“He would’ve been right to,” Miriam said after returning. “I feel pretty rotten about it.”

“And he would’ve had a lot of questions about the back half of the op.”

“Why not report and extract?” Miriam demanded in an impression of their previous boss, clipped and gruff. “Vodka, of all things? Why risk getting so close to the target? Why not simply dispatch if you were so confident and so close?”

Point to Miriam. Patrick ran his hand through his hair, laughing. “Just like that. And damn if they wouldn’t have all been good questions.”

Miriam served. “Wouldn’t have had it any other way, really. We did our best and he wanted better.”

“Feels ungrateful to be asking for an ass-chewing here, but… yeah.”

“But this John guy. He was… eerily comfortable with… more than just our performance.”

“With you.”

“We had to assure David for three hours that I wasn’t just a prank set up by Director Burns.”

“And for three months that you weren’t going to just turn coat for a million rubles and a kiss. Or yuán.”

Point to Miriam. She shook her head. “And here John is with a ‘good work and I look forward to seeing more of it.’ It’s just not right.” She served again.

“Speaking of more of it…”

“You’re gonna make us work this afternoon? What about boss’s orders?”

“Oh, fine. David wouldn’t have given that to us, though.”

“I’m not above taking advantage of present circumstances.”

“I should hope so; that’s your core job function. Anyway, we’ll regroup on Monday. I have a feeling I know where we’re going next.”

Point to Patrick. “Oh?” Miriam said.

“Paris. I think the stuff about Leon and Sweche came through a guy we have in Paris. He was right about Leon, wrong about Sweche, and didn’t mention a damn thing about Rieger. The Analysis folks are going to get to thinking our friend there is trying to play us.”

“Notre cher ami,” Miriam added. “I’d be pleased to pay him a visit.”

“Glad to hear it.”

It was Patrick’s serve.

“Hey! You!” Yla shouted, climbing the last few steps onto the bridge. The black-clad, helmed-and-visored figure made no reply, continuing only to rest his hands on his shield.

“My friends over there,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder to a little gathered crowd on the hill just down the road, “say you’ve forbidden passage on this bridge. Their bridge.”

“My liege bade me so,” the knight replied. His voice was leaden, his breath hissing through the grate in his helm.

“Your liege, whose heraldry…” Yla made a point of looking him up and down; his shield, his tabard, his surroundings. None bore any charges.

The knight made no reply.

“Well, I’m here for the good residents of Dethersdyll who can’t reach the iron mines just a quarter league behind you. That’s their livelihoods. Their kids start going hungry in a week if they don’t have ore to cart out.”

The knight made no reply.

Yla rolled her eyes, adjusted her belt, and strode forward onto the little arch bridge. The black knight moved like lightning: one moment his hands rested firmly upon the rim of his shield, and the next his shield was on his right arm, and his left was curving upward, whipping a wicked steel blade with it.

BWONG.

“Oh! Southpaw,” Yla said. She grinned at her helmed adversary. For her part, she had needed to make a last minute adjustment to deal with that new bit of information, but she had put up her shimmering shield of force in time and in place. For his part, he was already moving lightly on his feet, shield leading and sword low on his left: he had taken the sudden reprisal in perfect stride, betraying not a hint of surprise.

“I’m crossing the bridge. They are, too,” she said.

He rose the point of his sword in threat.

She whacked his shield with her staff.

“Stop me, eh?”

He gave no ground, remaining on the balls of his feet, behind his shield. He was too smart for the ploy.

“All right,” she said. She held a hand forward and bubbled inwardly with anticipation, feeling the heat rise until… pop.

A surge of flame tore across the bridge and splashed against the knight’s shield. Little wisps of smoke dimmed the sunny day.

The knight waited a beat, tossed his smoldering shield aside with the same motion he made to wave away the last of the flames, and charged, sword high.

Yla gave two paces of ground, then sprung forward and tried to meet his arm with the thick of her staff. But his aim was decent and she caught the blade just above the crossguard, which snapped her staff in half and forced her back. The blade’s foible bit into her shoulder.

The knight, towering over Yla, swung the blooded blade up and back, winding up a killing blow.

Yla pushed down the adrenaline and searched for the wound within her. There it was: the hot flow of blood, the stinging, branding pain, the fire of the fight.

As the knight raised his sword, Yla erupted with fury. There was a flash of light and a crack-boom concussion.

When the smoke cleared, the crowd made out Yla sitting at the apex of the little bridge, waving to them with her good arm.

“It’ll heal,” she said as they huddled around. The shepherd, kneeling beside her, started tending anyway, saying, “aw, none of that. Let us do a good turn, now.”

The reeve turned to her, having just instructed two men to carry the fallen knight’s badly charred body back to the village. “We’re grateful. You mean it when you say it’ll heal?”

“Yes,” she and the shepherd said in unison.

“Good. The Marshall in these parts is putting out for help. Something big going on, we think. I’m sure your aid would come much appreciated.”

“Marshall, huh?” Yla said. “I don’t normally go in for soldiery. Nothing against it, really, but…”

“Oh, the Marshall is good folk, and this certainly isn’t ‘bout guarding the Baron’s privy, if that’s your worry.”

“Sure—ow—sorry, you just caught me by surprise is all. So… something, big, you say? I could do big.”

“Evil’s afoot, ma’am.”

Notes on Oliver Twist

1. Dickens’ prose, his narrative style, is the star of the show. It’s famously circumlocutious—wordy, discursive, full of asides and flourishes. Something that helped my understanding of it was knowing that Dickens himself was a big hammy showman, something I read in this wonderful essay by Ethan Warren. A lot of lurching prose is transformed into sweeping, entertaining oratory by simply being imagined like that—oratory, told with the same sort of gusto as an uncle telling ghost stories at a campfire.

2. The best reading for the story is as a morality play about vice, sin, and temptation. Fagin is the Devil, who tempts and lures his minions to their own destruction with vices (drinking, gambling), threats, and the false brotherhood of sinners (who all turn on each other at the end).

3. The story Dickens tells is one of good or evil that is buried deep in the soul. Once the Good has been corrupted, the stain is difficult, perhaps impossible, to wash out. And then some people (Monks) seem to just be born bad and there’s not much to do for them.

4. The thing is that no characters in this story defy their station. The Good Guys are Good and they remain so (especially Oliver Twist, the little Christ-child). The Bad Guys may sell each other up to the police, but none achieve salvation: they are all swept up in an apocalypse of police raids and mob action in the end.

5. The nature of the story as a morality play is its greatest strength by far—once you see “oh, Fagin is literally just a Satan metaphor,” every turn of the story is read simply as a sort of prediction or judgement on the souls of those within and without Satan’s orbit, and the showy bombastic Charlie-Dick prose ties it all up into a sort of wild preacher-man’s summary of the sordid world around him and omen of the Kingdom Come. It’s cool! HOWEVER.

6. The morality play is also the story’s greatest weakness. Oliver Twist himself is unfailingly good and a little bit heart-wrenching, but he’s also a child, and he doesn’t do anything the whole book but stumble from misfortune to misfortune until a few of the cleverer men piece it all together and help him recover his proper station. We’re supposed to see that he resists the call of evil at all times in ways that others do not (Noah and all the other boys) and that his goodness perhaps radiates from him to touch others (Nancy) but it’s all a little bit thin and dreadful and actually pretty boring to read about. The thing is that if any of the other characters ever gave him a proper chance to escape their snares, he would (indeed, in the robbery scene he is about to attempt to), but then that would cut the story short. So, for the story to function, he’s strung along through miseries straight from page one (and Volume I is particularly awful) through the end of Volume II. He hardly exists as a character in Volume III, where the story homes in on what it does better: vice and sinners.

7. That said, I am also greatly annoyed by Nancy’s character. Her actions only, ONLY make any sort of sense when viewed through the frame of her being the sinner who, at the end of all things, refuses to repudiate Satan (the scene on London Bridge). The diegetic reasons she offers for not accepting offers of help—her “home” is back with them, these people who treat her worse than their dogs, and that she will someday drown herself in the Thames and that’ll be that—are not wholly impossible, but they’re unearned. An abuse narrative would be plausible and interesting but I don’t know if Dickens had it in him to describe the psychology of abuse.

   Like, what the hell does she see in Sikes? That’s supposedly the thing, she loves him, and at the end pleads with him to accept angelic mercy and leave it all behind. Sure. But she spends the entire book in a ball of barely (and sometimes un-) contained nerves, being hit and verbally abused and in return expressing an unending stream of contempt for Sikes and Fagin. She doesn’t evidence any attachment to him! All she ever does is moan about how lowly she is and how ill her employment is, but then she acts like she’s permanently moored to it for no reason! I don’t buy this!

8. This is partly because, great as Dickens is, he’s sort of a dusty old prig the way you would imagine if I said “a Victorian…” and then trailed off looking for you to fill in the blank. The story’s treatment of its characters and setting is racist, misogynist, classist, and unrestrainedly anti-semitic. I mean, to an extent, sure, that’s the era for you, but only to an extent. You really can find authors who wrote in the 1800s who aren’t so, uh… all of that, even if only on a few axes at a time. Mary Shelley! Oscar Wilde! Mark Twain!

9. So, appreciate it as the fire from the un-pulpit, a sermon delivered by the wild-eyed and crazy-haired old coot who himself couldn’t really get on with the Church of England. It’s really quite good and beautiful at that. But know that he’s not holding back, and he’s going to overreach a bit (… a lot) in his grandiose pronouncements.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?”

That was the farmer, assessing Yla’s work in the garden. Currently, that work amounted to a ten yard long trench, separated from the surrounding earth by a gravel barrier and full of rich soil. Down at the far end, a single, sickly, wilting fig tree wavered just inches above the ground.

“No,” Yla admitted. “It doesn’t look like it.”

“You did everything right,” remarked farmer Dovan. “Lotsa work went into that planting. Laid that gravel thick for a nice good barrier. Got the packing just right on the soil. Watered diligently.”

“You pick up a knack for it, right?” Yla asked hopefully.

“No, no. Well, yes. But not this way. You do the planting this well and there’s not a whole lot better to get. You’re just not cut out for this line of work, I wager.”

“Oh.”

“Naw, naw, no need to fret now…”

“Well,” Yla said, “you’ve been kind enough to me. You let me try planting and not a thing has grown. You had me at the goat and she fled from me rather than be milked. You put me to weeding and nothing would come up clean and I had to spend three extra hours digging up the roots. I shan’t waste more of your time.”

“No, no, I think I might know just the job for you,” said Dovan. There was a glint of understanding in his eyes. Yla was afraid it might be pity, too. “Come back here with me.”

They left the mournful toft and stepped into Dovan’s one-room hut. It was a humble living: a handful of pots here, a straw bed over there, and a fire pit in the middle of the room, which would be burning or smoldering the entire winter.

“Now, smoking’s not what we busy ourselves with in spring,” Dovan was saying. “But humor me, miss.”

Yla scanned the hut, looking doubtful. “No meat?”

“No, we won’t hang any meat just yet. Won’t need to, I wager. Just, ah… here.”

Dovan handed her a dry stick, suitable for a drill, and started walking her through it.

“There’s some tinder just over there on that shelf. Grab that. Forget the flint for now, I want to see you do without it. Now kneel down here, set the tinder in this little notch in the log. Good. Now, drill… right, just like that, and…”

There was an audible fwoosh as a plume of fire sprung eagerly from the log at the first twist of the drill under Yla’s hands.

She stared at the bright, dancing little thing. For a few long seconds, its gentle crackling filled the hut and its light filled Yla’s eyes.

“Miss?” asked Dovan.

“… Yes?” replied Yla, distantly. Her eyes remained fixed on the fire.

“Yla, please.”

Dovan waved his hands over the fire and it shrank from him, smoking as it did. It hid, deep in the logs of the pit, glowing embers awaiting their rebirth. Yla tore her eyes from it to look up at Dovan, faintly comprehending that something unusual had just happened.

“You ain’t farmin’ material, miss,” Dovan said gravely.

“I, uh… we were in agreement there, I thought.”

“You were made for something altogether different.”

---

Yla and Dovan, Dovan explained, were kin. Distant kin, but kin nonetheless. One of Dovan’s ancestors, forty-three generations up the tree, was a red dragon. One of Yla’s ancestors, Dovan was sure, was a dragon, likely either a wrathful and greedy red dragon of legend or one of the glittering golden dragons of yore. Fire and fury ran through her family tree.

“Shouldn’t I… we have scales, then? And how…” Yla asked.

“Well, naw. That’s the thing about dragon ancestry. The Eld Folk don’t work quite the same as we mortals.”

“We… mortals,” Yla repeated, her brow furrowing.

“Right. You are one of their mortal heirs. Think of it like a king’s sons. They can stay in the family home and fulfill their birthright as the next king. Or go questin’. Retire to a monastery. Run off with a commoner girl. Some of these sons are more like daddy. They can order soldiers around like daddy, collect taxes like daddy, wear fancy mantles like daddy. Some are… less like daddy.”

“So I can choose?”

“You’re catchin’ on. It’s your inheritance. Make it yours or cast aside. But mark my words: you may choose, but you have also been chosen. Don’t forget that.”

“I’ll always be this way, you’re saying.”

“The lordling who runs off with the serf girl… well, family tends to catch up with him.”

“I think I see,” said Yla. “So… the fire.”

“Not just the fire you set, miss. The heat of your heart does all manner of mischief. Poor figs didn’t take well to it. And you can’t blame little Betty for bein’ a bit skittish.”

“Oh,” said Yla, feeling a little worse for having given the goat the fright of her life. “But you?”

“I’ve had many years to make my way here. If farming is what you really want, farming you can get. But I wouldn’t recommend that for you.”

“No? You seem to like it.”

“It’s a long story,” Dovan mused. “I do. But for a youngster like you, I’d say you oughta do something you’re good at.”

Yla’s gaze drifted back to the fire pit.

---

“Good,” Dovan said, from a cozy distance twenty yards away. “Now this time, where you pushed? I want you to pull.”

“Pull!?” Yla said. She stood, drenching her shift in sweat, across from a mound of earth atop which was mounted a well-singed and still smoking scarecrow. A little column of smoke drifted off over Dovan’s field. “That sounds bad.”

“It won’t hurt, miss. The fire is yours, never forget. And what it will do is… well, you’ll see for yourself.”

“Okay!” Yla turned and faced the scarecrow. She eyed, and then she saw it: what it was, what it meant, what it would ever be. And the fire welled in her heart and belly, it coursed through her limbs, and instead of hurling it forth through the world at the scarecrow, she pulled, whipping with the cords of flame in her body.

Pushing had sent a gout of white-hot flame rushing across the field, doing considerable damage to the scarecrow, not to mention the spring grasses in the flame’s path. But pulling did something altogether different. There was… something in the world out there, near that scarecrow. Whatever it was, Yla’s fire had wrenched at it and dislodged it, creating a void… and a channel. Flames erupted from the base of the scarecrow. The shockwave shook her chest and rang in her ears.

“WOOOOOOOO!” she shouted, as woodchips rained down around her.

“I’ll be damned,” Dovan muttered.

“You were right! I am good at this.”

“You sure are. Take a breather and come over here, miss.”

Yla did so, sitting cross-legged beside the old farmer and former dragon sorcerer. Dovan offered her an apple, which she took. They said nothing for a minute.

“You, ah, like blowing things up, miss.”

“Yeah. I mean… yeah.”

“You can see why that might be worrisome, right?”

“Hmm. I think so. You have nothing to worry about though. I think you know that.”

Dovan frowned. “I do know that. But I can’t articulate how.”

“You trust me,” Yla pointed out. “We’ve spent enough time together. I treat the people around me with respect. I’m good to you, your friends, and your animals. I’d never hurt anyone who didn’t have it coming. You know I’m one of the good ones.”

Dovan stared into the distance, saying nothing.

“You did offer to teach me about my draconic heritage. You weren’t surprised when I showed a special talent for fire and force. You kept teaching me. Wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t trust me.”

Dovan still said nothing.

“But!” Yla continued. “You find it strange that someone decent—someone like me—could so enjoy blowing things up. You maybe were hoping I’d treat it as some sort of solemn duty.”

Dovan nodded soberly.

Yla turned to face him. “You know someone else who went down this path.”

Dovan shook his head. “Too smart for your own good, miss. Pipe?”

“Nah, never liked smoking.”

Dovan looked at her like she was a talking fish while he packed the pipe. “Suit yourself, miss.”

He puffed at the pipe for a bit to get it going.

“It was me,” he said.

“Hence the farming life.”

“Right.” He puffed on the pipe some more. “I don’t think it matters much how it happened.”

“As you will,” Yla said. “I won’t ask it of you. But can I assure you…?”

Dovan sighed, scratching his head. “I don’t know, miss. You know how it is, right? When your mind says one thing and your heart tells you another.”

“Yeah.”

“My head says you aren’t me. No reason to think you’d do what I did. But my heart…”

“Your heart aches for someone who was chosen for a life of violence, like yourself.” It was Yla’s turn to stare off into the distance.

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s not much else too it, I guess. I am good at this. Did I tell you about all of the other things I tried before coming to you to try being a farmhand last spring? I was not a good porter. Lousy washerwoman. Useless at carpentry.”

“Any of it ever catch fire?”

“Surprisingly, no. But the wood would always warp on me. Maybe a heat thing.”

“Huh.”

“I am good at this. It satisfies me in ways nothing ever has. I’ll be dreadfully unhappy doing anything else now that I know about what it feels to hit the peak of a fire surge and let it fly. And the world needs warriors, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?”

“Fair. But I know you know how the world is. Villains and blackhearts and tyrants and predators. The world will be better for having one more person who specializes in blowing them up.”

Dovan tapped out the pipe. “Promise me, will you?”

“Already have. But I will again. I promise you won’t regret teaching me about this gift.”

Dovan nodded. “Hmm. Gift.”

“I know, I know. I haven’t forgotten: I was chosen. Even if I tried to live a normal life, like you have, trouble would find me, like it has you. But I figure I’ll meet the trouble head-on.”

“On its own turf?” Dovan asked.

“Don’t have to blow up my own furniture that way.”

The Oath

Nasira took the first oath on a cloudy afternoon that dulled the brilliance of the grand chapel. Like her handful of peers beside her, like the many who had come before them, and like every soul who had ever sworn any solemn oath, she would not appreciate its true weight until much later.

The first oath of the Order of the Owl was simple.

My allegiance belongs to the Lightbringer alone. I shall bear no offspring. I shall hold no estate. I shall swear fealty to no other. These, I swear, until I am discharged by the Lightbringer, until I resign my duty, or until I am given to the First of the Dead. I swear to the secrecy of these bonds forevermore.

The nervous candidates repeated the Chancellor’s recitation, sentence by sentence. They all had known, one way or another, that they had chosen to undertake a years-long term of training in the hopes of graduating to some sort of severe and permanent dedication of service to Ae, the Lightbringer and the Goddess of Knowledge. Most of them hung on every word of the oath, hoping to find in one of them a clue to the secret duties that awaited them.

All of them noticed the curious paradox: most of the elements of the oath were only in effect until they were discharged or resigned, which made for a strangely toothless oath. A few took note that the oath to secrecy was set apart and could not be rescinded by a mere discharge.

None grasped, that afternoon, the true nature of allegiance.

---

The candidates needn’t have pried apart the wording of the oath too much, for their formal training began the next morning—after an evening of being shown to their cells and taking mess with the knights and their fellow candidates in the refectory—with an introduction to the purpose of the Order of the Owl. Knight-Prior Yorven explained, pacing solemnly before the arcade, that, 325 years ago, a particularly shrewd Chancellor of the Apostles had been summoned to a tense negotiation with a Veldic lord who sought to be crowned emperor. The chancellor in question, suspecting treachery, organized a personal bodyguard to accompany him. Presenting themselves as unassuming robed monks, the bodyguards foiled a kidnapping attempt by the lord’s retinue. The next chancellor sought a continuation of the practice at their first session of the College, and the apostles found themselves in a bind. They couldn’t bring themselves to deny the chancellor the aegis that his duties evidently warranted, but the military and hierarchic implications were unseemly. The charismatic leader of the anti-bodyguard faction moved to bring the matter before Ae herself, who cut the knot by creating a knightly order bound to herself: the Order of the Owl.

“You were wise to consider this carefully, even reluctantly,” Ae had said to the gathered apostles. “All mortals and institutions are corruptible. But properly carried through, an institution sworn directly to my Word and placed at the College’s disposal should prove more resistant to that corruption. Use it well.”

The Order’s portfolio had inevitably grown. Yorven turned to stand square to his disciples and explained: “any time the success of a College endeavor is in doubt, we may be called upon to dispel those doubts. We shield its agents from violence. We aid in the protection of the vulnerable. We augment the arcane knowledge of the apostles. We join their songs and we speed the spread of our Word.” He paused for effect. “What this means is that we do not fail. Every hour of your day is now dedicated to the College’s success. Your allegiance is to the Lightbringer, and She commands you to protect this College. You will train relentlessly. You will eat and rest as it befits our success. If you doubt your ability to do this, it is to no shame. This order needs sharp swords, but the world beyond needs sturdy hammers and straight levels just as dearly. Think on it. Speak to myself or Knight-Prior Ella if you wish to be relieved of service.”

Nasira distinguished herself from her peers quickly. Six of the dozen candidates resigned—to no shame—after reflecting on the personal ambitions they had, of which the Order explicitly or implicitly forbid pursuit. One broke his leg in equestrian training and was instructed to return to training, if he wished, in two years’ time. Of the remaining five, only Nasira and Pyvin had the Talent for magic, and Nasira was a much quicker study. Pyvin was capable of terrifying feats of pyromancy: Nasira had overheard two of the knights whispering, once, about how they were glad Pyvin had remained in the training, for he could be a great menace if unbonded in the world. But he came by subtler uses of his Talent only slowly and with great time and attention paid.

And so, in her second year of candidacy, Nasira was accorded a great honor afforded to only three students in the history of the Order.

---

Sweat trickled down Nasira’s forehead and the back of her neck with the final surge and ebb in her soul. Knight-Abbot Way had performed an unusual gambit, offering a thrust of the sword as a feint to obscure a merciless assault on her will. The sharp edge of his Talent crashed forth against her own. Nasira was tired, but not too tired to stand her ground and resist it. Her focus held. His withdrew.

To the class’s surprise, Way fell to his knees, breathing hard.

“Ha. Ha… ha! Ah, nuts.”

He wrestled himself to his feet and gave a salute appropriate to the end of the exercise before collapsing again.

“Abbot, sir, are you all right?” Candidate Othall asked from the edge of the circle.

“Ha. Yes,” Way managed to wheeze out. “Give me a second.”

Curious onlookers had stopped in the arcades to watch. Nasira, remembering where she was, shrugged in a futile effort to adjust her sweat-drenched tunic and returned the salute. She gave him a second, as bidden. As she did, what had just happened began to dawn on her.

“Sir, you just tried to kill me.”

“Haaaah hah,” Way coughed. “No. But the spirit of what you’re saying is…”

Othall was scandalized. “He what? You what? I’m sorry, that can’t be what just happened.”

Pyvin giggled breathlessly. “Like a man trying to fell a bear with a spoon.” Candidates Sera and Juno shared a look.

Way laughed a labored laugh once more, but he was gathering himself up. “Pyvin has the right of it. That was a cruel strike. Would have parted damn near any soul in the Seven Kingdoms from its body, just like that. If only you all knew just how futile it felt aiming even that at her.” He shook his head. “Class dismissed. Spar with each other if you want. I’m spent.”

It had been three hours already and rest was in order, so the candidates busied themselves picking up their training equipment from the garth.

Abbot Way found Nasira carrying the training swords back to the armory.

“Nasira,” he said, just loud enough for anyone to hear. “You need someone stronger than me.”

“There isn’t anyone, if Prior Yorven’s assessments are correct,” Nasira replied. “There are wizards more experienced, warriors with more notches, and Talented with more Talent, but who else like you, sir?” Nasira thought. “Does the northern Emperor have a general so skilled?”

“Possibly. Not what I had in mind, though.”

“Who shall I speak to?”

“Ae.”

Nasira froze. And then she thought. Stammering never did anyone any good, Prior Phera would frequently observe.

“I hope the idea isn’t that she’s to try to kill me.”

“Hah, no,” Way said. “Nothing like that. But you need knowledge I cannot provide. Who better than the Goddess of Knowledge to ask it from?” Nasira looked doubtful, so Way pressed on. “She grants few audiences, it’s true. But this is not unheard of. I’m confident she will see fit to tutor you. And you’ll continue to train with us; Pyvin especially benefits from your example.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ll write the apostles and recommend you.”

---

Ae’s chapel was smaller than the grand chapel but no less impressive. It was arranged more like a throne room, with pew-like galleries stretching down the flanks and a dais set before three soaring stained glass windows. The windows radiated in the morning sun and the whole chapel was awash in their golden-orange light. No throne topped the dais. Ae sat cross-legged upon the bare marble, wearing a pure white himation edged with royal blue. Her iconic crested helm and spear rested aside, leaning against the wall between two of the stained glass windows.

Nasira was surprised—though as she thought about it, she supposed she shouldn’t have been—to note that Ae’s voice was plain, serene, and unadorned, like a clear lake on a calm day.

“Abbot Way wrote an impressive recommendation for you, Candidate Nasira. Is it all true?”

“I have not read it, Holy Mother.”

“Then I suppose you shall have to tell me if you believe Way is in the habit of lying, no?”

“I do not believe so.” Nasira felt her brow leaden with concern. Why should Ae doubt…?

Nasira felt a shadow pass over her heart and deepen in the corners of the chapel. She tensed, and raised her will against the gathering dread.

The shadows retreated, and Ae smiled enigmatically down from the dais.

“That was rude of me. I hope it does not recast your perceptions of me overmuch.”

Nasira stood, coiled like a spiritual spring.

Ae waited.

“You’re testing me, too,” said Nasira. “You want to be sure that I have my wits about me, even in Your presence.”

Ae nodded.

Anger edged at Nasira’s heart. “Why? Way must have said so. You don’t trust him?”

“Ah,” Ae said, her smile widening. “Of course I trust him and his oath. But I know him. He is a mortal. He has been wrong before. I thought it possible he would pass a candidate through whose raw talent was simply too dazzling for him to assess. I am pleased that is not the case. As well as I am pleased to receive a candidate with the nerve to ask me questions.”

Nasira’s anger began to twist into panic. It must have been obvious, because Ae added, “I mean that sincerely.”

Nasira, though confused and in unfamiliar territory, realized that at least she should stand down. She began to uncoil her will, sinking gently into one of the many breathing exercises she had learned in the last two years. She, again, broke the silence.

“I should like to ask more, then, Holy Mother.”

“Good. I would be disappointed in a knight-candidate who should not. First, however, I wish to know more of your past. Abbot Way informed me, accurately, of your gifts and your discipline, but not of who you are beneath them.”

“Yes, Holy Mother. I am from the Hyng, from a town on the north end of the west shore. For a girl with Talent, I was fortunate to be surrounded by people who showed me great kindness. I was allowed to dabble in it, even to develop it. My family were businesslike folk with the ability to provide for tutors and education for anything I showed an affinity for. Which was a lot of things. It was my Talent I was most interested in, of course.”

Ae listened.

“That drew the attention of Westsea Chief Boin. His rule over his domain is… firm, and his affinity for strong warriors is well known. We weren’t sure, but we thought he would conscript me. His honor guard would be a prestigious summons, of course, but Boin is… a greedy man, and a bully. I had distaste for him. My parents did, too.”

Ae continued to listen.

“I was contacted by Knight Uren. I think he had heard of a talented young woman on the west shore and had intended for the meeting to go differently, but I was under a lot of stress and was scrambling for options, so he had to move quickly. It was awkward and neither of us trusted each other much, but he was offering a clear way out and a sympathetic ear, and my family felt he was trustworthy, so I agreed to come with him to the College.”

“You had a choice.” That clear voice again.

“Yes, Holy Mother. At the time I thought Uren was kind and helpful and worth taking a chance on. Now I know that Uren is extremely reliable and professional, and that’s truly what I was seeing reflected.”

“And your oath? That is taking much more than a chance.”

Nasira dithered. It seemed manifestly unwise to lie or dissemble before the goddess, but the truth wasn’t easy to get out.

“I don’t know if I can articulate it. Uren thought I sought freedom from Boin’s compulsions. Maybe that’s a part of it, but I don’t think it’s all. The Order provides so much training. It feels deeply satisfying to be honed, to be skillful, to be powerful. But I never thought to rule, never wanted it. So if I’m to be honed, I’m to be honed as a tool. I suppose I should resent that. But I feel no sadness pledging my fealty. Only eager for the next bout with Pyvin.”

Ae nodded. “I understand.”

“Don’t you, as a matter of course?”

“It is not a given. I do not know all things.”

“… You do not? I have to admit… admit that I don’t understand… you… much, Holy Mother.” Nasira regretted even beginning the sentence, but stumbled through it; the idea of an unfinished admission seemed somehow yet more embarrassing.

Ae stood.

“Few do, for while I am no liar, I am very deliberate with my Word. You have taken an oath of secrecy, have you not?”

“Yes, Holy Mother.”

“The Goddess of Light and Knowledge casts shadows. They are dangerous to traverse.”

“Secrets, Holy Mother?”

“Yes. It is important knowledge, carefully stewarded and guarded. You will learn it.”

Despite her spear and helm being several yards over a moment ago, she rose with them in hand now.

“Ready yourself for a bout, candidate.”

---

The final oath was administered at midnight. One by one, the torches were extinguised. The only remaining light source in the grand chapel was a brazier burning behind Chancellor Pellwyn. The chancellor and her lectern cast a long shadow across the five candidates.

My allegiance belongs to the Lightbringer alone. I shall bear no offspring. I shall hold no estate. I shall swear fealty to no other. My labors are for the Lightbringer and her people. My life is for the Lightbringer and her people. These, I swear until I am given to the First of the Dead. I swear to the secrecy of these bonds forevermore.

The new Knights spoke to each other and their new peers, exchanged thanks and congratulations with their Priors, and retired to their cells shortly thereafter.

---

Nasira was first assigned to the order’s storied duties at the chancellor’s side some months later. It was a stiflingly hot summer day at the College. The only reprieve to be found was in walking the long, shady arcades, allowing the steady highland breeze to take the edge off of the heat.

That is not what Chancellor Pellwyn was doing. Instead, she was to be found pent up in her office, receiving appointment after appointment from the Librarian, the apostles, and a succession of petitioners. All of them were concerned with one thing: the kidnapping of Lay Brother Fevlan off the coast of East Arc. Fevlan had been aboard the Temerity, a merchant cog returning from the north, when it had been captured by pirates. The pirates had contrived to deliver a note of ransom to Gelfan’s Landing, and the numerous parties to the ransom note had immediately begun fighting over what to do and how to do it. As was often the case, it fell on the College to coordinate and provide formal channels for the vicious bickering.

This was Nasira’s first shift as the chancellor’s shadow. At four minutes to noon, dressed in loose-fitting summer robe befitting the station of an apostle’s aide, she disappeared from her cell, having rendered herself invisible to the human eye using one of the Order’s many arcane techniques. She walked the small, empty back halls of the College and passed through the back wall of the chancellor’s office (another of the secrets of the Order) as the bells tolled noon. She exchanged a salute with Knight Frey, felt rather than seen, and assumed a post behind the chancellor, opposite the office door.

Strictly speaking, the Order of the Owl was not a secret to the apostles, and all of them would be aware that the chancellor was being guarded as such. But the lay petitioners and backwater priests that made their way through that office that day would never have known of Nasira’s watch.

Nasira watched and listened as visitor after visitor offered their perspectives, grievances, complaints, accusations, and outrage to the chancellor. None were of any real threat to the chancellor: their quarrels were mostly with counterparties for whom Pellwyn was serving as an intermediary, and any who persisted in their belligerence would inevitably relent in the face of Pellwyn’s absolute determination. Besides assessing each new visitor for their demeanor, attire, and physical attributes, Nasira’s duties compelled no action. She spent most of the afternoon listening as Pellwyn received her visitors’ mounting anxieties and reiterated her position: King Renault of East Arc had given authority over the rescue over to his kingdom’s Body of Merchants (a quarrelsome, power-hungry voting assembly), and the College would be participating as a claimant. Unfortunately, this meant that the College could not participate as a consultant, a detail that was cause for great, acid debate between Pellwyn and her fellow apostles but was not even brought up with the lay petitioners.

After shooing a merchant (owed money by the Temerity’s owners) from her office, Pellwyn stood to seek a late, late dinner in the refectory. Nasira followed, unseen and unheard until the two were alone in transit.

“Chancellor, your shadow. Knight Nasira.” the shadow whispered.

Pellwyn pulled up to a halt. “Yes. Your first year, correct?”

“Yes, Chancellor.”

“My congratulations on your knighting. Something I should know?”

“Yes, Chancellor. I find it unlikely that the courtier from East Arc was telling the truth. The geography of the northeast shore is plenty accommodating for pirate harbors, and the King’s navy is not nearly large enough to have scoured it.”

Pellwyn thought about this for a moment. “So he’s likely been lied to and is accidentally passing on the falsehood to us. At any rate, if the pirates are holding the Temerity in East Arc, then, it becomes a problem for the king right away, and the Body will be out of everyone’s way.”

“Yes. We could send a Knight of the Owl to search the likely locations, Chancellor.”

Pellwyn shook her head. “Hmm. No. Besides the woefully small number of knights available to us, it’s too risky. If the Body catches wind of someone trying to do something about this without their leave, it’ll be six more months before anything can get done and Fevlan is as good as dead. If he hasn’t turned pirate himself already. Wouldn’t blame him.”

Nasira protested. “The Order would do it, and it is very good at secrecy.”

“I know, Knight Nasira. Thank you.”

The dismissal was polite but incontrovertible, and Nasira continued her watch in silence.

The Chancellor

Summer and fall passed by. Fevlan had gone pirate and had gotten captured alongside the crew that kidnapped him during a botched raid on a nameless seaside hamlet on the north shore. The Body of Merchants was relieved of its duty, and Fevlan was granted clemency by King Renault at the request of the College. His execution was commuted and he would, instead, spend 10 years laboring for the army of East Arc.

A new obsession gripped the petitioners to the chancellor’s office and the College at large and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms besides. The Seven Kingdoms had become Six.

---

Chancellor Beca Pellwyn frowned at the letter atop the pile. Her secretary, a sharp young man with a stylish sweep of blond hair that set off gaily against his robes, frowned, too.

“Cut with a thick but sharp blade. Warrior’s implement of some sort, I’d say,” Tormen said. He gestured at the wax seal and the turned up edges of the cut down its center.

“I see,” replied the chancellor. “Nevertheless, they passed it through. Let’s have at it.”

She unfolded the envelope and retrieved from within a letter bearing a matching seal: the Manticore of Duranlach, rampant on an empty field. This seal had not been tampered with.

The Most Reverend Apostles of the College of Ae’s Word,

One week after the date of this letter’s signing, I will order my knight-commander to surrender the garrison at the Rising Stone and receive Emault II and his retinue in the great hall. By then I hope to be escaped by contrivances of my close aides.

I will persecute this war no longer. Emault II will have his rule, I suppose. But I received this crown and this mandate from Ae, Goddess of Knowledge and Protector of our Realm, and I cannot in good conscience abdicate those. I beseech you for sanctuary. I prostrate myself before the mercy of the Goddess and the good will of those who spread her Word.

The True High King of Duranlach, Tethraz I

Pellwyn scoffed and handed the letter over to Tormen, who began scanning it. “Idiot,” she muttered.

“How do you mean, Chancellor? I see no signs of alteration, by the way.”

“To whom are supposed to we address a reply? By now he’d be gone from Rising Stone. And why would Tethraz not prefer to show up unannounced on our doorstep? It’d be much harder to turn him away like that.”

Tormen thought about that for a second. “There’s no reason for Tethraz to write this at all.”

“And plenty of reasons not to. Poor tidings for your escape plan if you announce it in a letter that then gets intercepted.”

“Emault forged this, then?”

“I think so, yes.”

“I see what you mean by ‘idiot’. But still, idiot or not, why forge this? Why forge it and pass it off as intercepted?”

The chancellor sighed. “Good questions both. A test, presumably. Create this fiction and see how we react. Do we send search parties out over the nearby countryside to seek the wayward king? Do we prepare to hold Tethraz in secret, or offer public sanctuary? Do we open channels with Emault?”

“If we’re right to see through this as a ruse, we have the upper hand, then, right?”

“In a manner. But we have little room to misrepresent ourselves for the purpose. Anything we reply with here will necessarily be something we must commit to publicly.” The chancellor paused for the space of a breath and then continued. “I’ll speak with the librarian first. Then, round up the brothers and sisters of the fifth degree or higher who call Duranlach and Orland home. I want to meet with them in two separate meetings tomorrow afternoon. Get me their senior members in the morning if you can. I think that would be Brother Kedsen and…”

“Brother Uthora, I believe.”

“That sounds right.”

“I’ll begin forthwith.”

---

Having read the letter and conveyed its suspicious and suspected context, Chancellor Pellywn laid it down on the mahogany table and slid it over the polished, mirror-shine surface.

“One way or another, the siege is over,” she said. “Duranlach’s barons will be swearing their fealty to Emault and her hamlets and villages will honor a new royal family.”

Brother Kedsen of Duranlach fidgeted, looking stopped up like a bottle of sparkling wine.

“I was hoping to know what you thought,” the chancellor pressed.

“Administrative problems,” he mumbled. “The new king’s court won’t like their new clerical peer, Bishop Irthul, so he’ll be gone before the month is out, and then…”

“Oh, come off it,” Pellwyn said. “You’re acting like that’s your problem.”

“Is it… not?”

“No. It’s mine. Something else is bothering you. Best be out with it.”

“Oh, fine. Emault’s an ass. A big, imperious ass. It pains me to see him get what he wants. And you’re going to want to give him more of it.”

Pellwyn rapped her fingers on the table. “I won’t argue that. This would all be much easier if he’d gotten the pox at camp and called the war off. But here we are.”

“You’re going to recognize his claim, aren’t you?”

“We can’t dance around the issue forever, brother. We could waffle for a few months, but you said it yourself; the man’s an ass and he won’t forget the insult. We can recognize his claim and get on with our lives, or we can renounce it and have sixty-three academies in Duranlach and Orland expropriated of their assets. And possibly of their people.”

Brother Kedsen’s lips pursed. “He wouldn’t dare, would he?”

“You tell me. Would you roll those dice?”

Kedsen rose to the question, finding a sudden boldness. “Without hesitating, sister. We spread the word and we defy those who would silence us. Should we shrink from the challenge because of a little risk?”

“I can’t ask those priests and lay people to… what? Go to war for us? Preposterous.”

“You can. They—we—invested you with that power. You swore to command. They swore to join you in Ae’s mission. We tell Emault that this adventure was a monstrous mistake and that he should restore the kingdom. He is enervated by the siege, surely. It won’t even come to blows—he knows he’ll have to come to the table.”

Pellywn leaned her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers. “You know as well as I do that if Tethraz’s army couldn’t deter him, a couple dozen scribes scribbling angry letters won’t get him to recant his claim.”

“So, what? You mean to surrender the principle of just rule?”

“No. Let me propose an alteration to your plan, then. We force him to the table with our denunciation and the threat of raising our military resources, whatever they are, to ‘protect’ our academies. A bluff, but it should do. We concede that he is the ruler of Duranlach, now; it is in our nature to seek the truth of things and we see little reason to deny the plain truth. But we force him to abandon that ludicrous legal justification for the conquest.”

Kedsen looked uncomfortable. “I feel like I have walked into a trap. Have you been leading me to this? Did you have this in mind before I walked in?”

“No, brother. Your points on the justice of the matter are well merited and you have been persuasive. But I see no future where we can force Emault back from his new realm unless the kings of East Arc or Anteianum suddenly develop an immense zeal for the matter to be resolved according to this justice. So, I propose a solution to resolve those truths.

“Besides, if Emault backs off from the legal claim, it severely weakens any justification he might have to meddle with the bishopric or the ecclesiastical circuiting.”

“Ah. A concrete benefit you seek, not mere righteousness,” said Kedsen.

“Don’t be surly about it, brother. You have won the argument; until today I have personally thought it quite dangerous to challenge Emault at all. And I believe the Orlanders will be amenable to this, too.”

Brother Kedsen shifted in his seat. “I hadn’t considered… how can you say that? I guess I assumed we would have to out-persuade and outvote them.”

“I spoke with Brother Uthora earlier. Uthora feels the moral pinch Emault has put him in and finds himself wishing for an opportunity to make a rebuke. This might be just it.”

“And with Uthora… well, he commands a lot of respect in the Hall, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. Think about it. If I can count on your support for this, the College can present a united front.”

“I will. Thank you, Chancellor.”

After Kedsen had bowed and left, Tormen whistled. “That was underhanded, Chancellor.”

“I know. When is Uthora scheduled to arrive?”

The Assassin

Erefar eyed the lumpy sack of gold with affected suspicion, and then he turned his gaze up to face the solicitor.

“Half up front, of course,” stammered the man. He was rail-thin and a few inches shorter than Erefar, wearing a sharp brocade tunic and hose. His hands, now pushing the sack forward, weren’t callused with labor, but they were deft and gnarled as befitted a scribe.

“You’re new here, right?” said Erefar.

The man bit his lip, casting his gaze about the otherwise empty hospital quarters. The next room over was one of the major wards, and even now, the low din of its bustle could be heard in this room. “Well… what’s your rate?”

“Dirty Jack told you about me, didn’t he? I can imagine that bastard choking down a laugh now. Take the gold back, my friend. I don’t have any use for gold.”

“An assassin… with… no use for gold?”

“No use whatsoever. My name is Erefar. I prefer not to think of myself as an assassin. I practice self-control of the body, mind, and soul, in the service of Ae. Of course, the art of violence can be both a focus for training and a tool in that service. And that’s where my reputation precedes me.” He pushed the sack back toward the man. “And I’ve taken a vow of poverty. Take back your gold, friend.”

The little man took the gold back off the table, looking more worried than ever.

“Now,” said Erefar, “you have need of my skills. It sounds like you need someone dead. And Jack, bastard or no, might just have sent you to me because your cause is a just one.”

The man cleared his throat, puffed out his chest slightly, and took his chances. “The Chancellor of the College of Apostles is leading us astray. She is an evil influence on the apostles and the College and the world will be better for her defeat.”

There was a thick silence between the two men. Finally, Erefar broke it with a whistle.

“Quite the charge. You must be Brother…?”

“Call me Galvin, please.”

“Brother Galvin…”

“Not Brother.”

“But you are.”

“That’s neither here nor there.”

Erefar sighed. “Fine. You can be evasive about that, but don’t you dare mislead me about what we’re getting into.”

“We? Do you… are you going to ask me to help?”

“On the contrary, you’re asking me to help, which is to say, you understand your part in this already. Are you sure about this, Galvin?”

“Yes.”

“You are to be an accomplice to a killing. That is quite illegal. And it is not something the just do lightly, if they do it at all.”

“This is justice. I know it without a doubt.”

“Then let’s get started.”

---

Erefar established “Galvin’s” good faith over the next several weeks, repeatedly inviting the cagey brother back to the back room of the hospital where Erefar gave his alms. There, they began by going over the evidence for Chancellor Beca Pellwyn’s corruption and her evil intent.

The corruption was easy. A careful examination of the College’s records, particularly within the chancellor’s office, revealed a pattern of glossed over details, sketchy credentials, abridged processes, and missing justification documents. Each of these was deniable or traceable to some particular exigency, but taken together the pattern of patronage appointments was crystal clear. Pellwyn was treating the office of the chancellor as a well of resources to be drawn on and allocated according to her whims, not as the sacred duty that it was.

That was a worthy case for recall by the voting body but hardly rationale for a murder. But Galvin claimed to know that Pellwyn was going to forfeit the moral authority of the College for a political convenience.

To support this charge, he presented a letter, signed by the newly ousted High King Tethraz, announcing his intention to escape and seek sanctuary at the College.

“Why in the Worlds Above and Below would he ever write a letter like this?”

“That was my thought, too,” said Galvin. “It must be a forgery. But I have it on good word that she’s been meeting with Brother Uthora, the senior member of the Orlander delegation. His younger sister-by-blood has a position as an undersecretary in her office; he’s in her pocket. I think she means to give over the Duranlach parishes to the Orland circuit, and she’s working through Brother Uthora to communicate this to the chaplain and relevant prelates. She wants to make this a fait accompli before even…”

“Hold on, Galvin. That is a great deal of supposition for a forged letter and a single meeting.”

“It’s so obvious, Erefar. Pellwyn cares nothing for the conquered and wronged; can’t you see? Emault is power, and she wishes to be allied with power despite the command of the Word. I wish I could convey how naked this all is.”

“You need to convince me. This is on my conscience, not just yours.”

“If only you knew these people…” Galvin trailed off.

Erefar let that sink in for a moment, before replying, “And why shouldn’t I know them?” He looked up at Galvin with a knowing smile.

The Knight

Nasira willed her force into the world in a great torrent, and she wove it amongst the cords of power that lay taut but still around her.

The immensity of her will was, itself, a marvel. There were only two dozen in the world, perhaps three dozen, known to the Order to have the Talent to match it. But to join it with such intricacy and precision was beyond any of them.

And still, the test Ae had put before her was more than she could manage.

With her channels of determination scored into the world, over and under, around and between the ley lines of the Halls, she flared her hands and pulled with her soul. The world shuddered under the weight of her will, sagged, and bent. Books tumbled from bookshelves and then whole aisles of them crashed to the ground, splintering and shattering in a roar of wood and leather binding.

And then all was silent. She had reached the very threshold of the act, but Nasira had not reformed this section of Ae’s library to her will. Ae looked on thoughtfully.

“Rest, Knight Nasira.”

Nasira resisted the urge to collapse, and instead she sat, trembling, amidst the wreckage of the library, in a manner more befitting her dignity as a knight of the Order of the Owl. She breathed, simply and with intent, until she no longer shook with the effort.

“I failed to summon enough will. The exertion is near my limit but not in excess. If I can memorize the patterns more deeply I may have more focus to spare and succeed.”

“I agree. Apply yourself to the study as you have time.”

As Nasira continued to recover, the endless aisles of bookshelves began to repair and right themselves. The creaking and shifting was much softer than the destruction, but the effect of many hundreds stretching off into the distance all mending themselves in kind accumulated into an insistent rumble.

Every time Nasira trained with the Lightbringer, they would end with an exercise to test Nasira’s limits. She would fail, every time. But every time, the test would be harder than the last, and Nasira would be just as close to succeeding.

“Do you have ambitions, Nasira?”

Nasira remained still, thinking. It was an unusual question, and it wasn’t often that the goddess addressed her without her title. Was that a message? She took extra time to be sure of the rightness of her answer.

“None precluded by my oath of fealty, Holy Mother.”

“I see. You see how unusual that is, I should think.”

“Yes, Holy Mother. The world is full of stories of hubris. Hubris is an easy trap to fall into when one has means to feed it.”

Ae chuckled. Nasira had always thought Ae’s sly, sure laugh was somehow incongruous with her divine grace. “And hubris is the only reason one might have ambitions?”

“No, I suppose.”

“No indeed. Care to try again?”

Nasira searched within. “I tell myself that, about the hubris. It’s true but only a small part of the truth. The truth… is that I haven’t thought about it much.”

Ae listened as Nasira thought.

“I have been happy. I find satisfaction in these exercises. Deep satisfaction. In the knowledge. In the practice. The service is gratifying and edifying, yes, but I will admit that the practice is what drives me. With my heart and mind filled thus, I had not thought of the oath as limiting.” Nasira felt her brow furrowing.

“You see, now?”

“Yes, I think.” Nasira took a deep breath. “My loyalty has never been challenged. Should I ever tire or grow frustrated—should learning be not enough—or should some other matter assert its importance… But I made an oath, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. But we are not fools, are we? Boredom and frustration are dangerous poisons to the body, mind, and soul, and you cannot simply wish them away.”

“I will not break my oath, Holy Mother.” Nasira didn’t know what else to say.

“Think, Knight Nasira. Your resolve—or stubbornness, as it were—is formidable and appreciated. But think on it. The time may come. It seems inevitable that a woman of such singular skill will feel the need to turn her back on service and duty to leave her mark on the world. I hope that by our efforts we can avoid that.”

“I will think on it, Holy Mother.”

The Tapestry

Pellwyn stood from her stool and examined the new length of tapestry. It was a good beginning. Its shining elements set perfectly off the stately deep blue field, lent a textured vibrancy by interwoven greys and lavenders. So far, her execution had been flawless.

She shook the stiffness out of her ankles and freed her wiry, silvering hair from its pins. In just a few minutes, as expected, there came a knock at the door to her residence.

“Come in.”

Sister Tethys, an apostle of the fourth degree, entered. Tethys was neither the seniormost Duranlachian apostle, nor the highest in academic attainment, nor the most beloved. But she was sufficiently senior, sufficiently credentialed, and sufficiently respected, and on top of it all, she possessed considerable personal charisma and unmatched political talent.

She was the voice that the chancellor needed.

“Beca! It looks splendid.”

“It’s wonderful to see you, Philla. And thank you.”

They embraced and sat for evening tea, making small talk about Pellwyn’s weaving techniques and chosen subject (the Vigil of Saint Yorven). Tethys teased Pellwyn for choosing, as usual, an obscure event referenced by a single source and not often studied by young apostles. Pellwyn ribbed Tethys for being right, but nonetheless having done that reading herself.

“You are good at it,” Pellwyn continued. “Source interrogation. If you just put together the patience for cataloguing, note-taking, and cross-referencing…”

“Yeah, yeah. I’d attain the fifth or sixth degree without any trouble. You know that’s not my ambition, Beca.”

“It could help. And you wouldn’t need to rely on that pretty smile of yours lasting forever.”

“Oh, I won’t have to.” Tethys flashed that pretty smile. “I’ll just have to get where I’m going before it turns bad, won’t I?”

Pellywn snorted. “If you say so. It might end up being my fault.”

“I thought something might be up tonight. Won’t you clue me in?”

“Hah. Don’t won’t you clue me in me, Philla.”

“Okay. Emault is my new king. You want to know how I feel about it?”

“I do so ever like knowing things.”

“Well,” Philla stroked her chin thoughtfully. “Personally it isn’t much of an object to me. My parents and sisters will pay their taxes to the Baron of Efschaz as usual, he’ll pay the king’s cut to a new king, and here I am here. Unless the new king is particularly sensitive about the loyalties of his far-flung subjects and calls me to court to take an oath. There was a king who did that in the early league days, you know.”

Pellwyn laughed. “And look who can do even the most dreadfully boring records searches when it suddenly becomes very important.”

“You have me there. Point being, I have yet to discover a way it should excite action or comment from me.”

“Which is convenient for the both of us, isn’t it?”

“Why, yes, it is.”

Pellwyn leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees. “Emault knows he can apply a lot of pressure through our parishes and their properties, now throughout his two realms. He’ll want us to lend him as much legal legitimacy as he can squeeze from us. He probably imagines it’ll help him later down the line.

“For now, he’s just testing us. But we need to commit eventually, and sooner is better than later for our purposes here.”

“Has the College a position?”

“Of course not, sister. The apostles have not considered any of Emault’s deeds or correspondence in session.”

“But?”

“But I’ve spoken with Kedsen and Uthora. Both can be convinced of a particular bit of needle-threading I’ve proposed. We’ll recognize Emault’s rule but get him to agree to never bring up that Gods-forsaken ‘claim to the administration of the Head Waters’ nonsense, upon threat of repudiating it publicly. We have enough leverage to get that out of him.”

“Ah. Not quite a stirring moral stand, but a careful policing of the moral borders.”

“Quite.”

“I can be convinced, too, I think.”

“I had thought so. Listen, Philla. This is important and I would be very disappointed if you made me beg for this.”

“I would never!” Philla giggled.

“You would never, of course. At any rate, I’m prepared to recommend you to the librarian as a secretary, or as a procurement director.”

Philla’s giggling strangled. “Procurement director? You want me out of here, don’t you?”

“No, Philla, think about it. The librarian’s office is the most prestigious in the Coll—”

“Second most prestigious.”

“No, the first. The voting body is the source of the College’s prestige, which it confers directly upon the librarian as an agent of the Word. The chancellor is merely a functionary to the voting body.”

“You may believe that, but I don’t.”

“Consider them equals, if you must. And besides, this is a risk already. My office is quite well-staffed and a friendly appointment would be all too easy to spot. The rumors…”

“Damn the rumors. You need my help on this, and I need more than some posting to a dusty library out in wherever the Hell.”

“Forget procurement, then, if the travel is too much an object to you. The secretarial position is excellent.”

“It doesn’t sound particularly… commanding, Beca.”

“It’s the surest way to the top. Half the librarians in the last century came from the ranks of the secretaries to the librarian. I know librarianship sounds dreadful to you, but parley the position correctly and your peers will assume you’re being groomed for it. Move laterally from there.”

Philla tapped her finger on her cheek, calculating.

“You’d be the youngest in the office currently. That’s a statement.”

Philla folded her hands over her lap. “Convince me,” she said.

“We’ll get the examination waived. Or forged. I don’t care. You can keep having tea with me. That’s not for nothing.”

“No, that’s not for nothing.”

“You’ll get my help on the lateral move out. Just give it a year or two.”

Philla lifted her teacup to her lips. “The tea is excellent, isn’t it.”

The Seminar

It had been several years since Erefar had walked the halls of the College, something he had last done at the request of the College itself. Erefar gave alms through his skilled ministrations at the great hospital at Anteianum. While the hospital was formally administered by the King of Anteianum, its proximity to the College meant that it was augmented by a great deal of priestly talent from the College. A lay practitioner whose knowledge of Ae’s healing arts rivaled even the priests had aroused enough interest, and perhaps suspicion, to have him summoned to the College to explain himself.

He had found himself welcome then, his skills determined to be genuine and his character unimpeachable. But now he was an interloper.

The College, as an institution purporting to uphold the Word of the Goddess of Knowledge, prided itself on keeping no secrets. That wasn’t true in the strictest possible sense: the College deliberated business “within the house” frequently, and even if the conclusions drawn and actions taken were transparent and public, the “inner thoughts” of the body of apostles were not always made plain to the world. But the ethos was real, and what it meant now was that Erefar’s mission of infiltration was trivial. All he had to do was arrive at one of the many public libraries, and from there, skulk his way down a hall or two to arrive at the residences, where he stole a robe and passed himself off as Brother Pyth (nobody had asked his name and nobody was likely to, but an alias was a comfort all the same).

He found Brother Uthora in prayer in his chambers, small and unadorned, with the door open to the hall. He loitered for only a moment. He circled around, slowly, being sure to spend some time in empty chambers and side halls to lessen the chance that he passed the same person twice in these tight, stuffy hallways.

This went on for hours. Brother Uthora left for a brief lunch in the refectory, then to a series of meetings on some obscure effort of scholarship he was contributing to, and then to afternoon study. All the while, Erefar maintained the strenuous discipline of not being noticed.

Uthora was beginning to look like a bust until late in the evening. As the orange slowly drained from the evening sky, he gathered with several of his peers directly in the middle of one of the College’s many cloisters, far from the galleries of passerby and eavesdroppers. But Erefar had long ago mastered the art of hearing, and he could make out enough of the ensuing argument from the anonymous distance of the galleries.

“… proposal before the voting body,” Brother Uthora was saying.

“You want… approve?” That was another older Brother whose syrupy accent, slightly thicker than Uthora’s, clearly marked him as a fellow Orlander.

“No!” Another Orlander practically shouted.

“… objections?” Uthora was asking.

“Of course. It’s just wrong.” The voices were getting louder and more distinct. All of them were from Orland.

“And how do you make that out?”

“What sort of academy would we be if we taught the rectitude of conquest?”

“But we’re…”

“That’s not…”

“You’re evading…”

Erefar waited, listening as carefully as he could, but the debate had broken out into a verbal scrum. He wasn’t likely to get much more out of it. But already he had something: Brother Uthora was whipping votes for a proposal to the voting body. His fellow Orlanders were divided on the matter: a survey of the group’s stances gave three-to-four against whatever Uthora was suggesting. And the (admittedly hostile) characterization of the proposal as embracing “the rectitude of conquest” was suggestive of Galvin’s worst fears.

Erefar began to worry that his zealous solicitor had been right after all. There was something rotten afoot at the College.

He lurked about the edges of the cloister for a bit until the argument began to exhaust its novelty and the parties began going their separate ways. He chose to tail not Uthora, but another young apostle who had seemed ambivalent about his position in favor of whatever Uthora’s idea had been.

---

A few days later, “Brother Pyth” took his seat high in the back of the lecture hall for the early morning seminar on ecclesiastical domain and delegation of authority. Brother Chin-Lo was to speak at tremendous length about the three Bishoprics of Anteianum and the history of their legal authority within the old Ivian League. This was, apparently, a matter of great relevance to the College hierarchy today, but how and why was completely lost on Erefar. He thought it more interesting that this steep and stately lecture hall was constructed mostly of elm, benches and desks and stairways alike. Was elm even common in the highland forests? Perhaps in earlier decades…

Erefar scanned the crowd. Among the neatly staggered rows of heads atop robed shoulders, one stood out: wiry gray hair tied back into a bun, held tall above an immaculate white robe. She sat in the second row, near to the entrance, and she was still with studied attention.

Erefar noted the unremarkable colleagues sitting beside and around her, and he returned to his waiting.

As promised by the syllabus, Chin-Lo’s lecture was thorough in the extreme. No source was left unexamined, no interpretive frame unexplored in his investigation of the legal regime of the Old League and what it might imply about the proper organization of the contemporary College of Apostles. At least, as far as Erefar could make out. He thought at first to attempt to follow the carefully organized argument, but his thoughts drifted and drifted, to his duty and to his mark.

He had consulted with Galvin before undertaking this phase of his inquisition: how close could he get to Pellwyn without arousing suspicion? Were her bodyguards likely to notice him in a simple disguise? Did she ever dismiss them? Where might they be stationed?

“You have nothing to worry about,” Galvin had said.

“… Meaning?” Erefar had asked.

“Follow her. Talk to her, for what good it’ll do. She has no bodyguard.”

“None? Whatsoever?”

“None.”

“You realize how unusual that is, no? A woman so powerful…”

Galvin had fidgeted irritably at that. “You know what the College is like. The strictest adherence to its… strictures. This should be easy; why do I feel like you’re trying to complicate it?”

“No bodyguards,” Erefar had repeated, wondering.

Today’s excursion in the College had borne that out. Not once had Erefar seen anyone follow Pellwyn from place to place, and no sentinels stood watch within or without the rooms she occupied. The closest thing she had to a retinue was her secretary, a bright young Orlander who attended and took the minutes of nearly all of the meetings in her office. Young and healthy though he was, he did not look especially capable of great feats of violence. Indeed, not one of the Brothers or Sisters Erefar saw wore any weapons more dangerous than a whittling knife. This was one of those strictures Galvin had mentioned, apparently.

Erefar remembered how had once been summoned here to prove his good faith before the apostles. What would they have done had Erefar turned truculent, he wondered?

Brother Chin-Lo concluded his sermon, and the crowd of robed bodies began to rise and fill the lecture hall with the shuffle of papers, the thumping of feet on the risers, and the chatter of stimulated disciples.

Pellwyn exchanged a few words with Chin-Lo and left. Erefar, a few minutes later, descended from the risers and followed.

Bodyguard or no, he had to remain discreet: it would not do for an alert bystander to notice someone following the chancellor. Erefar made a point to circle outside through the nearest cloister, taking in the fresh fall wind, the beautiful alpine-scented air that was, Erefar thought, one of Anteianum’s greatest treasures. He wished he could linger in the morning sun for hours. Several young scholars were sharing lunch on the grass even now.

But duty called, and Erefar withdrew to the halls.

He retraced his steps to the lecture hall and, from its closed door, turned left to follow in Pellwyn’s footsteps. From here, he reasoned, if she had taken this hall she must be destined…

“Can I help you, Brother…?”

Erefar had turned the corner directly into Chancellor Pellwyn. He had nearly collided with her, in fact. And, indeed, she was alone. Alone except for Erefar, now. His mind snapped to his persona.

“Yes, sister. Brother Pyth. I was hoping to find Brother Chin-Lo; I had a question.”

“Ah. I’m afraid I don’t know his schedule. You may try his residence; it’s in the north hall.”

As she spoke, Erefar thought. She couldn’t truly be alone, could she? The College of Apostles was one of the most influential bodies in the Seven Kingdoms. It would be incredible for none of them to have realized that this power would frequently place its officers in great danger. Indeed, were Erefar a less scrupulous man…

The more he focused in on the nature of the college, the more he sensed the truth of it. She was not alone. There was a presence. With her, about her, alongside her… one presence? Multiple? it was unclear. There was clearly nobody else in this hallway but Erefar and Pellwyn. Was it magical protection of some sort? A blessing from Ae herself? Pellwyn was not alone. And whatever was there in the empty hallway was there to accompany her.

Erefar couldn’t mull this over forever. “Thank you, sister. If I may…” He ventured, suddenly curious as to why she was at this lecture. “What did you think of his thesis?”

Pellwyn chuckled. “Chin-Lo is one of the most brilliant scholars to ever conduct a historical analysis.”

Erefar smiled slyly. “That was not a very direct answer, sister.”

“Ah, yes. His analysis is immaculate. But his normative claims simply don’t hold, in my opinion. At the end of it, he is simply deriving an ought from an is.”

“Is it not a matter of scripture, sister?” Given how badly Erefar had followed the lecture, he had no real reason to think it was a matter of scripture, but it seemed a good a guess as any.

“Sure. But the same scripture would have us spread the Word the best we know how.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Put another way: High Bishop Thanalan was a talented individual whose College survived several concurrent crises. The College hierarchy he instituted is now preserved in the Word. But that was over a millennium ago. Anteianum barely even speaks the same language it did in those days.

“Holiest Man in Old Anteianum or not, why should I think he knows better how to manage today’s College than I?”

“I see,” said Erefar. “You were hoping for something more?”

“Perhaps. Regardless, anything so thoroughly explored can be edifying in its own way.”

An admirable attitude, or a polite fiction to cover her arrogance, Erefar wondered? “Of course. Thank you, sister.”

Erefar left in the direction of the north hall but swung back around to the lecture hall yet again. He took the left, again, and found himself in a quiet hall between a small library and a handful of study rooms, currently empty.

By the time he reached the next corner of the hall, he had gone too far—whatever errand Pellwyn had gone about back here, she couldn’t have gone too much farther and still had time to collide with him back at the lecture hall. And yet there was nobody back here.

What could she have been doing?

Erefar doubled back to the library. The door opened with an excruciating creak, announcing his presence to the only occupant, a librarian reading a book in an enormous leather binding at an unadorned desk in the back corner.

“Good afternoon, brother.”

“Good afternoon. Has Sister Pellwyn passed by recently?”

“Why… well, yes, as it happens.”

It was painfully obvious to Erefar’s trained eye: this man had something to hide and had considered lying just now. Such were the benefits of going undercover in institutions like this one: no one was prepared to handle a competent spy.

“I thought so. Shame I missed her; I was trying to borrow a book from her. Do you think she left it here?”

“No, I don’t think so….”

“Oh. I thought for sure… what was she doing here, then?”

The librarian stammered out a nonsensical lie, which was all Erefar could get out of him.

Leverage

Nasira, from the gloomy corners of the chancellor’s office, watched the crisis of the seven kingdoms play out in miniature.

Pellwyn, now, stood from her seat and leaned onto her table with her knuckles. Her elderly body loomed, stern but not stiff, over the obdurate Duranlachian.

“Sister, do you mean to tell me you would have brothers Gillam and Erwan call their parish militias to arms to be slaughtered by the king’s professional retinues on your behalf?”

“Of course not,” Sister Genea replied primly. “I mean to take up arms as well.”

“A hollow gesture,” said Pellwyn. “You have no numbers to call upon. Join them armed with your stole and your crook and die with them. Is that supposed to make it better?”

Genea’s eyes flashed. “We are armed with our faith, sister. I call upon you to forge your faith into justice: what warrior would surrender a weapon forged of metal that could not corr…”

“I have done the reading, sister,” Pellwyn snapped.

She stood straight and turned to face her bookshelf. Nasira could see the lines of her face drawn tight, her teeth grinding. “You are not under any illusions that this will end with a miracle, are you?” she continued. “A great many people will die, and the College will be banned from both kingdoms. If we are to make the first sortie ourselves, I scarce believe Ae would intervene on our behalf.”

“Then it is as you say, we fight with the tip of our quill. Declare his rule unjust—as it is—and he will soon send his armies to seize church properties. The first strike will be theirs, and…”

“… and Ae will not like such trifling…”

“They’ll commit to violence sooner or la…”

“I will not attempt to fool the Goddess of Knowledge with a manufactured casus belli.”

“So we forfeit justice.”

Pellwyn took a deep breath and released the tension in her face. She turned to face Genea.

“You are a mountain of faith and a formidable rhetorician. Logician, too, I expect. And beyond that, you are good, genuine, and true. But you know your hopes for Ae’s intervention are distant. You know that this is a righteous suicide you propose. I couldn’t stomach to watch that.”

“It’s my sacrifice to make, Chancellor.”

Pellwyn was silent for a time.

Then, she said, “your brother by blood is petitioning the Duke of Estil for clemency, isn’t he? Burglary, I believe.”

The color drained from Genea’s face as realization set in. “I had heard this about you, but…”

“If we go to war I need to be in Estil’s good graces.”

“This is wrong. You’re despicable.”

“You expected the College to co-petition, I know. It’s common but not guaranteed. You’ve been present for sessions where those motions failed.”

“This is corrupt. You’re blackmailing…”

“Bribing, really.”

“You’re making an enemy.”

“I would rather have you as an enemy than as a corpse. Do we have an understanding?”

Sister Genea stood and left without replying.

Nasira felt ill.

---

Moments later, Duke Phinereaux of Chentria arrived. This man, Nasira had heard Pellwyn discussing with her secretary, was a vassal of King Emault, a dignified and well-respected member of his inner circle, and his chosen emissary to the College for the next few months. He had, coincidentally, arrived only a day after the suspicious letter from High King Tethraz.

“It is such a pleasure to be paying a visit to such a fine institution on official business,” he began, twisting at his silver mustache with contentment. “I should hope that…”

“Some nerve you have, Phinereaux.”

The duke was taken aback. “Pardon me?”

“You know your purpose here. Emault’s claim stinks. This fine institution is full of brilliant scholars, and he insulted every last one of them with an offering of garbage.”

“Tell me the meaning of this at once.”

“Have I mentioned the bloodshed? How many good people died at the end of pikes in the last year, do you think?”

“What’s your point, Beca?”

“Give me a good reason I shouldn’t call the faithful to arms.”

The duke’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare,” he hissed. “It would be a slaughter.”

Nasira sensed the clouds of fury gathering. Pellwyn and Phinereaux stared daggers at each other, and Tormen looked aghast.

“A fine slaughter, I’m sure. Do you know how far your levies and cavaliers are from your estate? Your sister’s holding? You had a sterling career in the field; I’m sure you can estimate the length of the forced march and the incurred attrition. Desertions, reprisals from marauders, so on.”

Phinereaux’s hands remained folded neatly in his lap, beneath the comfortable bulge in his belly. Nasira noted that his belt was made to bear a cavalry sword in a scabbard, but today he did not wear it out of respect for the College’s symbolic prohibition of weapons of war. A hunting knife’s handle protruded neatly out of his right boot, which was permitted.

Pellwyn wore no weapons.

“You’re a clever lady, but you can’t expect me to believe you’d send your rabble to murder my family.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. But a holy war, they say, has no commanders and no discipline but truth and zeal.”

Nasira’s eyes panned over the two of them, her heart racing. Was Pellwyn’s threat genuine? More importantly, did Phinereaux think it was genuine? If he did, she would need to be ready for violence at any moment.

Phinereaux began to fidget.

“… Outrageous. Did I come all of this way to be browbeaten?”

“Yes. What else did you have in mind?”

Nasira grasped he haft of her short sword. A sharp, nimble tool, used mostly in formation fighting… but also in brutally close quarters like these.

“I was expecting to admire the erudition of our new subjects, the Duranlachians who study here.”

“I see. And?”

“And what?”

“You see the problem, perhaps. The King did not realize that there was to be a negotiation. Tell him that he will need to do better than that. My apostles are outraged. He needs to win them.”

Phinereaux shot to his feet. Nasira’s veins ran with ice and her muscles coiled for action.

But his hands rose stiffly to his hips, far from the sheathed knife.

“So be it, then,” he muttered before he stomped out.

Nasira relaxed her body and her mind. Pellwyn sat. Tormen still looked a little queasy. “I didn’t expect, when you said ‘threaten’, that we would threaten threaten.”

“Ah,” said Pellwyn, with a sigh. “That was unkind of me to surprise you like that.”

Nasira watched Pellwyn’s face as her eyes scanned the papers on her great desk, probably out of habit. Her expression was unreadable.

“Would you do it?” asked Tormen. “Raise militias to seize castles? Shed more blood?”

“I wouldn’t be doing it. We would be doing it, after a vote.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t want to, Tormen. You know that. I’m doing my damndest to keep it from happening.”

“Is that what that was? I know we need the support of the Duranlachians, which means getting concessions from Emault, but this…”

“Every tool at my disposal, brother. Every ounce of leverage. Anything less would be an abdication of my responsibilities.”

The Conspirators

“You can’t just wait! You’re stalling,” Galvin moaned.

“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right, my friend,” Erefar chanted. It was a mantra he had oft repeated to previous solicitors or beneficiaries of his work. “I am not going to deviate from my vows to Ae.”

“I am telling you, your vows to Ae compel you to strike this imposter down!”

“I’m not convinced yet. I would never forgive myself if I did so in error, and I could not ask the Goddess to forgive what I could not.”

“What the Hell else am I supposed to do to convince you?”

“You are sure you have seen no other correspondence or identified any other conspirators?”

Galvin crossed his arms and shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve been looking. All of these meetings happen so quickly and I can’t forsake my own duties just to go snooping in on my colleagues who may or may not be doing anything untoward.”

“I understand. And I agree that something is wrong at the College. But what? What has she done that the Lightbringer should forgive our bloody hands for righting?”

Galvin threw his hands up. “Bah.”

“We have one more opportunity, then. Whatever the legal circumstances of the vote may be, there are sure to be moments of great duress and gravity for the apostles. I may be able to convince one of them to tell me the truth of the situation.”

Galvin sighed irritably. “Are you saying… on the day of the session? You’re cutting it close.”

“I am doing it right.”

---

The next day, Erefar made yet another appearance in the halls of the College. This time, it was Brother Stefan he tailed.

The small, wiry man who had introduced himself as not-Brother Galvin followed a remarkably similar schedule to Brother Uthora’s. The morning was spent in quiet, fraught contemplation, broken by a lunch and then an afternoon dedicated to the steady scholastic life. Again, the evening proved to hold what Erefar had been looking for: the gathering of the conspiracy.

Brother Stefan had reacted predictably to Erefar’s insinuations that he would strike late. Worried that the deed might be carried out too late or that there might be fallout from an assassination so close to the voting session, Stefan had called together his most trusted colleagues to discuss.

And so he tipped his hand to Erefar that he was not acting alone. He had four associates. All were young, brightly glazed with achievement and love of their craft. Passionate scholars, then, with an affinity for theory. In this case, Erefar supposed, moral theory.

Their discussion today, taking place in Stefan’s own chamber over bread and tea, focused on a very physical, immediate sort of arrangement, however. They supposed that the chancellor might die at the lectern during the voting session. How might they ensure that justice was carried out and not just a random act of violence? Their plan seemed to be to assume that some sort of recess would follow the stroke of death and that they would need to take advantage of it. Stefan would watch for the event and signal the four so as to better be prepared for the outbreak of chaos. Two of them would abscond to the chancellor’s office, scavenging for useful bits of evidence and inventing excuses as necessary. Two would remain with Stefan to help in case the panic in the Hall gave way to some sort of malleable, or at least challengeable, mood.

Erefar considered this himself. Their plan was as fine a plan as a few young conspirators could be expected to produce, but he doubted it would have great effect. They needed his help. Fortunately, he knew how to provide it.

“And what if he fails?” asked Sister Mora.

“He’s a holy man. I have great confidence. Faith, even,” declared Stefan.

“But the Owl…”

“Yes, yes,” Stefan grumbled. “If justice is, somehow, not as we see it… there’s not much need for planning. We’ll face the consequences.”

Erefar frowned. The Owl? Was this some sort of scriptural reference Erefar didn’t recognize? Or was this the presence Erefar had felt in Pellwyn’s company? Was “Galvin” holding something back?

No details were forthcoming. The conspirators began meandering down what seemed like much more well-worn grooves of thought. How could they best clean house? None of them had the tenure or résumé to compete for any high offices, but they all agreed that they had to lever all of the meager power and authority they could muster anyway. Sister Liliana suggested that they lean on the treasurer to exceed his normal mandate (which was to aid in the continuity between chancellors) and to do a thorough accounting of the chancellor’s office and uncover the stains of corruption within. All of them agreed that the treasurer had thus far been too competent to be a crony himself. Brother Stefan also reminded the group that the librarian’s office would be particularly important, and they should be surreptitiously priming any contacts they had there.

One by one, they filed out, until Brother Stefan was alone. Erefar raised his hood and left the adjacent cell, impressed with the convictions of his solicitor but not yet in possession of the surety he sought.

Doubts

Nasira arrived in Ae’s chapel and found it empty. She approached the dais, laid her equipment aside, and sat before it in contemplation.

A few minutes later, Ae was present, sitting upon the dais. “Have you thought on it, Knight Nasira?” she asked, as if their prior conversation were but minutes ago.

“Yes, Holy Mother.”

“Have you any new insight?”

“Some, Holy Mother.”

“Care to share?”

“Yes, Holy Mother. The oath may constrain me from the pursuit of justice.”

“Go on.”

“My duties are strict and my obligations many. When a matter of right and wrong arises, what shall I do if the execution of my duties precludes giving aid to the cause of righteousness?”

“For one thing, Knight Nasira, you are not all-powerful. The College is a wonderful body of people and your duties in support of them are for the good of the realm. Of course you cannot execute all possible duties for the good of the realm at all times.

“For another, I believe you are being circumspect.”

“… Yes, Holy Mother.”

“Speak freely. Never fear to offer the truth to me, no matter how unbecoming.”

“The matter of Emault’s conquest is vexing. I worry for the response the College might make.”

“What makes this matter so dire?”

“The chancellor’s methods, Holy Mother. She lies and coerces and distorts the voting will of the apostles.”

“Chancellor Pellwyn is a cunning woman.”

“Do you condone her handling of the matter?”

Ae said nothing for a long time.

Nasira, finally, looked up, and she was surprised to see Ae standing upon the dais, clad in steel. Her breastplate, greaves, and gauntlets were polished to a perfect shine, and the horsehair crest of her helm brushed the air with arrogant grace.

“You know the history of your Goddess, Knight Nasira. But your question shows that you have not followed the path to its end.

“I was once Ae, Goddess of Wisdom and Rule. The Ivian League was my work. It was my purpose. I united the warring kings and queens and bent their knees at the throne of justice. Their realms were ruled justly—as just and as right as mortal hands could strive to make under the steady tutelage of the divine.

“But Osi was dull. Parthyia was greedy. Uthien was too trusting and Othard mendacious to match. The Word is imprecise on this bit of history, for it matters little what their particular weaknesses were, and it does little good to damn their names in the annals of history. What matters is that every generation of rulers was mortal, and the end was inevitable. Before its third centennial, the League disintegrated. Even a Goddess could not keep the mortals from their bloody quarrels.

“And so She forsook the mantle of Wisdom and Rule and sought Knowledge as Her new domain. Should She, then, presume to judge those who carry on the burdens of Rule?” Ae turned, fixing an eerie stare on Nasira through the eye-slits of her helm.

Nasira thought about this. “The Word carefully implies that the Goddess of Wisdom and Rule was righteous in her rule, righteous in her abdication, and righteous in her current stewardship. Should I understand this differently? That you have regrets, Holy Mother?”

Ae sighed. “The Word is no lie. My Rule was righteous. And it was a terrible mistake. It was an act of hubris.”

“And you feel it would be hubris to pass judgement on your own chancellor?”

“Yes.”

Nasira bent her head back down as in prayer.

“So I must answer this question for myself, then?”

“Yes. What you will do with your own hands and heart must be your decision.”

Nasira thought. “I must suppose that the chancellor’s motives are as she says. She believes her resolution to the crisis is just and must be pursued. She is willing to sacrifice… or impinge somewhat, I suppose she would consider it… the virtues of the College’s voting body and its governing rituals.

“Am I to weigh the Word of the Ae and its precepts for the College against the human wisdom of its ranking member?”

“So it seems.”

Nasira thought for several long, silent minutes. Then she looked up again. “Have you knowledge to share, Holy Mother?”

Ae removed the gallant war helm, smiling, to behold Nasira. “Of course. Rise, Knight Nasira. Come with me.”

Nasira rose left the chapel with Ae.

The Lightbringer’s Chapel, from its perch upon the crest of the highest cliff on Mount Caelias, overlooked the main campus of the College. From here, the scholars of the College could be seen traversing the quadrangles and cloisters of their home far below, carrying on in a slow serenity. Only the vague suggestion of the noise and bustle of their activity was audible beneath the wind. The ancient stronghold at the heart of Anteianum crowned the jagged ridge a mile across, and the bright white-and-orange city sprawled across the saddle of fertile land between them.

Ae stood at the top of the first step, her steel no longer donned, her himation rippling in the highland wind.

“Look, Knight,” she said, half-shouting above the wind. “You see much, yes?”

“Much, but also little. Like the parable of King Atu.”

“Yes,” Ae chuckled. “Come closer, Knight Nasira.”

Nasira obeyed, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the goddess.

“Now,” Ae said, “What you see, you know from your studies, is a matter of… convenience, we may call it. Light from the sun, variously reflected and absorbed and sent to your eyes by the logic of optics. You see flesh, clothes, grass, wood, and stone. This is the sight that the human eye is made for.

“But few know that the human soul is made for sight, too. And a powerful sight it is: it may see what it wishes, not merely what comes to it.”

Ae turned to watch Nasira.

“Knight Nasira, are you ready? This will be a difficult kind of teaching.”

“Yes, Holy Mother. How so?”

“It requires a balance: an open heart and a steel focus, each held in perfect measure. It is rather like balancing with one toe on the tip of a spear.”

“I shall spend much of the next few hours falling, then.”

Ae laughed. “Yes, Knight Nasira. But when you have gained your footing, you will have the greatest knowledge I have to offer: to see the world how it is. You will know what is true so that you may rule yourself according to what is just.”

The Letter

Chancellor Pellwyn and Tormen agonized over the draft of the letter for the entire hour they had allotted to it. In the end, they had something satisfactory, written in Tormen’s carefully practiced neutral hand:

Your Grace, King Emault II of Orland

The College of Apostles is pleased to learn that the war between your throne and the throne of Duranlach has concluded and that the levies are being released to their harvest and their mourning of their comrades. Peace is becoming of Ae’s realm, and we must honor the price paid for peace.

We have received conflicting reports on the custody and disposition of the High King Tethraz and his son, and we hope that, whatever the circumstances may be, they are resolved swiftly and as amicably as is possible.

The Office of the Chancellor has called the Chaplain of Duranlach to the College for consultation regarding the ministration of the Word in the kingdom as its administration evolves. We invite representatives from your esteemed court to participate in the deliberations that will help define this bold new era.

Yours in the Worship and the Word,

All of the necessary points were laid out: a careful non-congratulation clothed in prim optimism, the “calling” (not “recalling”) of the chaplain attached to the old high king’s court, and the sturdy deniability on the matter of the high king. Referring to the old high king as the high king was a risk; Pellwyn calculated that if Emault determined it to be a slight, the College could save face by claiming not to have known what legal proceedings Emault intended for the investiture of power. The invitation of King Emault’s representatives was awkward and blunt, but they had run out of time.

Pellwyn hoped to find herself writing this letter in her own hand and adding her signature to it later, but first, Sister Tethys would propose it herself, either during the second full session of the College’s voting body or after a recess in the first session.

“Take that to Sister Tethys. I’ve asked her to make this motion on my behalf. Then have your seat. I’m leaving to take my place at the lectern presently.”

“Yes, Chancellor. Will you need notes on the session?”

“Nothing the parliamentarian won’t collect themselves. Enjoy this one. We should witness some passionate debate.”

The Angel

Tormen hurried down the halls. Sister Tethys was neither in the refectory nor in the cloister where she normally participated in morning rhetoric and oratory seminars. The last place he knew to try was her personal quarters, which he knew were in the northern residence ward but not exactly where.

The halls were empty, the voting members having left the chambers to fill the galleries and non-voting members having taken recess in the refectory, cloisters, or south lawn. It was becoming worryingly difficult to find anyone to ask for directions to Tethys’s quarters.

Until he ran into Erefar.

When Tormen turned the corner, he found himself face-to-face with a stranger wearing the robes of an apostle. He wore no stole and his face was unfamiliar, so there was no placing him. Except for the halo of light that surrounded his body. Joy, love, and faith shone in the air and bound his figure to the firmament, holding it forth for Tormen’s eyes.

For a moment, Tormen was sure he had encountered an angel in the halls of the College.

The flesh and blood of his counterpart were unmistakable, though, so he gathered himself back up. “Who are you?” he asked. “I need help.”

“Brother Tormen, it matters little who I am. You can see with your eyes on whose behalf I am here.”

It was true, he could. That corona of holy energy could not be forged; the blessing of the Goddess was manifest to his eyes.

“I need to find Sister Tethys. But you… need something from me? Sir?”

“Yes. Please, this is important. You know these proceedings are important. Tell me of your errand, that I may witness on behalf of Ae.”

“Am… Are we not doing the right thing? This is important, and I need help doing it, and I don’t understand why…”

Erefar shook his head sadly. “Not all of Ae’s business is carried out in the light of day, you well know. Do you trust the testimony of your eyes, that I am an agent of her will?”

“I… I must. I do.”

“What does your heart tell you about your mission? About the secrets? Is there corruption at work? Is this right and just? Are you confident in that?”

Tormen faltered.

“I will pass the letter on to Sister Tethys as Ae wills it,” spoke Erefar. “Permit my witness, and go on, knowing that your duty to Her is fulfilled.”

After a moment more of hesitation, Tormen handed over the letter.

“Yours in the Word,” Tormen said, before retreating toward the assembly of apostles in the Hall of the League.

The Apostles

Chancellor Pellwyn stood at the lectern on the floor between the two galleries of seated apostles. She lifted the gavel, and she brought it down.

Every set of eyes snapped down to the floor, and the chancellor called the College of Apostles into session.

Pellwyn had requested (practically begged) the parliamentarian to permit her to dispense with the usual prelude, which was a half hour or more of announcements and readings of report abstracts submitted by various committees. In the end, she had convinced the parliamentarian that he didn’t want to have to deal with the nervy apostles debating theological politics with an extra hour of fatigue and frayed tempers. So tonight, she began with the main agenda: first, a reading of the purported letter from Tethraz and a dissemination of copies, and second, a series of submitted motions, each a proposal that the College react this way or that, each to be considered in turn.

The first motion to follow the reading proved to be a strong start. Pellwyn recognized the first voting member on the agenda: a young Orlander, who stood quickly and belted out, “I move that the College issues a circular condemning King Emault II for initiating a conquest of obvious personal ambition, to the detriment of his subjects and other subjects in Ae’s realm, and urging him to return Duranlach to a state of just rule under the high king’s chosen heir.”

He had clearly been practicing that mouthful in the last hour, and the barreling momentum of his oratory seemed somehow comedic. The College thought so, anyway, and there was one audible chuckle and scattered low chatter in the Hall. Pellwyn thought to herself, hopefully, that the voting body was in the mood for a thoughtful debate.

A young sister seated nearby seconded the motion, and debate began.

As Pellwyn continued to recognize speakers and make note of what they stood for and who they were, her shoulders tensed with worry. The cleave through the ranks of the apostles was not the same one that divided the allegiances of Orland from Duranlach and from her rivals. Instead, it was age. Junior apostles lusted for the moral repudiation of Emault. Fresher from their studies, Pellwyn surmised, they must have seen this issue as one of clear moral calculus, an issue the College could simply not sully itself by abdicating. Senior apostles worried more about the College as an institution. Some saw it as a fighting body that must pick its battles with care, and others believed in its proud tradition of being above the petty disputes of mortal pride and greed.

Pellwyn forced her mind into motion, absorbing the gist of the ongoing debate while triangulating her standing within the new terrain. Kedsen’s authority was no longer even half as important as she had hoped. Uthora’s impact was also somewhat diminished. Would Sister Tethys be able to soothe the raging consciences of her young peers alone? Was there any unexpected support they could count on or olive branches they could improvise?

The debate became rancorous, and Pellwyn was greatly displeased to find that the apostles who stood in opposition to the motion didn’t seem to grasp the particular moral zeal that was driving their opponents, and as a result were arguing straight past them. She began to struggle to keep order, her voice rising to a shout to recognize sanctioned debate and her gavel banging ever more desperately to silence the unsanctioned debate.

She was raising her hand to get the attention of the parliamentarian when the assassin fell.

The Truth

Erefar examined the letter and was convinced.

It lurked between the lines, but it was plain to a careful observer: the chancellor’s preferred solution was a dithering legalistic negotiation with the conquering army. There was no denying the fact that the College would stand aside while armies ransacked villages, butchered levied sons, and besieged starving cities, from this point forevermore.

And then there was the skulduggery at the edges. Why Sister Tethys? Erefar was sure that if he followed up on that he would find an unbecoming appointment or a discreet exchange of value.

That was no way to conduct the Word of Ae.

Erefar left the shreds of the letter in some secretary’s wastebin and made his way to the Hall of the League. Before reaching it, he turned aside to the adjoining cloister, stepped out into the breezy upland afternoon, and scaled the wall, bounding up with each heave of his arms and legs. There was nobody around to witness as he summited the arcade, started up the wall of the Hall of the League, and finally perched himself by one of the small, circular stained glass windows at the crown of the hall.

From here he observed the proceedings for a moment, hoping merely to learn the layout of the room and the location of the people of interest within. Opportunity presented itself readily. Chancellor Pellwyn stood at a lectern on the floor, in the center of the hall laterally and set slightly toward the back. The galleries stood down the sides of the hall, packed with apostles. Stefan watched from high on the far gallery; his conspirators sat down low, near the lectern.

Erefar considered returning to the ground and walking through the front door. No physical protection was present for the target, besides dozens of apostles—mostly scholars by trade and by temperament, distracted by argument and not ready for sudden physical violence. But as the acrimony in the chamber rose in volume, Erefar realized that it would be a simple thing to break this window before him and sneak out onto the beams. So he did. Within moments, he was perched in the darkness within the crown of the high-vaulted Hall of the League.

Now was the time. It was a risk, but Erefar was a holy man. Tormen did not deny it, and neither could the rest of the apostles. He would strike a blow for justice here, and hopefully, with the help of Brother Stefan and his colleagues, the rest of the apostles would see and act on the truth.

Whatever Pellwyn’s protection was, it would fail. It was up against Ae’s justice.

He padded across the beam above the chancellor, retrieved the steel he had brought for this task, and set his feet for the leap.

The Fall

Chancellor Pellwyn stood at the lectern on the floor between the two galleries. Nasira watched from over her left shoulder, observing the scene as the apostles filed in.

The letter from the high king dominated the agenda for a series of full sessions of the College’s voting body. Every apostle of the third degree or higher, wearing the silver stole of duty, was present in the Hall of the League for the first session on a cold afternoon just two days before the beginning of the Feast of the Solstice.

They were energetic and nervous as they took their seats. Some fidgeted in the pews and others chatted animatedly with their colleagues right up until the bang of Pellwyn’s gavel.

Every set of eyes snapped down to the floor, and the chancellor called the College of Apostles into session. Nasira felt seen, even in her customary state of invisibility. Every soul in that room knew she would be there, after all.

She began by listening to the progress of the proposals and the debate. An enthusiastic faction began by calling for the College to repudiate the conquest of naked personal ambition as unbefitting a moral ruler. The College at large seemed to accept the barb in the spirit of vigorous debate, at first, but after a few volleys back and forth, the arguing apostles began to draw battle lines and sharpen tongues. As the sarcasm hardened into insult, Nasira began to lean forward onto the balls of her feet.

The particulars of the conversation fell away into the background as she searched the crowd. She had never seen tensions so high in the Hall of the League. It was an unusually contentious motion that the College was considering, but that was no reason to ignore the instinct and experience that told Nasira to note the animosity. Everywhere she looked, the nervous anxiety had been sanded away to something raw and red.

The chancellor called for order and reprimanded a junior apostle, who sat down huffing. It wasn’t the most serious accusation that had been hurled and everyone knew it, but it fell out of decorum in an obvious way and had provided Pellwyn with the opening. Nasira started scanning faces. Senior members looked glum, pained, and determined. But the junior members, almost every one, were livid.

Almost.

One junior member sitting in the gallery on the upper left-hand side was nearly trembling. He was a small man, almost swallowed by his robes, with a full head of hair not yet lost to baldness. He didn’t look angry or combative. He did look nervous. His eyes darted to the door. To the floor… here, there. Around the galleries, especially at the front row on the right-hand side of the Hall.

At the chancellor.

Nasira threw back her hood and drew her sword. None would know, unless Pellwyn were listening for the whisper of steel coming free, which she would not be. Nasira thrust her soul through her mind and opened it to the reality of the world.

Nasira, now, employed one of the most difficult types of seeing Ae had taught her: to see into hearts. In the Hall of the League, there was erudition and passion, thought and deliberation on display. Each apostle she saw, shaded with their hopes or their fears, stained by their secrets or imbued with potential, textured and bright like an oil painting in colors vivid beyond imagining.

The small man in the overlarge robes was a knot of fire and light. Hope and self-doubt swirled within a pall of resolve. It didn’t look right. It didn’t have the look of a man contemplating violence.

Nasira, thinking suddenly of Abbot Way’s training, looked at the one place the man hadn’t looked: up.

A robed man perched on a beam, setting his feet for the plunge. He was a bright white light of singular purpose, refracted into a full rainbow of thought and pathos, cut through with a razor-thin, void-black streak of murderous intent.

Directly below him stood Chancellor Pellwyn, granite-gray with age and nuance, speckled and textured with contemplation. She was raising her arm to signal something banal to the parliamentarian.

The contrast was striking: the brilliant light of a talented, driven, blessed being. The thick, murky gray of calculation, secrets, and compromise. The shadow of death.

Nasira gave it no second thought.

A killing spell is difficult. It requires a great deal of power and precision and a robust understanding of the mortal body, mind, and soul. But sometimes it is the only thing that will do. She aimed her will. She drew and focused every ounce of purpose and determination and every feeling of ought that had ever welled up in her heart. As she did this, her mind sized up its target.

Knight Nasira tore the assassin’s soul from his body.

It came free with a sound like a great oak being snapped in half, heard not just in the ears but felt in every heart and throat in the Hall. The man’s body fell limp fifty feet to the ground beside the sword it had held.

Nasira stood, visible and with sword bared, by the chancellor’s side.

Justice

Chancellor Pellwyn and Abbot Way argued for nearly an hour in her office that night over how soon the College would resume its voting session. In the end, Way was able to pry a one-day recess out of the chancellor’s steel grip.

“She wants to ride the wave of sympathy,” Way grumbled to the gathered knights in his cell.

“An unbecoming complaint,” said Knight Juno.

“Maybe. But also the truth, and it’s never good to ignore the truth. That said,” Way rumbled on, “we have twenty hours before the session resumes. The chancellor might only be alive because the most formidable knight I have ever sparred with just happened to be on watch. The next time she lives I don’t want it to be just because we got a lucky show of the damn dice.”

“Agreed, but we will post Knight Nasira as her shadow again, no?”

“Perhaps,” said Nasira, her gaze distant. “I have been asked to the Lightbringer’s chapel at dawn.”

Silence.

“I will inform you promptly if I cannot take watch.”

“Good,” said Way. “Horace, you’ll be on the floor too. Pyvin, you’re backup for Nasira. I trust you two to get the rest you need before tomorrow’s session.”

“Yes, sir.” “Understood.”

“Nasira,” Way barked. Her eyes snapped into focus. “You rest too.”

“No, Abbot. I couldn’t possibly tonight. Let me help.”

Way made a show of sizing her up. “I trust you. I’d be glad to have you help Juno with the questioning.”

Juno seemed to consider this. “After what they all saw in the Hall… maybe I should be the one helping.”

---

Nasira closed the cell door and turned to face Brother Stefan, who sat on the cot by the wall. The blood drained from Brother Stefan’s face.

“Brothers Stefan and Porta. Sisters Liliana, Mora, and Ilin-to. Have I identified the members of the conspiracy correctly?”

Nasira barely even heard what he said (“no, it wasn’t…”) the lie was so obvious upon his heart.

“You cannot lie to me.”

Stefan quailed into silence.

Nasira paused and thought. Her mind swirled with the potency of the truth, of duty, and of daring. And of the afterimage of this brother’s soul: fire and light.

“Brother Stefan, I am Knight Nasira. I have taken an oath to uphold the Lightbringer’s will and to ensure the success of her scholars. Everything I do, I do for that.”

Nasira let her expression soften the tiniest amount before continuing.

“I want to know why there was an attempt on the chancellor’s life today. I want to understand.”

Stefan gulped. His voice cracked as he forced out, “for justice.”

“How do you mean?”

“For… Orland. For truth and for… right.”

“Brother, explain as if I am to be convinced that it is right.”

Brother Stefan was speechless for a moment, reeling as if the gravity of the room were shifting beneath him.

“Brother, I am not a piece of steel. I am not a headsman nor an axe. I am your sister. Talk to me.”

Brother Stefan rubbed his temples, then the bridge of his nose. Then he sighed—theatrically, Nasira thought—and seemed to slump… and relax.

“It’s simple,” he said. “The chancellor wants us to ratify Emault’s conquest. An act of war, slaughter, and for what? For his own glory. We couldn’t stand by.”

Nasira saw two angles immediately and chose the one that seemed to flatter his convictions. “Ratify? How do you mean?”

“The chancellor… is going to urge the College to treat Emault as if he were the rightful ruler of Duranlach. The College ought to be the keeper of the moral code in these realms. If we don’t condemn the conquest…”

“… who will?”

“Exactly.”

“And you believe that the chancellor was agitating for this?”

“Yes, it was clear. The hushed meetings. The politicking.”

Nasira frowned. He didn’t even know the half of it: the threats and blackmail, the bluffs, the intimations. And yet…

“Thin evidence for an execution,” she said.

“We… we acted in justice for Orland. The moment was about to pass, and if we failed…”

“So the chancellor’s life was forfeit on shaky confidence, then?”

“Firm confidence. I know in my heart.”

“I can see that. But I see no evidence.”

Brother Stefan sighed. “I don’t see the point of arguing about that. It’s moot.”

“Ah. There are no more attempts in the waiting, then.”

“No. And we’ll be right, you know. She’s going to propose… it. You’ll see.”

“I suppose I shall,” said Nasira, in a tone she hoped suggested humble good spirit. “It might well be sooner rather than later. They return from recess tomorrow.”

Stefan said nothing to this. Nasira pressed the second angle.

“You thought you could not convince them.”

Stefan looked up, appearing surprised. “Of course we couldn’t. You saw that room, didn’t you?”

“With utter clarity. It was full of red-rashed nerves and tumult. You saw something different?”

“The senior members, with all of their prestige. They all came down on the side of…”

“Of rejecting the first motion made.”

“Well, yes…” Stefan’s brow furrowed.

“Do you remember that motion? I do. It was quite fiery. ‘Hasty,’ I think I heard it called.”

Stefan saw the thrust and parried it. “You think they would have been in favor of the same substance but with tamer verbiage? Unlikely.”

“What were your plans for convincing them?”

Stefan’s silence seemed much more sudden this time, like a blow to the gut. He recovered his wits and spilled back forward into it. “It was too late.”

“You do not believe the voting body could be convinced? You believe the prestige and seniority of the more cautious members could not be overcome?”

“No, certainly not. It’s built in to that process. They can wield their seniority, spend it, make their will with it. They would have gotten their way. I have no doubt.”

Nasira could see the doubt upon his heart just as plainly as she could feel it within hers.

---

Nasira and Juno reported their conclusions to Way: Nasira and Way had identified the six conspirators correctly in the immediate aftermath of the attempt, she had killed the only one practiced in violence in any serious way, and the College and its officers faced no identifiable, specific threats to a reconvention of the voting body. Additionally, Stefan had identified the assassin as Erefar, who might be known to some apostles as an almsgiver who had previously been called to testify before the College on his skills and background. A search of the College’s records would tell them all they could desire to know of him.

Stefan had also filled in the last missing piece of the puzzle: while trying to convince Juno that he and his co-conspirators were absolutely loyal to Ae and the Word, he offered up the tidbit that he had purposefully neglected to inform Erefar about the danger of the Order of the Owl.

Satisfied, Way dismissed her to get some sleep, but as promised, Nasira found she could not. Instead, she went directly to the Lightbringer’s chapel to pray.

“It is just past midnight, Knight Nasira,” Ae’s voice rang from behind her at the chapel entrance. “You are very early.”

“You are early, too, Holy Mother,” she replied. “I thought to pray and think.”

“Did Way not order you to get some sleep?”

“I told him I would not be able to. He trusts me to care for myself.”

Ae chuckled. “That old cavalier. He trusts in his knights when sometimes he should just give them orders.”

“Yes, Holy Mother.”

“Will you pray before me? You are in my chapel, but if you thought to be alone I shall allow you to be so.”

“I will pray before you, Holy Mother.”

Ae, then, was present upon her dais, sitting.

“Abbot Way and my knight-brothers and -sisters have offered me a great deal of commendations.”

“You are troubled by this, I see.”

“None have thought to ask me… if I did the right thing. To kill.”

Ae listened, as she did.

Nasira worked from the ground up. “When I saw the man in the rafters, I had very little time. Obviously it would be too much to expect me to conduct an internal trial, to weight the evidence and produce a verdict.

“However, I had many tools at my disposal. Most Talented bodyguards would fall back on fire and force. They injure and intimidate and often kill. Any of the three outcomes are usually acceptable. But there are others. Force can protect. An interposing shield could have diverted his blows. An adversarial transposition could have placed the assassin’s body miles away from here, harmlessly. Alchemical transmutation in spell form could have reduced the metal on his person to dust.

“But I killed him. When I saw the threat, my reaction was to terminate the threat. The threat happened to be a person.”

Nasira begrudgingly traveled the last few paces to the end of the thought.

“Nothing in me warred against this until later.”

Ae spoke. “Was this in violation of your oath?”

“Of course not, Holy Mother.”

Ae smiled that wily, laughing smile. “If it was not in violation of your oath, what troubles your conscience?”

Nasira stood at the precipice of a dozen distressing thoughts. Each one seemed a long way down. She said nothing.

“You may lay aside the honorifics,” said Ae. “Indeed, please do. We should be free of them this once.”

“Yes,” said Nasira, feeling horribly unbalanced without the “holy mother” to lean on at the end. “I have previously worried that the oath and its duties may prevent me from pursuing higher justice.”

“Yes.”

“This seems yet worse. Fulfilling my duties… was that an injustice itself?”

“I have said before: I sit not in judgement.”

Nasira looked up. Had she ever looked her Goddess in the eyes before?

“My years of rule are past,” Ae said. “I have chosen this monasticism so as to bring knowledge to my realm. Here, I pronounce no law, hold no trials.”

“I beg you bring knowledge to me, then. I am lost.”

“So be it. This knowledge I have shared with you before,” Ae said. “Your soul exists apart from your duty. Not only is it not to your dishonor, it is your most vital character, here, now. You are mortal. You are a person. If I wanted a mere weapon to bleed my foes with, I have several to choose from. I happen to be quite fond of this long spear, as you know.”

“Are you trying to cultivate me for something? What does this have to do with Erefar?”

“Cultivate, yes. Not for anything.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You expect a Goddess wants servants and wants her will to be done,” Ae replied. Nasira heard a faint note of irritation. “Is that all I should want?”

“… No.”

“And it is not all you should want. It is what troubles you even now. You killed without hesitation. You upheld your oath. But…?”

“He was a good man,” Nasira said. “His soul was bright with promise.”

“Ah,” said Ae. “You saw Erefar quite clearly, then.”

“Was this a test?”

“Everything is a test, my friend. But no, this is not some sort of contrivance. I have met Erefar, hance my remarks. I was saddened to learn that you had killed him.”

“Forgive me, Holy Mother.”

“I have not asked for your apology, and it is not my forgiveness you need.”

“Fine. But I should have spared him. I should have… anything but a killing spell. Anything.” She ground her teeth in frustration.

“Warriors kill. They may do many things with their skills, but killing is what they learn to do with no hesitation, with no troublesome calculations or restraints. This you have learned from Abbot Way, one of the finest warriors in the Kingdoms. Should you have hesitated to kill? Should you have risked falling short of your duty? Your oath?”

“Yes. I… preserved the integrity of my duty, but cost the world a wonderful soul. The oath… I can afford to risk.”

“Could Beca afford for you to risk your oath?”

Nasira regretted it immediately. “… No. Forgi—”

“As I have said, you need not my forgiveness.”

“I don’t understand,” Nasira nearly shouted. “I killed a good man. Should I not seek for that to be absolved?”

“Perhaps you may. Though again I shall add that, of course, he was about to kill a good woman. Truly, do you want for absolution?”

“Was his cause not just?”

“Was it? I cannot see the future,” said Ae. “Can you?”

And in that moment of fatigue and doubt, Nasira saw her Goddess as clearly as she ever had before. She closed her eyes and took a breath.

“I need not your forgiveness. You give neither judgement nor forgiveness. You give knowledge.”

“Yes.”

“And you can only give what knowledge there is to give.”

Ae smiled. “Yes.”

And the knowledge She had to give was this: justice was not something that could be simply known.

But all the same, it had to be made.

The goddess may not have had the knowledge to share with Nasira about whether the chancellor’s plans were the best for the College or whether Erefar could have been subdued safely. But there was much knowledge She did have, and it would not do to leave it unused.

Nasira stood. “I should rest, Holy Mother. I must return to duty in the morning. But I have decided that I should like to ask a favor afterward.”

“Yes, Nasira?”

“I would like to know more about Erefar. Perhaps I can atone. For the both of us.”

I’ll be back to writing fiction soon, but I won’t be posting it right away.

The last few months have kept me in a decent groove for writing, but I’m eager to try two new ideas in the hopes that they might help me produce even better work. The first is a real commitment to the writing-and-editing process (you write the entire thing, then you edit it a lot) that Angelique has been prodding me to try for years now and that recent reads and events have been spurring me toward. The second new idea is a non-weekly cadence. In the last few years I’ve been trying to balance my hobbies by making sure I’m able to participate in each of them on a weekly basis. This is a natural way to do things but not the only way. Breaking outside of that pattern allows me to do what I’m about to try now: put some stuff on hold and sprint hard on a writing project.

I know I’m rediscovering the wheel six millennia late here, but indulge me, will you? I can be a stubborn creature; when I finally find the energy to break and rebuild my habits I have to take the W and get to work.

There are two outstanding projects and one new one that I’d like to subject to this treatment:

The Thief is the story of Syr, the most recent story I’ve been noodling on. Well, it’s really more of an idea than a story, unfortunately. The subtitle is “a love letter to 2000s fantasy,” by which I mean the adventure stories of my youth featuring daring, wish-you-could-be-them heroes having long, wonderful careers doing all sorts of stuff. Think video games and D&D licensed paperbacks. I always liked these because they seemed to feature a hero living a sort of day-in-day-out extraordinary life full of different experiences, not just a single-serve calling to one epic quest. That always fired my imagination more, somehow. But that’s not really a story, that’s just inspiration.

But it could easily make for a series of stories. Delivered serially, perhaps.

The current story thread is just meandering exposition, but I think it deserves to have its own beginning, middle, and end. I can probably get it there with some rewriting and some extension. Then on to the next story!

Death of a Wizard has been on the shelf for a year or two now. But the best time was last year and and the next best time is this year, right? I’m reasonably happy with the existing material (although the name rolls off the tongue like a sack of bricks down a playground slide), so this is just about continuing it. It’s meant to be a short novel, and the current story pace is bearing that out. About 25k words to go!

The Ballad of K2LU the new project. It was a D&D one-shot adventure that I sketched out but then got shelved in favor of a tabletop break. The story deserves to be told anyway. It’s short, and will probably weigh 10k words when it’s all through.

I should have time to work all of these projects this year, the latter two potentially to completion. I plan to do so by scheduling two contiguous weeks and setting aside most of my other weekly doings to put down a solid chunk of story. I’ll keep myself laser focused on the characters and what they’re doing. The prose can, mechanically speaking, suck, for all I care. The word count isn’t exactly the point, of course, but 10k seems like a decent milestone. Then I’ll take two weeks off (to read and simmer). Then four to edit at a leisurely pace. Editing might take more or less time; I’ll learn as I go. Then I’ll take two more weeks off. Then I’ll prepare to do it all again.

That’s the sketch. It’s still paced leisurely, leaving me plenty of time for my non-writing obsessions, but it also allows me to seize the momentum on a story. The two week writing sprint is the element I’m most confident in and the one I’m most interested to see in action. I know I want some amount of break time between the sprints; how much is an object for study. I have no idea whatsoever regarding editing. I’ve never done any serious editing this way.

The weekly posts are discontinued for now. But watch this space for bigger, better work!

Last week I finished 11/22/63 by Stephen King, and at a friend’s recommendation (thanks, Angelique!) I started and finished King’s memoir and guidebook, On Writing.

I found On Writing to be exciting in both senses of the word. King’s thesis for writing fiction is that an author has a story they want to tell—a handful of characters in a situation—and that they should begin by writing the raw story, transcribing the events and emotions as they come. His recommended method is a hearty sprint: write daily and have the story completely written in three months or less; the author should give themselves little or no time to dwell on the written work’s deficiencies. The story is there and the author needs to capture it straight away before it scampers off into the brush. Then, he says, comes the first rewrite. That’s when the author can begin to tell what the story is really about. The author wrote the story of, say, a prince, his mother, his uncle, and a ghost, but over the course of rereading it and editing for style they are likely to discover the story is about deception, performance, life and death, action and inaction, and tragedy. They should then harness the moment of the rewrite to change the story’s structure and prose as necessary to better suit its newfound character (themes, in other words).

So, exciting in two ways. First, I found myself resonating with this approach, practically to the point of vibrating. My old method for writing tabletop stories was usually to find a moment of great… moment and then to construct a before and an after and then to hope that the players enjoyed it as much as I did. They often didn’t, it seemed; the moment never felt very momentous when it arrived, and I began to write it off as a poor method for storytelling. But probably it was just poorly adapted to the tabletop format (i.e. live collaborative storytelling taking place adjacent to a whirring random number generator), or the moments were all aimed at the wrong audience, or my execution fell short. The method works for Stephen King, doesn’t it? Sure, I’m not Stephen King, but the method works and I bet it’s not just because he’s a world-class talent.

And then in the second sense of the word: to excite action. I wanted to try it out right away.

That’s when I began brooding.

Those of you who know me know my penchant for brooding. I’m proud of it, as you might have sensed. I tell myself that my capacity for introspection and my humility are important to any and all successes I’ve notched in my life thus far. That’s probably an overstatement. My little collection of talents and my gift for symbolic thinking can carry me and have carried me through some things. So have the wonderful people around me. But the overstatement contains a critical truth: my eagerness to submit myself to learning processes, which all start with the basic assumption that I’m an ignorant novice and need to take my lumps and learn, is powerful, probably more powerful than the talent. So where would I be if I were less willing to reflect and self-criticize?

Well, the self-criticism, as welcome and powerful as it is, can get me mired in some powerfully bleak beliefs and foul moods.

This particular strain of brooding has been a companion to me for the last five or so years. As I have alluded to before, having children and the intimidating time obligations thereof have long weighed on my self-image and my self-reflection. As Kelsey and I prepared to have kids, I knew my free time was becoming short, and I began to obsess over the worthiness of how I spent that time. To what ends did I do the things I did? When I had fun (which, to my credit, I did admit was acceptable), was I having enough fun, or would something else be more fun? Even now that I do have a child and I’m experiencing those demands on my time, the story is similar. I have a few hours a day, after the kid goes to bed, to do things that aren’t directly supporting the necessities of the family’s existence. I need to make the most of them, damnit!

Drafting a novel-length piece of fiction in three months within those time constraints would be possible, but it would require sacrifice. Was I willing to make the sacrifices? Would it be a worthy way to spend my time? To answer that, I would have to know what I’m trying to get out of it, right?

Hence the brooding.

The other night, while getting together with some friends to shoot the breeze, I shared a portion of this to Angelique. I talked about how much I enjoyed On Writing and that I was eager to implement some of the strategies, but that I was discouraged by King’s recommended regimen—four to six hours of reading and writing daily. That was straight up impossible for me. Even a lesser regimen, probably two hours a night to get down 1000 words (to keep the novel-in-three-months pace), would require me to sacrifice basically all of my other hobbies. I didn’t think I was willing. Where did that leave me?

Angelique reminded me that not only is Stephen King a professional with a full workday at his disposal for this (and whose recommendations are tailored toward similar aspirants), but he is, professionally, a bookseller as well as an author. So much of his advice is in service of practicing a craft for accessible (which is also to say, marketable) writing to the best of an author’s abilities and to do so prolifically, because volume is useful to the author-bookseller in many ways. This is not meant to be a cynical; King takes a lot of genuine pride in writing as an art, craft, and profession. But it’s a statement of plain fact that his process engages directly with the particular demands of being an author-by-trade as well as being an author-qua-artist.

My brooding mind took the hint and turned the corner. I don’t have any intention, currently, of being an author-by-trade. Unless I were to hit quite the moonshot, software pays better and more reliably.

To go a step further, I know in a strategic, abstract sense that I don’t want to seek external validation in my hobbies. External validation is perilous; it puts us at the mercy of the people doing the validation, and so we sometimes struggle uphill against factors outside our control. There’s a place for it, of course, but I’ve decided to be very careful where and how I seek validation from other people. I’d like my wife to continue telling me that she loves me. I’d like for my friends and family to continue to want to hang out with me. I’d like to not get fired for incompetence at work. That’s about it. And even then, there’s a signal-and-noise quality to these sources. Things can happen and they may be a cause for some broo… self-reflection but they’re not incontrovertible signs that I’ve failed as a person. In light of that, something like publish a book with a big boy publisher and have it sell well is not a reasonable source of validation for me. Maybe it’d be a worthy goal if I were to dedicate three years of a full-time grind to it or something. But it’s just obviously, patently silly for me to measure my success or failure by an external goal like that, given my current set of circumstances and desires.

So what is writing if I don’t care to be published? What is writing if I go the distance on this external validation line of thinking and declare that I don’t even really care if anyone else reads it?

Well, I would like for someone to read it. But I want to be proud of it first. I want to write stuff I’m proud of (internal validation!), and I want to show it off. And show it off is just the right phrase here: it’s sharing entirely for my pleasure. There’d be disappointment if nobody cared (or everyone did care and furthermore hated it), but just that: disappointment. It’s external validation, but extremely narrow in scope. It wouldn’t be a failure for me to live up to my aspirations or to achieve my goal to Make The World Better or something. It’d just be showing off.

That helps me fit this hobby of mine, writing, into its proper place within my jealously stewarded post-bedtime hours, spent mostly at my desk in my cozy basement. If I want to show off someday, I’ll keep myself reading and writing. I don’t need to do six hours of it a day; showing off isn’t that urgent, it doesn’t require that much practice, and I’m not competing with legions of author-candidates for the attention of agents and publishers. I probably don’t even need to do one hour of it a day. I think it’s fair to predict that I could, someday, possibly soon, write something that I’m really proud of without sacrificing my other hobbies. I can play some BattleTech and watch some Twitch and not lose any sleep over it.

Back in March, right when I started bringing some life back to this website, I got with another group of friends to do some goal-setting. Since then, we’ve been keeping each other apprised of our progress on our personal projects, and in return, keeping each other accountable. My goal was humble: publish (here) something, anything, once a week. So far, so good; I don’t think I’ve missed a week since March. The driving principle is still, given all this, a worthy one: I don’t need a high bar; I just want to keep in practice, strive to improve, and try produce something to be proud of. But On Writing has some specific advice I want to consider about the nature of writing and rewriting. I might alter the publishing schedule somewhat or I might do some reconsideration of my in-flight projects (The Thief and Death of a Wizard). We’ll see! I have some broo… contemplation to do on the matter.

The presence returned immediately to Syr’s perception, followed shortly by the feeling that she was far too close to it. The presence was a face, sure enough.

More than that, though, it was a kind face. It was clean, colorless, and angled; its lines were cut (carved?) straighter than the edge of a sunbeam. It would have looked artificial, if not a little bit alien, but for the intelligent glint in its dark eyes and the welcoming smile on their corners.

Her eyes and mouth, Syr reminded herself.

“Ah! A newcomer. How exciting!” said the face. The tree?

Wait. Those words and their meaning had been conveyed to Syr through her Sight, she could tell. How should she reply? Would her counterpart hear words spoken aloud?

“I would understand those, if you prefer,” offered the face. “But you should know that you’re a bit of an open book like this.”

A what? An open book? Trees read books? And what did “like this” mean?

The face laughed. None of its straight edges could curve to accommodate the usual shape of mirth, but the laugh still seemed natural and genuine.

“You are new to this, yes. You seem to think of it as Seeing, but it’s more like Feeling. And right now you are fumbling around and falling all over me. It’s easy to feel your thoughts like that.”

Syr was mortified. The feeling of being too-close was not a mistake after all.

“Think nothing of it. Nobody faults babies for stumbling and crawling all over everyone; they can’t help it.”

That didn’t make Syr feel much better.

“Oh well. You will grow used to it. Now, allow me to introduce myself. As much as I can, anyway—I haven’t a name to go by. Think of me as a spirit. One of the spirits of the Halls. One of the Halls which you now find yourself in. The Halls are not the place below or the place below that, if you are wondering. They are a place within and around. Nearby. But they’re not just a place; they’re a… hm. People isn’t quite right. But the Halls are special. The Halls have been here so long. At some point they took to eavesdropping. Then snooping. Then thinking. Then understanding. Then they started asking questions. Holding conversations. Answering questions.”

This tree… face… wasn’t either of those things. It was one of the Halls.

“You’re getting the hang of it.”

So when people said they thought the walls were listening…

“Most walls, no, as I understand it. But we do here.”

But why did the halls look like… trees?

“Doors are made of wood. This wood was lively, and it just kept growing.”

Syr wasn’t sure just how metaphorical that was meant to be.

“Take it or leave it. I’ll admit that we don’t have a good memory of our infancy.”

The thought occurred to Syr that the soothsayer was still standing behind her. This, uh, Hall had already been quite a bit more talkative and helpful than the soothsayer had been in weeks. And then she remembered…

“Exactly right. Until you learn to See and Feel a little more carefully, everything you think will be pretty obvious to a half-decent listener. Now, have some respect for your companion. The Oracles of the High Mountain perform a thankless but valuable duty.”

Syr actually said aloud, “hold on, you’re going to have to elaborate on that one.”

“I shouldn’t, if you’re not familiar. Your friend has their reasons. Just know that they have made a noble choice and forsaken much, and you are benefitting directly.”

Syr considered this.

“You’re a quick learner.”

What had Syr learned so quickly? She wasn’t sure.

“How to think privately. Sometimes, anyway.”

“I… thank you, for everything. This is a lot to think about,” said Syr.

“Of course. Do you wish to journey?”

Oh. This she was speaking to was a Hall, and a Hall must lead somewhere, right?

“Just so. A great hall of wisdom lies beyond my door. From there you could reach many places in the Seven Realms of the Old League, if you were inclined.”

Syr felt the tug. Knowing how much lay beyond, she wanted to fall right in. It was there. It was deep. It was more than a little dizzying.

But not just yet. For now, Syr knew, she had to start small.

Syr stood, and so did the soothsayer.

“There is an entrance here. Stand on that side of the table and take one step back. I will snuff the candle. It will not be long before you will be able to do this even in on a noisy street, but for now we will remove the distractions and allow you to focus.”

Syr did as bidden and the candle flickered out.

“Search your perception for that void you described. A non-place. Go to it.”

Syr mentally felt about the silence until she experienced the mental equivalent of trying to lean against a wall in the darkness that was unexpectedly missing. She yelped and fell in immediately.

---

“Good.”

The soothsayer loomed over Syr, who was busy hurling her morning eggs and spinach into the dirt.

“Doesn’t… feel good,” she managed through gritted teeth.

“You will grow used to it.”

When her breakfast had been fully evacuated, Syr knelt, took some deep breaths, and took her first measure of the Halls.

They did not appear to be halls by any conventional definition of the word. She knelt on a patch of bare earth amidst a tangle of thick roots. Oak trees stood all around, their empty branches weaving a sparse canopy above. Through it, the sky was dark and immense, glittering stars flooding through it, threatening to overflow and drench the world below.

Fireflies speckled the space between the dark trunks. A legion of crickets covered the air in a heavy blanket of noise.

Syr and the soothsayer were alone.

The soothsayer said nothing.

Syr noted their conspicuous silence and understood, grudgingly, the cue to observe more closely.

The forest of winter-naked trees seemed featureless at first and sparse enough to witness that featurelessness for some distance in every direction. But in the surprisingly bright starlight, Syr made out an irregularity: a single tree, ten times as wide and ten times as tall as its neighbors. She scanned around and spotted another. And perhaps a third.

“Huh.”

“Yes.”

Syr led the way to the nearest, stepping carefully between trunks, her head on a swivel and eyes darting between the innumerable shadows. The soothsayer seemed unconcerned. Or how could she tell? She couldn’t see their face, she reminded herself; she must be projecting some sort of assumption onto them.

The base of the great tree came into view after a few minutes of careful navigation over the root-riven earth. Its enormity seemed to push on the world around it; it commanded a clearing between itself and the smaller trees like an orator in a square.

Syr stood at the treeline, a couple dozen yards away from the base of the colossus, and looked up. Besides the obvious, she struggled to find any difference between it and its smaller peers. The thought occurred to her, gazing up into its great crown of bare boughs, that even the meager light she could see them by was too strong to be explained by starlight and fireflies. But she couldn’t see what that might tell her about this tree or these… Halls.

She thought of trying to pry more out of the soothsayer, but then she had a better idea. She closed her eyes and tried to See what this “non-place”, as the soothsayer had called it, was about.

Seeing was still not natural to her, and she spent some time listening to the crickets and experiencing the inside of her eyelids. This went on for… a minute? Two? Ten? It was impossible to tell. But after some time she could hear the silence that lay underneath the crickets, and then within the darkness and the silence together she could sense the flickering and dancing of other sensations, as though from a great distance. She reached for those sensations.

The first one she found was the feeling that she was standing inches away from someone’s face.

She gasped, her eyes flew open, and she looked up at the tree. It loomed over her.

“She is kind and honorable,” explained the soothsayer, who was standing just a few feet behind. “Be kind in return.”

Syr shivered. A million questions rose to her throat, and her heart began to thump harder as she thought about speaking with something—someone—so titanic. But it seemed so obvious now: this is what she had to do, and there wasn’t any point in stalling. So she closed her eyes, found the darkness and the silence together, and searched within them.

“I don’t see anything. Obviously.”

“The first attempt is the most difficult.”

“That’s not helpful.”

There was silence in the darkness. Syr thought about that. Silence always seemed to have its own presence in the darkness, where elsewhere it was felt more like an absence.

After a minute of this, the formless blue-purple-red eddies of sensory deprivation began to thrum in her vision. Still the soothsayer said nothing, and silence swelled to fill the little curtained alcove, seeping into every yard of fabric and pressing on her ears and mind.

As Syr wondered if any of these sensations had something to do with her self, she began to sense something behind those swirling non-visions. Something deep and vertiginous, yawning, threatening to pull her in. She felt sick. Dizzy. Disoriented. She feared for her balance, that she might fall off the world.

And she felt the gazes of many sets of eyes as she nearly stumbled.

“Hmm.”

The hum of the soothsayer cut through these feelings and restored ordinary silence to the dark alcove. Or was it ordinary?

They lit the candle in the center of the table, and their veiled hood returned to view.

“An interesting first Seeing,” they commented.

“Was that what I was looking for? That is… me?” Syr stammered.

“No,” chuckled the soothsayer. The soothsayer’s sudden expression of any sort of emotion almost knocked Syr out of her chair (or was that the lingering nausea?). “What you saw is not you. You are not given to introspection, I think.”

“So if that wasn’t me, what was that?”

“Examine it yourself. What do you believe it was?”

Syr considered complaining about the soothsayer’s unfailingly cryptic approach to every damn thing, but thought better of it and instead put her mind to the task.

“It felt like… a space. In front of me. A void. It felt like it was pulling me in, but maybe it wasn’t… physically pulling. It was like I wanted to fall forward into it. But somehow it was also dreadful, like I shouldn’t.”

Syr furrowed her brow, pressing on.

“And the eyes. I was definitely being watched. Judged.” She looked up, directly into the veil. “Am I still being watched right now?”

“In a manner, yes. You are quite perceptive.”

Syr began to grind her teeth. “Stars above. I get that you have a thing you’re doing but cut it out and tell me what the Hell is going on.”

“Be patient, young one. One day you may grow practiced this skill and come to understand why those like me can be so… circumspect. But now, yes, you will have your answers.

“There is indeed a space very near to here. You may even go there. It is near and by no means forbidden, but it will be unfamiliar and there are hazards which your instincts are warning you against. It is the Halls; an ancient place that many believe to have been here long before Gullport. Possibly before even the kingdom of Orland itself.

“The gazes are another matter. One among them is certainly the Law. You carry a token of it, remember. The coin. Last you came for help you left convinced that you were not in violation of its law and that has allowed you to coexist with the coin. But the Law of life and death remains close in your presence.

“More sets of eyes upon you, though? I cannot say. Perhaps it is your sense of the Law, that it is multiplicate rather than unitary. Or perhaps your talent has attracted attention. For my own part I do not see the other eyes upon you. But that is not to say that they are not there.

“We may speak more of those shortly. You truly do not sense your self? I have heard of such a thing before. But those who do not know their own magic are often startled by its… brilliance.”

“No. Brilliance? I know we’re not talking actual light but brilliance is not what would come to mind. I sensed the… emptiness nearby, the eyes on my back, and a whole lot of dark and quiet room.”

The soothsayer nodded, considering. “Very unusual. Shall we try again?”

Syr arched an eyebrow. “I suppose I should soon. But I want to see the Halls, first.”

“Ahhhh,” the soothsayer remarked. “You would like to know what this newfound sense is good for. How much you can even trust it, perhaps.”

“Damn straight.”

The morning would have found Syr aching and restless, curled over the small lump of coin hidden on the left side of the cloak. But Syr had hidden herself too well to be found my the morning, renting the tiniest windowless room in the finest traveler’s inn she could find, a hightown establishment owned and operating by some sort of merchant collective.

The bed had been worth every coin (and she’d had to pay extra to convince the hostess that she wasn’t trouble despite her ragged appearance), but pain shot through her left side with almost every movement of her arm. As she hauled herself up in bed she realized with a sullen worry that it would be at least a week or two before she’d be doing much climbing, thanks to that stunt from last night. Maybe it would be mackerel for lunch for a while.

Syr sat up in bed and massaged her skin where it was red and irritated, mostly at her sides and hips where the chestwrap rubbed the most. The room was dark, lit only by pale mid-morning sunlight that was pooling in the hallway and creeping in under the door to her room.

Where to now?

She had most of a day to… do whatever. It was like she had told Glover: she didn’t have much to do other than get money and spend the money to stay alive. Left foot forward, right foot forward. Thieving (any thieving that was challenging enough to be worth doing, anyway) would be on hold until her shoulder healed. Which left living.

Syr scratched her head. What was living?

She lay back in bed for a while, sinking in to the pleasant cool of the fresh sheets.

This was living, right? It would do. At least for a little bit.

---

Syr knocked on the door with the string of beads on the handle, and at the welcome from inside she pushed her way into the darkness and out of the sunlight.

The soothsayer regarded her with intensity, as much as could be conveyed through the veiled hood that perfectly obscured their face. As before, the two of them sat and had tea, soaking in a few minutes of intent silence before Syr gathered the will to break it.

“I do… I would like… you mentioned help, earlier.”

“Hmm,” hummed the soothsayer. “You said you would think about it.”

“I’m…”

“… Skeptical.”

“Yeah. But also…”

“Worried?”

“I was going to say ‘bored’.”

“Perhaps. But also worried.”

“No…? No, I don’t think I’m worried,” Syr mused.

“I can see the worry plain, even if you cannot. Or would rather not.”

The implied chuckle annoyed Syr, but she reminded herself that the soothsayer wasn’t being rude so much as being… a soothsayer.

“Yeah, yeah. The point is, I would be grateful for the help. And I don’t have much better to be doing right now…”

“Mmm. You have many things you could be doing right now; you simply have not seriously considered any of them, because you rightly or wrongly do not believe them to be worth much consideration.”

Syr rolled her eyes. “Fine, whatever. If that’s true, isn’t that besides the point?”

“Ah, forgive me. A poor habit. When I speak with those who have much to ask and much to hear it is easy to simply say all that I see. You are here for my help?”

“I am. And there’s really no price?”

“None. You are heir to a talent both grave and auspicious. It is only right that I provide what guidance I can.”

“Huh. I’ll try to return the favor, if I can,” Syr tested, trying to determine how she felt about that even as she said it. “Let’s get started, then.”

The soothsayer nodded and cleared the table except for one burning candle. They grabbed a long-armed candle snuffer and craned about the little den, extinguishing every other source of light until only the little flickering point remained, illuminating Syr’s watchful face and the enigmatic purple veil.

“There are many ways to, from, and about the being—from magic. Some—like you—have a talent, born or given. Your being burns like flame. It may consume yourself and then the world around you, or it may peacefully cast warmth and light.

“Mine does not. The vital world is as reactive to my will as a granite mountain is to a child’s tiny, clumsy hands. I have little to teach you about the exercise of your will.”

Syr arched an eyebrow. “So…”

“I am a seer, young one. My craft is to see what is true, even if what is true is not obvious to the eyes.”

The tip of the candle snuffer reappeared in the little sphere of candlelight, and then the little sphere of candlelight was no more. Syr and the soothsayer sat opposite each other in perfect darkness, accompanied by the familiar waxy smell of the extinguished candles and the occasional creak of lumber.

Syr said nothing, so the soothsayer continued.

“Some of such seeing is possible for anyone, even the dimmest and most uninterested. Some is only possible to me because I have a knack. I have little doubt that with your obvious talent and your curiosity, you will come to what is important quickly.”

“Am I looking? Now?”

“Yes.”

“For…?”

“Your self, for starters.”

The actual fencing turned out to be much less gratifying than Syr had hoped. Her score was five delicate chains (all of poor craftsmanship), three gemstones (two fakes and a very small but very real diamond), a golden ring, and a thoroughly ersatz bangle. The diamond itself was enough to pay for over a month’s food and board after Syr held her ground in the haggle. But even despite the victory, it was hardly the wealth promised by the initial sparkle of the jewelry drawer. And it was just deflating to be presented with the list of unhappy appraisals, each indisputable.

Syr bit back the frustration the best she could as the conversation turned to Glover’s services. As he had indicated, he did more than just deal in stolen goods. His home, here, was a “public house” with (he claimed) a nearly sterling reputation with all comers. Seafarers hoping to get away from the extortionate prices of seaside watering holes knew to find good ale here. Day laborers found the bustle and cheer welcoming. Even the hightown crowd needed a place to play dice where they wouldn’t get mugged.

“They… wouldn’t?”

“Not in my establishment and home, never,” he flatly replied.

He went on to elaborate upon the benefits of being such a gracious host and how they might extend to the gracious host’s friends. Gossip, connections, sanctuary…

Syr felt increasingly hemmed in by the mounting vague insinuations and polite deniabilities.

“What’s the catch?” she blurted out.

“Catch?” Glover returned her question with pristine manners.

“I’m… not going to rat on you, okay? If I did I would cause myself more pain than I would cause you. You know that. So please just tell me straight. What do you want in return?”

Glover’s hands steepled again and he gave Syr a long, hard look through his dark eyebrows.

It went on longer than was comfortable.

And still longer.

“I hope,” he began slowly, “to be a host and a friend who cultivates relationships without finding them so… constrained by transaction. You understand, I hope? I want to be a friend and be befriended in return.

“But like all friends I have expectations”, he continued, after a beat. “Loyalty and honorable conduct. Respect. Shared interest. Bonds worthy of nurture and of celebration.

“I believe we already have a shared interest and some level of respect for each other. Your talents and mine are complementary. We should, in a just world, make great allies.”

Syr chose her words carefully. “Sure. I don’t see why not. But you’re going to ask for something and I would hate for that to become a problem.”

Glover sighed. “Yes, I see. There’s hope for us yet. Maybe you’d like to speak with some of the others? Hear it from them. I’m good to them, and they’re happy to be good to me.”

Syr, sensing a way out and an opportunity both, leaned in, projecting cautious eagerness as best she could. “Oh. I’d like that.”

“Perfect. Come back tomorrow morning. No, afternoon is better so you can find some proper clothes. I’ll introduce you to Moog and Mr. Sparrow.”

“Who says I won’t show back up in this?” Syr wasn’t sure if she was trying to lighten the mood or just express spite under the cover of humor.

“Well,” Glover mused, “there’s no rule against it. But I have a feeling about you. You like to make an impression.”

My thoughts on BattleTech from a few weeks back all point in the direction of a new mecha-obsessed setting, codenamed Yet Another Mecha Setting. Here’s a quick distillation:

Early Modern Scale

Space travel? Maybe. Full-bore space colonialism? Nah. Let’s go for a smaller scale, comprehensible to individual characters. Perhaps, even, a scale smaller than current earth!

In 1600 AD, earth’s population was in the hundreds of millions and was fragmented, geographically and politically. This strikes me as fertile soil. It’s very large, of course; the world has basically always been large past human imagining. But wars in a world of that size and with that sort of semi-isolated political geography can conceivably run the gamut from massive, intensely destructive conflicts to small backwater struggles.

Near Future Warfare

We want mechs, right? The romance of the machine! But if we turn the tech dial up too much we send our society straight into late spacefaring situations or equip our militaries with technology whose uses we won’t be able to anticipate correctly, which will inevitably create plot holes to fill (High! Verisimilitude!).

But mechs themselves ought to serve a somewhat different purpose than they do in other settings. In Gundam media, mechs seem to exist to straightforwardly amplify their pilots. The person who is capable of piloting the machine crosses a certain threshold of being able to affect the world around them, and the stakes go up. Pretty simple from a narrative point of view! In BattleTech there is a similar effect, but it’s backgrounded a bit for the mech’s function as a symbol of resource and pedigree: the great knight’s steed, basically. Anyone who is anyone can stable and feed their machine, and any pirate that can get their hands on one and keep it operating might just be seeing their own star rise.

In this setting I want it to come from the other direction: mechs are a tool of war, created by the in-universe logic of warfare. A specific tool, at that: just like tanks can’t win you every battle, mechs won’t either.

And as implied in the last post, main battle tanks are the obvious point of comparison. MBTs are heavily armored, highly mobile (in most contexts), and carry a powerful main weapon capable of defeating other MBTs and other armored and unarmored threats. Basically, if you need something that can get to a place and shoot at and destroy things while enduring return fire, the MBT is the best tool for the job provided that the terrain is appropriate.

Mechs, the way we think of them (big bipedal heavy metal machines with big guns), will mostly fill the same role. They have the armor to resist incoming fire and they have main direct-fire weapons that can defeat most threats. The big difference is those two legs. If you can design legs that can carry fifty tons of war machine, then those legs will confer huge benefits in rocky, mountainous, and otherwise difficult terrain. The bipedal orientation (which tends to make the machine taller) can help with visibility, too, and can enable a few other tricks (maneuvering in shallow water, sparse forests, and potentially even offering some flexibility in urban battlefields). But the downsides are also significant:

• increased complexity (and likely also cost) of the mobility system,
• increased target profile of the machine (i.e. HIT ME I’M AN EASY TARGET),
• greatly decreased stability

So what do we make of this? Probably: tanks have significant (though not insurmountable) advantages on an open field, where their lower profile makes them more difficult targets and their stability prevents them from being knocked over by enemy fire. But mechs can maneuver in places where tanks cannot, bringing armored presence to places that were previously only accessible to infantry and aerial forces.

Both can be core elements of fighting forces! Both are vulnerable to artillery and need support to deal with certain threats (well-positioned infantry, aerial bombardment, etc.). Neither enjoy total primacy over the battlefield (in contrast to other mech-featuring settings). But we have mechs, and they are cool!

Scale and Tech?

The previous two elements interact in an interesting way. The technology of 2021 earth is enabled by and dependent on a globalized economy of 7 billion people: robust labor forces, advanced systems of international trade, and mass production at enormous scales. Near future tech produced by a much smaller, more fragmented population probably relies on something else to make it tick. Possibly:

• advanced automation in fields that are normally manual labor
• robust meta-technology, i.e. equipment and techniques that facilitate innovation and production (powerful computing? Cheaper and less complex silicon fabrication processes?)
• artisan-savants capable of feats of incredible innovation, design, and technical execution
• a uniform degree of high labor force productivity across the world (i.e. few places kept down by the pressures and legacy of colonialism)

Alternate World

The setting isn’t earth. Future-facing fantasy and sci-fi often take place in imagined future earths. YAMS will not.

For one thing, this helps reconcile the early modern scale with the near future tech without having to elaborate on some sort of late 21st century calamity that would then determine the rest of the setting’s history.

For another, it helps shed some of the baggage of having to write about real societies or their descendants. Real human societies are, without a doubt, tremendously deep and interesting elements of a story. But they require a lot of work to get right, both in terms of raw facts and in terms of tone and representation. And they beg commentary about themselves. I don’t want to bait myself into writing about the relationship of the United States to Israel or the history of class conflict in Europe or whatever. Rather, there are other things that I think this setting can excel at showcasing, and real world history and politics would mostly serve to distract from them.†

Fictional politics, maybe! I think the culture and institutional makeup of a fighting force and its relation to the society that produced it is a deeply interesting space to explore, for one thing.

For an example of an alternate-world setting, the Advance Wars series of handheld turn-based strategy games elect to set their narratives in a non-earth world, and it works very well.

So…?

One of these days I’m going to write a PC or tabletop tactics game or maybe a handful of short stories set in YAMS. That’s when I’ll sketch out some geography, societies, and conflicts. I’ll have these ideas to guide me whenever I get down to it!

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† No, I am not some sort of weird coneheaded nerd who thinks that combat is some sort of honorable realm apart from politics.

While I’m thinking about settings!

I write most of my fantasy stuff these days in a medieval-style fantasy setting that should scan as pretty familiar to most fans of fantasy.

However, rather than a very specific and carefully architected setting with thematically dense cosmology, geography, politics, and history, I think of this setting as a first-principles expression of my answer to the question, “why do we write medieval fantasy stuff, anyway?”

In other words, you could say this is my Generic Fantasy Setting, although of course I should like to think that undersells it somewhat.

I call it Materia, because most of the mortals and stories are in the realm of material things, and I can’t be bothered to give it some manufactured Anglo-Elven sounding name like Faerûn.

Why Do We Write Medieval Fantasy?

Tolkien did it really well and we’ve all been pretty much obsessed since then.

Why Should We Keep Writing Medieval Fantasy?

I guess that’s the more interesting question to ask.

Why fantasy?

I probably can’t improve on Terry Pratchett’s answer to the question (apparently given in a 1995 interview with The Onion):

O: You’re quite a writer. You’ve a gift for language, you’re a deft hand at plotting, and your books seem to have an enormous amount of attention to detail put into them. You’re so good you could write anything. Why write fantasy?

Pratchett: I had a decent lunch, and I’m feeling quite amiable. That’s why you’re still alive. I think you’d have to explain to me why you’ve asked that question.

O: It’s a rather ghettoized genre.

P: This is true. I cannot speak for the US, where I merely sort of sell okay. But in the UK I think every book— I think I’ve done twenty in the series— since the fourth book, every one has been one the top ten national bestsellers, either as hardcover or paperback, and quite often as both. Twelve or thirteen have been number one. I’ve done six juveniles, all of those have nevertheless crossed over to the adult bestseller list. On one occasion I had the adult best seller, the paperback best-seller in a different title, and a third book on the juvenile bestseller list. Now tell me again that this is a ghettoized genre.

O: It’s certainly regarded as less than serious fiction.

P: (Sighs) Without a shadow of a doubt, the first fiction ever recounted was fantasy. Guys sitting around the campfire— Was it you who wrote the review? I thought I recognized it— Guys sitting around the campfire telling each other stories about the gods who made lightning, and stuff like that. They did not tell one another literary stories. They did not complain about difficulties of male menopause while being a junior lecturer on some midwestern college campus. Fantasy is without a shadow of a doubt the ur-literature, the spring from which all other literature has flown. Up to a few hundred years ago no one would have disagreed with this, because most stories were, in some sense, fantasy. Back in the middle ages, people wouldn’t have thought twice about bringing in Death as a character who would have a role to play in the story. Echoes of this can be seen in Pilgrim’s Progress, for example, which hark back to a much earlier type of storytelling. The epic of Gilgamesh is one of the earliest works of literature, and by the standard we would apply now— a big muscular guys with swords and certain godlike connections— That’s fantasy. The national literature of Finland, the Kalevala. Beowulf in England. I cannot pronounce Bahaghvad-Gita but the Indian one, you know what I mean. The national literature, the one that underpins everything else, is by the standards that we apply now, a work of fantasy.

Now I don’t know what you’d consider the national literature of America, but if the words Moby Dick are inching their way towards this conversation, whatever else it was, it was also a work of fantasy. Fantasy is kind of a plasma in which other things can be carried. I don’t think this is a ghetto. This is, fantasy is, almost a sea in which other genres swim. Now it may be that there has developed in the last couple of hundred years a subset of fantasy which merely uses a different icongraphy, and that is, if you like, the serious literature, the Booker Prize contender. Fantasy can be serious literature. Fantasy has often been serious literature. You have to fairly dense to think that Gulliver’s Travels is only a story about a guy having a real fun time among big people and little people and horses and stuff like that. What the book was about was something else. Fantasy can carry quite a serious burden, and so can humor. So what you’re saying is, strip away the trolls and the dwarves and things and put everyone into modern dress, get them to agonize a bit, mention Virginia Woolf a few times, and there! Hey! I’ve got a serious novel. But you don’t actually have to do that.

(Pauses) That was a bloody good answer, though I say it myself.

So, why medieval?

I think the basic meaning of “medieval” to the modern mind, beyond the aesthetics of castles, swords, and theology, is the pre-modernity of it all. Historians often identify the Italian Renaissance (or the Columbian voyages) as the beginning of the “early modern” period. Huge transformations occurred in the early modern era that, far more than anything in antiquity or in the middle ages, constitute the political and intellectual foundations of our contemporary life. The early modern era sees the birth of global competition, the blossoming of political philosophy, of the industrial revolution, of modern governance, of rationalism and empiricism. The world before the early modern era is wild and mystical; every century thereafter features greater human rule over the elements and greater social rule over humanity and greater state rule over society.

There’s a romance to premodernity! And there’s also a great distance to it, which erases some of its blunt facts and lets us scribble our own feelings and struggles over it.

There are some iffy reasons, too, worth noting. A lot of modern states trace their cultural heritages back to the middle ages, as part of conscious or semi-conscious nation-building, legitimacy-shoring intellectual efforts. See, for a sort of example, 19th Century Anglo-Saxonism, the Victorian project to link the English nation back to, specifically, Anglo-Saxon settlers in the British Isles in the early middle ages. The honest inquirer will note that England rightly owes its cultural heritage just as much to Normans (too French for these Victorians’ tastes), Danes (too heathen), Romans (too Mediterranean), and Celts (the worst of the lot; too Irish). Similar intellectual projects exist throughout Europe; the middle ages are often as far back as written sources will go and so they have a sort of “original” appeal to the nationalist eye. None of this is to say that interest in one’s family or national heritage or in knights and holy orders are bad things. But neighbor-feuding, people-ruling nationalists who are specifically looking for a historical foothold will almost invariably make one in the middle ages, and it’s good to be able to identify these projects when one sees them.

Back to the main plot: medieval fantasy allows the writer and the reader to be free, if they wish, of the burdens of modernity: the governments, the bureaus, the social contract theororists, the chemists, the physicists, the economists, and so on. It naturally lends itself to single persons of great import. Adventurers! Cutthroats! Queens! Warriors!

Materia

The rest of the setting flows from that feeling. Materia is wild and mystical. Towns and cities are separated by long, perilous journeys. Beyond the meager, rough roads between them are vast expanses of untamed, menacing, wonderful, magical world.

Civilization itself is young and small. There are no economists who chart supply and demand and worry about the kingdom’s fiscal policy and its impact on inflation—at most, a King’s trusted advisor can adeptly manage loans and their service. Cities are ruled by lords and ladies who keep the peace—or abuse their rule—with the limited tools at their disposal (such as a tiny permanent soldiery or a constable with a ragtag posse). To understand the goings-on of a population (a village, kingdom, organization, what have you) you understand its most important people and their networks of influence.

The setting’s biggest sop to aesthetics is the presence of magic. In the principles above there’s nothing that cries out, specifically, for supernatural phenomena or people who can manipulate them. But I like magic. I like wizards and I like warlocks and I like witches and I like sorcerers. So there.

One benefit of magic and magic users is that it provides for some interesting thematic footholds. More on that later.

Races

Nooooo.

Tolkien did fantasy races because elves and faeries and trolls and goblins and all manner of humanoid creatures have long featured in European folktales and he was specifically setting out to write, basically, a folktale full of magic and wonder and alien beings.

The rest of us who are not writing folktales should examine very carefully what it is we’re trying to accomplish.

The way I see it is: biologically distinct (to the point of speciation) intelligent creatures in your setting beg a host of considerations.

• if they do not deserve equal dignity (i.e. they are orcs who merely burn and pillage) you need to justify that carefully and for the love of God don’t culturally cast them to real world peoples you weirdo!
• if they constantly keep to themselves in separate populations/cultural groups you seriously need to consider justifying that or grappling with the hardship/odd cases of emigrants from one to another. If you don’t, you seem to be implying things about differently bred groups of people!
• if they can crossbreed (i.e. half-elves, half-orcs) that deserves a lot of treatment as it relates to the above or what the hell are you including it for anyway?
• every time their abilities and preferences differ you need to consider the above factors and disentangle the physical attributes from the cultural attributes to make sure you, yourself, understand the mechanisms well enough to avoid pitfalls.

Note that Tolkien handles all of these things. Address those considerations within the logic of Middle Earth and you will find that they, indeed, reveal the themes that he was supporting! The transformation from Tolkien to D&D (which you can imagine as a baseline medieval fantasy these days), however, tends to flatten the races somewhat (because everyone wants to play as something weird, so they have to be on a level playing field and all generally work like humans or the adventuring party frame doesn’t hold together). And that flattening makes the answers to all of these questions… uncomfortable.

There’s certainly lots of space for fiction to work well here! Personally, I think sci-fi/space opera is the ideal venue for this, because it shifts the imagined past to an imagined future; the implied frame transforms from “what if we were all irreconcilably different?” to “what would we do in the future in the face of irreconcilable differences?” Alternatively, you can just have fantasy races but ignore these factors entirely. But then I will ask you why you didn’t just opt for the much simpler option and make your peoples just different cultural groups of humans.

These are not questions which I bring to interrogate every new fantasy book I read, to be clear. If you have fantasy races in your work and you like them, that’s fine and I’ll probably enjoy your stuff anyway! And we did just finish going over the fact that I have magic in my setting for next to no good reason. But these are the questions I asked myself as I was writing D&D adventures (“what’s the deal with dwarves, anyway? Why can’t I just have humans that live down in the mountains? Why shouldn’t I?”) that have stuck with me as I strike out into other fictional forms.

Magic

The point of magic in the setting, beyond my truly simple “I like fantasy magic” statement of value, is to lend to the wild, unexplored, untamable and unknowable quality of the setting.

I decided at some point that a convenient way to understand it from a fiction-structure point of view was “agency”: magic, in a general sense, represents an individual’s will, power, control, ability to decide, and ability to influence things around them.

The purest expression of that are gods (who I already decided to just plop down and have residing in actual bodies on the material plane) and what D&D would call sorcerers. They will the world to change and it changes. This is like heavy lifting: it’s a skill that can be practiced and a power that can be built with training. Some are born bigger and with more potential than others. There’s no particular justice to that.

What D&D would traditionally call wizards are somewhere further down on the tier list. They can’t just press their will out onto the world. They have to learn about how the world works—how it really works—to do things that would astonish normal folk, like an electrician who can build a potato flashlight but with much more utility. But ultimately they possess little raw magical talent or even none. Anyone sufficiently clever and patient enough can get into wizardy given sufficient time and resources.

I’ve considered some other ideas: that sorcery can be bequeathed (an evil sorcerer to their minions, a god to their petitioner, a disembodied spirit to a host), that it’s a mantle that may somehow be inherited, or things like that. Spirits and otherworldly beings I’ve considered as “agency”, essentially similar in character to magic but separate from a magic user. I haven’t decided completely on any of those details.

One other theme that I really enjoy playing with is the social role of magic users. When running tabletop games, I’ve always shied away from characters using D&D class names in-universe; it feels weirdly mechanistic to me. This is an extension to that. A wizard is really a wise old person, fulfilling the role of a monarch’s old nerd advisor, in a world where monarchs value having magic users on hand just as much as wisdom. A sufficiently learned “sorcerer” could be a wizard. Woods witches, soothsayers, and warlocks have already made appearances in this setting, and those names have much more to do with the role they play in their world rather than the mere fact of how they come to manipulate supernatural phenomena.

Gods and the Cosmos

For the D&D game that spawned this setting† I wrote in seven gods and just dumped most of them right on the material plane, living out lives alongside mortals, as a core conceit of the setting. Three ruled over mortal territory, one over an underworld domain, and one more the party discovered entombed in a remote mountain range. The other two remained unaccounted for.

I think this is a fun conceit. And part of the reason goes like this: if your fantasy setting has multiple real, extant gods, they clearly cannot be omnipotent, or else you have all of those stone-lifting paradoxes but worse and not in a particularly interesting way (in my opinion). And if they’re not omnipotent, what’s the difference between a god and a sufficiently powerful sorcerer? Furthermore, why make them less fun by making them so remote?

The actual details on the existing gods were filled in from another idea I’d always wanted to play with. The seven beings that pass for gods (and whom I have been referring to as gods thus far) aren’t, really; they’re the seven archangels (each identified by a color of the rainbow) left over after the Demon lords of Hell invaded and sacked Heaven, killing the real gods but having their own strength broken in the process. This leaves the cosmos with two great planes of existence: Hell and Materia. There is a “border fortress” between these two, the underworld, a strange and hostile place garrisoned by one of the archangels and her servants.

The seven archangels take many forms throughout history, this body and that being slain or disappearing from the stage, but the archangel’s true being always recovers and returns before too long. Only a true calamity or immense exercise of power could truly extinguish one of them.

Part of the tenor of the setting is its elaboration on death and the underworld. The Demon Lords nurse their wounds in Hell, probing the defenses of the underworld for their next assault on Materia. The archangel on watch down there (Ashkahala, the First of the Dead) calls the souls of dead mortals to the underworld to serve in its defense. There is no heaven above, only the pluck and verve of the mortals and their remaining archangels (who, themselves, are not perfectly good and are prone to jealousy, lust, rage, avarice, etc.). Undeath, of course, contravenes this defensive arrangement and is a favored tool of the servants of Hell. Seeing as the crossing from Hell through the underworld to Materia is stoutly defended and treacherous even for them, demons prefer to augment their numbers when in Materia by creating wights, which they do by locating mortal corpses and infusing them with stolen, masticated souls.

More!

I enjoy history, linguistics, and social studies in general, and themes from these fields of inquiry abound in the fantasy I write. As a result there’s a lot that I’ve filled into Materia over the years that would be interesting to explore in this format, but I promised myself that I’d just post things and not write so damn much and make things hard on myself. I’ll be back for more here later.

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† Note the presence of the D&D races in the game. Since ending this game, where I would’ve written in a dwarf or an elf or whatever I just made them human. The exceptions are dragonborn (the Mandarin) and tieflings (recast as the Accursed) who I think have pretty cool things going on in the setting. They’re hardly even races, anyway: the Mandarin are humans transformed by the magical gift of a dragon-god, and the Accursed are actually just humans with some unfortunate physical attributes (there is an interesting history to go along with that, but it really is that boring and simple).

I like BattleTech. I like it a lot. I was never much of a tabletop wargame guy—I never got into 40k or the original BattleTech games or what have you—but I played Mechwarrior 3 at a friend’s place in 1999 or 2000 and the game hooked me.

Here’s the good stuff:

The Milsim Feel

BattleTech has a mixed heritage and expresses different aspects of that heritage in its spinoffs. MicroProse, the company that developed Mechwarrior 3, had a ton of experience in military simulation style games (including Falcon 4.0 and Formula One Grand Prix) and brought Mechwarrior 3 to life as a future-style military simulation.

The main story places the player as a squad leader taking part in an orbital-insertion commando raid carried out against an enemy’s production and military infrastructure. Most of the story is conveyed by the intel officer’s briefings, and the squad struggles to overcome spotty, outdated intelligence and improvises to overcome devastating early setbacks. The fog of war and the struggle of passion, chance, and reason are front and center. The execution is outstanding—go watch that linked video!

Anyway, this stuff appeals to me. Military professionals with deep training and cool heads defying the chaos of a war make for just my kind of fiction.

Heavy Metal

This is an interesting complement to the above: milsim focuses on a hard-eyed look at the realities of war (it’s chaotic, largely uncontrollable, and combat operations hinge on intel, logistics, and petty circumstances). But there’s a romance to the machines. Drive your 70-ton beast to her limit because your life and your struggle depend on it! Push the heat gauge to the limit! Throttle open! Shoulder the barrage with your strong-side armor! The thrill of raw power and the exhilaration of struggle have always been seeded deeply in my heart’s fantasies. It’s especially great when married to the mastery and knowledge required to know the machine, to invent novel solutions with the huge array of tools and options created by the complexity of those machines and the dynamics of the unfolding battle.

BUT

But! It’s someone else’s setting. I can’t do creative stuff in it with a potential commercial audience.

And there are a few things that drive me a little bit crazy about BattleTech. Remember how I enjoy the high-verisimilitude military aspects of the setting? Well, BattleTech isn’t always about that. And that’s not a flaw in BattleTech. BattleTech is great and worthy of its long tenure as a creative font! It’s just that the setting, often, does not cater to my fixations. Here’s how:

Guns?

BattleTech makes some compromises in the name of having a nice, balanced tabletop game, and as a result some of the stuff is a bit nonsensical. This is, of course, okay! In principle, anyway. But it can undermine the milsim feel.

One of the bigger head-scratchers is the nature of mech weaponry. The ballistic weapons in the game have pathetically short ranges compared to real-life 21st century counterparts. In the Battletech video game from 2018 an AC/2 autocannon has an effective range of 720m. Meanwhile, the main armament on US-manufactured battle tanks right now has an effective firing range out to four kilometers, and past that with specialty ammunition. Military science is difficult to research on the internet, but some rooting around indicates to me that Gulf War tank engagements between the U.S. Army and the Iraqi Republican Guard tended to unfold at ranges around 2 and 3 kilometers.

Worse, larger caliber weapons (such as the AC/10 and AC/20, which do considerably more damage than the AC/2) have even shorter ranges! This is obviously in the service of providing a certain tradeoff topology to the mech configuration and deployment game systems. But it’s more or less the opposite of how guns work in reality.

This is the root problem that cascades into a bunch of other problems. In a more faithful rendering of military tactics and technology, most combat mechs would mount large caliber tank-style guns as their primary armament for effective mech-defeating power at basically all ranges, from 10 meters out to several kilometers. The AC/20 carried by heavy chassis would be the uncontested kings of the battlefield.

But mech armament design in the setting is a bit out of wack, partially owing to this short-range autocannon premise and partially apart from it. As any Battletech (2018) player can tell you, the stock chassis configurations are mostly garbage. The majority are intended as general purpose designs that at least have something to do at most ranges and in most engagement scenarios. This design ethos results in mechs carrying several secondary armaments, all intended for use against hardened targets (other mechs) in slightly different situations, which isn’t something you see on most military hardware (air superiority fighters, I guess?). And it’s not something that works well in game, either. What works well are single-purpose units: your “missile boat” indirect fire support mechs to soften and destroy from great range and behind cover, close range AC/20 platforms that find a way to get into their effective range and then overpower their enemies, and laser snipers that can find favorable engagements against dangerous targets from long distances and endure some return fire while doing it. If ballistic weaponry were more faithful, the classifications would probably be reduced further down to indirect fire platforms (for long ranges and across terrain) and direct fire platforms (for direct engagement)†.

As an aside, the missile configurations in this game feel somewhat odd. They have longer ranges than the autocannons (which is appropriate) but not nearly as long as real guided weapons. They’re meant for use against armor, but are fired in large banks (up to 20 at a time), which seems like it would be inefficient compared to the equivalent poundage of explosive all in a single warhead. When you’re dealing with armored targets, you want a nailgun, not twenty handheld staplers.

Many mechs also place an emphasis on “hand-to-hand” machine combat. Which is cool, but decidedly un-milsim (the history of armored warfare is not exactly bursting with examples of axe-wielding tanks).

And, even in the games that emphasize the milsim aspect of the setting, they embrace the conflicting focus on the primacy of the mechs (which is tied more closely to the setting role of mechwarriors as knights and heroes) to the exclusion of other forces. I bring this up because it means most games do not heavily feature combined arms operations, which means mechs only need to consider fighting other mechs, which removes a huge list of potential considerations from the mech configuration/design game systems. A missed opportunity, in my opinion!

Space?

Space is cool, no doubt. But one thing about war-in-space settings is that they struggle with the sheer scale of a spacefaring, planet-colonizing humanity. BattleTech’s sources apparently put the human population of the Inner Sphere (i.e. most of settled space) at about 6 trillion, which seems roughly appropriate. But with control of the population concentrated into a handful of warrior aristocracies, there ought to be an astronomical pool of resources for each to draw from to wage war. This should be a leap like the leap in scale and ferocity from early modern warfare to modern warfare, enabled by fully mobilized industrial capacities, a leap so big as to truly shock the generation that endured it. An advancement from our current understanding of warfare to the 31st century warfare of 6 trillion humans ought to be stunning.

This isn’t really borne out in the fiction. Of course it’s a limitation of the genre (it’s a tabletop game at heart), but the setting also attempts to impose some old medieval fantasy-esque associations that might be partly intended to modulate the scale of the warfare (it’s largely conducted by mercenaries, who sort of fill a chivalric role of “knight-errant”, at the behest of the monarchs). But this, then, becomes the point of incongruity: how is it possible that the universe has not become completely dominated by the first faction to even try to assemble an army? A real, actual army, befitting its size and industrial might, and not a tiny gaggle of irregulars paid with pocket change?

I mean, get a load of this:

Operation SERPENT was one of the largest military operations conducted by the Inner Sphere since the fall of the original Star League. In total, the task force consisted of 55,000 personnel; over a thousand BattleMechs, Aerospace Fighters and Combat Vehicles; ninety-eight DropShips; and twenty-seven JumpShips and WarShips.

55,000 personnel? Seriously? Three times as many soldiers were engaged in just by the allies in Operation Neptune. To say nothing of the wider invasion, Operation Overlord, which was ten times bigger. To say nothing of the Western Front itself, which was ten times larger than that. Tens of millions of people fought in that theatre! AND THAT WAS THE SMALLER OF THE EUROPEAN THEATRES. WHEN THE WORLD POPULATION WAS 2 BILLION PEOPLE.

If the United States Army could just contract with General Dynamics to produce some mechs and dropships they could probably rout the combined Star League Defense Force in about a month.

Okay, so I kind of went in there, and this seems like a pretty severe complaint about the setting, but I don’t think of it as a show-stopper or anything. I have a similar impression of many space operas and other soft sci-fi settings: they fail to grasp or even gesture toward the destructive scale of wars within our living memory, let alone wars that ought to be a thousand times larger. And more to the point, this sort of thing is probably well beyond our imagining, and it isn’t the dang point. Tableop wargames are for having fun, not for managing a hundred-million-soldier war machine or for or feeling miserable about some elaborately imagined human suffering elsewhere in the setting. Warhammer 40k, to my understanding, is the one setting that engages with the maddening scale of total war, and its brand of grimdark and midnight-black humor is unique and celebrated, and not every game should be a 40k clone. The others might prefer to focus on other things, gloss over the numbers, and have fun in space—and that’s great! And besides: smaller scales tend to allow players to take more of the spotlight (in video games and roleplaying games and so on) in the setting, so it’s generally a good thing.

But! As I noted before, I really enjoy the high-verisimilitude expressions of the BattleTech setting. The implications of the spacefaring scale interact poorly with them and tend to need to be glossed over.

So…

So if I were going to make something I wanted to be able to sell, and I wanted it to have the attitude of a military sim with the adrenaline of giant robots with giant guns, I’d have to write my own, and I’m not a “copy-your-homework-but-change-it-enough-so-they-can’t-tell” kind of guy. And as you can probably guess, I have some ideas for what I would build!

I’ll get them down in a later post.

---

† I know this obsession with faithful simulation seems highly anti-fun, collapsing all of this dynamic multi-range combat into modern battle tank engagements at long range. But I’ll bet it can be made fun and cool! I’m going to give it a shot at some point, anyway!

Her destination was the personal home of Terrent Glover, a corner building on a sleepy street on the north side of lowtown. The streets dipped and bucked atop sandy seaside foundations, and pools of murky standing water dully reflected the glow of the moon and stars.

Syr, panting, dodged the last of the pools and tiptoed up to the last door on the left and rapped on it. “Good evening,” came the answer muffled by two inches of iron-bound wood.

“Late business. Glover in?” asked Syr.

“He should be returning soon. Who might this be?”

“Um,” Syr puffed. “I’m new. One-leg sent me here.”

“You’ll need to wait, then…”

“Hey, I’m not any trouble, I promise.” Syr chucked a glance over her shoulder and into the gloom. “I’d rather wait inside.”

“And I am instructed not to let you. If you are being chased it would be quite rude of you to lead them here anyway. Come back in another bell, if you please.”

Syr made herself scarce for a time, and then she came back in another bell. The door opened this time, and a remarkably large man with a remarkably large beard and an embroidered cap appeared in the frame.

“Good evening. New cat in town?”

Syr’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you calling a…”

The man raised his hands, de-escalating. “Oh, no no. It’s a term of art, not a… look, come in, would you? Let’s talk.”

Syr followed the man through a little mudroom and back through what looked like a darkened kitchen. They turned the corner through a small larder and through a door in the back. This little hole of a room was cramped but clean enough, with space enough for two chairs and a desk between them. The desk was bare but for a quill and inkwell.

The man closed the door behind them and produced a small, thick clay cup filled with a steaming drink. “Please.”

Syr sat, a heap of dirty rags and fatigue, and cradled the drink. She winced as her swelling shoulder met the chair.

The man seemed to remember something and cracked the door again. “Li, could you… yes, thanks.”

He shut the door, sat down opposite Syr, and smiled sweetly.

“Now then. I am Glover. I think of myself as a friend to those of independent persuasion. As a friend, I extend my help where I may. It is good to be Glover’s friend.” He leaned on the word “good” the way a drunk would lean too close to a stranger’s face, Syr thought.

“And I take you to be a cat,” he continued. “A cat burglar. You sneak in and sneak out, taking property from its owner, none the wiser. Inexperienced, I think. But the grace and talent are plain to see, even in this condition.”

Syr did not feel particularly graceful or talented right now. She brushed the “compliment” aside. “Sure. Cat burglar. You fence, right? One-leg said you were a trustworthy fence.”

Glover seemed to pout. “Oh, yes, I buy and sell. But my friend One-leg is underselling me. There’s so much more to be gained by knowing each other and by working together.”

Syr was already retrieving the stolen goods from the turns of the chestwrap.

“So…”

“Oh, no, no, no,” interrupted Glover. He sighed. “I see what’s going on here. Here’s what I’ll do for you. We’ll talk goods later. First, listen to me and let me tell you about myself. You tell me about yourself. Proper introductions. Maybe I can help. Then we can do business. Do me this kindness, would you please?”

Syr paused, calculating. This Glover character was up to no good. His smile was refined, his fingers practiced in their neat little steeple. His grooming was immaculate. His words were slick like the feathers on a waterbird. But then again, Syr was herself up to no good, which seemed somehow to undercut this judgement. And if Syr were intending to make any friends in this town, she wouldn’t do it by rejecting overtures from shady folks like this Glover.

“Okay,” she said. She turned one of the pilfered rings over in her fingers. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Splendid. As I have said, I am Glover. Friend to independent souls. Are you acquainted with the lord in his hightown estate? Your face tells me you are.”

“Yeah,” Syr admitted, noting that she should improve her deadpan.

“Then you know the score. He benefits from an orderly little town with orderly renters and a fat levy imposed on good that pass through his port. And he cares very deeply about that. The money and the order both. If you take his money, you take his livelihood, and if you insult his order, you insult him.

“I make friends of people who do both. It’s not personal. It’s simply a way of living. You might understand…?”

Syr considered the prompt.

“You probably don’t need to hear about most of it. It’s a real sob story.”

“I won’t be so rude as to pry. But do you mind… you are a foreigner, no? A runaway, maybe? You have a good accent, but your skin and face give it away to the keen observer.”

“Yeah, something like that. I grew up with both languages, so I sound like I’m from… not too far from here, anyway. But like I said… I’ve done my crying. Maybe I’ll do more later, but for now, I’m here, and I’m the only one watching my back. So I’ve done some sneaking around, and now I have some stuff to sell to a fence, so I can go get a good mutton chop…”

“Sorry, my friend. Mutton is pretty expensive here. You might try mackerel.”

“Mutton chop. And some new clothes. And a few nights on a real bed. But after that… I hadn’t honestly given any thought past the food. Maybe I do some more sneaking around. It suits me, anyway.”

“I thought as much. It’s easy to see why you’re so eager to haggle over the goods. Your prize is so very close.”

“Very. Let’s talk coin?”

“Let’s talk coin, friend.”

Author’s note: after a conversation with a friend, I’ve decided that I started the story too early in its chronology. I’ve rearranged the prior chapters into a prologue. This is the new first chapter!

Chapter I: Thief!

Syr edged along the rooftop, heels against the stonework and toes over the precipice.

She pressed her back flat against the dormer, its cool, rough stone catching against her makeshift chestwrap and scratching at places where her skin was bared. The pain imparted by each new burr in the masonry was preferable to the three story fall on the other side, so she pressed harder as she took the last three sidling steps to the window.

The window lifted freely and quietly in its well-worn groove in the casing, and Syr swung herself over the sill in perfect silence.

The private room in the hightown clothier’s was well-appointed. Little candles near the door and at the cherrywood desk illuminated a room, revealing a red rug with gold inlay, an extravagant armoire, and a canopied bed, currently unoccupied. The window Syr had entered looked out over the building opposite and then lowtown below it, out to the sea sparkling in the moonlight. It was a breathtaking view over a lively little port town, made all the more pleasant by the night’s cool breeze now wafting through.

Syr eyed the armoire, jealous of the velvets and furs it surely contained. But they’d be about as good for her as her itchy chestwrap and baggy trousters: at best she’d trade in the rough materials for ill-fitting luxury. She’d go from being uncomfortable to being uncomfortable and obviously a burglar.

The real prize was at the vanity beside the armoire.

Syr padded over and pulled the drawer open, which emitted a cringe-inducing squeal. She rifled through and plucked out likely treats. Three golden chains—maybe fake, but light enough to take and try to find out—and two silver chains, a little green gemstone and a little red one. A little speck of a diamond. A golden ring. She passed over the signet ring. A bangle of some sort, studded with…

Bang.

The door over Syr’s left shoulder slammed open, and a stooped woman in an exquisite robe—who else but the clothier—burst through the doorway brandishing a forearm-length, wrist-width iron bar.

Syr’s heart leapt to her throat. She found herself wishing she hadn’t picked her mark out of spite for her mean temper. She also wished she had realized earlier what burning candles meant: a night in with no appointments.

“You,” the clothier hissed. “Street rat. I said not to come back.”

By the time the clothier had taken her first step into the room, Syr had vaulted the sill and damn near killed herself.

She swung over the windowsill, throwing her hands back at it to catch and slow her fall, then releasing her grip in order to fall a few feet, grip the roofline, and keep going. But her left hand missed the roofline and she swung wildly on her right hand until it, too, lost its hold and she tumbled down toward the second story. In her first stroke of good luck that night, her flailing left hand caught a signpost. A bolt of pain shot through her elbow and shoulder as she wrenched with them, clinging to the post and halting her fall long enough to grab on with her right arm and lower herself to the ground.

A raspy bellow sounded above: “THIEF!”

Syr hurled herself down the alleyway, east toward lowtown, grimacing with grinding pain in her shoulder. But futility loomed at the mouth of the alley in the form of a rough, bandana-wearing man, giving the appearance of a sailor passing through hightown on shore leave. He held aloft a lantern, scanning the alley.

Syr skidded to a halt several yards from him. Could she outrun his long, strong legs? Could she hide from the sweep of his lantern?

It was too late for any of those. Pain was screaming up into her brain through her arm, drowning out her mental scramble for alternatives. She froze as the man drew forward, leering at her from behind the glare of the lantern.

“Over there!” Syr blurted out. “Back there! She had… black hair… and…”

She stammered something further about a hooded coat, but even her thrumming, electrified mind knew that an accurate accounting of an imagined thief wasn’t what mattered now. What mattered was that this burly man believed her. That his searching mind, faced with a fork in the road, belief or doubt, should chose belief. That the intellect should flow down the well-worn grooves of trust, rather than remain rigid…

She felt it. She felt him believe. And not only that… she felt herself pull him into it, like the feeling on the fingertips when an apple is plucked from a tree.

His eyes darted over her shoulder and he gave an “aye” of acknowledgement. He was several paces down the alley, a receding blur of light in the narrow passage, before Syr dared move.

And move she did. She barely stopped at the mouth of the alley to check for attentive passerby, and finding none, she didn’t stop until she had found her destination in lowtown.

“My dad was a scribe. We lived out in the ass end of the Kingdom, past the end of the desert and out in the scrublands, with the thin, cold air. His job was to receive written word from the capitol, about half the time directly from the King’s court, and do whatever it said, or give the orders to do whatever it said. We were close with the tax collector’s family, which made us oh so popular.

“Anyway, out there, lots of Veldimen come through. Made dad extra important because he translated both ways, Veldic and Hannumnan.”

“The King favors the honest man, and the honest man favors the King.”

Syr looked up to turn an icy glare on the soothsayer.

“I am familiar with the King’s tongue.”

“Suuuure…” hissed Syr, fixing her gaze on the soothsayer. “… and that was the problem. He was an honest man until he wasn’t. Or until he was caught. I don’t know. I… don’t really know.”

She hesitated, struggling to arrange the memories into a story.

“We were summoned to the capitol out of the blue. Two week trip downriver, even in good weather. Mom was clearly nervous. But they never told me anything but that it was for dad’s ‘duties’.

“Turns out it was a trial. Something about the Veldimen. It lasted less than an hour. The King judged it himself. He found dad guilty, and carried out the sentence right there, with… nothing. Not a nod, not a wave of the wrist, nothing. He just stared that stare of his and dad fell down dead.”

Syr took a deep breath and continued.

“Mom wasn’t the same after that. And she… she was also gone within a few days.

“I hate the desert, so I took a raft downriver. Stowed away on a trader bound here. And…”

“Pardon, child. Surely there is more to that.”

“No, there isn’t,” snapped Syr. “I hate the desert.”

The soothsayer’s head shifted under the veil. “Very well. Please continue.”

“I snuck off here. Been here a week now? Spent two of it in the castle jail because constable two-shoes caught me eyeing a clothier’s thinking I was going to steal something.”

The soothsayer’s head shifted.

“Yes, yes, fine, he was right. So, second night, the constable hauls in someone new and kicks me out of the cell. I go to leave, but he and his lord are busy yelling at each other and clapping in the new prisoner. Rather than get more face time with the law here, I grabbed whatever I could from the seized goods bin and left. That was… this…”

Syr gestured to the chestwrap she had fashioned out of the shirt, and the cloak she wore more like a blanket than clothing.

“… and…”

Her throat caught. Something dark and spidery danced within her ribcage.

The soothsayer stood and was upon her before she realized what was going on. She felt them seize her by the shoulders and turn her, then grab at the chestwrap. Rings jingled and beads rattled and soft robes whirled and obscured her vision while fear coiled around her chest and neck.

When all was quiet and still in the little room, she found herself sitting on the floor, leaning on her left hand, looking up at the robed soothsayer. The soothsayer held the little black square coin on its chain and was examining it.

Syr shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. “HEY. You can’t just…”

She snatched the coin back, froze, and fell to her knees, breathing quickly and shallowly.

---

“Shhhh.”

The soothsayer knelt over her, coin clasped in their left hand and their right over Syr’s forehead.

“Ahhhh… ouch.”

“Please allow me to hold the coin.”

“Fine,” mumbled Syr.

“All is clear. Please sit.”

Syr hauled herself back to the chair she had been offered when she arrived. When she was settled, the soothsayer pushed her a cup of piping hot tea, which she accepted. The soothsayer spoke in Hannumnan.

“This is a promise given and a promise owed. A wage paid and a toll pledged. For what you have given, you are owed. What you are owed will be given at the end of all things.”

They placed the coin on the table before themselves.

“This coin was struck in the world beyond, by the forgemaster with no name, and was given to a mortal to whom a God owed a debt. It is impossible to say which God or for what. The coin is only accepted by Death as a form of toll. A single passage for a single soul.”

Syr stared, only dimly comprehending.

“It is what you think it is, whether that is death or life. It is not so straightforward to employ. That does not concern you now. What you should know is that it is useless as payment. It may not be freely given to another while in a realm the Gods reach. It may only be offered to settle the debt it represents, as intended.

The soothsayer paused, looking down at the coin.

“The forgemaster’s will is very strong. You can feel it. It presses against your own, battles with you in your own body. That is what brought you to me.”

“Yeah. So… it’s useless to me? I won’t survive feeling like that for very long. Unless…”

“You need not my help to endure its presence. Your will—the forgemaster’s will—I do not mean these as rude forces akin to those of rutting boars. I mean your numinous being.”

“My what?”

“What I mean to say is that the forgemaster’s magic and yours are quarrelling, yes, but they may be reconciled.”

“My what?”

Chapter II: The Thief

“WHERE DO I FIND THEM?” Syr shouted into the man’s face.

The man, a burly, bald porter whose muscles had muscles, blinked in confusion. The girl who had seized the front of his shirt and shoved her face into his was as tall as he was, but surely weighed just a little less than half he did. He paused for a moment to try to understand, and as he sized up his assailant the situation began to make a bit more sense. Her red hair was matted and clumped with dirt, her dark eyes teary and puffy. They were thin and wide, set above a narrow nose and a pentagonal jaw—a foreigner, probably. Her clenched hands trembled. Her clothes were a mess; she wore baggy trousers and some sort of ragged chestwrap under a too-big cloak.

“Easy there girl, easy. Down dockside, right? Big long street…”

He gestured awkwardly with his hands as she refused to release her grip. But her eyes seemed to follow, at least.

“… right on the waterfront. On the south end, here, there’s a street that cuts this way uphill between a fishmonger’s stall and a cooperage. Follow that, almost to the end. Door has a string of beads on the knob.”

The girl, trembling, nodded.

“Be good, aye? Nobody gonna hurt you dockside. Be good?”

The girl managed to force a steely look through her tears, threw herself off of him and hurtled down the street toward dockside.

Poor lass, he thought to himself. Coming down off the first hit is never easy. And worse, she might already be hunting for the next fix.

---

Syr slumped with her elbows on the little round table, cradling her head in her hands and drawing ragged breaths.

The soothsayer hummed a few more bars of their strange song, and held the last note for a brief diminuendo into perfect silence. They turned to face Syr across the little table, a subtle movement made difficult to notice by the strange purple veil-hood they wore that obscured their face and left no obvious way for them to see out.

“Feeling better, I hope?”

“Yes… yes, I think so.”

“Good.”

They sat in silence in the soothsayer’s little shack for a brief span. It smelled of fish, cinnamon, and the faintest whiff of herbal perfume, probably applied to the red curtains that encircled the little table, in a vain hope to mask the scent of fish. Four candles burned peacefully, arranged in a square on the table.

“Will you accept my aid?” inquired the soothsayer in their reedy, androgynous voice.

Syr looked up. “I don’t know where to go. If you’re offering, then…”

The veil shook, sadly, Syr thought. “I cannot offer advice, but I would be full glad to tell you what I see. They are visions of great omen.”

Syr blinked. “Wait. Why?”

“All will be clear. You have my word.”

Syr barrelled forward into the silence, flustered.

“Fine! Tell me then.”

The soothsayer sat across from Syr, multicolored beads and rings clattering gently as they did so.

“You are foreign to this place but studied to its language. If, perhaps, not all its customs. You fled tragedy at home. Persecution. Your family. Now, you have stolen something. You do not understand it. You have come to me.”

“But…”

“All this is made clear by the eyes and ears.”

“But…”

“You are considering lying to me.”

Syr fell silent.

“Please. Tell me the truth of what happened. We shall summit that mount, and from there we shall see great distances.”

Syr drew in one more breath, and the soothsayer gave what she thought might be an encouraging nod, and she began.

The door at the top of the curling staircase lay wide open, revealing a darkened, bleak little room containing nothing but a half-full barrel of fresh water, a lidded crate, an empty sconce on the stone wall, and a little wooden stool sitting next to a stack of dirty wooden plates. Not even a table to spare for the guard on watch to eat his meals. Syr had a chuckle at the expense of the giant gaoler, imagining him eating a plate of too-cold gruel sitting on a too-small stool.

Syr slid the lid off the crate to rifle through its contents, supposing that her meager possessions could only be there. She wasn’t in the mood to waste time—that nobleman looked like the kind of man who wouldn’t hesitate to literally kick her from the room for ruining the sanctity of his shitty hole of a castle—so when the cell door downstairs slammed and she still hadn’t found her tunic and hose (and more importantly, her shoes), she grabbed an armful of everything off the top, pulled the lid back over, and bolted from the room.

A few minutes later, Syr emerged from a nearby alleyway, clothed in a shirt, cloak, and trousers intended for a man fully a foot and a half taller than herself, and turned right to join the foot and cart traffic.

Gullport was an unimaginatively named hillside city on the north shore, home to fifty thousand thronging subjects of King Emault II and (what seemed like, anyway) about a million squawking seagulls. The afternoon breeze always reeked of the day’s catch, and today was no different. But the crowds were especially thick today, mixing a familiar human stench into the humid air. The semi-weekly harvest caravan was in, bringing with it a surge of activity to board its porters and escorts and to prepare its bounties for shipment.

Syr shuffled down the street with the enormous flow of people, descending from the high district and its dingy castle toward the piers on the east end of town, meandering through sandy-colored stone buildings topped with staggered, shingled rooflines and crawling ivies. She was immensely glad for the jostling crowd and the anonymity it afforded. It spared her most of the embarrassment of her appearance as a street rat.

What it could not spare her from was the sinking feeling that she had, in fact, become a street rat.

Having put about a quarter mile between herself and the castle, Syr peeled out of the crowd, ducking under the muzzle of a horse and nearly getting bowled over by a woman carrying a basket of corn to find a staircase in an alley leading up and around the corner to someone’s back door. She perched herself on the railing by the door and heaved herself up onto the shingles, finding a nook sheltered from the sun by a higher roofline and far enough from the edge of the roof to be obscured from the street. If she couldn’t loiter up in the high district, she’d just have to loiter in the fishy portside streets.

Having finally found some shade and some quiet, Syr sat and doffed the enormous shirt, absentmindedly picking at the seams with the intention of unraveling the garment into something more useful.

Her head was quickly crowding with thoughts. Where to now? Probably to find somewhere to sleep later tonight. Food could wait. Water… wouldn’t be too hard to find. Right? Especially if it rains? But what if it rains? Would hightown be better or portside? But she was tired and couldn’t hold on to any of them. She sat on those stairs, numb, letting them circle like wolves while her fingers worked at the shirt sleeve.

It was an exhausting new life she had plunged into. No need to take it in all at once.

The sleeve tore from the body with a satisfying rip, and something small fell onto the step between Syr’s feet. She snapped out of her daze and leaned over to examine it: a small black pendant resting on a heap of dainty silver chain. She snatched it.

The hair stood up on the back of her neck.

Syr jumped to her feet and spun around, nearly missing her footing and falling backward down to the alley. Nothing. The plain wooden door beneath her and at the top of the stairs was closed. The alley below was clear of people. She peered over the edge of the roof to see that traffic on the main street kept passing the mouth of the alley by, a tiny window-slice of a parade of colors, sights, and sounds, wafting up to her little roost.

There was a presence here, she was sure of it. She’d been traveling on her own long enough now to have developed the sixth sense for a sucker punch. And that sense was screaming in the bottom of her mind, clawing at her heart, coursing in her thighs and calves, tingling in her fingertips. SOMEONE WAS OUT THERE, and that someone was GOING TO PUNCH HER.

And nobody came. Nobody punched her.

It was five full heart-pounding minutes, craning her neck to and fro, up and down, before Syr convinced herself to sit back down. She took one last look around, and then she loosened her white-knuckled grip on the pendant to look back down at it. It had the look of a coin of some sort, stamped into a square. The edges were straight and the corners razor sharp, each like a piece of flint struck to a piercing tip. One had even drawn blood from her palm as she had gripped it. Both the obverse and reverse were perfectly blank, adorned only with a small rim. A hole was bored in one of the corners, making it hang off the chain in a diamond orientation.

She looked back up. Still nobody on the roof or in the alley. Her instincts warred desperately against the evidence of her eyes and her ears.

Syr assured herself that there was nothing out there worth abandoning this spot over, and she put the pendant on.

Chapter I: A Change of Clothes

Syr listened to the darkness.

And the darkness sang its song: the slow drip, drip, drip of greasy moisture seeping from cracks in the ceiling. A bump from something heavy being dumped on a table upstairs. The gentle clink of the prisoner two cells down rolling over in his sleep.

The song of the crickets outside.

Syr made no movement, disturbed the song with no sound. It was the only thing she could do here to feel at home, and trying to feel at home was the only thing worth doing at the moment. She could be here for a while, so best be comfortable.

Drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip.

---

CREAK.

Syr was keenly aware of the iron gate’s awful complaint but lay motionless, falling back on old habits: pretend you’re still asleep; why let them know you’re awake? It wasn’t until the heavy footfalls rumbled down to her own cell that she raised herself up on her elbows to peer at the cell door.

A gruff voice emerged from the din of feet and equipment. “I told you, there’s no room!”

The reply bore the exacting polish and deep annoyance of someone much higher up the chain. “And what do you think we should do with him, then?”

“I’s hoping you had an idea for that.”

“Fah. Who’s in this cell?”

Syr blinked as the gaoler raised his lantern to the little barred window carved out of the door. There was a pause.

“And what,” continued the man who sounded as though he was going to begin giving orders, “is this teenage girl in for?”

“Loitering,” answered the gruff gaoler.

“Toss her out. Now.”

There was a pause, a crotchet in the song of the darkness, just long enough for Syr to make its meaning. Indignance.

“…Yes, sir. You, girl. Get up.”

Syr scrambled to her feet wordlessly and dusted off… well, the stained prison rags. She felt pretty silly when she realized it.

The door crashed open and the gaoler, a truly enormous, bearded man wearing the most chainmail Syr had ever seen in one place, hauled in a man wearing similar prison rags to her own and a hood tied around his head by a rope. He pushed the man straight past Syr and into the back wall with force that would threaten to break bones and wasted no time clapping him into the irons.

“Get out. You don’t want to share a cell with this one.”

Syr was feeling lucky. “And why’s that?”

“GET OUT” bellowed the gaoler, into the face of the new prisoner but clearly at Syr.

Syr did not press said luck. She made for the door. The polished man—now in the light of the doorway as an aristocrat of some sort, wearing a fine doublet and an even finer cloak—watched her leave with an icy stare. She made eye contact to try to pry some details from him, but realized quickly that his bloodshot eyes were tracking her hands.

Smart.

He watched her disappear all the way up the staircase as it wound up to the ground floor.

The other day while staring at my work monitor and waiting for rsync to run I had a realization. I’d never been able to imagine the 50 year old version of myself before.

Sure, if you sat me down and asked me to describe the likely outcome of the next nineteen years I’d have been able to put some words on a page that would ring true. But there was a barrier there: children. I knew there were kids in my future, and somehow I imagined some sort of transformation involved there, whether that was to be some sort of transformation of myself into something else (a dad) or a transformation of the texture of my day-to-day life into something else (not on my own terms any more). As a result I had difficulty imagining anything past that event horizon.

The realization was that now I’m here on the other side. There are always more changes to come, but suddenly it seems like the hypothetical pentagenarian Ben is, actually, the same person as the one writing this post. Or, at least: he’s no longer just hypothetical, he’s impending (hopefully, anyway), and I get to control who he might be.

So I sat down and thought about that.

One of the things I decided that I want to hold on to, specifically, is my practicing nerdery. When I’m fifty I still want to be reading and writing fiction. When I’m fifty I still want to be playing games. When I’m fifty I still want to be learning about science, history, and the arts.

So here I am to write more!

A related thought I had is that I might try a more lightweight form. I find myself drawn magnetically to the 1200 word mark, and writing and editing those can suck down a whole evening. That all seems to preclude writing about certain things: if I’m not prepared with big thoughts or stories that are threatening to burst from my head, it feels as though it’s not worth the effort to commit to writing something of that length. But more than making sure my work is weighty and high-caliber, what I’d prefer to do is be more prolific. That way I can keep in practice, even when time is tight, and I can still be writing in twenty years. And maybe, by combining sheer volume with the laws of probability, I’ll put out something really good. So I’m going to just write, whether or not the subject is substantial enough or elaborate enough to make it past 1000 words.

And besides, this is all secondary. The little guy and his excellent mother come first! Spending three hours a day writing will need to wait for another lifetime.

My aim is to put more short posts up here and to just hit send on them without agonizing over their quality or basic worthiness to be shared. I anticipate posting up as many (very) short stories as I can manage as well as musings on history, fantasy, tabletop games, and video games. I want to make a point to write about things I like rather than things I don’t like.

Watch this space for fresh ink! Or check out the RSS Feed. And hit me up if you want to join me in this project and do some writing of your own; I’d love to read it.

Leaf pushed hard against the pavement, lifting their chest and throbbing head. They turned to take stock.

One of the cutters was still here, advancing on Leaf with a shortsword bared—one with a wide quillion, the sort favored by lowlives skilled enough to hide them and enjoy the close-in utility they offer.

Leaf was still assessing, but their course of action was already coming into focus. They pulled their knees forward under their chest, swiftly and smoothly.

One cutter here… which meant two were gone. Where?

Leaf’s head ached. They eyed the cutter, who eyed back from under a greasy mop of brown hair. Leaf sprang.

The cutter was a quick, able defender, perfectly capable of handling a little rudimentary aggression. He chucked his lamp into dingy corner of the alley and gave the right amount of ground, and he was ready to receive and parry a thrust of Leaf’s hidden backup blade.

He replied with a deceptive underhand hack at Leaf’s legs, but Leaf leapt back and to the left, tendons intact.

Leaf advanced once more, and the cutter parried once more, giving ground, sliding further into the shadows.

The cutter drew and threw a knife and pressed behind it, thrusting for Leaf’s heart with the quillioned shortsword as his throwing knife sailed past and clanked off of a wooden sign. Leaf, once more, slipped to the side, and once more, thrust forward.

The cutter fell back on what had worked before: gaving ground in defense. A cruicial mistake. Leaf bulled forward into him, allowing the cutter to sweep their blade aside, and with both arms drew themsleves forward into a clinch with the man. The cutter jerked his arm, trying to maneuver the shortsword into position, but it was far too late for that. Leaf stomped hard on the man’s foot with a nasty crunch, beat the wind out of him with two savage knee strikes to his abdomen, used the opening to transition the hold slightly, and crashed a knee into the man’s head.

Lights out.

Leaf left the man in the recovery position and fled the alleyway, hurrying down a set of nearby stairs to take the low street adjacent to the canal. There wasn’t much visibility, but at the moment any was better than none, so it would have to do until Leaf could reach a main thoroughfare.

Their head ached. One cutter down. Two more. Where?

Chael! Leaf and Chael had met to take this job, a smash-and-grab on a Billhook joint. Their intel must have been faulty and they’d been met out front by three cutters. And that’s when Chael had given Leaf a sucker punch straight to the temple. Leaf had gone down, and the two cutters must have gone chasing after Chael, leaving the one to watch over the incapacitated Leaf. Only Leaf hadn’t been so incapacitated and had been more than a match for the junior thug.

Had it been a setup? Leaf considered this. Probably not. There was little motive to premeditate something like that—it seemed far more likely that Chael hadn’t liked the three-on-two odds on the Billhook’s own turf and had figured that he only needed to run faster than Leaf did to make it to safety. A fair guess.

But Leaf wouldn’t soon forget.

---

The High Spirits Inn was busy. The mood-lifting substances purveyed here always seemed to fill the little, richly-appointed den with more energy than most watering holes in the city, but this night there seemed to be just a few more people than normal.

Leaf sat at a table on the side, back to the wall. Their tea was still piping hot, but Leaf was glad for its company anyway.

A man sat down opposite them. He was richly appointed, like the inn. He spoke in an easy, confident flow, like a warrior through a kata.

“You know who always sits with their back the wall in a place like this? Wallflowers. And Sharks. Mind if I ask which?”

Leaf thought about that for a second.

“You may.”

The man smiled. “Then…?”

“I am no shark. I should not presume this to be a range and myself its apex predator.”

The man seemed to consider this, too, for just a beat. His smile did not waver.

“I see. You are a professional, though. There’s no mistaking that.”

“Yes.”

“And word is someone by your description—tall, dark, hooded—escaped a Billhook hunt gang on the east end of the district and really gave three of their heavies the business on the way out.”

“Many people fit that description.”

“Sure. Are you open to opportunities?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a headhunter representing an outfit looking for some muscle. The work is respectable and the pay is good. They have the contacts, the backing, the scheduling, the cover, and the buyers all sorted out. They just need some help making sure it goes smoothly—you know how things are.”

Leaf thought for a moment. “Will there be fighting?”

The man gave a casual shrug. “Probably.”

“Good.”

The man extended his hand. “Do we have an agreement in principle? Terms pending, of course.”

“Yes.”

They shook.

“I’ll introduce you to the outfit tomorrow. Name’s Flake. What’s yours?”

“I don’t have a name, but you may call me Leaf.”

“A curious way of putting it.”

“I understand people see it that way. But the name is theirs, not mine. Leaf is theirs to know and to know me by. What I know of myself I know without name. Formless and nameless like an eddy of water within a greater current.”

“Hmm. This an Iruvian thing? Very unusual to me, I’ll admit.”

“I learned much of what I practice from an Iruvian, but I don’t see it as an Iruvian thing, no. Rather, I consider myself a student of an ancient art.”

“Warrior-poetry?”

“Touché. But, yes, violence is an art as well as its own teacher; an art that demands careful introspection in its study and a teacher that punishes indolence severely. I take the learning seriously.”

“Hope that means you’re good.”

“It does.”

Match lit the candle at the corner of the desk. He didn’t need to, really, but maybe that was the point.

Two thickly bound books lay on the desk, open, spaced eight inches apart, spines parallel. The arrangement was made lopsided by the bulk of the tome on the right-hand side. Its cover was framed by a silver-clad iron filigree. Its previous owner had cared for it well—the silver was dusty with some months of neglect and nicked with years of travel and consultation, but it was untarnished, and the leather it cradled was soft and supple. Match could imagine its owner, a cloaked monster hunter, perhaps, with a high widow’s peak (widower’s peak?) and gaunt cheeks, spending a few minutes polishing nightly: a short, serene cleansing ritual, good for both the appearance of the book and the mental hygiene of its owner.

By contrast, the book on the left was plain, bound in a brown-green-gray pebbled leather. It was unassuming, but it was valuable in its own right, taken from the back of a felled wyvern. It needed no such polishing, requiring merely an occasional application of oil to allay the weathering effects of sun, rain, and wind. (Match felt a pang of jealousy. Why didn’t he have a ritual for mental hygiene? Was he a mental slob? He supposed he would need to come up with one. Washing his hat, perhaps. That felt appropriately wizardly, at least.)

The old saw about judging a book by its cover was just as true here as it was anywhere else, of course. The real value of these tomes lie in their pages, laden with dense calligraphy.

The tome on the left held a dozen or so pages of modest treasures. It contained the secret knowledge, written in an intricate personal shorthand, that would allow one to lull a belligerent mortal to sleep, to call to the realms of spirits for a resonant soul, and to reveal secret arcane connections between things that would otherwise go unseen. And, of course, the secret knowledge that allowed one to hurl magical bits downrange at moving targets with enough force to concuss a hobgoblin. Unglamorous, but quite necessary. Not a bad collecion, all told.

The tome on the right held some of those… and more.

Match unrolled a piece of scratch parchment: a temporary medium for the messy chyme of the long digestion required to understand his departed colleague’s notes. He laid it out on the desk in the space between the spellbooks. Then he dipped his quill in ink, moved it to the note sheet, scanned his eyes to the top of the right-hand book, and began.

Illusion, Unseeming, triplicate in essentia…

---

… third essentia. Heavily mentally constitutive, main body provided by…

Match blinked in the candlelight, brow furrowed.

… own focus? Focus on self?

He referred to his notes to try to remember the author’s tendencies with the oft-ambiguous Sylvan phrasing ia dillae, but he found his vision swimming, his mind struggling with some nebulous distraction.

Was he this tired already? Unusual.

The moment he closed his eyes to rub his brow, the shifting haze in his fore-mind gave way to perfect clarity. Ah.

Wizards consider time to be another, fourth axis of existence. Abscissa, Ordinate, and Applicate axes can be used to comprehensively describe the positions of objects in a room… so long as they aren’t moving. Considering how many things have a habit of moving, this system is frequently found wanting. A fourth axis may be figured: Temporal. This has the benefit of generality. But it has one very serious drawback: all of the arithmetic is more difficult. Many wizards will go to great lengths, employing vices, adhesives, freezing spells, and muttered threats to keep their subjects still long enough to do their sums and products the easy way.

For that matter, almost all people find it easier to ignore the Temporal axis in their day-to-day life. Or at least, they figure it differently and separately. Most of us see space exclusively in the first three axes, flattening away the Temporal, just like painters tend to skip over painting the back of the chair that is obscured behind their posing subject or the appalling mound of dust and dead ants hidden under the rug.

“Painters are the laziest of the artists,” Master Hechtan had grumbled on more than one occasion. “Cut-corners. No pride in their work.”

Almost all people see space like that. Some gifted few are able to peer into the depth of it, to see the rolling contours of steadily increasing and decreasing Temporality, to follow the planes and tangents and intersections of the future and past.

Most of them are quite mad.

Once you begin to see reality arc itself behind you, into the past, it’s a simple thing to re-imagine yourself standing there and to compare with your memory. Oh, you say, I remember Master Hechtan ordering me to scrub the hourglass, and now I can see the little tower study, its contents, and its inhabitants undulate along from then to now, where the master is downstairs in court and I’m seated with this brush and soapy basin. The dangerous bit is to try to do the same to the future. To envision yourself at a point ahead on the four-axis curve as it draws nearer to you is attractive and addictive, and after a short while it becomes a habit, and after a few years of answering questions before they’re asked you forget just where on the curve you are. You can quit at any time, you say!

The further you look ahead—the deeper you breathe in—the more difficult the premonition and the more dangerous it is to make a habit of placing your mind there.

When Match would find his mind’s eye drifting to the self ahead of himself, Master Hechtan would give him a good caning. For his own good, of course. Nothing wrong with going a little mad; every proper master wizard was a little mad, but as a pupil he hadn’t earned that privilege yet.

Match had once asked his master how it was that he could tell that he was having premonitions without permission.

“Your eyes glaze over.”

Match considered this.

“But doesn’t that happen in other situations too?”

“Yes. Like when you daydream instead of paying attention to lecture.”

“And… oh. Cane anyway.”

“Right.”

The conditioned fear of pain welled up in Match’s heart and bubbled to his throat, but the serenity of his later training pushed it back down. He saw the mysterious, bleak province of Barovia roll forward, the pale sun’s spatial-temporal arc hanging overhead as its haggard residents traced an enitre day in the misty streets. He saw himself and his new companions with some clarity, on a gentle arc around the village and finally… down, somewhere. That must be it. Down, wherever it was, it was a noisy confluence of positions and velocities. This must have been (must have been going to be?) what he was seeing—out of the corner of his mind, as it were—that grabbed his attention away from the spell study.

He focused, reading the situation carefully, studying the trajectories of the moving parts. Then, the hard part. He tried to map that to a new point of view: his own, at the time of the action.

From there it felt like a fight. Hasty, sudden motion whirled around him. He would be at the back. Hand outstretched here, legs shoulder width apart. Lichen would be relatively stll at his side, concentrating, perhaps. Something with fangs and claws would be struggling with Yang. It would be vile, its arc jerky and violent. Those fangs… fangs. Match would be shouting. Yang would prepare for the lunge. Awful, deadly fangs would flash at her right shoulder.

Match extracted his mind and placed it back where it belonged: a dark room upstairs in the Blood-on-the-Vine. Two spellbooks were open on the table, an Invisibility spell freshly translated and transcribed onto his own. Wait. No. Not quite, he still had the last third of the spell’s substance to decipher. There we go.

Fangs flashing over Yang’s right shoulder. He’d have to remember that for later.

He pushed himself back from the desk slightly and felt himself breathe for a few minutes.

He had a talent for premonitions. He had, possibly, a greater talent for the accompanying skill of mental fortitude. Madness had not yet come for him, and all of these portents, while taxing to study, had never much intimidated him the way he felt they ought to.

“Fah!” Master Hechtan had once exclaimed. “You children with natural gifts. Being gifted with mental strength makes you weak. You don’t earn anything that way.”

At the time, Match thought that was self-evidently stupid, and he thought he was so clever in pointing out that maybe if he hadn’t earned his mental fortitude, perhaps his master hadn’t earned his position as a court wizard, on account of being human. Only real tough tieflings had a hill worth climbing to earn it, surely.

Leaving aside the finer points of struggle, Master Hechtan had decided that Match had earned a good caning, at least.

Match chuckled inwardly, now. There was a logic to it. He couldn’t rely on his natural proclivity for sanity forever. Eventually his youth would erode (hopefully, even—it was certainly better than the only alternative) and the natural healing vigor of his mind and body would slow, and it would require more and more will and careful self-cultivation to remain anchored in the present reality. He would need to begin practicing sooner rather than later. Maybe that was his old master’s intended lesson.

Maybe he should wash his hat after finishing this spell.

Chapter XIV: Orha’s Eye

“Riu alahar,” I whispered. The way forward became clear.

What Mal had called a wayfinding my peers called passage. I took three careful steps over the path made clear to me and emerged on the other side of the back wall of the guest room: a candlelit interior walkway. A violet rug ran down the center of the freshly polished marble flooring, and closed, black-painted doors leered at me from both walls. To my right, the hall terminated in a door. To my left, it cornered out of sight.

It was neither the best case nor the worst case. Being not particularly skilled in the delicate divination magic that would allow me to know better the floorplan of the estate prior to making my escape, I had made my guess that the back wall of the guest room was my best bet. Unfortunately, it had not been an exterior wall, and I found myself still within the building. Fortunately, I had not stepped into the crowd of still-carousing aristocrats (at this time of night! I had never felt older) whose voices I could hear reverberating from some other corner of the house.

I stepped onto the rug to muffle my footsteps and followed it to the corner. I peered around it and grinned. The hall continued around this corner, but it plunged immediately into darkness, bereft of any candle or torch. I stepped in and ran my hand over the walls to confirm my suspicions: glass. This hallway would be a kaleidoscope of cheery colors in the daytime, lit by the sun’s rays dancing through the long, stained-glass windows on one or both sides of the hall. I had seen it from the outside, this beautiful walkway leading out to a drum tower on the east side of the estate. At the time, I had regarded it as another expression of Épineuil’s wealth and history of peace: the estate had its tower, which was necessary for appearances and to reassure the occasional paranoid ruler, but absent any real threats, the main access hall to it was free to be both beautiful and terribly indefensible.

Now, these windows meant that I was one simple wayfinding away from the freedom of the night.

But escape would not prove so simple.

“Good evening, my friend.”

Valthan seems to have shared my affinity for towers, and in the lonely darkness before dawn, he had probably been conducting his studies cooped up in a laboratory at the top of it. Standing in the entryway to the tower, it occurred to me that I had accidentally made my escape directly toward the gravest threat to my freedom.

“Morning, by my reckoning,” I chattered, stalling for time. “I fear I have overstayed my welcome, and I shall be…”

Valthan lit a candle, and I could see him now, a face floating ominously in the darkness just above a little point of yellow-orange light. He stood about forty feet opposite me, near where the hall would open up into the tower’s ground floor.

“No, you are quite welcome.” He shook his head. “Confound it, I don’t have the patience for this. Give that spellbook back to me, and if you try to take it again, I shall burn it.”

I felt my blood heating up. I inched closer. “A grave threat. A deep shame to your station, I should say, to let such knowledge…”

“Don’t speak of SHAME to me, fugitive,” he bellowed. I winced, realizing that I was the only who was desperate for this conversation to remain hushed. “I will sooner burn ten thousand years of research than break my oath to my King and my countrymen.”

I continued to pad closer. I let my rage run raw. Anything to distract him from my closing of the distance. “This is petty and ignorant. Beneath you, my friend. You are a man of knowledge. Do you know what you do even now? What work you keep me from? To whom you intend to deliver me?”

He scoffed. “Full well. I received a message from Henri just a few hours ago. He shall have a contingent here to take you home by the morning, and then we shall see what you have been up to. I need no proof now; the proof revealed at your trial shall suffice. Do you think me a child?”

I exploded with furious excitement. No need to keep my voice down now. “YOU IDIOT. I AM HENRI’S COURT WIZARD. WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE EXCHANGING MESSAGES WITH?”

His eyes narrowed. Calculating. He had a good poker face, but I knew exactly what this meant. He didn’t know. It now troubled him. He didn’t want to admit it.

By now, I was close enough to him and his dim, lone candle to make out his clothes. The robe of his station and an apron. No sword, no cane, no tools. But more importantly…

My mind reached to the stars and pulled them down to the world around me, and in the darkness their meaning swirled. This was not my most complicated spell by any means. But it was my mightiest. Similar spells, in the past, had crushed armies and toppled empires. One such spell had raised the most powerful wizard in history to the heights of their achievement and then laid them low.

It was a spell to see things as they are.

As you might have noticed, astronomy is my favorite field of study. It’s central to several different fields of magic, and besides that, it’s full of beauty, from the moment you first behold the night sky through the most advanced studies of cometary arcs. This spell was one of those reasons why. All meaning relates to the stars. Any spell may be seen in the constellations and nebulae. All of our mortal struggles, our long lives full of achievements and failures and fear and love, could ultimately be charted in the heavens.

It is a simple thing to see the stars around you. It can be a great deal harder to interpret them.

Unless, of course, a spell has been cast in the vicinity. Active spells tend to show readily in the Starfield. Which was just the reason I had prepared it: I had known there would be a strong chance that Valthan would notice my escape and try to prevent it, and I had decided it would be best if I knew what tools he intended to wield.

Nothing. Valthan had nothing. The fool was bluffing. Having failed to keep my spellbook apart from me, he had detected that I had left my room and descended from his tower to try to bluff me back into my prison, having prepared no wards and no armor, manifested no tools. Perhaps he had spells ready to be cast, yet to release… but…

But someone was watching us. The eastern peak of the constellation Orha, her eye, glared menacingly at us.

“Valthan. We’re in grave danger.”

“Is that a threat?” my counterpart growled. I stared through the Starfield at him. One hand was swimming for something in the pocket of his apron.

I lofted my right hand toward him. Fool. Incompetent. Patsy. I had him in a corner, I had elevated myself to my seat of power in the heavens, and he had the gall to try to swing at me, decades his senior, instead of hearkening to me. I would swat his spell out of the sky like a lobbed pebble.

Orha’s Eye dimmed. The Tower of Beshan shone with blinding light. It reflected off the southern field, at a right angle to the eighth medial arc…

She was here.

Valthan responded to my silence with his gambit. I was unfamiliar with the pattern of stars it called, but the intended effect was plain enough. Intoxication of some sort, to be inflicted on my person. Clever, but pathetic. I cast a simple counterspell for a simple spell. His spell broke like a mild wave across an ancient jetty. He grimaced.

“A malign practitioner has projected herself here. We are in danger,” I declared.

I heard shouting from behind me. My pulse quickened.

Valthan’s expression remained sour and flat. He suspected this to be a lie, but he was unsure what to make of so specific a lie.

The floor rumbled and some deep, catastrophic sound from the main estate pounded our bodies. A man screamed the unmistakable scream of a man dying in horrific pain, and then he was cut short.

My colleague’s eyes widened, and I’m sure mine did, too. A nightmare had made itself manifest in the house, and it had already claimed one victim. My time was running out, and I tried the only thing that made sense.

“Riu al…” my words died in my throat. Valthan stood with his hand between two stars, having severed the connection. He had cast a counterspell.

“You dimwit! You want us both to get killed?” I screamed.

“Liar! I will bring you to justice for this!”

Many things happened very quickly. In the memoirs I never got a chance to write, I would have described it thusly: “I made a plan, and I put it into action.”

The reality was I was scared and angry, and I was immersed in the knowledge of the Starfield… and the power fed my ego and contempt. I hated the man in front of me for his idiocy, and I nearly lost control.

I bounded the last few paces at him and punched him as hard as I could in the jaw. It was poorly placed and I hurt my hand nearly as badly as I hurt his jaw, but it got the job done. Valthan toppled backward and I fell on him. I am ashamed to recall that I hammered him again in the nose in my rage, breaking it and staining my sleeve scarlet.

That was when the White Magus turned the corner. In the dim light of the hallway behind me, she shone bright with white cloth and steel, as before. She wasted no time initiating her spell, striding confidently toward me, her otherworldly, evil gaze fixed on the bridge of my nose.

Smoke curled at her feet, and her left greave was strewn with flecks of blood. Fear seized my mind. Whose blood was that, and why? Would mine be next? The Starfield faded from my view as my mind, unbidden, raced through the possibilities, past and future.

I peeled my mind away from the icy terror and forced it back to task. Still kneeling astraddle Valthan, I flattened myself, smothering him with my body. I called into my mind for fire and for force, and I jabbed an index finger at the darkened windowpane above me.

The fireball exploded just thirty-six inches from my face.

Chapter XIII: Adversaries

My adversary had underestimated me in two crucial ways.

First, this method of imprisonment played into my strengths. Time alone—time to think, to ruminate, to brood—was to my advantage under almost any circumstance.

So I sat and I thought.

The guest room in Baron Lurton’s estate was finely decorated and comfortably furnished. But like Valthan’s office, it was bereft of windows and the only door (a monstrously heavy oaken piece) led directly out to a common area well-trafficked by courtiers, staff, and petitioners. Escape was, again, quite nearly impossible. This guest room must have been outfitted with that in mind.

My fuming mind wandered around the circumstances of my imprisonment. First, there were the immediate consequences. I would not be meeting Mal and Naht at ten bells. They would be tracing my steps to find me, and I could only hope they would do so safely. There was no doubt that Naht was in good hands, but I was concerned that Mal would place herself in some amount of danger for my sake. I was almost hoping they would go on and leave me to my future, if only because I could imagine few pleasant ways out of my current predicament, even with their help.

I had surrendered my pack to Valthan. He was likely to see the remaining books I had borrowed: Logos of the North, History of the North, and The Transmutation of Souls. It’s possible he would leave it aside after removing my spellbook for safekeeping, but Valthan seemed a reasonably diligent fellow and I would have to assume he would be thorough in his inspection of my belongings. Anyway: this was bad. My destination would be utterly clear to him (“I will travel yet further,” I had told him just a few minutes before). And it would be all too easy to infer nefarious motives from a book of forbidden magic being in the possession of a fugitive wizard.

After I had given over my pack, Emile, the yellow-clad ranger we had met on the road, had led me to my “guest room.” So, Valthan’s inquiry as to whether I had been traveling with anyone was likely rhetorical: Emile had seen Mal. It was, fortunately, quite likely that she had forgotten about Naht, as all of the ways she would have related to him had been clouded by Mal’s spell. Still, maybe Valthan had heard something about Naht. Or about a “demon,” anyway. He had apparently received word of a warrant for my arrest, containing who-knows-what details that Piear may have supplied to Henri.

Now: how did he know about all that in the first place?

The night that Mal, Naht, and I fled Fertheaux, Piear and Jan would probably have searched for us for a few hours before giving up and returning to the village. If he was feeling particularly thorough, Piear might have tasked Jan with organizing a special watch over the village for a few nights. Then he would’ve been free to take to the road the next morning to seek Henri’s counsel. He would have arrived at castle Ilianath the same evening we spent the night at the Academy in Peraise. In the worst case for us, he would have had an audience with Henri that very evening (perhaps not long after Spook arrived with my letter of resignation), and then a Warrant from the Marquis of Ilianath Pertaining to the Arrest of Horwendell, Wizard would have been issued and communicated by courier the next day. Again, in the very worst case for us, a courier would have been dispatched directly for Épineuil: one day to Fertheaux, one day to Paraise, then the week’s journey out to Épineuil. Two days behind us. And yet none had passed us.

Maybe there was a worse case: that Henri still had someone available to him to cast a long-distance sending. But who? I had no apprentice. My master, the previous court wizard, had passed well over a decade ago. None had been paying any visits to Ilianath at the time. In the city and its outlying villages and forests and fields, the only other person I had met with the knowledge or talent to send such a message would be Mal, and…

The woman in white.

My hand fell from my beard to my lap, where I could clench it without pulling out hair. My knuckles whitened with the anger.

A theory began to bind itself in my mind, almost as if the ideas were knitting themselves together of their own accord. When the white magus had attempted to simply project herself to Naht, she had been thwarted by Mal. My counterspells were an obstacle, but it was Mal’s ability to tear the projection asunder that truly neutered the strategy. But she could still project elsewhere. Suppose she had projected herself to Ilianath and placed her magic at Henri’s disposal.

But why project and why not travel? Projection spells are exceedingly difficult, and beyond that, they are taxing. Much like a hard day of barn-raising can leave a laborer tired, sore, and weak for a day after, a projection can enervate the mind for days. Recreating a projection so soon after having one forcefully disrupted… it almost defied belief. But it would be a necessary measure if this woman had business to attend to. Duties. Obligations.

Like those of a court wizard.

It wasn’t the only explanation for any of the facts, but it seemed like the only explanation for all of the facts. There were other ways to come by the skills to project, but court wizardry was the surest. There were other ways that she could’ve known that she could use Piear and Henri to get to Naht… but were she a court wizard, she would understand deeply how my involvement was only easy as long as Henri approved. There were other reasons to project to commit murder instead of traveling to do so… but a court wizard might find it to be the only way to get it done from within a busy court, conducting it within the private confines of their study, safe from prying eyes and ears. No long absences to beg from one’s lord or explain to one’s colleagues.

I still didn’t recognize her. But perhaps she could have modified the spell to project some sort of disguised self. It sounded quite difficult—part of the reason a projection was even possible was that it projected one’s own body, a comfortable and familiar tool, easily named and easily manipulated. Was I overestimating my adversary? I shook my head. Maybe I was cynical. Maybe I was being too pessimistic. But I couldn’t bear to be optimistic and be wrong.

So which wizard?

---

A few hours after midnight there was a faint knock on the door. So faint that I barely heard it. It puzzled me. Captors don’t have a habit of knocking with such polite timidity, even if they call themselves “hosts.”

I responded to the second round of soft knocking with a “… Come in?”, emitted at an awkward volume.

The door creaked open and then closed. A little, ruddy-red figure in a blue tunic stepped into the room. Naht.

Oh.

My heart lurched and began to race as my mind tumbled into motion.

I lowered my voice. “Naht! What…”

He pressed his finger to his lips in an amusing display of assumed elderly authority. He crept toward the bed and unslung my pack from his shoulder, depositing it with a whumph on the golden-quilted bed.

“Please be careful. We’ll meet you… tomorrow. Look for Spook. Is that okay?”

His cadence told me that Malisa had put those particular words in his mouth, having likely put him up to the whole thing. Her magic being what it was, he could rummage through the estate for my belongings with impunity, unless Valthan had deployed some way to defeat the seeming. But Valthan probably had no way to know he was up against something like that, and had evidently not prepared for the case, thinking the matter concluded with me safely in custody.

But a wizard reunited with his spellbook was no longer a wizard safely in custody.

I suppressed a sickly, worried chuckle as excitement seized my fingers and limbs. Naht had put on a front of confidence, but he was clearly humming with nerves. His mischievous streak earlier in the day notwithstanding, he was a court wizard’s kid and was not used to transgressing serious boundaries. Breaking a wizard out of prison, even cloaked by powerful magic, was a new experience for him, and the fear was probably clawing at his heart and throat, much like it was at mine.

“This is very brave of you,” I whispered. “I’ll make good on it, I promise. I’ll meet you tomorrow.”

Naht didn’t seem sure if he should smile, so it came out as sort of a grimace. At any rate, he crept back out the way he came.

Once the door was closed, I shuffled the pack over to the floor behind the bed opposite the doorway. I took a quick inventory of the tomes therein—all accounted for—and opened my spellbook onto my lap.

This was the second way my adversary had estimated me. It was really a way in which she had underestimated us. The patience of a wizard, the awesome power of a woods witch, and the courage of a ten-year-old kid: it would take more than simply a warrant for my arrest to crack us.

I grinned with anxious energy and opened my spellbook. Every tool I had ever employed sprawled out at my fingertips. I had all the time I needed to array them against my obstacles. No mortal prison could hold me for long. Its gaolers could but look on helplessly.

Poor, poor Valthan. He never stood a chance.

Chapter XII: Duties

Épineuil was one of the jewels in the crown of Orland. It was not the foremost of the kingdom’s centers of commerce and culture: that would be Rellenreaux, the glimmering ruby set in the fore-ridge of that crown. Épineuil was contented to be a humbler but no less beautiful sapphire. It connected the southern midlands to the northern lowlands, the kingdom’s two breadbaskets and two distinct cultural regions, and the town itself enjoyed all of the bountiful rewards of that exchange.

The town itself was a riot of color, the pigments and paints from every corner of the seven kingdoms adorning every free square inch of plaster and every yard of cloth. The two distinct Orlan accents could be heard issuing from every stall, every window, and every alley (mine would mark me obviously for a southerner). I even caught the distinct turn of the Veldic language being used to facilitate a conversation with some other traveler from a far-flung place.

My travel robe and Mal’s black gown wouldn’t be terribly far out of place here, besides being somewhat somber and out of fashion. It would make it somewhat obvious that I was a courtier, and one look at my beard would fairly well give away which kind of courtier I was. Which, I suppose, was the point. It would serve me well enough here, I thought.

So we stood in the center of the gate square, essentially a street so broad that it had earned the designation of a square, while the sun made its final retreat beneath the city walls and the last of the citizens and visitors to the city, soaked in shadows, concluded their days.

Mal began. “Well. We have a day or so. I’ll take Naht and try and find a night’s rest. I take it you were mostly truthful about the reagents and… Valthan?”

“Hmm. Yes. I suppose it would only be polite to call on him. Court Wizard to the Baron. Junior, as far as we go, but knowledgeable and respectable.”

Mal clearly was about to say something, but I’ll never know what. Naht was staring greedily at a fruit stand, and she broke out laughing instead.

“We’ll meet back here. Ten bells? It seems like our charge,” she continued in a pontifical impression of my voice, “requires moral instruction.”

---

I left the square and made my way up the emptying streets to the north. My first stop was the Academy. The Astronomy of the North was dense but short, and I had mostly exhausted it of the knowledge I had required of it. If I were contemplating truly exploring new fields of magic it would have been an invaluable reference, but I was only preparing to navigate in the north and perhaps become conversant in the northern practice of magic should the time come: and for all that, my notes would suffice.

I moved The Astronomy of the North to the top of my pack, above my spare robe, which itself was above the other resources Sandron had lent me—some of which he had advised to keep well out-of-view.

---

My feelings of contentment had not abated, and, indeed, swelled with each passing minute. Naht’s struggles were far from over, but he was climbing out of his torpor and beginning to explore the world again, even if it was just for a few hours at a time. I had already gotten to return one of the books Sandron had lent me: even if he wouldn’t know it for some days or weeks, I imagined that I had repaid some of his faith in me ahead of schedule.

And it wasn’t for nothing that Épineuil was a beautiful town, and I had a moment to myself to simply enjoy it.

The Academy was perched on the corner of the main market square, now empty but for an armored night sentry leaning against a wall, his lantern glowing placidly by his feet.

I shuffled off my pack and took a seat on the edge of a planter before the Academy. I made some minimal effort to look non-suspicious within the sentry’s view, but I supposed my beard and robe would, again, do most of the work for me.

I sighed, and my mind wandered. It wasn’t simply the robe and beard. If I could magically bequeath Naht fifty years of age and a beard of a robe of his own (and to be clear, I could not), it still would not serve to make him inconspicuous in the eyes of this sentry. Or anyone else, for that matter. Mal’s seeming was buying him time, but only Mal’s ultimate solution—the help of an emperor-dragon-god—would give him the gift of being… unassuming.

Hmm. The seeming. The farmer’s cart. Naht had wanted to complain that what the man didn’t know (about a mischievous child searching through his possessions) couldn’t hurt him. I disagreed with that claim, philosophically, but now couldn’t help but thinking that’s exactly what we were doing, writ large: what the town of Épineuil didn’t know about Naht couldn’t hurt them. The obvious justification seemed to be that there was, truly, no harm to do. The child’s “accursedness” was…

… What was the curse, anyway?

Unusual skin tones. Bony prominences on the face and sometimes upper arms and back. Horns, like a ram’s or a dragon’s. Eyes with homochromatic pupils, irises, and sclera. A tail. Unseemly at worst, difficult to tailor for, but harmless.

As some scholars would have it: soullessness, perhaps. An irresistible bent for evil, for destruction. As legends would have it: the ability to shapeshift, to steal bodies or even souls from bodies.

I felt myself getting angry. What rubbish. For legends to run wild was one thing. But for scholars and courtiers like myself, whose very duty it is to understand reality to its fullest… these scholars could not have possibly encountered these ideas in reality. Certainly not the reality I had been living in with Naht. It was not reality. It was reckless speculation. An absolute betrayal of their life’s work. Of my life’s work.

My eyes, hard under a furrowed brow, drifted back to my pack. The Transmutation of Souls: A Compilation of Attestations. An Ivian Leauge era work by Rector Ystile, whose status within the League-era College hierarchy afforded the book just enough prestige to allow it to remain in the College collections. Most other similar works had been burned. Even this one was guarded carefully, lest the wicked be given the chance to recreate the malign magics that ancient warlocks used to touch and exploit the soul.

I needed to know more about Naht’s curse. Was lifting it with powerful transmutation magic within the Emperor’s reach, as Mal figured? Or was there another way? What did the curse do, beyond the superficial? Was there truly demonic influence to fear?

And how better to understand a curse than to understand the soul the bears it?

I would need the warlocks’ secrets.

---

The same ranger we met on the road, her chaps and tunic still slightly dusty from a hard day’s work, showed me into Valthan’s office, gave a polite bow, and closed the door behind her.

Valthan’s office was sparser than mine. It was, like mine, dominated by a heavy wooden desk expertly crafted to maximize both storage space and aesthetic pleasure. But fewer tools and knick-knacks cluttered its surface, and for that matter, the wood-paneled walls were considerably more bare. I surmised it to be some combination of his personal organizing preferences and his short years in service to the Baron, such that he simply had less time to experience the natural accrual of tools that plagues wizards’ careers like a fungus.

Valthan himself was a thin man with a protruding chin, an immaculate moustache, and hungry eyes. The robe helped to fill out his wiry frame and give him the personal presence befitting a wizard.

In case you hadn’t noticed, I am quite fond of our wizard robes.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, my friend?” Valthan asked. There was an odd note in his voice.

“To myself, of course,” I chuckled. “I was passing through and it seemed only right. I read your essay on the creative properties of fire; I’ve been trying to write a letter on how the southern fire-star Gamede might be able to link those ideas—very well articulated, I should say, fine work—to… well, something, surely. You can see why the letter is yet unfinished.”

“I thank you. It was a small thing, I think. We all know how fire can be used to create, but the aetheric processes underlying it are… ah, never mind. You did read it, after all. I trust you have found the town pleasing?”

“Always! I’ve been meaning to ask, though, if that fellow Phanel is still doing business on that… street in the west, that curves out behind the butcher? I will travel yet further and could use some dried insects and such for some spells.”

Valthan hesitated. He had clearly been dying to say something to me, but it was unclear what.

A sickly feeling took hold of my heart. I tried to convince myself that nothing was wrong.

“Do tell me he’s still in business. He was such a good fellow.”

“Horwendell, did you come to town with anyone?”

“Well… Valthan, what’s wrong?”

He shook his head, wearing an exquisitely pained expression. Potentially a faked one, I thought. “Don’t… don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“Valthan. Speak plainly.”

“Why don’t you, friend? You’re a fugitive. The reeve of Fertheaux has successfully petitioned your Marquis for your arrest. Word reached me several days ago. The Baron intends to honor the warrant on this Marquis’ behalf, though he did not know you’d come knocking.”

I took his advice—not doing anything I might regret—and clammed up. The ranger was waiting just outside the door, within shouting distance of the rest of the household citizens-at-arms. That door was the only exit. I was not adequately prepared for an escape.

How did he know? I had believed we had traveled well ahead of any such news. Since I wasn’t at my post in Ilianath, there would be nobody for Henri to prevail upon to send a message faster than the speed of a march down the old league roads. And no obvious couriers had passed us as we had done just that. I hadn’t been worrying about this at all. If only I had been.

Valthan shook his head again. Sadly, this time. More ersatz sympathy? It was hard to say. “Friend, tell me what you intend. Perhaps I can help.”

“I resigned my post with Henri, as you must well know. Reeve Piear is meddling.” I sighed. “Could I not prevail upon you to…?”

“Absolutely not. I have a great respect for you, friend, but my bond to my liege is not broken so easily.”

“Stop calling me friend,” I snapped. “It’s not making me feel particularly generous at the moment.”

Valthan drew up. “I’m afraid your generosity is not my concern. You will remain in my custody for the time being. Remain here while I instruct Emile to make a guest room ready for you.”

I sighed again, frustrated with my miniature outburst. It was not made in a productive spirit, I’ll admit. “I am sorry to have placed you in this position, and I do thank you for your hospitality. I’ll not burden you further.”

“Very good. Your spellbook, please.”

Chapter XI: Safe Travels

It was the very next day that we encountered our first fellow traveler on the road to Épineuil. We spotted him downhill from us some distance as the road descended yet another steep, broad, slope, this one grassy and unobstructed.

My initial reaction was that of relief and anticipation. News is always welcome on the road. But then, as is its habit, my mind caught up to me and began to give me worry. The silhouette was lone, accompanied by no cart nor beast of burden, but carrying on his body no small amount of baggage. From this distance it was hard to make out what. This disfavored some possibilities—not likely to be a farmer returning from market, nor a merchant ferrying goods—and favored others—student of the College, a traveling courtier such as myself, and so on.

What if the traveler was armed?

Were they a danger to Naht?

Our passage on the road was, fortunately, uneventful in the extreme. He gave the appearance of a hunter, perhaps sallying forth from one of the farming hamlets nearby in search of upland game (some skilled hunters seek out the unique feline and leporine species in this region). Which means he was armed. His eyes lurked suspiciously beneath his bangs in a way that made me tense, but then they flicked amiably over me and then over Mal and then out over the road. He huffed with effort as he climbed up the uneven road, but he gave a polite nod of the head as he passed, and we passed, and the sounds of his laborious climb faded behind us until it was subsumed by the plod and crunch of our own descent.

Mal drew up close behind my left shoulder as we turned onto a gentler, straighter segment of road.

“Hey. Howe.”

“Mmmm?”

“You’re not wrong to fear. You’re not wrong to prepare. But you’re still too cynical by half.”

“Was it that obvious?” I mumbled.

“Yeah.”

I brooded over this as we walked and as I worked the tension out from my shoulders, arms, and hands. I probably was too obvious. The hunter may well have seen my hands and jaw clench and my stare harden. I couldn’t even remember if I had given an appropriate greeting as we passed. Hopefully Mal had on my behalf.

But was I too cynical? This once, the man had been no threat to us, true, but was my assessment of my fellow man that wrong? What was too cynical? Was she afraid that I would spiral into paranoia, or that I would poison my own good cheer or good morals?

We carried on in silence for the rest of the day.

---

The next few days were dominated by a gradual crescendo of traffic on the road. There were farmers and porters and anonymous travelers. Several noticed Naht and gave us a wide berth, sometimes swerving entirely off the road in their haste to avoid coming within twenty paces of the accursed child.

The last day, we marched down a road that shot stubbornly straight over the undulating terrain, passing by flatter fields of grain and cutting through little brambly copses as it went. As we cleared one of these and crested a hill, the town announced its presence on the distant horizon: a wide, flat mark of stony grey and wooden spires on a grassy plateau.

Nearer on the road was a woman wearing a neat, belted yellow tunic and sturdy chaps, a bow slung across her back, all these things marking her not just as a hunter but as someone of station. That station was likely as one of Baron Lurton of Épineuil’s rangers, enforcing his law out in the hinterlands. Just as my mind began to calculate the ramifications, Mal touched me on the shoulder.

“Talk to her. Don’t hide anything. I’ll cast the seeming.”

I paused for a moment, then nodded.

As we neared the ranger I waved awkwardly and (what I hoped would be) amiably.

“Hail, traveler,” came her reply. “How fare you? News from the south?”

“Mm, well, thank you. The weather and roads are good. Peraise is lovely in the summer heat.”

The woman gave a sociable chuckle, and the four of us pulled up to a stop on the side of the road to converse. “I’ll say. But doesn’t everything being damp get tiring?”

“We were only there for one night. Long enough to enjoy the falls, not too long to pick up a chill.”

“Or become truly weary of the smell. No offense meant, of course, but it does smell. Where from?”

I noticed that Mal was beginning to guide Naht out from behind my bulk of stately robes.

“Ah. Farther south. We were hoping to stay over just here, then begin up the Blue.”

“Oh, hm. From Jealan-Fen? Perhaps Ilianath? Long journey you’re conte…” her eyes widened, and she drew up stiffly.

I turned my head just slightly to follow her gaze, and sure enough, Naht stood, uncertainly, just by my left hip. Mal was holding him reassuringly by the shoulders. I looked up to Mal. Her eyes had a slightly glazed look, as if her mind were elsewhere. Which, of course, it was.

I fixed my gaze back on the ranger, on her cropped black hair and her surprised but steady eyes. It was only polite to avoid staring at the immediate danger—her hands, bow, and quiver—and anyway, unless she were trained in deception, her eyes would give her intentions away first. She spoke rigidly.

“Long journey. I suppose… that,” she gestured toward Naht, “is the reason?”

“Yes, yes,” I explained, waving my hand dismissively. “I am a court wizard, and these are my charges. I am bid to take them north, to avail ourselves of scholarly resources there.”

She was calculating. Or at least contemplating. So was I. What kind of person was she? Did she see Naht as a threat, which she was balancing against the threat that my assumed authority posed? Did she instead see the disturbance he might cause in town as a threat? How did the Baron, or her commanding officer, factor into this?

Then, she shook her head, looked me directly in the eyes, and asked, “oh, I see. You’re a court wizard. What brings you to Épineuil?”

Oh. Of course. Just like that, her relationship to Naht—her suspicion, her concern for his presence in the town, her very knowledge of the child’s existence—gone. For now, anyway.

For the first time it struck me just how formidable Mal was. She went to great lengths to disguise that fact. Or maybe I should say that she lived her life such that it was effortless for her to ensure that people should see her incredible power and her strange presence as benign rather than as imposing. But it was obvious to me just then: whatever she truly wanted, she had many ways to will it to be.

And all the more formidable was her ability to do it without tools: no book, no lengthy treatises on astronomy, no words of power chanted aloud.

Such is the power of a Dreamer.

“Ah,” I replied, cheerfully. “Magical reagents and other such things. A short stop and a light burden. A few words exchanged with my esteemed peer Valthan.”

“I hope the stop is a pleasant one. Is there anything I can provide?”

“No, thank you. I’ve been before and I should have the means to secure lodging and such and so forth.”

“Good day, then. Travel safely, friend.”

---

At sundown we reached the gates of the town, passing travelers frequently as we did. Not a one paid a mind to Naht.

Naht seemed positively enchanted by this.

“Look! Look! He can’t see me!” he cheered, nearly stumbling directly into a young planter’s ox in his eagerness to exercise the strangeness of his circumstances.

Mal and I were both smiling. It was hard not to be affected by Naht’s excitement.

“Well. We can’t just turn him loose, can we?” I mused.

“And why not?” replied Mal.

“Well. He could get up to quite a bit of mischief, free of consequences like this.”

Naht careened around the ox. “Hahaha! I wonder what he has in is cart?!”

Mal frowned. “Hmmm.”

“Impunity is a kind of power,” I intoned. “And everyone—he most of all—should know what power means, and what it means to use it responsibly.”

“Don’t put it that way to him, of course. Too abstract. But yes.”

Afraid of being seen shouting to nobody in particular, I lumbered up to Naht (cursing my weary, leaden legs under my breath) and he turned an inquisitive gaze on me.

“Ahem. Please leave his cart alone.” I hurried him along with a flap of my arms, and we started again toward the gate.

“Awww. Why?”

“You know you can do it and nobody will raise so much as a finger to stop you. But he might not want you going through his things.”

“Why?”

Oh dear.

“Oh, no matter why. You do like it when people don’t see you, so you can relax and do whatever you want, yes? He would like it if you didn’t know about his private life.”

“But he wouldn’t know!”

I sighed and took a risk. “And why should that matter?”

Naht, mercifully, took the bait and thought about this, unable to articulate his instinct that the man’s ignorance of a transgression against him meant that no harm would be truly done to him. By the time he got through a few cycles of “But! …hmmm.” and “Wait, but…” we were at the gates, and I hushed him gently so we could guide him through.

The gates to Épineuil were low, but wide, an architectural concession made long ago to allow plenty of traffic but also minimize the difficulty of building and supporting such a large wooden gate. This gate was unique: solid, heavy wood, finished and painted with a mural of King Forei II, quite unlike the light and strong (and drab) portcullis favored by most cities. It was a symbol of the town’s safety (sitting firmly in the Orlan heartland, it had never been seriously threatened by siege) and its wealth, both in material and in talent, and rightly a point of pride for its citizens.

A sentry nodded to Mal and I as we passed through the open gate doors, along with several residents of the town returning from a long day of work in the nearby fields. We had arrived at Épineuil, and I regarded the gate square, encircled with half-timbered buildings with high-peaked roofs, with contentment and comfort.

Chapter X: Relation

That night in the Academy was the best I had slept in weeks. Sandron provided us with a warm meal (roast ham!) in the Academy, and then he rolled out some cots in one of the back rooms. I was almost asleep before my head had reached the straw.

It was the most comfortable sleep I’d have for the rest of my life.

We left early, rousing a grumpy Naht from uncertain dreams an hour before dawn, crossing the bridge over the Blue, and parting the dewy grasses to the north of town with only Sandron and the town’s night sentry to see us off.

Despite this being one of the old League roads, it was tough going. The Orlan midlands seemed scrunched up here in their descent toward the wide coastal lowlands. The road swerved wickedly through passes and slid down rocky faces, and rocks littered the gaps that had grown between the laid stones. The going was especially hard for Naht, whose legs were significantly shorter and were already stiff with his hasty journey he had made from Duranlach to Mal’s cabin outside of Fertheaux. We stopped early on the first afternoon after Mal had noticed his gait beginning to wobble. He insisted we could, and should, continue. I came in on Mal’s side of the argument with a ponderous lecture about the effects of long-term fatigue on a human body and the moral wisdom of setting the right pace to achieve a goal, and Naht relented. Being tediously right is one of my most formidable powers. I promise that I only use it responsibly.

On the second day, we had a late lunch on a stony bluff that afforded a gorgeous view of the Rim to our east. The road disappeared around a bend before us. I unwrapped a piece of cured lamb and some dried fruit. I had tried to pay Sandron for them before leaving Peraise, but he had refused, and Mal pointed out that we would need every one of the little golden crests clinking in the coin pocket of my satchel to afford a ship to the north, anyway. I had felt wretched at the time, like I was taking advantage of Sandron’s trust and earnest offers to help. But as I passed the lamb out to Mal and Naht now, I felt quite thankful and comfortable having both the food and the coin.

We ate in silence. Soon it struck me how unusual that was. It’s all well and good to eat in silence on a windy overlook watching the sun shine off one of the greatest mountain ranges in the world. But Naht was ten. Worse than that, he was a wizard’s kid. Wizards, wizards’ apprentices, and wizard’s kids share many traits amongst themselves, one in particular being brattiness. We grow up with access to our tools and our creature comforts, we foster our talents in orderly environs and snug daily routines, and we practice our crafts for a polite audience. Many of us experience few difficulties outside academic ones, and when we do… sometimes it isn’t pretty.

So who was this kid? Who was this strange ten-year-old who would endure weeks on the road and threats to his life with glum aplomb?

Twin anxieties—the fear of upsetting Naht and the fear of leaving him alone with whatever monsters may be lurking in his thoughts—dueled in my mind.

Mal elbowed me, and I shot her a look.

“You’re thinking,” she accused.

“Aren’t I always thinking?”

“You really show it when you’re not sure if you want to say something or not.”

“Wait. How do you mean?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. A look on your face. You do it a lot. Want to say something, then you don’t. I’m always curious as to the thoughts you keep inside.”

I paused, imagining distractedly previous times I must have done this and what I might’ve been thinking. What I had chosen not to tell Mal over the years.

I sighed. “You’re right.”

I finished my pice of lamb and wiped my hands on a travel rag. I waited for Naht to finish nibbling on a piece of dried apple and caught his eyes.

“Naht. How… are you?”

“I’m fine.”

There was a brief silence.

“Do you have anything on your mind?”

“No.”

Another silence. This one was broken by Mal, giggling through a mouthful of apple.

“You’re hopeless, Howe.”

That drew a strange stare from Naht, and I’m sure my own eyebrows arced curiously.

“Naht, Howe thinks you’re strange, clearly. I think he wants to make a study of you.”

Naht pivoted. “A what? A study? Like a… rat? Or a worm?”

My face was reddening. “No! No no no! I would never subject a child to… I mean, I read and study every day, but…”

Mal’s eyes narrowed mischievously. “Ooh! Like a rat. You do like cheese.”

“I’m not going to try to plumb the boy’s mind, Mal!”

“Plumb? Is that how you study things?”

“Well, yes, but wait wait, more to the point…”

“Don’t let him plumb my mind!”

“Oh, I promise, I would never let him.”

“I promise I won’t!”

I waved my hands, producing a usefully noisy flapping of dark robes.

“Let me set this all straight. I believe what Mal is trying to say is that, yes, Naht, I do find you strange. Not for your body or your age! Not mainly, anyway. You simply are unlike many of the children I know your age. I expect children of your age to be noisy, playing with and tormenting their siblings and asking curious questions of their elders. You are not. You are… lonesome. Quiet. And I fear you understand more of what is happening to you—what you are enduring—than you should.”

Naht thought about this.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

I sighed. Should is a tricky word that can mean many things, and I had laid it like a rug over a hole in my understanding, hoping my meaning would be clear without being certain of what meaning that was. I took a second to try to discover the truth.

“I mean that I would expect children your age to understand little—mercifully little—about things such as danger, death, and injustice. And not only do I expect them to, I believe it is a terrible thing to make a child understand such things. It… well, robs them of something, you see.”

There was silence as we looked across to the great, snow-peaked Rim, out over the rolling lowlands below us.

“I don’t know what I’ve been robbed of. I just wish I could have my dad back.”

“I wish that for you too.”

“… So you think I’m strange because I understand too much?”

“Well… yes. Just so.”

“You’re strange.”

---

That evening brought with it the return of Spook, who nearly startled me to death. I had been reading the Astronomy of the North by candlelight (the most immediately useful of the disciplines in our case, particularly as related to navigation) when I looked up and saw two eyes glinting in the darkness. Only after nearly leaping out of my travel robe, and straining my eyes to see better, did I realize that it was the pale little owl who had delivered my letter of resignation, watching me from his customary perch on Malisa’s shoulder.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Mal’s cheery little companion was a nocturnal predator by nature. Or perhaps I should say “in form.” He was, as they say, Mal’s familiar spirit, and it seems almost demeaning to such spirits to say that they are anything “by nature.” To say nothing of the Dreamers they are bound to.

Mal, too, turned to regard me. Then she smiled and drew herself up in a cross-legged seating position.

“Howe. While Naht’s asleep, I had something to run by you.”

“Yes?”

“It’s a few days more to Épineuil. We should have a plan for when we get there. No?”

I began the compulsive beard-scratching of my station. “True.”

“We’ll need to spend at least some time in the city. Provisions, at least. We should talk to some townsfolk to learn about goings-on. And maybe we could learn more about river transport while we’re there.”

“True, which means… Naht.”

“Exactly. I don’t have friends I trust as much as Sandron there. It would simply be easier for Naht to be… unseen.”

I mulled it over. Spells that render oneself or another invisible are old, but they are complicated. The ideal invisibility spell works by allowing light to pass through an arbitrary collection of moving surfaces and textures (like, say, a person’s flesh, bone, organs, hair, eyes, and clothes) and are extremely complicated, requiring an advanced vocabulary of ideas and putting a heavy burden on one’s mind to keep ready. Lesser spells exist, such as ones that affect fewer things (say, only living matter, not clothes), or ones that only affect slow-moving things. Several of these were within my reach. The real difficulty would be explaining to Naht the strange and unintuitive ways in which he would have to behave to avoid being partially seen.

“Well. I do have ways of doing that. But they’re fraught and take quite a bit of practice on the part of the subject, or else…”

Mal dismissed the idea with a wave before I got too far into it. “I agree. I would prefer a seeming.”

I wracked my mind. “A seeming. Hmm. I suppose that means you would prefer to influence the minds of the townsfolk such that they see him as something he is not?”

“Close. I would alter… Naht’s relation to the town. Suppress it for a few days. Just one little relation. Should affect everyone connected to the town without the difficulty of touching every individual mind.”

“Clever! Very clever. I have no idea how to name an instance of relation, let alone manipulate one, to say nothing of suppressing one without sundering it.”

Mal beamed.

“I’d teach you, but I’m afraid you’d have to learn a few decades of the basics first.”

She was right about that. Her magic was not one I could come by easily.

“You say ‘connected to the town’. I imagine that this means that strangers in town may see him?”

“Anybody in the town has some sort of connection to it. And if they’re only ever meeting Naht in town… their relation to him goes through that relation. We’re fine there. The problem is…”

“… the white magus.”

Mal chuckled grimly. “The White Magus. She’d like that, I’m sure. So noble and proud.”

“Oh, come off it. You must know I don’t mean praise for such a woman.”

“I know, I know. Say. This is important. Do you think you can learn anything about her at Épineuil?”

“Why would I be able to?”

“Well, she obviously practices your art.”

I crossed my arms, hurt.

“You don’t mean to tar me with that brush, do you?”

“No. Maybe. I’m kidding. Anyway, I’ve heard you say it before—you know who all of the court wizards are. You know their fields of expertise and their tutors and their rolls of accomplishment. But you don’t know this woman.”

She folded her hands in her lap, forcing herself not to gesticulate so excitedly with them with Naht sleeping so close as she continued.

“There just aren’t that many people who are that good at ink-magic. You can count them on two hands. The point being… someone had to teach her, right? Or did she teach someone? What does she do with those talents? You don’t become a powerful wizard just to not have an affect on the world. Surely someone you know knows.”

She was, once more, painfully right. Painful, because this woman was a member of the elite I belonged to, that I was so proud to belong to. She was one of us, and she was up to something wicked.

“Yes. Probably. I shall take some time and make some inquiries.”

I looked over at Naht, a tiny, dark form sleeping wrapped up in a thick blanket on a grassy patch of earth.

“He doesn’t deserve this,” I remarked.

“That woman? No. He doesn’t deserve what she has in mind. He didn’t deserve to have his father taken from him. But he does deserve a chance.”

Chapter IX: Nexus

Peraise was, and still is, a town that one smelled long before one saw. Most of the town’s construction clung to a tiny stretch of river, no longer than 150 yards, at the top of a tall, roaring waterfall, and at the bottom of a yet taller waterfall. The river, the Orlan Blue, ran northwest to southeast in this stretch, a kink in the river’s larger south-to-north arc from the Titan Ridge to the Middle Sea. Here, at Peraise, was where it tumbled down from the Orlan midlands and began its journey through the valley below us, winding along at the foot of the Eastern Ivian Rim.

This nexus of geographical elements was a blessing and a curse for the town of Peraise. It overlooked a lush valley whose mighty conifers were so far below that they looked like a soft, textured quilt laid over an undulating floor. And the mammoth, frosted ridge that thrust up on the opposite side of the valley was no less spectacular. But the valley floor being so far below, inaccessible by road, meant that Peraise’s famous tanneries could not locate themselves downriver.

About half the buildings in Peraise were dedicated to the twin trades of hunting and tanning, and the stench of fresh gore, putrefaction, and a variety of astringent odors thrown off by various scouring and softening agents wafted far downwind. Unfortunately for us, our approach was downwind. Naht held his nose, seeming to pinch his entire face with the effort, while we walked the narrowing road along the cliffside to the little town.

The light was beginning to retreat over the edge of the eastern cliffside as the late afternoon sun settled into the treeline overlooking the west end of the town, and Peraise was alive with activity beneath the comforting aural press of the waterfall. Tanners, their aprons, arms, and faces filthy with a long day’s effort, hauled hides in various states of artificial decay and preservation between vats. Husbands and wives mended tools and fussed over draft animals. A shepherd leaned against a rock, minding a tiny herd of sheep across the river.

Before the town stood a young man wearing a beat-up, coarse leather apron that hung to his knees, a similarly worn sleeved shirt with golden-edged cuffs mangled with use, and a pristine, velvety purple mantle. His hair was drawn back into a golden ponytail, and his smiling green eyes were set like cut gemstones into high cheekbones and a narrow chin.

We stopped for Mal to introduce us while I glanced over the man’s shoulder. The shepherd was staring at us. A kilted woman nearly dropped a stack of hides doing a double-take as she passed between buildings.

“Howe. This is Sandron. Sandron, this is Horwendell, and this is Aalduzinaht.”

Mal brought Naht forward with a gentle hand on the shoulder. The three of us traded shallow bows.

“Welcome to Peraise, brothers.” His eyes darted to mine, which had drifted back out to the leering shepherd. “Please, come in to the Academy. I’m sure you need some rest.”

When we locked eyes again, it struck me how much Sandron had just said, first in four words, and then in twelve more. Realizing I couldn’t hope to outdo him on that front, I gave a silent nod, and we hurried into the town, braving the glares of passerby. Sandron wove us a path through the village, avoiding stacked goods and traffic, and we turned the corner into a doorway flanked with speckled granite columns.

Mal pulled the carved spruce door closed behind us, the impressive rush of the waterfall became a soft drumroll, and we were bathed in darkness. I could make out some footsteps and then some scraping and a whoosh as Sandron poked at a fireplace until the hidden embers sprang back to life, flames grasping at the fresh air.

The Academy here had a small footprint, but a high, arched wooden ribcage of a ceiling lent it its due authority. The bookshelves were stuffed with a colorful collection of mismatched and oddly-sized tomes—not quite the rigid, stately regularity of the ideal Academy library, but impressive for one this far into the countryside. A few rows of pews faced a lectern, carved with an icon of Ae, depicted in the classical tradition: bearing a spear, a shield, a horsehair crested helm, and armor.

Sandron ducked over to a credenza behind the lectern, retrieving from it some biscuits and a pitcher of milk to share. As he offered the milk to Naht, I broke the silence.

“This is very generous of you, friend, I kn…”

“The milk? Ah, just hospitality.”

“No,” I chuckled. “You know what I’m talking about. Meeting us out front.”

“No, I… don’t know what you mean.”

Mal leaned back in a pew, regarding this exchange with amusement. Naht was nibbling on a biscuit, probably confused but trying to hide it.

“Sandron, don’t be silly. If we had simply waltzed into town, we’d have to explain ourselves and our companion. I don’t know that just anyone would welcome Naht. By coming out to meet us, you made it clear we were guests. You shielded us with your reputation.”

Sandron stroked his bare chin, his eyes seeming to flash in the firelight as they regarded me.

“No, I did it because that’s how we greet guests. And you have nothing to worry about from the others. The boy is welcome. But… I think I see your meaning now.”

“I told you,” Mal chimed in between bites of biscuit. “You’re too cynical, Howe.”

“So!” declared Sandron with a clap of his hands, as if that were that. “Welcome to Ae’s house. You may stay under this roof as long as you need. But Malisa tells me you’ll be going soon. Can I help? Can we help?”

I stared. We, of course, referred to the College of Apostles. What he was offering was the help of thousands of people across the seven kingdoms, from little academies like this to prestigious universities like the Argate and even out to tiny missions in faraway lands. He was offering centuries of wisdom, authority, relationships, and accrued knowledge. He was offering the resources of a cross-continental organization commanded by a living god. And it’s possible that making good on this offer would come at great personal cost to him—not all of the prominent voices in the College would look kindly upon aid freely given to a strange Accursed child.

Maybe he was being polite, and he didn’t mean quite that. But I thought he seemed moved. I wondered what Mal had said to him when she had arrived before us.

“Sandron, you are very generous.” Before he could say something else nauseatingly good-natured, I rumbled on. “We should stay here, but not much longer than it will take to plan our journey. I… do have some favors to ask of you.”

With that, we got to work. Sandron, Mal, and I huddled over a map of the seven kingdoms he rolled out over the lectern. At first Naht swung his legs on one of the pews, but eventually he slid off and started musing around the library. Sandron’s eyes flicked up from time to time, but he seemed satisfied with the level of respect that Naht was according his collection.

After a few hours, we settled on a plan.

In spite of my misgivings, we committed to seeking out the court of the Emperor. Sandron had briefly argued the point, too—if the Emperor was capable of the transmutation of souls, shouldn’t Ae be capable of it, too? Both were living gods whose magic condensed onto the world as naturally as a person’s breath on a cold day. And Ae was far closer, and she was not situated in a court of a culture that was, frankly, utterly alien to us. I, on the other hand, was skeptical that either of them were capable of this magic at all. There are limits to even a god’s power. But Mal had us both on this point. The legends claimed that the Emperor transformed his highest ranking officials into imperious, awesome half-dragons (the Lóng) who bore his visage and administered his realm. Ae figured in no such legends. And seeking an audience with her was going to be as difficult as crossing the middle sea. The same might be true of the Emperor, but all told, our efforts seemed best spent chasing our only lead—the legend of the Lóng—rather than not chasing our only lead.

The Emperor’s court was in the Imperial City deep in the heartland of his Empire. We would need to reach the northern continent by way of ship and then journey perhaps a thousand miles inland to reach it to have any hope of making contact with the Emperor. But we knew little of the geography of the north. It seemed wisest to simply choose a port of arrival close to the heartland and then figure out from there, closer to the facts at hand, how to traverse the rest of the distance. That port, we decided, was the one labeled on our map as Shouning.

Our port of departure would be Mirta’s Staithe at the north end of the kingdom of East Arc. Our route there would be simple, but challenging: follow the Orlan Blue. We would need to take the road north of Peraise for about a week as we came down from the midlands, and then after reaching the bustling little city of Épineuil we could break off of to the east until we met the Orlan Blue at the foot of the Eastern Ivian Rim. There, we would find a smaller, rougher road that followed the river as it snaked to the north. It was to be hoped that we could find and board a river ship or ferries carrying harvest shipments to speed our passage. All the same, it could take us a few weeks on the river to pass into East Arc and travel the entire length of the kingdom to reach the port. Fortunately, most of the river was heavily populated, and the riverside roads improved with the increasing latitude.

With that decided on, Sandron reiterated his offer to help, and I asked my favors.

“Does your collection here have anything about the Empire?”

“Certainly.” Sandron sidled over to one of the tall bookcases and browsed over some of the spines until he found three in a row of the same height, shape, and leathery grain, dyed in red, black, and green. “These. The History, the Logos, and the Astronomy of the North.”

I frowned. “Hmm. I take it these are written by…”

“Apostles, yes, I’m afraid. If you want writing from the northerners’ own perspective, it’ll be written in Yǔwén. We only have High Ivian and Orlan language works in this collection.”

“I was afraid of that. Thank you. May I…?”

“Borrow them for the journey? Of course. Try to return them to the College. We have a mission in Shizuishan, which I believe is close to your destination.”

“Thank you. One more request, if you will.”

“Yes?”

I hesitated. Too long. He noticed.

“Don’t worry so much, Horwendell. I live to help those in need.”

“Ah, um.” I ran a hand through my beard and mustache with irritation. “You don’t live for this, I don’t think. Do you have any resources… on transmutation?”

His brow furrowed, and his mouth set at a severe angle. “Oh.”

“I understand; I don’t mean to…”

“I do,” he said, his voice low, low, beneath even the smoldering flames in the fireplace.

Chapter VIII: Northbound

Mal and I talked it through, ducking branches and sidestepping thickets, while Naht tagged along in a weary, stumbling melancholy. That I was no longer in good standing with the Reeve was unfortunate. That Naht was without a home was worrying. But the appearance of the woman in white, a powerful magus engaged in a bloody-minded pursuit of Naht, was what finally settled the question. I could not abandon the child now; it would be tantamount to murder.

But that meant I could not return to court. I still didn’t know why Gestradt had been killed, but if Naht was right, it was at King Emault’s orders. I could envision dreadfully few situations in which Emault would suffer his vassal, Marquis Henri IV of Ilianath, to give the dead man’s son a home in court.

The world’s possibilities laced out from there in my mind like ley lines penned across a faded map. The three of us could go anywhere. We could assume any identity and find a home in any locale. Relative anonymity in a bustling hub of trade, perhaps, or the intimacy of a little farming village like Fertheaux. We could make a new life among the nomads of the eastern Veld—it was said they would welcome anybody willing to live their life of hardship—or seek out the fabled Old Kingdom in the river valley beyond. We could be craftspeople or mystics or farmers or vagabonds. Naht’s Accursed nature complicated many of these possibilities, but on the other hand, I was gifted with long decades of study that I could surely adapt to any trade, and Mal with raw, magical talent and the gainful personality that can assure people that she can be trusted to use it. Most people, anyway.

We could be anywhere, we could be anybody, and all I could think about was how much I wished I could go back to my desk in my cozy tower study.

I have to say, being dead gives you stunning perspective just how silly we can be in life.

At any rate, Mal still believed in one of these possibilities in particular: the north. She was moved by Naht’s plight not just to help him find a new life, but to know, truly, that he could have the life either of us could have. If the Emperor was capable of the magic he was reputed to be, Naht could be cured of his curse.

I was skeptical that it would work, but Mal’s mission was too noble to refuse.

“Why should Naht settle for any less?” she asked. “And how could we settle for less on his behalf?”

I sighed in agreement. “Indeed. It wouldn’t be right. We’ll go north. Nevertheless, I fear we risk making a long and treacherous journey to find nothing. I’ll seek out some readings along the way. Please, keep your mind open to changing course if we learn something new, will you?”

“I will, I promise. And… Howe?”

I turned to meet her eyes. They sparkled.

“Thanks. I know I’m leaning hard on you for this. I’m grateful.”

I waved a hand as I inclined by head under an incoming branch. “Fah. May I ask a favor?”

“Why bother to ask? You know I’ll say yes. What is it?”

“I should like to officially resign my office. Somehow or another. I think Henri ought to know.”

Mal smirked. “The same Henri we’re afraid would… you know?” She motioned subtly over her shoulder toward Naht.

“Yes, yes… the same one. I thought Spook could take care of it for us.”

“Oh? What do you think of that, my friend?”

Mal brushed a wave of her black hair behind her left ear, revealing the pale little owl. It started awake and blinked as we passed under a stray sunbeam, craning its neck to squint first to Mal, and then to me.

“I don’t think he’ll mind,” Mal cooed. “Too much.”

With that, we stopped, and I took a moment to retrieve a roll of parchment (and my spellbook to use as a writing surface) from my satchel. I wrote in the neatest hand I could as a sort of apology for the perfunctory nature of the note, which informed Henri that I had resigned my office and would not return to it.

So as we emerged from the woods and began our journey along the old imperial road to the north, Spook took flight, carrying with him the severance of my past.

---

Later that afternoon, Naht and I sat by a bubbling creek under a dirt ridge that sagged with the weight of roots and rocks. The ridge served to hide us from any curious eyes that might pass by on the road. Mal had continued around the bend into the next little farming village, Peraise, to try to find us lodging. Preferably with someone who wouldn’t complain about the company of a seeming-demon-child and a fugitive former court wizard. Mal seemed confident she could find it. Naht and I wanted desperately to believe her, if only because hope helped quiet the hunger and the fatigue.

Naht had nearly exhausted himself with the day’s walking and the week’s worry. Nevertheless, he had enough energy to fidget with the tip of his tail as he sat on a patch of bare dirt by the water.

I regarded him as I paced about and straightened my travel robe (hoping I would soon get to wash the dirt and the burrs out of it). His eyes, despite their lack of pupils, were no less expressive than any human’s. His brows furrowed over them and their edges were drawn tight with the same tension that pulled his ears back and drew his shoulders up. It was hard to discern, but his eyes still darted about, up, down, and around the glade. They glanced at and cataloged everything around him… except, it seemed, me.

I didn’t know what to do.

I had thirty years of experience as a courtier. Courtiers learn, if nothing else, how to speak to people, how to persuade them, and how to connect with them. As a courtier-wizard, my duty was to impart wisdom upon them while maintaining and building those connections, which meant, generally, not making them feel like children. Courtiers and rulers very much do not appreciate being made to feel like children.

Naht was a child. My skills and instincts didn’t apply.

Or did they? He had been through so much already. It seemed wrong to condescend to him as one might a child.

The only thing I knew for sure was that the child hurt, and I couldn’t abide it. So I started talking.

“Naht, are you all right?”

“I… I think so.”

“Nonsense. Naht, you look sad.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“It was a rhetorical question.”

The boy eyed me. I could see him filing some version of the idea of a “rhetorical question” away for later mischief.

“Everything I know is gone, and my dad is dead. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“And,” I gestured with my index finger, “it is quite normal to be sad about that. I used to be a court wizard, and, circumstances being what they are, now I am not. I am sad about that too.”

“So what’s this about? Can’t we just be sad?”

I stroked my beard. It was out of habit, I swear. Although I do hope it made me look thoughtful. “You can be sad, Naht, but I want you to be all right. I want to help.”

“I don’t get it,” said Naht. But I think he got it. If not now, maybe some time later.

We paused to regard a tiny splash in the creek. A minnow flopping over a rock or a falling acorn, maybe.

“I want to ask a question of you. If you don’t want to answer it, that is fine. I do not wish to rush you through things right now.”

“Okay.”

“It’s about the woman in white. I’m sure you know she meant ill. Did you recognize her? Do you know what she was talking about?”

“You mean, the ‘knowledge that was hers’ or whatever?”

I felt my eyebrows tighten. “Yes, that. Do you know something? Some secret?”

“No, I… I don’t know. I don’t know what she wants. My dad taught me symbolic calculation. He taught me how to read. Some history and logos. He had started to show me admixtures, just for fun, I think. But none of that is… secret, is it?”

“No. None of that is forbidden or terribly unusual. They’re all very common to teach a young student.”

Naht suddenly un-tilted his head and looked me directly in the eyes. “Wait. You’re a wizard, right? Don’t you all know each other? Don’t you recognize her?”

“Hmm.” I hadn’t considered that. “I am a wizard,” I confirmed pointlessly. “It’s a long story, but I suppose I’ll tell it. The word just means ‘wise person’. Most wizards are court wizards, like I am. Well, like I was. It just means that we’re a ruler’s source of knowledge, especially broad knowledge about history, astronomy, and logos. The High King of Duranlach trusted your father to know many things, or at least to be able to learn about many things quickly. Almost all of us court wizards practice magic. It’s just so useful to us.

“At any rate, there are just shy of three dozen court wizards in the south right now. Each of the seven kings and queens have one, and many dukes and lesser lords have their own, and a few participate in the College of Apostles. We don’t all know each other, but we all know each other’s names. Your father and I met in person once, and we exchanged many letters.

“Now… twenty or so of those court wizards are women. Five I have met, and none of them were the woman in white. That leaves somewhere around fifteen of them. Just thinking about it now… there are only two or three others whose names come to mind who I believe are skilled enough to even attempt a projection. And they are all women my age. She was younger. I do not think the woman was a court wizard.”

“What about non-court wizards?” offered Naht.

I scrunched my mouth about in thought. “All of the best wizards are court wizards. There are others who are wise enough to warrant the name, to be sure, but none capable of that sort of magic.”

Naht jabbed a finger at me. “My dad talked about that once. He said you were being classist.”

I leaned back and laughed out loud. He had me there.

“And besides,” Naht continued. “Mal isn’t a court wizard. But she’s better than you.”

I laughed even harder. The kid was scoring points left and right, and I had no defense.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that Naht looked a little puzzled, so I reeled myself back in.

“Ah, yes. Maybe that is unfair of me, the bit about non-court wizards. But it’s true, I think. Anyway, as for Mal. Mal is not a court wizard. Mal is also not a wizard. Mal is…”

“A witch!” Mal completed the sentence for me. “That’s not what he was going to say, but it’s what I am.”

We both turned to greet her. She stood on the ridge above us, all smiles, arms akimbo.

“Let’s go,” she declared. “There’s someone in town you should meet.”

Chapter VII: Promises

I had barely finished getting to my feet when our adversary made herself known. Her voice was high, silken, and perfect, a soprano flying freely through the night air.

“Do not go anywhere just yet. I promise you ruin if you leave here.”

I spun on my heels to face south. A woman stood between two of the bent, gnarled trunks, her feet resting casually on a pair of the writhing roots that made up most of the surface of the clearing. She was of average height, just a few inches shorter than both myself and Mal, though of course that was two full feet taller than Naht. She wore white. White purer than mountain snows, white fiercer than a wolf’s fangs, and white harsher than crashing waves clothed her, from top to bottom. Only once the shock of her appearance had settled was I able to note what she was actually wearing: a silver-plated set of breastplate, high greaves, tassets, and gauntlets, fitted immaculately over an elaborate and impressive set of white sashes, cut strategically to elevate her appearance beyond that a mere soldier while remaining out of the way in a fight. Atop this all, she wore a white half-cloak that hung still and serene down to her mid-calf, open to show the hilt of the blade she wore on her hip.

Her hair was white-golden, and her eyes so bright as to be barely blue any more.

I made some notes, gulped, and met her gaze.

“I’m so very grateful that’s a promise and not a threat.”

“Threats are for highwaymen, robbers, and kings. I make promises, and I keep them.”

“Well, if you’re not a highwayman, maybe we should intro…”

“Hard to keep a promise like that if you’re not here,” Mal interjected. She sounded bored.

The woman’s head turned, the movement barely perceptible, to level her eyes on Mal. Mal was leaning against the tree I had been sitting under, arms crossed and head tilted. Spook was on her shoulder, tangled in a cascade of black hair. Naht had slid around the tree to hide.

Mal kicked at a patch of dirt and leaves, which sprayed directly through the woman, leaving her white sashes and cloak unmarred.

I sighed. Mal had noticed it, too: on a dark, windy night, this woman’s sashes, cloak, and hair were all unusually still. I was hoping to keep that card face-down for a while, but Mal had her own way of doing things.

“It would not be hard for me.” The woman let a small, sly smile show, sharp at the corners like a pair of bared knives. She abruptly raised her right hand, and she continued speaking.

About three syllables in, I realized what she was doing. My heart leapt to my throat, and I hammered my lungs, jaw, and tongue into motion, chanting over her and grasping at the air with my left hand. I could feel, on my fingers, the strands of energy, of connection, and of meaning that her mind was tugging on. I gathered as many of them as I could, grasped, and pulled.

There was a pop, and all four of us in the clearing felt a tiny discharge of electricity, like the one you get touching a doorknob on a cold winter night, and the gathering energy dissipated.

My heart slowly receded back into my chest, pounding the entire way.

The woman laughed at me.

“I am disappointed. But I believe I have made my point.” She turned to Mal, who was standing bolt upright, hands hanging tense at her side. “You have something that belongs to me.”

“He doesn’t belong to you,” Mal snarled.

“I am insulted that you should think me a slaver.”

“If you aren’t after the boy, what are you after?” I cut in. Mal didn’t show it readily, but from the way her eyes cut at me I knew she was fuming at me for entertaining the woman at all.

“I seek knowledge that the boy possesses. It belongs to me, but he has acquired it nonetheless.”

“You mean…”

“I desire his head.” The woman’s eyes narrowed at the tree Naht hid behind, and the next few words that came out of her mouth were words of power.

My mind ached nearly as badly as my legs, but I willed it into action. I roared my own words, as if my lungs’ effort could bolster my mind’s. Again, I found the strands of her spell, and I snapped them. My eyes, hands, and forehead burned with the effort.

I wasn’t sure I could do it again.

“Who are you,” I rasped.

The woman raised her right arm again, swirling her fingers idly in the air, preparing another spell. There was a laugh on her lips as they parted to begin.

Before she could, however, there was a bang. The only way I can describe it is like a water hammer: a sudden change in the flow of liquid in a pipe that causes a dramatic build-up in pressure and an explosive release. The pressure in the glade changed, some sort of bottom dropped out, and then something exploded. I felt it in my heart and staggered backward. My mind was already frayed from the effort of the counterspells, and the sudden sensation overwhelmed it.

The last thing I remember was the woman in white’s laugh turning into a cold, hateful snarl.

---

When I awoke it was morning. My senses began stirring, and then my mind. The moment my mind came to, I began thrashing against my numb body, trying to spur it into motion. My limbs jerked awkwardly on the ground as I forced myself to roll over before fine motor control had returned to me. My lower arm contacted something, and then that something slapped me.

“Sit still, Howe. You know what, never mind. If you can flop like a fish like that you’re probably not hurt.”

Now supine, I could see that Mal and Naht knelt over me, their heads framed by a canopy of leaves speckled with sunlight. Spook was coming down nearby, having probably taken flight with the excitement of my coming-to.

“You… dispel?”

“Yeah. Howe, take it easy.”

“No. Need to know. What in the heavens…?”

“I know, I know. You need to know. I don’t, though. Whoever she is, she’s bad news.”

I raised myself to a seated position and brushed some dirt and leaves out of my beard and robe. “Let me… reason through this. That was an image. Well, no, can’t be an image. Thought it must be an image at first, but images can’t… cast spells.”

“Yeah. That was a nasty surprise for me, too. Howe.” She paused. “You read a counterspell before coming to see me.”

My face went red. “Mal! I was told there was a demon. I prepared for the worst. And I’m glad I did.”

Her eyes searched my face. “I suppose. And I’m glad you did too.”

Spook gave a hoot. Naht seemed to suddenly burst. “Wait, wait, wait. Can you catch me up, please? I’m confused.”

I tried to shake some of the dizziness out of my head while Mal met his eyes and explained.

“We don’t know who that woman was. But she was very strange, so both Howe and I knew to be on the lookout. We saw that she was too clean, and she stood there and the wind didn’t affect her clothing, so she probably wasn’t actually a person standing there. Some magi can create illusions of people like that. But illusions can’t cast spells. That was what we call a projection. Which is a dreadfully difficult thing to do.”

“Was she casting spells? Were those the funny words?”

“She was trying, yes. Howe was able to stop her. The first one was going to be a strong gust of wind. Strong enough to break bones. The second and third spells… were going to be much worse.”

“So the woman is really good at magic?”

“Yes. But she can’t be here in person. It would usually be easier to simply walk here and find us than it would be to project herself like that. So she must have some reason.”

“So… why did she leave?”

“I ended the projection. Wizards call it a dispel. It’s not always easy, but many people who know magic can also cause other people’s spells to end.”

“It’s also not always that loud,” I added. “I’m surprised. I’ve been out for a whole night. You didn’t already ask these questions?”

“I did,” Naht complained. “She told me to sleep and we’d talk about it in the morning. I’m scared. I don’t even know how I got to sleep.”

Mal and I exchanged a look.

“You needed sleep,” Mal began, meeting his eyes again and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Trust me.”

“What did she want with me? I know it had something to do with me. Am I going to be okay?”

Mal straightened his tunic. “I promise. You’ll be okay. We’ll find you answers, and we’ll find you a safe place.”

Naht broke contact with her. There were tears in his eyes. He looked around himself, tiny, tense, and aimless. I had seen that look before, a long, long time ago.

“Naht,” I called. “Come here.”

I had to repeat myself, but eventually he heard me, and his feet took him over the rough ground to me. His face was screwed up with pain. Not the pain of a bump or a scrape. Not the pain of a broken bone or a high fever. Not even the pain of a dead pet or a sick grandparent. It was a deep pain, a pain for which there is no balm, a pain for which there is no comfort.

I realized then that I had made my decision. The one I had been thinking about since Mal had asked me to leave court behind and journey to the north. I knew I had made my choice because I felt the same pain Naht did. It was the pain of having a future ripped away from you.

“Naht. It’s okay. I’m scared too. I don’t know what to do either.” I offered my sore arms, he fell into them, and we cried.

Chapter VI: Expeditious Retreat

I’d like to make a brief digression, if you’ll allow.

I do not like violence. I have never believed that we ought to rule over each other with mere might. In practical terms, we create better lives for each other if we live in a more peaceful sort of society. But it is also Ae’s teachings. It is a matter of right and wrong. She has given us words for those who those who dominate others with violence, unrestrained by anything but the practical limits of their strength: cruel. Cynical. Unjust. Evil.

But a Court Wizard is a ruler’s source of general wisdom (hence the name), and ultimately, no ruler, just or unjust, rules but for some strength of arms. And so, war is a wizard’s domain as much as astronomy and alchemy are. Blood, fear, and passion are as important to our work as lunar cycles and soil nutrition.

I have learned a few important things from my study of war. Among them: in the heat of the moment, strike first. Battles can be turned by the smallest, pettiest, and stupidest of circumstances, and if surprise might tilt one of those circumstances in your favor it must be gained.

Piear was going to see the child, he was going to see horns and a tail, and he was going to try to kill me. He had armed himself for a reason, and it wasn’t to have tea. So while his eyes panned over the little room over my shoulder, I practically shouted the words of power in his face, and I held in the center of my mind the relative positions of six stars in the night sky and their meaning. I extended my right hand, fingers inches from his nose, and brought into being a circular boundary of force.

The Shield spell is an abjuration meant to repel spears, clubs, and arrows and the like, but it can abjure human faces almost just as well. Piear let out a staccato grunt, staggered three paces backward, and fell as if a horse had kicked him in the chest.

He fell just past Jan, armored in a similar vest of chain. She, too, held a steel sword, this one chipped and dented by years of use, and advanced in a low fighting stance.

I yelped and held up the shield, which would protect me for another few seconds. I shot a glance over my shoulder. I was looking for Mal, but I saw only a blur behind me. A battle cry and an echo of a scraping sensation felt on my palms cued me that Jan’s blade had slid down across my shield, and I was forced to face forward to meet a possible upswing.

As I did, Jan swung a fist around the shield, turning on the same momentum she had used in the failed sword stroke. I did the only thing that made sense. I hunched behind the little disk of force and barreled forward into Jan, making her hooked punch miss behind me. The invisible shield contacted just below her ribcage, and we both started tumbling toward the trees.

I landed on top of her in a clink of chain, my magic shield spent. Behind me, I heard indistinct shouting. I was worried that it might’ve been Mal casting a spell, but I had no time to give it any more thought. I flailed my left hand, trying to pin down Jan’s sword arm and maybe wrest her weapon from her. Instead, the hilt suddenly came up and smacked me in the forehead. I saw stars. Rather than let that happen again, I threw a forearm sloppily into Jan’s face to blind her, and in an awkward tangle of limbs and robes I scrambled to my feet while trying to protect my face and abdomen from my adversary’s kicks and thrown elbows.

By the time I was on my feet, Piear was, too. He was wiping blood from his lips with the leather cuff of his chain sleeve and leveling a hard, malevolent stare on me.

“I knew you were hiding something, wizard,” he growled.

I met his eyes, and I took two measured steps away from Jan as she rolled up on to her feet.

“Piear, it’s rude to show up on a citizen’s doorstep with bared steel,” I deflected.

I took stock. I had forced the fight out of the doorway. But that might have just served to allow them to better surround me. I didn’t have any weapons. I could manifest the shield again, but they’d seen it now and, worse, they could just cut me apart from both ends. Talking was good. It bought me time to think. And to listen.

“I had good reason to, wretch!” he bellowed. “You’re in league with the witch. You’re in league with the demon!”

I made a vaguely appeasing gesture with my open hands. “Piear.” I paused, listening. “Jan. I was surprised, is all. We can talk about this.”

Piear lowered his voice to a dull thundering. “I don’t trust you.” He seemed to consider for just a moment. I strained my ears ever harder. Jan shouted over. “No! Kill him. We can’t.”

I sensed an opportunity, and I wedged into it. “Piear, arrest me if you have to. We’ve both acted rashly, but we can settle this and laugh about it later.”

Jan cut in immediately. “Absolutely not! You’ll just work some of your demon magic again.” But she did not advance. There was a silence.

I listened.

Nothing.

I took that to be good news.

Piear opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. I slipped my hand into my satchel and my fingers found a tiny sparrow’s feather. I filled my mind with the rushing wind, and mentally swept the feather into the maelstrom, shouting into the woods a full sentence of ancient words first recorded well over a millenia ago.

I had taken the wind for my own.

I ran.

I shot out from between Jan and Piear and practically tumbled head-first into the tree line, my legs thundering along faster than any athlete’s. I swatted branches and webs and bushes out of my way in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy. I hooked around an ancient maple tree and nearly flew down a leaf-strewn hill. I mean it. I barely stopped my fall at the end, which would’ve broken bones and rendered the entire exercise for naught.

After that, I slowed down. A light jog was still fast enough to outrun most anyone, to say nothing of my pair of winded adversaries wearing armor and toting swords. And at a light jog I could pick over the terrain a little bit more safely.

Eventually, I decided that I had gotten far enough away. I was in a thick, unremarkable slice of woodland, dense with trees and most inconvenient for human traversal. The ground was thick with gnarled roots, almost more wood than dirt, and the stars were invisible through the canopy. I picked a comfortable-looking tree and plopped down beneath it on the side opposite the one facing my approach. I rearranged my robe and satchel and then did my best to relax and sit still, at which point I became aware of how hard I was breathing and felt a painful rush of sensation in my limbs.

I forced my thoughts out of my now-aching legs and into my ears. Once more, I listened as night closed in around me.

I heard many things. I heard the breeze through the branches steadily build into a steady, firm easterly wind. I heard the dainty hoofbeats of deer browsing somewhere in the distance. I heard the whoosh of birds and the crackle of some kind of insect.

The rush of my flight soon left me, and I slid quickly into a long-overdue sleep.

I dreamt of running. Worry. Thrill. Fear.

Several hours later, I started, having finally heard what I had been listening for: a gentle, high-pitched hoot. My heart surged with relief.

The little owl poked its head out from within the tree above. Even in the deep darkness of the night the creature’s pale coloration was plain, framing its sharp little eyes.

“Hi, Spook,” I whispered.

Spook shot off with the abrupt grace that is unique to birds of prey. He returned, half an hour later, alighting atop one of my peaked knees.

“I’m glad to see you too. Here.”

I popped open my satchel, grateful that I didn’t have to move to open it, and I found an earthworm. I offered it to the little owl, which eagerly plucked it from my fingers. He gobbled it up and then tilted his little head as if to inquire further.

“Mal has gotten into trouble this time, hasn’t she?” I asked. “And she’s taken me with her…”

Hoot.

“Not that I mind. I mean, I mind it I suppose, but…”

Hoot.

“Look, it’s an inconvenience; I won’t deny it. But I’m always happy to help her.”

Hoot?

“Yeah.”

I heard crunching from nearby and turned a little to face it. Mal had arrived, leading Naht nimbly through the tangled foliage. Naht looked a little cut up, but it was just nicks and scratches from working through the deep woods.

Spook bobbed his head, and then he took off (well, more of an exaggerated bird-jump, really) and perched on Mal’s shoulder.

She crouched down beside me. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Either of you?”

“No.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then we both began speaking at the same time.

“Looks like I’m coming with you.” “You didn’t need to do that.”

…

“Do what?” “Wait, are you?”

“You first,” I chuckled.

Mal took a quick look around and lowered herself fully to the ground, indicating for Naht to do the same with a gentle tug of the wrist.

“I knew to trust you in the moment, but I still don’t know why you sucker punched Piear like that.”

“Mal,” I pouted, “that wasn’t a sucker punch. It was a complicated abjuration that I really rather cleverly adapted in the moment into an offensive weapon. You wound me.”

She punched my shoulder. I snickered.

“Ow. Okay. Piear thought, specifically, you had brought a demon into his town. He had already told me he didn’t trust me. He had his blade in hand at the door. If he saw Naht… I didn’t want to take that chance.”

“You’re too unforgiving, Howe,” she asserted.

“Well, I was the one who was going to be cut down first if I was wrong,” I replied.

“At any rate,” she waved a hand in dismissal. “It worked, so I shan’t complain.”

“How did you get out?” I asked. “I was listening for you. Might’ve heard you cast a spell, but nothing afterward.”

“Oh! You wouldn’t approve.”

Spook gave a hoot.

“Fine.”

“Hah. I’m just kidding. I used a wayfinding to take Naht and myself out through the back without making a ton of noise.”

I blinked. She had a strange terminology, but wayfinding wasn’t too hard to suss out. It was probably one of several spells that would let her move around the normal extent of space for a short distance. Which is to say, through walls. But I hadn’t ever seen her do it, nor had I imagined she could take someone with her.

“I’m good, right?” she beamed, sensing my surprise.

“You are.” I locked eyes with Naht and gestured lazily with my eyebrows. “She’s good. She won’t let you forget it, though.”

Mal swatted at me, and then her expression shifted. “One thing is still bothering me. Why a demon, specifically? I don’t think anybody has seen enough of Naht to mistake him for one.”

I frowned. I hadn’t actually considered that since meeting the child. “Hmm. Piear said they saw fires burning brighter when you were around. They had the courthouse boarded up so they could watch the candles rise and fall.”

Mal laughed. “Oh. Yes. I’ve had a warm breeze following me around since I tried a simple calling a month or so back. It has that effect on fires. Sometimes just blows candles out, though.”

“I had guessed,” I confirmed, but then I shook my head. “But that’s not all. Mal, have you been having bad dreams lately?”

Spook gave a hoot. Naht offered, “I… I have. I’m always running from something bad.”

Mal and I locked eyes. I began to scamper to my feet over the objections of my screaming muscles. Mal leaned down to speak to Naht, in the calmest voice she could muster.

“Naht, we need to keep going. Stay close, please.”

Chapter V: Psychomancy

“Not just no,” I blurted. “Hell no.”

“Wait, Howe. It’s not what you think,” Mal protested.

“It had better not be! That kind of magic is dangerous. It’s taboo and against the King’s law and…”

“And evil, yes. Howe, listen.”

“And if it’s not that, then is this actually an Accursed, or is this a possession? What, did you think you could get me to help you with a backwoods exorcism to bail you out of trouble?”

“No! Howe, please.”

I fumed and bit my tongue. Mal shuffled her legs until she was kneeling instead of sitting. I saw then that Naht was clinging to her gown again. My heart quailed under my anger, like a cork bobbing in a coursing river.

“Please, just hear me out,” she pleaded. “No necromancy. No psychomancy. I want you to hear about Naht, then I want to tell you what I want us to do for him.”

I leaned back a little and huffed to convey my assent.

I think back to this moment a lot. This is why Malisa had danced around this conversation so much. She was hoping that she could get me thinking—something I’m quite good at and inclined to do—and find a way in. She was afraid that she would find that my mind was already made up about the Accursed, and that I would get hot and defiant if she didn’t lead in gently. She had simply misjudged. My mind wasn’t made up about the Accursed; it was made up about magic.

So despite all her efforts, here I was, clammed up and acting like an ass.

Mal and I would, eventually, part as good friends. But I always remember this moment and what a cruel, stuck-up jerk I could be when I wanted to. And I fear that she might remember, too.

“Naht. Tell Horwendell about yourself. Don’t worry. He’ll be nice.”

Naht, the ten-year-old Accursed, eyed me. The deep, alien pools of his eyes twitched and searched as he began.

“My name is Aalduzinaht. My father picked the name. He was Accursed too. Horns and everything. He was smart. He did magic. He was a wizard, like you.”

My heart skipped a beat. Then a second. Mal noticed. I don’t think Naht did. He continued.

“But he’s… he’s gone. He’s dead. The King… didn’t like him. I think he knew it would happen. He gave me a backpack and sent me here. I need help. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Naht was remarkably calm through this.

I was not.

My voice shook as I asked, “Naht, are you Gestradt’s son?”

“Yeah,” the child murmured.

I locked eyes with Mal. Her expression was stricken. I think Naht had probably told her a more detailed version of the story, and she was reliving it.

My stomach turned.

Gestradt Ut Zendaracchus had been the Royal Magister to the High King of Duranlach. That was a similar office to my own, but in service to a King rather than a Marquis. As such, we had corresponded frequently in decades past. The realms of Duranlach and Orlan were adjacent, and all told the demands of our offices were similar. When a dragon had been seen in flight off the coast of the Middle Sea, both of our Lords and their courts had taken a similar interest. When peasants sighted demons or spirits, we were often responsible for finding the proper resolution. When messages needed to be exchanged with urgency, it fell to our skilled hands and minds to do so. And when court didn’t demand our time, we had shared academic interest in abjuration and astronomy. Among the dozens of letters that cluttered my desk at any given moment, one of them was usually from Gestradt.

Gestradt was an Accursed. The Accursed are not welcome in most courts. They are hardly welcome in most villages. But the High King of Duranlach had a great respect for Gestradt, and he valued his companionship in his house and his advice at his court.

That, apparently, had ended when the High King surrendered his throne to the conquering Emault II, King of Orland. Emault must have ordered Gestradt executed.

I didn’t know. I didn’t know Gestradt was gone. I didn’t know Gestradt had a child. Aalduzinaht.

“I know I have to run,” Naht declared. “I just don’t know where. I don’t know what’s next. Mal has been nice, but I can’t stay here forever.”

We sat in silence. I was furious. I was tired. I was hurt. I was sick. I felt like I was swimming through it all, drowning in the midday stillness in the woods. Clouds passed overhead. Waves alternating cool and warmth passed silently over the glade.

Naht broke the silence, but just barely above a whisper. “But I guess I’m not just a sob story. I do like goat cheese. My dad always said I was clever enough to be a wizard some day. I can read, and I can sing a little.”

I put on a weary smile. I’m not sure if it even showed through my beard. “Naht. I’m sorry if I’ve been rude. You’ve been through a lot, and you seem like a good kid. And I’m very sorry about your father. He was a great man. I, um, need to talk to Mal, I think.”

Naht looked up, nodded, and got to about the “I” in “I understand” before Mal interjected, “Howe, anything you want to say to me he ought to hear.”

She was right, be that didn’t mean I had to be happy about it.

“Very well,” I groaned. “Mal, I don’t know how much we can help him. If Naht stays, sooner or later the good Reeve is going to find him, and I think it would be best if that never happens. And the heavens know I can’t take him in. Henri is a good liege but is not about to accept an Accursed child into court.”

Mal tilted her head. “You’re forgetting something.”

“What?” I grumbled. Then I thought. “Oh. The… body thing. You can’t seriously mean it, can you?”

“Yes, I can,” she declared with a smile. “Howe. You know about the Rite of the Lóng, right?”

I felt my head beginning to spin. “What? The Empire? Mal, that’s thousands of miles away and I’m not even sure if I believe half the stuff I read about it.”

“Think about it! Naht needs to leave here. The further from Duranlach, the better. And the Empire is, like you said, pretty far. And the Emperor…”

“… metaphorically invests imperial servants with his power. What’s that got to…”

“No,” Mal interrupted, “literally reincarnates his officers. I’ve met one, Howe. He had scales. Eyes like pools of lava. Talons an inch and a half long. They felt like an iron file.”

I sat, jaw agape, while Mal pressed her advantage.

“The Emperor knows how to transmute souls. How to give them new physical form. Permanently.”

“Right. So long as they pass the ‘imperial examinations’, whatever those are,” I retorted.

“The way I see it, the Emperor is the one who knows. So that’s where we go. We’re clever people. We’ll find a way to get it out of him.”

I shot a hand up to stop her. “First off, isn’t this all a little misguided? Aalduzinaht. Aalduzinaht. That’s a Deep name. Gestradt wanted that… wanted this heritage to be a part of his son’s life, as little as I understand that. Shouldn’t we consider that maybe it’s better for Naht to try to carry on and understand what it means to be Accursed? Isn’t this rash?”

There was a glint in Mal’s eyes.

“You’re evading. And besides…”

Naht cut in. His voice cracked. “Mister Horwendell. Please. She’s right.”

I looked from Mal to Naht. He didn’t meet my eyes.

“My dad… he didn’t deserve it, but it happened anyway. Because of the curse. He wouldn’t want it to happen to me. He said so.”

I put both my hands up, now, palms outward.

“Fine. So, a journey across the sea to the north. There’s merit to it, if a long shot. But you’re asking a lot of me, Mal. I don’t know that I can come.”

Mal gave Naht a reassuring touch on the shoulder. “Naht, this part is between Horwendell and I. Head inside for a moment, please.”

Naht looked to the both of us, stood, and ambled around to the front of the cabin.

“He’s ten. I’m sure he’ll be listening, you know,” I chided.

“Yeah. But this is our way of telling him it’s your personal business, not his.”

“Thanks, Mal. But still. I don’t think I can do this.”

“And why not?” Mal’s voice was softer. Gentler. Not just quieter. The edge had left.

“My life is here. I study here. I serve here.”

“And you can leave it, Howe. The Marquis can find a new court wizard.” She hastened to add, “not one as clever as you, but one that will serve his meager needs.”

I winced. I didn’t have a good answer for that. “You say that like it’s so easy.”

“It is, in a way. It would be easier to stay here in my cabin than to walk all the way back to Ilianath.”

“You’re asking me to walk way farther than Ilianath,” I pointed out.

“And you’ll be better off for it.” She had been creeping closer to me during this conversation, and at this point had laid one of her forearms across my knees and was leaning on it. I hadn’t noticed until just then. It was her way of showing me she cared, I think.

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’ve always wanted to accomplish something great. The Marquis can’t help you with that. In fact, he’ll hold you back from it.”

A sighed, trying to hide a scowl, twisting my mouth to and fro. I couldn’t.

“Let me think about it. But maybe we can try doing this my way, first?”

Mal arched an eyebrow, and I continued. “I can try contacting one of the Lóng. They’re his officers, right? One of them might know or might help us learn.”

Mal’s shoulders slumped slightly—maybe a little too much, like she were exaggerating a sigh. “Alright, Howe. We can try doing this your way. But I want to help Naht. I want you to help Naht. I think you want to help Naht. Will you promise to come if we make the journey?”

I thought about it for a long time. I thought about it as we sat out in the midday sun. I thought about it as we went inside and had supper (mushroom and leek soup, spiced with black pepper). I thought about it as Mal and I caught up, and as we joked and shared stories with Naht. I thought about it as the sun started to hang low in the western sky and the cool evening of the woods fell upon us like a hush over a crowd.

I was still thinking about it when I started to say my goodbyes. I was still thinking about it when I opened the door, and across the threshold from me stood Reeve Piear of Fertheaux, clad in a suit of chain and brandishing a polished steel sword.

Chapter IV: The Not-Demon

Malisa’s cabin was, structurally, identical to at least two or three of the little huts in Fertheaux proper. Four oak posts at the corners, set deep into the packed dirt foundation, supported four oak beams in a square. A shallow gable roof of tar and thatching was stretched across rafters that were supported by those beams. The walls were closed in with wooden planks, weathered and chipped and imperfect. It was a simple design that had served Orlan farmers well for centuries.

A wizard is trained to see things, first, as a builder might. For the purposes of a shelter, the foundations, beams, and posts are the crucial elements that hold up the coverings that shelter a person from the wind and cold. To understand things in this way is the first step to understanding how magic affects things. There are crucial elements beneath everything. Categories might be one’s foundation, and relations and exceptions the columns and beams. Or in another school of magic, they might set their columns of motion into a foundation of location, supporting beams of continuum. The metaphor is getting stretched here, but hopefully it makes sense.

Malisa, some time ago, had taught me a new way of seeing things, starting with her cabin. For all of the ways it was similar to the huts of Fertheaux, it was different in equally important ways. For one, it was two leagues south of the town. Which sounds obvious, but that dissimilarity tends to escape one’s first analysis. It was well within the forest, and as a result, its walls and roof served a slightly different purpose. Where a peasant’s hut might keep out the sun and wind, Malisa’s was primarily a barrier against predators and falling branches. A peasant’s hut was meant to be kept clean and presentable and was a symbol and a channel for the relationship between the peasant and the rest of the town. Malisa’s, instead, was mostly meant as a symbol of her relationship with the woods and the world. It also symbolized her relationship with the town insofar as it took two hours of bushwhacking to get here.

But listen to me babble on. Just because I have all the time in the world doesn’t mean that you do. Let me get to the point.

I stood before the cabin, boughs arching overhead and midday light filtering through the lattice of leaves and branches. Malisa opened the front door as a breeze rustled through the branches above. She was as tall as I was—we saw eye-to-eye, physically speaking—and had an oddly pale complexion set with slightly bagged eyes and framed with wispy jet black hair. She looked younger than I was, but truthfully, she might’ve been older. Far, far older. She wore a simple, practical black gown down to her ankles.

At her side was something that was not a demon.

“That’s not a demon,” I noted.

“Ha!” came Mal’s reply, in her airy voice. “How generous of you, Howe.”

The not-demon clung to her gown.

“I, uh…” I stammered, realizing how rude I was being. “Hello, Mal. May I come in?”

“You may,” she smiled, “but it’s a fine day and a small room and I’d rather be out here if you don’t mind.”

She led the three of us around back, to a small grassy patch in the sunlight featuring a huge tree stump. The great oak had fallen in a storm years ago, and she had carved out the stump into a seat. Various fungi speckled the remaining two feet of old bark. She motioned for me to have a seat, and she plopped down in the grass across from me with her not-demon.

I lowered myself onto the stump and took a good, long look at not-demon. It was the size and shape of a male human child of roughly ten years, lanky and scrawny, quite unlike any demon I knew. It wore a faded blue tunic, belted around the waist by a strip of leather. It had ruddy red skin, solid black eyes devoid of any visible irises or pupils, a mop of mud brown hair, and a pair of goat-like horns set just above its brow and arcing back past its head. Its eyes blinked nervously, I thought.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, ensconced in the sounds of the forest. Mal was watching me. Her dark eyes were fixed on my face. Waiting. She was intensely curious as to my reaction to this situation. Was this the life or death moment?

I guess I was afraid of disappointing Mal, so I screwed up my face with curiosity to hide my concern and began with the most neutral opening I could imagine.

“Mal, what is this?”

That disappointed Mal.

“Howe.” She rolled her eyes reproachfully. “He. Who is he, you might ask.”

I felt my face redden and crossed my arms. “Then maybe you should have introduced us.”

“Fair.” She laid her hand on the not-demon’s shoulder and smiled. “Howe, this is Aalduzinaht. He goes by Naht. He’s ten years old and is fond of goat’s cheese.” She turned to the not-demon and gestured toward me with her free hand. “Naht, this is my old friend Horwendell. He’s a wizard from the Lord’s Court. I call him Howe, but you should probably call him Horwendell until you get to know him better.”

I stammered, trying and failing to pick one of the various implications to address. “I, um, Mal…”

She cut me off with a look, and then I remembered and recovered. “Naht. Well met.”

Naht nodded shyly.

“I’m sorry about my manners,” I added. “I had a long journey here.” A lame excuse, but better than nothing.

“That’s better!” chimed Mal. She seemed to sit up a little straighter. “Now, I know you have questions. Let’s hear them.”

I spilled over. Again. When someone tells me to talk, I have a bad habit of barreling forward. “Is Naht who I think he is? I mean, what I think he is.”

“Probably. What do you think?”

“He’s an Accursed.”

“Yes,” replied Mal. “But that can be kind of a vague word. What do you think?”

I had known it from the moment he had stepped out into the light, but my worried, weary, and racing mind had taken a while to find the words and my scattered knowledge on them. The Accursed are, emphatically, not demons. Demons are one type of what wizards call transcendent entities. Put simply, they are things from elsewhere. They transcend their normal mode of existence (which we conceptualize as a place: the Abyss) to arrive in ours. The Accursed, however, are very much from here. They are mortals who are born and die. But to human eyes, they look an awful lot like demons.

As a result, people tend to treat them like demons.

Why the Accursed bear demonic markings like they do (unusual skin tones, solid-colored eyes, horns, tails, bony chin and fore ridges) is a matter of some debate among the people interested in knowing the reason. What is mostly agreed on is that each Accursed is the direct descendant of a demon. Demons, being soulless, loveless, and bloodthirsty monsters that they are (their natural disposition in our world is something like that of a rabid dog, if the dog were on fire), seem like they shouldn’t be able to reproduce with humans. But legends and local tales abound of shapeshifting demons that seduce humans with otherworldly beauty and bear offspring that are left behind in the mortal world: the Accursed.

But the agreement ends there, and those who study arcana have famously acrimonious debates over the rest. How, exactly, is it that demons can reproduce with humans, even when shapeshifted? Do the Accursed possess souls like their human parents, or are they devoid of them, like demons? If they do possess souls, are they promised to the demon after death? Are the Accursed subject to the call of demonic evil? Are the human parents always male? Are they always female? Alternating, perhaps?

I had never had a horse in this race. In my work I would occasionally come across a missive or a book where some theologian would make a subtle snide comment about some court wizard’s pet theory on the matter, I would chuckle at their petty passions, and then I would move on.

But now I had to answer Mal’s question.

“I don’t, Mal. I don’t know. I’ve never… you know, met one before.”

Naht was glancing back and forth at the two of us. I met his eyes, kindly, I hoped, but he looked away. Mal leaned back onto her hands.

“I know.”

She wasn’t leading me anywhere with this conversation. She was letting me think it through. She wanted to know what was going on in my mind, rather than fill it in herself. Why?

“Mal,” I started. “I got your letter, but also… the Reeve suspects something. Henri sent me.”

Mal shifted uncertainly. “It was a matter of time. What do you intend to do?”

I sighed. “Mal, what is this all about? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“No,” she said. “Not really. Not just yet. Howe, I mean to ask a huge favor of you. I don’t want to pressure you into it, and I don’t want to bring you along with me only for you to get cold feet in a few days because you agreed without thinking it through.”

I stroked my beard distractedly. “Come on, Mal. I’m not just a grown man. I’m an old man. You don’t need to protect me from myself.” For the first time in the conversation, I felt like I had a real point.

Mal smiled at that. “Sure. You’re right. I just have one question. If I asked you to trust Naht, would you?”

I blinked. “What? If you asked me to trust any random ten-year-old kid, would I?”

She laughed. It was warm and kind… and relieved. “Good enough.” Then her eyes narrowed. “Wait. was that a goat joke?”

“No! No no no. Wow, no, sorry, I’ll try not to…”

She couldn’t keep up the act, and her smile broke through. “Pfft. Don’t worry, Howe. He’s heard a lot worse.”

I scratched the back of my head. “Oh. Um. Yes.”

“So,” she began, sitting up. “How would you like to help Naht find a new body?”

Chapter III: Fertheaux

I left the castle town of Ilianath just after nightfall, mind brimming with magic and with anxieties. Fertheaux was along one of the old Ivian League roads, in a section that had seen more or less continuous use over the last nine centuries, and so it was in relatively good repair. That would alleviate the exhausting, frustrating stumbling that often accompanied overnight journeys. But it would only slightly reduce the risk of encountering something unsavory. Predators—human, animal, and otherwise—share an affinity for the night.

But I had already made up my mind. I wanted to be in Fertheaux as soon as possible. And besides, this way I would arrive there sometime just after first light. As I said, many predators are fond of the night, and perhaps what Malisa was dealing with was a predator of some sort. Life or death, she had written. My mind ran wild with the possibilities. Well, it didn’t quite run. It was more of a staggering, lurching motion, burdened with several spells and slightly ill with worry.

---

I reached Fertheaux at sunup. I had been there twice before, and I was relieved to see that little had changed about it. About thirty timber buildings of various sizes huddled in a shallow dale, flanked by hills on the northeast and the south. The northeast hill was fairly low but very wide, crowned with a hundred or so trees, currently heavy with apples awaiting harvest in a week or so. The southern hill was higher, and the forest that blanketed the countryside for leagues and leagues south of there seemed to loom up over that hill at the little town below.

The road curled in from the east around the foot of the orchard hill and ran directly through the town on its way out in the general direction of Duranlach. As a result, most travelers from this direction would be greeted with the warm, colorful sights of the orchard, and then they would turn the corner of the road into the snug, hospitable embrace of the little town.

I was too troubled to fully appreciate either of those things as I wound around the base of the orchard hill. A shame, since it was the last chance I would ever get. But in my defense, I had a lot on my mind.

Right before turning the final corner into plain view of the town and its inhabitants, I hesitated. If I marched into town, I would need to introduce myself and conduct “official business.” Small talk, official greetings, concerns, niceties: all things I was well-practiced at but dreaded doing. I would also need to speak to the Reeve upon arriving and upon leaving, and I would probably need to use a fending pole to keep him from nosing his way into Malisa’s affairs. For his sake and for hers.

On the other hand, I would probably get to have breakfast. My stomach rumbled sourly.

I muttered something rude under my breath and continued down the road. I had spent all that time in my study studying my spells and hadn’t thought to bring something to eat on an eight-hour trek. How typical of me. Well, at least this way I would be rewarding the Marquis’ faith in myself by conducting business his preferred way. That would help in case something went really wrong.

---

A little copper bell rung as I pushed the door open to the courthouse and again as I closed it behind me. As the door closed, it took the bright morning light with it, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. I craned my head about, seeing that the two windows to the building had been shuttered from the inside. My eyes strained to accommodate to the little red pinpoints of light that were strewn about the modest chamber: candles, placed upon the windowsills and on the arms of the benches that ran parallel down the length of the room, facing a lectern in the center back that itself boasted two lit candles. It all made for quite a somber scene.

I took a seat at one of the benches and waited, smelling the familiar smells of oak and candlewax. I didn’t have to wait long.

Reeve Piear all but threw open the door, stinging my eyes with the bright white sunlight for a moment. He was trailed by a tall woman, his wife, likely, who closed the door with her hips to avoid taking her hands off the wooden tray she carried with her.

I rose to greet them, and the three of us exchanged polite bows befitting officers of the Marquis’ peace. His eyes glinted with ill-contained frustration in the candlelight. He had made the journey back here just a few hours ahead of me and was likely irritable with sleep deprivation.

His wife, introduced as Jan, laid out the tray on one of the benches, and we broke bread with a sweet apple spread for breakfast. I scarfed down as much as I thought I could get away with without seeming like a pig.

Piear, to my dismay, didn’t quite wait until I was done before he seized the initiative.

“It is well that you are here so soon, wizard. The Marquis should know that we are grateful for his swift action.”

“Mmmf,” I replied, swallowing hastily. “I will make sure he knows.”

“But I must ask what he intends by this.”

I was multitasking now, trying to discreetly brush crumbs off of my traveling robe while trying to hide my dismay at his jab. “What do you mean, sir?”

Jan cut in before Piear could reply. “He means that we expected the Marquis to send men. Soldiers. Not a single wizard. We don’t know… we don’t know what this means.”

“Oh,” I began. That bought me just enough time to figure out a more diplomatic way of saying it means it’s probably not a demon. “There are many kinds of demons and spirits known to us. And there are even things that masquerade as demons to seem more dangerous than they are. In any case, my long study of magic means I am well-suited to the job of determining what the threat may be.”

“Determining what the threat may be?!” gasped Piear. “We do not need it determined. We need it banished!”

“I… I can do that too. Allow me to explain, please.”

I felt frustration creeping in. I was not normally a very confrontational person. Big, shouted fights are well and good—some people like those, and I won’t look down on them for it—but they always seemed fruitless for me, and they made me anxious. I much preferred to deliberate and to find agreement and try to expand from there. In the worst case, I preferred to leave aside differences, promise that they were best ignored, and then hypocritically brood on them for hours after, certain that either my respect for my counterparty or their respect for me had been permanently damaged.

But right then, Piear was wrong. Very, very wrong. And I feared that he was going to get a lot of people hurt.

He eyed me uncertainly. “Go on.”

I gathered myself and started from where I hoped we agreed.

“Yes, we are in trouble here. Something is going on in these woods. But, as I’m sure you well know, you must hunt different game differently. A bow that could kill a hare at fifty paces has no hope of stopping a bear. Bait that could lead a bear into a trap wouldn’t interest a deer. Hunting deer on foot alone is extremely treacherous if there are whole packs of wolves around.

“So it is the same with creatures of magic. Demons from the abyss rampage and kill with reckless abandon. Sometimes they do it with brute strength, sometimes with pestilence or fear or fire. But most of them aren’t particularly clever, and they may be lured into traps. But what if it’s not a demon? Perhaps it’s a spirit of fire from the Fae. Fae are clever and manipulative. If you tried to trap one, you’re more likely to end up in the trap than they are. But you might be able to give them what they want to go away, or else banish them with iron. Or planar magic.

“My point being, if we send ten people into the woods with swords and shields, those people might all die. But if you send one wizard into the woods…”

“Just one wizard dies, then?” laughed Piear.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. This was a seriously petty man I was trying to reason with. “Yes. Just one wizard dies.”

Piear and Jan studied me in the dim candlelight for a minute. I broke in, hoping to set the tone.

“What has been happening in town? What makes you think that… the witch has called a demon?”

Piear shook his head gravely, stroking his goatee, while Jan explained.

“Bad dreams, sir. It started happening six nights ago. I know it sounds silly, but it all happened at once. To everyone, I mean. We were shocked. I told Piear that morning that I had slept badly and had been running… running from something.” She shivered. “He had too. And so had Ogan. And Trelan. And Margot. By noon, everybody in the whole town was talking about it.”

I felt my brow furrow. Dreams are complicated. But dreams are undeniably magical. The realm of pure thought, mediated only distantly by language and culture, is sensitive to… well, thought, and the connections and ideas and even emotions that create magic. “It is not silly at all. Quite the opposite. Please, go on.”

Piear continued for her. “Nobody remembers anything specific about the dreams. But there’s more, like I said at court. Fires burn hotter. When Margot went to ask for a salve from the witch, she said she saw shadows dancing… ‘playing’ at her hair. These candles here, in this room… you can see them sway and shimmer when the witch is near. She is not, now.”

It wasn’t much to go on. I had all sorts of guesses. New ones, not the same ones I had spelled out to Lord Henri. Malisa might have been working a bit of magic to enhance her reputation. To be a little more spooky and mysterious. To persuade people not to go stalking around her cabin. That would explain the candles. In fact, it was one of the only things that could explain the candles. If a demon or a fire elemental is near enough to make fires rise, it’s usually not much of a mystery. At that point, they’re close enough to be causing much more spectacular problems. The shadows were probably poor Margot’s overactive imagination after the fact. But the dreams…

… the dreams were concerning. There wasn’t much else to say about it to them.

“I should go, then. I need to see what it is out by her home,” I said, rising.

Piear rose quickly to his full height. “And Jan and I will be going with you.”

Uh oh.

“Piear, sir, I do not think that’s wise.”

“I am not a dimwit, wizard. I know that you feel more kin to the witch than you do to me. So I don’t trust you. So I’m coming with you.”

“Piear, are you sure about this? Remember what you said earlier?”

Piear crossed his arms. Jan, still seated, was watching my face carefully. “What’s that?” asked the broad man.

“Only one wizard needs to die today.” I shrugged.

I could be witty sometimes.

Piear smirked. “Fine. be back by sundown or we will come looking.”

Chapter II: The Book

I was very nearly out of the audience room when the Marquis’ voice reached my ears.

“Wizard. Stay.”

My shoulders slumped and I obeyed.

I padded softly over and stood before the oaken throne, and in a blink I was alone with my liege in the audience room. The dull chatter from without the room had drained away with the petitioners, and the very last echoes of the door closing and latching behind Aveline could be heard trailing off into an infinite silence.

Henri was a young man finally coming into his own. The little gilded circlet of his station sat naturally on his wide forehead, coralling his neatly slicked hair. He had a narrow, protruding jawline complemented by a painstakingly cropped goatee. His eyes—unsteady, searching, cautious eyes—were currently working over my face.

Where Henri’s face was smooth and neat, he would be seeing mine lined and heavily bearded. Henri’s hair was slick and his brows thin and sharp; my hair short and coarse and my brows bushy. And, of course, where Henri’s eyes searched and inquired, mine were still and studied.

Henri shifted on his throne and cleared his throat before speaking.

“Why try to sulk out of court so quickly, my friend?”

That hurt a little bit. It’s never fun to be scolded by your boss. “‘Sulking’ is a bit unfair, I think. I would characterize it as… hustling. Deliberate haste,” I replied.

“I would call it absconding.”

“Absconding, sure.”

Henri smiled at my concession, leaning over and resting his chin on his hand.

“Absconding. So why?”

“My liege, I am a wizard…”

“I know that.”

What I meant to say was that we wizards are not especially strong. Certainly not stronger than demons. We do not, as it is sometimes thought, breathe fire, nor are we gifted with claws and fangs. And I will admit I was, then, not quite so brisk as I was when I was Henri’s age.

That leaves us to our studies. We are usually quite clever, and we are given many tools. We endeavor to give ourselves time to prepare, to arm ourselves with these tools. And if I were to do something about a demon in Fertheaux, I should begin preparing as soon as able.

But I had probably given Henri, and others in his earshot, this speech one too many times. So I cut to the chase.

“… yes, yes, sorry, you do know that. What I mean to say is that I should leave to begin my preparations right away.”

“You are going?” asked my liege.

“Why, yes, of course. There’s a demon in Fertheaux, apparently, and your peace must be kept.”

Henri lifted his eyebrows and tapped his cheek with his index finger, a gesture of intrigue, I thought. “Why assume I should send you? I could send Doria and her knights.”

“Because… ahm…”

“Admit it, Horwendell.”

I crossed my arms. “Admit what?”

“Admit that you have a terrible poker face.”

“Freely admitted.”

“And…?” he inclined his head expectantly. I quit stalling and got out with it.

“I was hoping to sulk…. abscond from here and go speak to Malisa, before you took further action.”

“Much better.”

I took that as permission to bubble over with the thoughts that had been simmering in my mind for the last few minutes. “I don’t believe this talk about consorting with demons. There are a number of things it is more likely to be. My first guess is simple paranoia. No demon, no fires, just a wild rumor…”

“… and the Reeve?”

“Drunk, perhaps?”

Herni’s head tilted in reproach.

“… Okay, perhaps not. But you must admit, it is possible there is no demon. Or perhaps it is a fae spirit. Or perhaps she is beset by the demon, rather that consorting with it.”

“Horwendell,” said Henri.

“She may have a companion of a non-demonic sort. A pet, perhaps. Or a friend. Silhouettes in the darkness of the forest can be…”

“Horwendell!” shouted Henri.

I drew up to a halt.

“Calm down, wizard. I do not trust the witch, it is certain. But I trust you. You need not convince me. I will allow this.”

“You will?”

“Of course. The Reeve is likely right, in his own way. There is something non-human in his hamlet, something he does not understand, and that threatens the peace. Perhaps it is or is not a demon. But you will know what it is, and you will know how best to serve.”

“That is a great relief, my liege.”

“You expected me to seek the witch’s death, did you?”

“It wouldn’t have been terribly surprising,” I admitted.

Henri bobbed his head back and forth, as though considering. “Perhaps I might have. Nevertheless… no, not yet. Go to her. I trust you will handle it appropriately.”

“I will, my liege. Now, if I may…”

“Yes, go prepare. The sooner the Reeve and his villagers are put at ease, the better.”

I finally sul… absconded, sweeping out the audience room door and hurrying up the spiraling stairs two at a time. I reached the top and slid through the door to my study and closed it in one graceful motion, greeting the familiar smells—ink, candlewax, and pine sap—and the familiar sights with a smile. I loved this room, truly. This was my relief after long, trying nights at court, full of mistrustful gazes and rolled eyes. The Marquis trusted me, but the peasantry did not, and my peers at court seemed to think of me as an amusement or a diversion. Aveline organized the Marquis’ affairs, Jermaine his relationships, and Doria his power. What, they seemed to wonder, did I do?

And sometimes I wondered that myself. The Marquis valued my opinion on what matters it was relevant on, but those matters were sparse.

But here, at my desk, there was no such worry. There was no maddeningly empty field of responsibilities. There was only lush potential and knowledge within grasp from all sides.

And tonight, there was a challenge.

I sat down and eyed the letter, still curled up neatly atop the others. A matter of life and death. Perhaps it was a demon after all?

The Reeve said that fires burned hotter around her cabin. Some demons—demons of fury and hate—could have that effect. But lesser demons and stranger demons—of anguish or of misery—did not. And sometimes sorcerers did.

Hmmm.

I tapped the front drawer of my desk with my finger and it slid open, animated by an unseen force, revealing a simple leather-bound tome, thick and heavy. I hefted it onto the table and began to leaf through the pages.

Page after page after page was filled with script, in Orlan, in Orsinic, in Draconic, in Dwarvish, and in cipher. On many pages the script was underlaid by thin, faint lines, sometimes forming clear images and other times sprawling about haphazardly. The pages spilled over with meaning.

This was my spellbook. The wizard’s spellbook is best thought of as a map. Using a map, a cartographer can reduce leagues and leagues of terrain, filled with rolling hills and imposing forests and mortal habitation, to the information that is required for the map’s intended audience to navigate or estimate distances. Likewise, using a spellbook, a wizard attempts to reduce entire discourses about reality—planes of existence, material forms, the nature of mortality, the heavenly arc of the stars, the majesty of the Gods, the strands that weave together to form the world and mortals’ understanding of it—down to a mere thousand pages. Needless to say, this project is insane. It is futile. It is arrogant.

But I, like the Court Wizards of Ilianath before me and all their peers, had undertaken it anyway.

The secret is that the wizard’s spellbook is intensely personal. Wizardry requires not just a crystalline, mineral-hard intellect. It also requires careful introspection. The wizard must understand intimately the manifolds of their own mind, the facets of their knowing, so that they may encode the information they have learned from study into mnemonics. Otherwise, without this careful reduction, there is simply too much of it. It would require thousands and thousands of pages to convey the knowledge required to understand and cast even the simplest of spells. Not only would it be laborious to write out, it would simply take too long to read. Before the wizard’s understanding of a spell could be made final in the last pages, they would have forgotten the foundational elements on the very first.

It was the preparation of a spellbook that made a man or a woman a wizard. A person whose mind was sharp enough and whose spirit was dedicated enough to squeeze enough knowledge of the world into a small enough space that they could use it to perform magic—to defy common understanding—was a wizard.

Of course, there are others who could cast spells. Gods, of course, may perform miracles by force of will, and may invest mortals with those powers. Sorcerers, too, may simply will magic upon the world. But wizardry is set apart by a certain stately dignity. No, really. There’s a peace and a stillness to wizardry that just isn’t there with some of the other, older arcane practices.

It was with this dignity—and, well, a little bit of excitement—that I paged through my book and settled on the sections I would read tonight, the spells that would fill my mind to capacity and would require a constant attention from some part of it for entire day, lest I forget crucial elements.

The first was a simple shielding spell. An abjuration, brought about by the understanding of the southern night sky. The pattern of stars and the arc of the moon through them hold a secret, ancient meaning, one that may be used to reject, to refute, and to protect.

The second was a transmutation meant to be cast on the self. In the whispers of the wind, the billowing grass on the plains, and the darting flight of the sparrow lay the secrets to speed, a way to make one’s legs simply carry faster and farther.

The third was a divination in two parts. The first returned to the stars, making meaning out of all four corners of the sky, including fields of stars that are only possible to see by traveling far to the north. The second part was a tale of the ancient astronomers who first charted the stars independently, and how two of them from the north and south met. By uniting these two separate loci of knowledge, the wizard could unlock the common secrets of the relations between souls, and for a time, understand all languages that have ever been spoken. If this “demon” were any sort of spirit from elsewhere, the chances of it speaking the local dialect of the back corner of a minor kingdom were slim.

Fourth, and finally, I flipped to the back and began to read of another abjuration, similar to the shield from before. But this one was quite a bit more complicated in its stellar interpolations, and it didn’t involve the moon at all. It had nothing to do with force or physical reality; it was merely a study in abstraction and indirection. The culmination of these mounting layers of empty concept was a spell that could negate magic: a counterspell.

I had never had the occasion to cast a counterspell before. My interactions with my peers, to that point, had usually been perfectly professional and had never given way to open conflict. Nevertheless, some years before I had spent the weeks of effort to transcribe and rearrange my old master’s spell for my own use for just this situation: that Malisa might get in out of her depth with a person or creature with magical ability. I would need to be prepared, or this creature might subject me to the very power that I had spent my life studying.

Or, worse, Malisa would.

Chapter I: The Letter

My Dear Horwendell,

I have a favor to ask of you. It is a matter of life and death. I am afraid it will take you away from your work, but I suspect that would be better for you than you know.

Meet me at my home and I can explain.

-Mal

That was the letter. It was written in this neat, tidy little script, addressed to me: Horwendell. It was signed Mal, short for Malisa, an old friend of mine. She had this really annoying habit of being the only person in the world who was right more often than I was. And she was right about this one. More right than she even knew, I think. It was most certainly a matter of life and death.

It, my friends, was the beginning of the story of how I died.

I read the letter, and then I folded it up and swept it to the left corner of my desk.

The candle on the wide desk was burning low, breathing a gentle life into the room. At the right hand of the desk, a quill propped up in a glass inkwell cast its shadow across the stone wall. At the left hand, a stack of mismatched missives, documents, and sheaves of notes piled up, newly adorned with the little half-rolled note on rough parchment. The back of the desk was littered with a selection of the tools of my trade: a set of hourglasses filled with fine veld sand, a wound up ball of copper wire, two glass beakers of a frothy red liquid, a well-worn glass dropper, a small glass vial of amethyst dust with a cork stopper, a brass ruler with pressed markings, a pair of steel tongs with sheepskin grips, a small claw-footed pewter basin full of cold water, and, most important of all, a full jar of midnight blue ink and an impossibly thick roll of blank parchment tied off with a small green ribbon. All of these—and more, occupying the shelves on the desk’s imposing hutch—seemed to swim silently in the little yellow candlelight.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. I stood up and started to pace. Sometimes, on nights like this, I needed to move so my study would sit still. The dour black robe of my station and the violet sash of my rank, both earned in long service to the Marquis of Ilianath, swept pleasingly about as I turned in the confines. My mouth drew tight, stretching my mustache and ruffling my neatly trimmed golden-white beard, as my body seemed to join in the strain of solving the puzzle presented by my friend’s letter. I paced to the door and back to the desk. From the west window to the east wall.

Life or death? I wondered what she could possibly have been asking for. The most trying thing she had ever asked of me was for a pinch of ruby dust. And why me? We got along well, to be sure, but she had to be circumspect when asking me for favors, knowing that my colleagues and superiors all took a dim view of her non-sanctioned arcane practices—her witchcraft. But that could, perhaps, explain why she had been so vague in her letter and requested that I meet her all the way out at her cabin. Meeting at the castle town, whose little lights I could see from the porthole-like window of this tower study, would suffice for a simple loan of ingredients or tools, but would not be private enough for something more important. But what?

Sensing that my thoughts were beginning to loop and twist through the fog rather than navigate to a conclusion, I stopped, mind and body. I sighed again, rubbing the bridge of my nose, and then stepped over to the desk, picked up the folded letter, and hid it away in one of the pull-out cubbies on the hutch.

It could wait until tomorrow.

---

The door creaked open, and I left behind my darkened study and began my descent down the spiraling wooden steps of the cylidrical tower. The twentieth step down complained under my weight, as was its habit. The little circular window on the north side showed only the black of the forest blanketed by the starlit tapestry of the night sky.

Ten years ago, I had watched from this very window as the stars were choked out by the smoke of campfires, as Emault I, King of Orland, arrayed his army in siege. I had been an apprentice at the time, quite skilled in my own right (if I do say so myself) but, alas, without the ear of the Marquis. Then again, even my master, the Court Wizard, didn’t seem to have the ear of the Marquis. The entire court, her included, had entreated the Marquis to accept King Emault’s generous terms: to abdicate his seat to his chosen, quite capable heir and to spend the rest of his years in the comfortable custody of the King. But the Marquis refused to be a hostage, and he refused to relinquish the territorial ambitions that had begun the struggle in the first place. So the court had entrusted its wizard, and its wizard in turn entrusted her apprentice, to sneak a message out of the castle and to the city garrison: surrender the city, relieving its citizens of the siege and cutting off the Marquis from half of his soldiers and most of his food stores.

The gambit had succeeded. The Marquis was willing to defy a king, but no man can defy a hungry belly conspiring with an empty larder. As the King’s captain, a wiry blonde man in an impressive suit of steel plate armor, led an entourage into the throne room to accept the Marquis’ surrender, it finally struck me what had happened. A mere Sending spell, which was not a trivial evocation but nor was it terribly complicated or esoteric for an apprentice of my stature, had ended a rebellion. It had spared thousands of people months of miserable siege, had perhaps saved dozens or hundreds of lives, and had dragged a man down from lofty heights of power into ruin.

So it was that Henri III, Marquis of Ilianath, had abdicated to Henri IV, who pledged renewed fealty to the throne of Orland. And I hadn’t seen smoke rising above the Whiteglade forest ever since.

I continued to pad down the stairs, making my way to the nightly meeting of court.

---

The Marquis seemed bored tonight. So did his courtiers. It was the peak the harvest, which meant court was held late in order that any subjects with grievances might still be able to petition after a full day in the fields. It also meant that most people were too busy to generate any real grievances.

Henri sat on an oaken throne, suffused with a lively red hue, that was the product of days of work by an experienced team of carpenters centuries ago, upon a short dais. Beside him were his young heirs, Linette and Giselle, both present tonight. They were both kind girls, but prone to quarrel with each other, and some nights they needed reminders of the solemnity of courtly duties. Tonight was one of those nights.

Below the masters of the house and on their right were the courtiers, arranged in a row of mismatched, high-backed seats that helped serve the impression that we were the Marquis’ collected oddities. Tonight, those present were: myself, Court Wizard; Jermaine, a foreign-born diplomat and master of many tongues; Aveline, the house Treasurer and Chancellor; Doria, captain of the house retinue; and Rober, Henri’s elderly tutor now charged with educating his daughters.

Upon the wide blue rug beneath the dais and before the courtiers stood a farmer, Joha. His cap was doffed and his coat was clean, as it always was. Joha was well-known to this court as a busybody. Jermaine and I argued frequently, out of the man’s earshot, over whether he was truly well-meaning (if slightly paranoid) or if he simply enjoyed ingratiating himself to the Marquis and attempting to lord his influence over his fellow peasants. As was common, I was the cynical one, believing Joha to be a brown-nosing meddler. The Marquis was sympathetic to my concerns but seemed to be of the opinion that if anything were truly wrong, Joha could be trusted to be the first to speak up about it, and so it was valuable to hear his voice.

So here he was, in court. Again.

Tonight was not the night something was truly wrong, and Joha was expressing his concerns about the travel of his fellow peasants over a particular corner of his land as a shortcut to the road while hauling grain. Jermaine was staring off into the middle distance, past that blue rug and toward the closed wooden double doors, behind which were likely just a few more petitioners on this night. Rober was trying to hush the Marquis’ daughters. Aveline and Doria were exchanging knowing looks.

Eventually, Joha left, having received a polite dismissal from the Marquis with the promise that should the behavior continue after harvest the Marquis would ensure swift resolution.

After the back of Joha’s shaggy head disappeared between the doors, a new figure appeared there. A broad-shouldered man wearing a neat doublet and padded hose strode into the room. His beard was trim, his gait confident, and his eyes firm. I mused idly at what sort of ambitious noble scion this man might be, attempting to attend court to shortcut Jermaine’s carefully managed list of appointments. Perhaps a merchant from the eastern duchies seeking some particular relief from custom. But my wondering was cut short and my guess proved off-the-mark as the badge affixed on the man’s left breast caught the torchlight and the herald announced him as Piear, Reeve of Fertheaux.

I lost interest immediately. It was probably a matter of thievery or banditry in Fertheaux, a little hamlet a day’s journey from the castle town. Problems for Aveline and Doria. But a few minutes later, after the formal greetings and the shows of faith, the conversation took a turn that gripped my attention.

“My lord, the woods witch has returned.”

I fought the urge to bolt upright, and instead slowly sat up and listened intently while the Marquis chided his Reeve.

“She has been there the entire time, Piear.”

“If so, my lord, she is elusive…”

“Do not pretend, Piear. Your fellows, as well as your own self, likely, seek her out as an apothecary and a healer, despite my cautions against it. I am not blind to this, nor am I pleased with it. However, I am also little pleased by farce. Continue.”

Piear, who had clearly given a lot of thought to this excuse that the Marquis was uninterested in, closed his mouth and paused, staring out with his hard, dark eyes while he reframed his plea. I feigned an expression of official consternation. Underneath, instead, I was personally concerned. Malisa was normally very good at avoiding unwanted attention. Had she run afoul of someone influential?

“… yes, my lord. Many seek her out for medicines and treatments. But in the last week, many have come to… mistrust her. They see the shadows moving around her. Fires burn hotter near her abode.”

The man paused, hoping it would have a dramatic effect. It did not.

“… and, Piear?”

“I believe she is consorting with demons, my lord. I have seen one myself.”

You’re such an insufferable flirt. Have you laid any of that on your new companions?

Zelks got over it. Or perhaps I should say he’s healed. You needn’t worry that you’ve broken the lad. The team hasn’t quite been the same, though. I don’t know if you really appreciated this, but you were one of the more thoughtful infiltration specialists in the division. You tend to see a lot of hotshots in that role—arcanists who see themselves as unfettered by the mundane world and maladjusted young changelings plucked from troubled backgrounds with no ties, willing to lay it down for King, Country, and their own hungry egos. Most of them would flunk out of the classroom regimen given half the chance.

Not you, though. We had to peel you away from the damn books. Then I remember having to peel you away from the bars in Wroavenburg… not because you were drunk, but because you had to try out your new knowledge and techniques on the unsuspecting patrons. One after another, every night, until you had started a fight or gone home with one of them.

Our new IS, Lejek, isn’t so much fun. But then none of us are young any more, so it’s to be expected. He’s a good fellow. But there’s an edge to his thrillseeking that reminds me of the hotheads. He’s impatient and that’s partly why he doesn’t have the same talent for asset cultivation; Ty is having to work twice as hard to make up the difference when communicating to a potential asset through Lejek.

But he’s improving. As before, work continues apace.

I should like to know what you’ve been up to. After sending out that “all those years” bit, I counted. Five! Five years you’ve been out. I suspect you know—it’s exactly the kind of thing you’d know—I relish and dread these letters in equal measure. It feels as though I’m talking to a ghost. One I helped kill. At her own behest. Over my own objections. The passage of time hasn’t lessened that at all.

You told me a while back that Mar was gone for good. Is that still true?

-P

---

Some things never change! I’m charmed you can still “hear it” in writing. And so utterly pleased that I can continue to tease you from halfway across the continent.

The sweet nothings are just for you, actually. You know how you were burdened with a Look But Don’t Touch policy by the chain of command? There’s no chain of command here, but even so it seems unwise to be casting these newfound professional relationships with the haze of heat. Right now, anyway.

Mar is gone for good. I suppose it’s unfair to sign her name to these letters. But she’s who I was to you, wasn’t she? You never knew Fen or Fuze.

I’ve been asked how I keep track of it all. I tell them it’s easy, but the truth is, even though it comes naturally, it can be quite complicated. Just like language or love.

After I got out of Breland—not, strictly speaking, a necessary precaution given my talents, but I needed the change—I thought for a week about how it was I was going to make a living. That was, as it turns out, the easy part, but in retrospect it’s quite obvious that it’s what I was going to fret over first: what was to be my new cover? My decision was ultimately to be a seamstress in Lhazaar. Regalport, specifically. It was dreadful. I made my life for about six months a tremendous chore in service of maintaining this nonthreatening persona. I picked Regalport to be near the tales of the sea, but that just served to stir my restlessness, all the while I told myself—chanting, like a mantra—the best thing I could do was to live a quiet, happy life in a stable community of people I could rely on and be someone they could rely on in turn. But the sailors and adventurers came through town daily. It was all… Look But Don’t Touch.

Then a ship from Seaside came in to port one day and was quarantined immediately by the Seadragon port authority. My curiosity got the better of me and I snuck on board. They were refugees. That’s when I learned about the Day of Mourning.

Once the quarantine was lifted I ended up coming out to one of the refugees, offering her family my home, and leaving it behind. I don’t know why the Mourning, of all things, was what called me back to the continent. But it did.

I managed to buy passage on a trader of dubious honesty who was to call at several ports. They took me to Adderport, on a brief tour up and down Redwater, then up the Ghaal, where I disembarked at Rhukaan Draal. I’ve been living as a traveler, tinker, and occasionally an “oddities trader” since then, traveling through New Cyre up through Thrane and Audair, with some occasional long-distance journeys out to the periphery states. I usually haunt a place for two weeks before I move on.

It’s served me well enough, I think. I still do all the old party tricks. I still look for good, old-fashioned fights and good, old-fashioned tumbles. But it’s more than that. I love the world out here. There’s so many people who live such wonderful lives and deserve all the joy they find therein. And more.

And I get to share a little bit of all of it. Well, when I’m not “on the clock,” anyway. The thrill of the mission does beat in my heart, I admit. But before long, I’m going to be heartsick for the joys of the road, and perhaps worried, once more, for the prosperity of my soul.

-M

“Can’t sleep, need fresh air,” Fen explained with a shrug.

She closed the door with a whisper and descended the staircase in two breaths, leaving Theo at his watch in the spartan bunkroom. In the space of one more breath she had slid out the rear entrance to the barracks into the cold, damp, and dark streets of Throneport.

With her hood up and cloak pulled tight—the “fashion” of this town, insofar as it can be said to have one—Fen turned north. Her long strides took her through pools of everburning torchlight alternating with the native grimy darkness of the nighttime city.

As she neared the main gate of the city, a stone monument manned by a forlorn pair of purple-cloaked sentinels, she swerved into an alleyway, turned a few corners, and emerged back onto the street heading in the opposite direction. Standard procedure: never stop, and never look like you’ve taken a wrong turn.

Fen looked up, and for the first time the line of shadow beneath her hood retreated up over her eyes. As ever, those eyes were watching, interrogating.

That night, they were interrogating tavern signs.

The first was carved in the shape of a man holding a pint with a toothy grin. His face looked like it had been worked over with a hacksaw. Which… was possible, Fen thought. The second was a rainbow-painted fish, oriented vertically as if an invisible angler were standing behind it, displaying their prize. The third, after just ten minutes of walking, was a pair of knives, crossed, a tiny rivulet of blood lovingly carved onto each wooden edge.

Fen passed directly under the sign and took a right onto the street behind it. She took the next available left, three more paces, and halted, and then examined the wall to her left. She passed her hands over it, gently feeling for loose or out-of-place stones or gaps in the mortar.

After a few minutes of this, she realized that what she was looking for lay beneath a fallen stone on the ground. She turned it over and retrieved a folded piece of parchment, palmed it, and strode back out into the street.

---

Fen read the letter by the first light of dawn, sitting up in her bunk as Heft lay sleeping like a great fallen tree in the bunk above her.

I didn’t believe you when you said you were getting back into the business. A jest, I thought, or a playful exaggeration. But Throneport? You really are back in the business, aren’t you?

I know how much it meant to you to be out. Which is all the more reason that I don’t understand what to make of this turn of events. If you wanted to prevent the next Last War, you could have just stayed. It’s what we’re doing. We do this sordid work so a hundred thousand soldiers won’t have to. And if the soldiers must get involved, we go with them, and we win it for the good guys and get it over with faster.

I’m sure you’ve made up your mind; I respect your decision, and I won’t belabor the point. Just felt like it had to be said. And you know me. If I hadn’t said it, you’d know I was thinking it.

Zelks misses you. He always did look up to you. He especially misses CQC; you can tell he’s not having nearly as much fun as he did when he would spar with you.

The others are getting on as usual. Most of us have lost people before, after all. Work continues apace. The food hasn’t gotten any better. But after that week we spent eating fucking muck in the Shimmerwood, I count every lunch and dinner of warm, bland goulash to be a blessing straight from Boldrei’s hearth.

So, living the dream, as they say.

It’s good to hear from you. I hope we’ll be able to keep up, even with all the travel.

One last thing. I’ve been dying to ask all these years. Did you attend your own funeral? I was looking. I didn’t see. But you’re good at what you do.

-P

Heft rolled over. The movement was so tremendous that dust fell from the bottom of the bunk above, like stones shaken loose before the collapse of a cavern. Terra and Theo had already been up for nearly an hour—early risers, those two—and had just arrived with breakfast.

Fen retrieved a quill from her pack at the foot of her bed, a roll of her own parchment, and took to the reply.

You’re right. If you hadn’t said it, I’d know you were thinking it anyway. But I appreciate the pep talk. I value your sincerity more than I can put to words.

At least, sincerity when it comes to talking about your convictions and your compatriots. When you talk about yourself, you say “living the dream” as if that means anything! I’m sure I have heard you utter that phrase on days that competed for the worst in your life (like the Traelyn extraction) as well as the finest (that last night at Wroat). You really should open up a bit, you know. The way I see it, you should open up to me! If these letters ever get out to someone who knows enough for them to embarass you, we both have much bigger problems on our hands, anyway.

I’ve met some companions. They’re trustworthy, mostly. One wholly mercenary, one true believer, two d’Cannith and one bright-eyed kid trying to make right with a world that’s misjudged him. I like him. The Cannith aren’t bad, either. I mean, they’ve been taught the stuffy House Manners, and their understanding of their place in the world is… offputting (especially the arcanist; I think she was the favored child), but underneath that they’re thoroughly decent, and I hope to see more of that as the crucible of this journey blasts away the layers.

The mercenary may become an issue. He’s not quite a glutton for money and glory, he’s not quite a cold professional with the pride of an artisan, but he’s also not quite a demon with a lust for blood. I hate it when I can’t pin their motives. I’ll be working on it. Not leaving my back turned in the meantime.

That leaves the believer. Strangely, from what I’ve gathered, we walk a similar path: peace, and not just that, serenity. But we’ve certainly come to it different ways. Haven’t talked to her enough. Will need to be intentful about that.

I’ve missed you. I miss Z. I miss Ty and Losse. Don’t tell them, though. Z will never forgive me if I turn out to be alive.

I was at the funeral. I’m sorry. I thought it would be all fun and games, a little thrill for me to feel smug about it. It wasn’t. Seeing Z like that nearly broke me.

You looked great, though. You wear black well.

-M

The cell door gave an ear-splitting creak, and several muddy boots tromped through it. Fuze stirred.

He wasn’t altogether surprised that the constable’s entire posse might show up to drag him to the hall for judgment. He had given the town quite the show last night with the rip-roaring drunken brawl that had started in the Hunt & Pint and had spilled out into the street. All in good fun, of course. You haven’t really seen a place until you know for sure what can get the locals to throw punches.

What Fuze was surprised to see, when he rolled over, was that it was neither the constable nor his posse that loomed over him in little jailhouse.

Their armor was far too nice. Polished to a shine. Their bearing rigid—a lifetime at attention. Their faces shaven, hair cropped and tied.

Their breastplates were emblazoned with with the sigil of House Deneith.

Their leader, a stately, veteran woman, held up a small obsidian ring in her hand for Fuze to see.

Oh, shit.

Fuze sized up the new arrivals—four, with swords at their hips, shields on their backs, and knightly plate armor from head to toe—and let the hangover wash over his demeanor to buy some time. The captain clearly knew what that little ring was: a Black Band of Loyalty, seized from its hiding place in Fuze’s boot last night by the constables who “just needed to be sure”. Fuze had grumbled about it, though it had been no real matter at the time. But now, the woman who held it knew that few people ever come into the possession of such a thing. She knew what Fuze must be. What did she want? She was Deneith. Mercenary. She could want anything for the right price.

She stood there, regarding Fuze with amusement. He thought maybe there was some cruelty in her expression.

“Yer, uh, the new sheriff?”

She chuckled. It did have a cruel bite.

“No, and you’re not a drunkard.”

“Tell that to my aching head,” pouted Fuze.

The man on the woman’s right flank cut in, his voice a steady hum. “The lady is not so merciless as you think, nor her ideals so lowly. I pray you hear her counsel.”

Fuze slowly sat up, scowling at the man. He had to seize the initiative on this conversation somehow. He flailed, but found no foothold.

“So if yer not here for a trial, are ye’ here to join me? Not much bedspace. Guess I could be a gentleman and take the floor tonight.”

The woman rolled her eyes and lofted the ring at Fuze, who caught it and reflexively jammed it into his boot.

“No. I am here for you. That ring is a promise to somebody very important. Who? The Flame? The Citadel? Do not keep me waiting.”

Fuze groaned. So much for the initiative. And this was going to be hard to weasel out of. Which would be better to tell her… the truth or the lie?

“He’s a defector,” mused the eerily calm man on her right flank.

Fuze’s gaze whipped back to him, and it was all he could do to not smack himself in the forehead. Of course. A Practitioner, reading Fuze’s surface thoughts. You never interrogate a spy without one. The Deneith woman was no fool.

In interrogations like this, it is the truth, or it is death. Fuze decided to give truth a shot.

“Aye. I’m a defector. Brelish. I usually tell people I’m Aundairian military, discharged in the draw-down. Really, I’m nobody now. I left because all you sodden cunts want to do is kill. You pretend it matters who you kill, but it usually doesn’t.”

The woman’s hand drifted to the hilt of her sword.

“Is that what you believe? If it matters not whom I kill, should it not be yourself next?”

“I suppose it should.”

“So stubborn. You stall to avoid hearing what I have to say. Why?” she sighed.

Fuze finally felt like he had the initiative. The Practitioner chuckled. Fuze gave him a nasty glare.

“This: I don’t want it. You think I can be useful to you. I don’t want to fall in with you mercenaries. I’d rather piss in this cell for a week, do some community service, and buy the lads and lasses at the Hunt a round or two on the way out of town. Then they never see me again.”

“Changeling,” the practitioner posited.

“Gods damnit, man,” spat Fuze.

“Multiple personas. This is the… surly one.”

“I see. I want to meet you,” declared the woman.

Fuze froze. Changelings, generally, try to avoid the Big Reveal, the little moment when their counterparty discovers that they are many-skinned, possessing an innate talent for expression… and deception. It’s the talent for deception that concerns people. The Big Reveal often turns out to be quite nasty.

This was a Big Reveal of a sort Fuze had never experienced.

“I dare say ye ‘ave,” he mumbled. “Tinker. Brawler. Drunk. AWOL. Living for the day. Resentful of you lot. Name’s Fuze.”

“Mauriana d’Deneith. I want to meet you. This is a front, no? I am not so easily fooled as to think this is all you are.”

“Wrong and right, Deneith. It’s no front. But it’s also not all I am.”

Mauriana blinked, and instead of a rough, dark-skinned, bearded bar brawler, a fair young lady sat before her, dark hair immaculately cut in a trendy Aundairian bob.

“Fen. World traveler. Martial artist. Deadly in a game of cards.”

“And…”

“AWOL. Living for the day. Mistrustful of soldiery. I’m afraid I’m still not interested in any engagements,” Fen shrugged. “I’ll be more polite about it than Fuze was, but it’s the same me under here.”

“Listen. I ask you to listen, not for me, but for Khorvaire.”

Fen tossed her hair impatiently. “Isn’t that what they all…”

“Fen. Fuze. Whoever. War is coming. I am looking for the people who can stop it.”

Kaze pushed the empty tankard of ale to the edge of the table and folded his hands together.

“Just one? Let me guess. Discipline?” chided his companion from across the table.

“In all things.” Kaze shrugged.

“But we’re done! We stole the gold and documents and fought off the enforcers! They ran off with their tails tucked between their legs. They’re not coming back for us.”

“They won’t, it is true. But someone else will, tonight or tomorrow or the day after. And at any rate, I sleep poorly after drinking too much. I prefer to sleep well and fight well.”

“You’re no fun,” Starfish pouted. For added effect, she slumped her shoulders and let her black hair fall across her eyes like curtains.

“I’m sorry to hear you think that. I suppose some would find me a poor drinking partner. But surely you can find fun outside of a bottle, unless…?”

“Don’t scold me, old man! I’m not an alcoholic.”

“And I’m not old,” Kaze chuckled.

“You seem like it sometimes.”

Kaze smiled. “Well. I’ve alreadly lived one full lifetime and left it behind. Maybe I am old.”

Starfish lifted her chin and peered at Kaze through her hair. “Tell me.”

Kaze arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure? It’s not… fun.”

“I figured. Tell me anyway.”

Kaze hesitated for just a moment, unmoving. His gaze fell to his hands, still folded upon the table, then flicked back to Starfish.

“Very well.

“My father, Oaru, was a talented blacksmith, and an even more talented businessman. I grew up learning the trade and learning to love the trade.

“I, too, had a talent for it. I could work a worthless hunk of pig iron into a passable shield, and I could forge fine steel into a fine weapon. Best of all, I was fast. I could make those passable shields by the dozens daily. Not every watchman in Waterdeep needs a masterwork. Sometimes, thirty men simply need thirty shields, and thirty cheap shields serve better than one fine shield. I was proud, and he was proud.

“A few years ago, I was to be wed. My late mother’s brother brokered a match with Hamaya Sila. The day I found out, I thought I was the luckiest man in the world. The true purpose of the marriage was for the family legacy, of course. Our sons and daughters would be nobility, and our family trade would become celebrated. But Hamaya was luminous. She was kind. She was talented. She excelled at everything she applied herslef to. She was magnetic.

“A few months before the wedding, she was murdered.

“I wasted no time despairing. I gathered some friends to help me learn what had happened. A blade in the dark. A trail of blood leading to the window. A few easily-intimidated witnesses. I found my man. A guild hitman.

“I learned his name from a woman in the market. It was early in the afternoon. I was alone. I walked directly to the man’s home, a guildhouse halfway across the city. I threw the door off of its hinges. I marched into the study. I punched him across the face, twice, and he fell, and I strangled him to death.”

Kaze’s brows knitted, and he paused briefly before continuing.

“I was to be hanged for murder, of course. But I was spared. Hamaya’s mother, a woman named Mishima Sila, spoke for me. I did not understand at the time. How could the Black Robes simply decline to sentence a murderer? I asked this much of Mishima when I was brought to her. And she promised to teach me.

“Mishima had spent all of her favors, used all of her resources to avert the course of the law, because she knew I was an ally in her fight. So I was bonded to her, and for three years she instructed me as my master. I learned of history and speechcraft, of penmanship and of court. She taught me swordplay and shieldwork. She taught me how to guile, subvert, and fight. She taught me how to learn. How to refine. How to rise.

“Three years is a long time. Every moment was, and still is, fascinating. But I won’t keep you here for three years telling you all of it.

“What Mishima was truly trying to teach me was the art of precision. It is not enough to do something. You must do the right thing, or you will fail to achieve your desires.

“At the end of three years, she summoned me to her study, and there, over tea, she told me who had ordered the hitman to murder Hamaya. It was my final lesson in precision. In my furious passion three years before, I had acted swiftly and decisively. I had also acted ineffectually. There would always be more guild hitmen for evil men and women to hire. But there was one man who had wished Hamaya dead. My father.

“True to my training, I did not rise there, throw my old home’s door off its hinges, and strangle my father to death. I waited. I watched. I spent two whole weeks concocting and rehearsing my plan before I said my farewells to Mishima.

“Then, I killed Oaru and left. Nobody but you knows.”

Starfish stared at her companion, unblinking.

“Well, Mishima knows too, I suppose.”

Starfish tilterd her head slightly. “That’s… really fucked up. I’m surprised you told me that.”

“You asked.”

She tilted her head ever so slightly further.

“You have a good heart,” Kaze offered by way of explanation. “You wouldn’t betray me.”

“We met for the first time this morning!”

“You and I both accepted a paltry bounty to raid a slaver camp in the undercity. You and I are fighting the same fight. I’ve seen nothing to suggest otherwise.”

“Well. If you’re just going to tell me everything, then why? Why would your father do that?”

Kaze sighed. “A fair question but a long story. Greed. Jealousy. Cruelty. There were what you could call political reasons, of course. The blacksmith’s guild has a complicated relationship with the Waterdhavian nobility. But the true reason is that he desired a domain to rule over, myself included, and she interfered with that.”

“So he was an asshole. But you didn’t end up like him.”

“No.”

“Well. Cheers for that.” Starfish emptied her tankard.

“Mm. Thank heavens for that.”

“Ahhh. So. Traveling hero now?”

“No hero. Just a fighter. Fighting against the people who do end up like him.”

Your Majesty,

I am aware that it is not terribly likely that you will be in receipt of this missive. One of your correspondents will receive this letter and forward it to some sort of parliamentary authorty or some other in order that they may locate me and bring me into custody. It does not matter. It is the truth, and you should hear it. It will be on their consciences, not mine, should this letter fail to reach your hands.

The great Civilizing Mission in East India is a sham.

I wish to support this accusation in two ways. First, I shall address in the abstract the nature of our endeavors. Then, I shall illustrate it with an anecdote, a singular event that I found quite personally illuminating.

The Mission

We Englishmen imagine ourselves to be the inheritors of the great Empire of Rome, the bearers of a providential mandate to civilize and enlighten lesser peoples—or else subjugate them and make them useful. From the conquests of Julius to the reign of King Arthur to our current hegemony over the Mediterranean, Atlantic, and Indian oceans, our achievement of which was presided over by such luminaries as Nelseon and the Duke of Wellington, we elevate our orderly competence and discipline to be the forces that will arrange this new industrial world.

I will not mince words. This is rubbish.

The story of human history is grand and much more difficult to fathom than we grant it credit for. In it, we see empires rise and be cast down, and we pull through these straight ropes, which, winding through the crests and valleys of history, become quite taut and strained with our efforts. These are the stories we tell of ourselves. But we grasp only on the ropes, and we blind ourselves to the grand landscape they wind through.

Why should we be the Inheritors of Rome? Why not the Greeks, who toil now in a lengthy struggle with the Ottomans? As Rome fell, Byzantium stood, and the Lords of Greece carried on in the Empire’s tradition. Or indeed, if we should be the Inheritors of Rome, why not the Turks themselves? Just as London changed hands from Julius to the Saxon and from the Saxon to the Norman and from the Norman to the House of Hanover, Constantinople has changed hands from the Greek to Augustus and from Augustus to the Turk.

So it is with all of our imperial aspirations. This Empire carries not Julius’ torch, excepting for that we imagine it to. And thus, the real heart of the Empire lies not in visions of marbled Rome, but in gunpowder and steel. The Empire is made the Empire by conquest, not by an inherited providence.

Now imagine it so for the Indian. The Indian has a storied and noble history much alike the Englishman. The ancient Guptas and the Kings of Tamil are their forebears, much alike our Caesar and our William of Normandy. They, too, tug on the strands of history, pulling them through the Mughal warrior-kings just as ours wind through mighty James and Henry.

How, so, should we imagine to bring them civilization? They have known it. Whyfor need they enlightenment? Their people speak of traditions of spirituality and intellect that we have barely come to know of.

It is madness that we should allow the East India Company to land soldiers in India and lay fire upon men and women—to “quell the mutiny”, they might say—in the name of “bringing civilization” to a people who have already nobly achieved such.

The People

But it is not merely the effort of tugging on the lines of history that causes us to be blind to the truth of the past. It is as well the sin in the hearts of men that allows it to happen.

I sailed to the East Indies to inspect a property of the Northbrook estate, arriving in the port of Calcutta on the HMS Charming. When we arrived at the pier, a nearby Brig, the HMS Atlas, I believe, was taking on supplies for its journey across the Cape. The Baron of Hornhollow, Calvert II, was on the maindeck supervising the action. This was already quite a shock to myself—a ship of that size must surely have a Boatswain or a Master to handle such matters. But as the channel pilot and our helmsmen made the final maneuvers to bring us into port, we passed close by the Atlas and I discovered the truth of the matter. We passed the ship’s quarter and the maindeck came into plain view from our quarterdeck, and upon it, Lord Calvert stood with a whip, driving the local haulers under its lash.

I felt confusion and anger swell up in myself. What sort of Peer brandishes the whip himself? The Lord’s business is to bring order by his words, to inherit the rule his forefathers and spread it. The labor is best left to those who have inherited the yoke. The only way to interpret his presence on the maindeck is that he was indulging in a moral perversion. He wished to inflict pain upon the Indians.

As soon as our ship was secure, I informed her captain of my imminent departure and made for the Atlas. When there, I demanded to know what the Lord Hornhollow was doing. I have thought daily about his reply, ever since. He told me, matter of factly, that “These men are for us to lash. It is how we bring them order; it is the only way they will know civilization.” I saw, as he said this, that many of the shirtless, swarthy haulers were bleeding from open wounds on their backs, and many others suffered with sores and scars.

It was in my rage that I demanded he yield his whip to the Boatswain and told him that if he wishes to labor to bring about civilization, he should haul his cardamom himself. He took that as an insult, a grave one indeed, and challenged me to a duel. We conducted it on the maindeck, and Lord Calvert yielded after receiving a wound from my blade. The wound, regrettably, festered (as they often do in the humid Indian clime), and he died the next week.

I will not submit to any Parliamentry punishment for the offence of dueling. My conscience is clear on that matter. However, as ever, I shall honor without hesitation any decree from your Royal House.

I do not wish to have relayed this news along with my observations of the East India Company and the Raj. However, I feel I must, or else I should be held dishonest in the eyes of any who may read this letter. I hope that it will not distract from my plea that this madness, this “mission of civilization,” receive the scrutiny it deserves, and that the farce may be ended so that the Indian may be treated with the dignity he deserves.

Your Loyal Vassal,
Lord William Cornelius Northbrook

Match was of two minds facing this obstacle.

He set his jaw and narrowed his eyes, pretending to be annoyed, biting his tongue and finding words. He needed a few minutes…

Whatever you do, do not hesitate.

… to find his course.

The burly woman standing before him was the Black Baron’s personal assistant. She was his bodyguard, his servant, and an extra pair of hands whenever he needed a subject held down on the study table. Today’s subject must be already dead; she was outside the room, in this dark little stony antechamber, as a polite reminder that the Baron was not to be disturbed. Not by visitors, not by intruders, and especially not by his sellswords. What was he paying them for if not to deal with interruptions to his studies?

In a way, it was a blessing she wasn’t in the room with the Baron. That meant there would be a chance to get by her, deal with the Baron in his study chambers—he was a frail old man, and the business should be fast and quiet—and then leave, all without having to fight her in these alarmingly close quarters. But Match was struggling to come up with an excuse to get past her.

“It’s as urgent as urgent gets. The Alliance has organized its swords, and they’re on their way. The Baron must know.”

The woman scoffed. “Baron, huh? You whelps learning some respect, finally?”

You know what this means.

Match’s mind started racing. “Baron” was a mistake. This blonde, hairy-chested warrior he had fought, bested, and whose face he had stolen must have had few compunctions about sneering at his employer in the woman’s presence. He could keep up the farce… but could he recover? Could he make her less suspicious that something was wrong? Even if he did, could he convince her to let him into the damn room? Probably?

She was uncrossing her arms. That was bad. She probably thought that blondie was acting all nice to get close and double-cross the Baron, and she was getting ready to bounce him, hard.

So, yes, Match knew that that meant.

He uncorked his aggression. With a sudden motion of his wrist, his secret arts sapped her strength. He grimaced, and a dread presence sneered at her from another realm, through Match’s eyes, cornering her mind in the dark, deep recesses of animal fear.

The blade appeared in his hand, and it came down hard. She still had her instincts, and she reflexively swatted at the blade to try to deflect it. She was rewarded with a deep, wicked wound on her arm. She flailed with her other hand, smacking Match hard across the side, but it was too late. As she recoiled from the pain in her mangled arm, Match slew her.

The hard part was done, at least. Had he done it right? He had failed in his original ploy, but when he changed tactics, he had done so ferociously, and he had taken full advantage of the surprise. That had been the Master’s latest lesson for him. He could think more about that later, but for now he had to act quickly. He tore open the door, took two swift steps through the little room to the old man in the black robes, and hefted his blade overhead…

… and felt ice in his heart. There was a hilt in the Baron’s hand, and a three foot length of cold steel plunged into Match’s chest.

---

Match woke up, panting. After feeling his lung collapse, his extremities go numb, and his life drain out on the floor of the stone room, every breath hurt like a hundred knives in his chest for a minute or so. But eventually, feeling returned to normal. Match was whole again.

He slid off his cot onto the wooden floor, taking a moment to allow the strength to return to his legs as the building’s old joists complained beneath them. He walked over to the window and pulled open the dusty, faded red curtains. The morning light flooded in to the little domicile. Match leaned onto the sill, taking in the warm summer air and watching as Neverwinter came back to life in the streets below.

---

What did you learn, young one?

“I underestimated the target.”

And?

That gave Match pause. He thought. For seconds. For minutes. He had learned long, long ago not to give the Master any sort of half-thought or half-hearted reply.

“I do not know.”

You must learn. You cannot wield force in every situation.

Match thought and thought. He knew this was a bait of some sort, but he couldn’t suss out how. His best option was to reply with his honest thoughts.

“I did attempt to pass the assistant without slaying her. I failed, but I do attempt to improve my deceptions and disguises, Master.”

Fool boy. The lies you told were as brute and as low as they come. Do you understand now?

Match understood immediately. But he waited. He liked to reinforce the impression that he thought carefully about the Master’s castigations. He took the extra seconds to pick carefully over his words.

“Yes. The assistant was instructed to let no person bother the Baron during his studies. I found a face she would not kill on sight, but that did not change those instructions. Attempting to pretend I had urgent business was a lie that was brute and without finesse.”

The nameless shadows were silent. That did not bode well for Match.

“I should have…”

QUIET, BOY. DO NOT WASTE OUR TIME REPEATING YOURSELF.

Match shut his mouth. He suspected that no matter how long these shadow dreams lasted, it would be an insignificant expenditure of effort and attention on the part of the Master, but he knew better than to give voice to those thoughts.

Do you know why you train, boy?

“I am alike to a squire. I learn and serve that I might become alike to a knight.”

You have given that answer before. Have you a better one?

Uh oh.

“No, master.”

You are alike to a squire, and you will be alike to a knight, it is not wrong. But you must know how you will be dissimilar. Why do knights fight?

“For their honor and for their liege.”

These are so many falsehoods. Some fight for social constructs such as honor and loyalty. Some fight for gold and glory. Nevertheless, all fight for the same single reason. It is a sibling to the reason you will fight. Do you understand?

“For…”

Silence. The question was rhetorical. You do not know the answer. I will explain shortly, and you will still not know the answer. It is to be hoped that you will learn more truly with time.

All knights fight because the men and women in their way must die so they may achieve their knightly aims, be they honor, loyalty, gold, or glory. Your purpose will be more pure. You will fight because men and women must die to achieve your knightly aims, and your knightly aims are for those men and women to die. Your means and ends will be one, and your mission will be whole.

Match was silent.

Death comes to all, young one. But some, death will find, and others: death will seek. You will do the seeking. You will be alike to death, and you will be alike to a knight.

Match remained silent.

Do not fret, young one. You are afraid of what you must do. You should not be, and you will not be. The shadows of the veil are not evil. Death comes not capriciously. We desire the world to be as it should be, and when you understand, you will, too.

---

Match woke up. He slid off his cot onto the creaky wooden floor. He walked over to the window and pulled open the dusty curtains, allowing the morning light to flood in. Was it warmer today? He was not sure.

Kalas, Dortmund, and Lucine crept through the brush as slowly as they could manage.

Kalas had been up this trail a hundred times in the past. It clung to a steep face in the canyon wall, winding its way upward beneath a thick cover of hardy pines. It was the safest approach to their destination, the foot of the falls in the nook just sixty yards up the way.

But all those hundred times, Kalas been hunting, hoping to avoid the notice of a buck or boar. Today, he wondered if he and his companions would be the hunted.

A small raiding party—not quite a full warband—of orcs had taken these falls for their own, using it as a cache for their stolen goods, a source of water, and occasionally shelter during the windy autumn nights. They had come down out these foothills to attack Hilfal and the outlying hamlets almost half a dozen times now. One man had died, and another had been seriously wounded. The townsfolk were beginning to despair. Just that week, Kalas and Dortmund had spent a long, stuffy night in the town hall, arguing with the village’s landowners before the roaring great hearth over what to do. The reeve had suggested petitioning Colthyr for a knight and ranging party. A profusely sweaty man in an apron demanded that mercenaries be hired immediately rather than wait for an uncertain response from the great city. Several of the farmers suggested traps and schemes of various sorts, proceeding to bicker over the feasibility and contingencies should the traps fail… or succeed.

The height of the frustrations had been cut through by a young woman: Lucine. She was taller than even most of the men in the hall, with thick, corded arms, hair in a tight braid down her back, and searching, steady eyes. She was the out-of-towner staying with Urthia on her way to the north, who, while she waited out the rains that had swollen the Glimmering Run, went about her business as if she lived here, perfectly happy to bale hay for Urthia and cook meals at the tavern for Enaeld, even as she wore a sword at her hip and shield on her back.

Lucine, standing nearest to the fire and looking out at the rest of the townsfolk, declared that the solution was obvious: she would travel to where the orcs were camping and drive them out or slay them.

The hall, for the first time in an hour, was silent.

The man in the apron, Tomald, seemed impressed, but uncertain. “Alone? Against, what, three, four orcs? They’re strong as oxen.”

Lucine shrugged. “Erdas goes with me. But more steel at my side would be wise.”

She gestured at Kalas, the tall, shaggy man who sat in the corner of the hall. “Your name is Kalas, no? Urthia speaks well of your woodsmanship, and I wager you hunt as well. You should accompany me. And I believe the town has an arcanist I have not met. If he is confident in his spellcraft and his reflexes, he should be a great boon to us.”

Kalas wondered if she knew that he and Dortmund had worked the outdoors together in the past. They looked an unlikely pair: Kalas, the tall, hairy woodsman with dark eyes and a bushy beard; Dortmund, the portly, clumsy apprentice mage with a baggy cloak and an easy smile, but Kalas enjoyed Dortmund’s sense of humor, and Dortmund valued both Kalas’s company and his expertise on journeys long and short.

Kalas sized up the newcomer for a moment as the crowd turned to look at him. She meant it. She seemed to be sizing him up back, with a dangerous sort of look in her eyes that ordained action. He nodded.

“We’ll go. Well, I’ll go, certainly. I’ll talk to Dort tomorrow.”

Lucine beamed. He couldn’t help but let it stir a smile in himself.

---

The last few yards of this approach were the most delicate. The route passed over a four foot wide slot canyon, and although the view from the falls was obscured by a thick stand of trees, both the near and the far ledge of the crag were slick and covered in smooth rocks. A slight misstep could send a heap of rocks tumbling down into the slot, alerting anything paying attention at the falls. A not-so-slight misstep could send a person tumbling down the slot.

Kalas felt a tap on his shoulder and stopped. It was Lucine, whispering.

“I can cross that, but in this armor… there will be clanking. Let me go first.”

“First?”

“Yes. If they hear and come around the bend, we want my shield in front.”

“But if they don’t, we don’t want them to see it glinting in the sunlight.”

“True. I’ll hide it under my cloak.”

That satisfied Kalas. He scooted aside to make room for Lucine to squeeze past and find her footing on this side of the slot. She looked over the terrain for a moment, took three quick strides, and leapt the slot, landing just past most of the rocks.

The trio stood still and silent for a heartbeat. Then, they heard what they were fearing, and worse.

A roar blasted through the air in front of them and behind them as one orc, seven feet tall and bound in muscle, thundered around the corner toward Lucine, and another split the trees behind Dortmund. Of course: the orcs had surely used this trail sometimes themselves; they were prepared for would-be attackers to attempt it too.

That was when Lucine first shocked Kalas with her strength. She swept out her shield on her left arm from under her cloak, and rather than reach for her sword with her right hand, she put both arms into a mighty heave of her shield. She caught the orc directly on the chin, and, with a tremendous crash, sent the hulking warrior sprawling backward to the ground. Only afterward did she free her sword, turning to Kalas to meet his eyes.

“I’ll be there soon!”

As she pressed forward toward her momentarily felled opponent, Kalas turned to see that Dortmund had been barely holding his ground against the second orc. The rotund wizard had just inscribed a humming shield of force in the air to intercept a wild blow from the orc’s axe. The magical force held, but the assailant threw a meaty fist around it and cracked Dortmund across the head. Kalas moved up to help, but there was no way around Dortmund on the narrow trail.

“Here! Let me help!”

That was Lucine, behind him. He didn’t look. He knew he had to act, to get Dortmund to the safety of Lucine’s shield. He grabbed the arcanist by the collar and yanked, sending him tumbling backward toward the slick edge of the slot. As he did, he stepped forward with his side sword and caught the Orc by surprise… in the hip. Not what he was hoping for. He was pulling the sword free as the howling orc drove its axe into his chest. His vision split with searing pain and then went dark as he fell.

---

Kalas awoke with the taste of blood in his mouth.

He tried to roll over to stand, but a mailed hand held him down at the shoulder. It was just as well, as his chest throbbed with pain even with the slight turn he had accomplished.

“Easy there.”

He forced his eyes open. His sight was sky blue, ringed by pine trees. The falls gurgled nearby. Dortmund and Lucine knelt over him. Dortmund looked for all the world like a village idiot with an enormous grin and a massive purpling bruise spreading across his head. Lucine, too, was smiling, despite a nasty gouge in her armor that showed crimson on the edges.

Kalas found it painful to breathe and speak, but he had to know anyway. “Wh-What…”

“Shhhh,” replied the young woman. “You’ve been out about a minute. Three orcs dead, one by my sword and two by our friend’s fire. There might be one more out raiding somewhere by the way their camp looks, but he’s like to flee if he sees this.”

“But… Dort?”

His portly friend replied. “Good job of that. You got me right out of the way. Didn’t know you were so happy to take one for me like that.”

“But… I threw… the ravine…”

“She caught me.”

“What?”

“She caught me.”

“You… weigh…”

“Two hundred and sixteen pounds.”

“Yeah, and…”

“She’s pretty strong.”

“What the…”

Lucine shushed him again.

“Shhhhh. I meant it when I said Erdas goes with me. But you fought bravely, Kalas. Keeping Dortmund on his feet took guts, and it gave us our fighting chance. Be sure to remind people of that when you show off the scar. Think of all the free drinks you can get for it.”

Reading the look on his face when she said the word “scar,” she answered his question before he had to summon the strength to articulate it.

“I have mended your wound some, by the Gods’ grace. Enough for you to rest, breathe, and walk, and it should heal fully. But a few weeks’ rest will do you good. And not too much ale.”

“What good fortune that Hilfal should find someone like you at a time like this,” Dortmund quipped.

“What good fortune that Hilfal should have folk like yourselves! All men and women of good hearts can fight evil. They need only be bold enough to do it.”

Cathaoir squinted into the darkness, sick with fury. He found his eyes eager to seize any form, any target moving in the shadows.

The minutes crept by, filled only with the somber song of the crickets and the frogs. There was going to be no ambush tonight, Cathaoir knew. They had chosen their site to avoid just that. They had camouflaged their tents and doused their fire; they had secured their food and set their normal watches.

And yet, despite the effort that the Oakheart adventurers put in—the work that they always put in—to avoid ambushes by night, Cathaoir couldn’t help but hope that the fey and their hounds would come anyway.

He leaned back against his tree. sighing quietly at himself. Why? Why was he so worked up about this? He had seen his fair share of foul deeds before. When bandits tried to extract a “toll” from him near Taemorden, it had hardly bothered him. They were immoral cutthroats, sure, but their bloody-minded greed was just another professional obstacle for him. The orcs at the temple were possessed of otherworldly malice, but it was also simple, within comprehension in most ways. But what he had seen just today…

It’s just so hard to find good help these days.

The fey woman regarded him sourly, one hand on a sword hilt-deep in a woman’s neck and the other upon her own chin. While the serving woman gurgled her last breaths in bewildered agony, this fey monster wore an expression of minor annoyance.

Annoyance.

Maybe that was it, Cathaoir decided. Mortal men who murder do so guiltily. They sulk in it, wearing their guilt as a cloak, or they bury it, allowing it to claw out their heart from within. Orcs revel in their murder, gleefully tearing their victims to shreds and embroidering their rapacity into gruesome war-songs. To meet a creature that, quite apart from men or orcs, would regard murder as an inconvenience—aware, somehow, of its gravity but refusing to respect it—would rattle anybody, surely.

But that didn’t quite explain why Cathaoir had nearly stripped his sword’s pommel of leather by gripping it so hard.

He realized what he was doing and passed it to his other hand, shaking the feeling back into his numb fingers. No, there was something more. The serving woman. Surprised, struggling. Desperate. Dying. It was ghastly to look on, to see her so helpless before her uncaring tormentor. It was disturbing. It was wrong.

It was wrong.

The word hung over Cathaoir as his mind quieted and the sounds of the summer night returned to the fore for a brief moment.

Cathaoir was used to right and wrong, but he knew it mostly as a cudgel wielded by the greedy and the sanctimonious. It was wrong, they said, to hunt the game claimed by fat rich men who would chase it with twenty men on horseback and twenty more hounds. It was wrong, they said, to refuse to worship. Even when this cudgel of theirs swung in a righteous arc, upon cheats and murderers, it was swung blindly, smashing the redeemable and the wretched as quickly as it smashed the wicked. And the only thing that was right was to be mediocre, meek, accepting of arbitrary punishments.

He bore the deep bruises of this cudgel; he knew right and wrong all too well. But this…

This was wrong.

Cathaoir’s heart, his mind, and the pit in his stomach all agreed. This was wrong, and it had to be fought.

He put his sword away. There would be no fighting tonight, and Amanodel’s watch was coming soon. All he could do for now was be well-rested for the coming battle.

The ceiling of the hall was ringed with paper lanterns, swaying as the wind and rain rocked the little wooden building to and fro.

They shone a soft, dim light on the people gathered below them. Just shy of three dozen men and women sat on the mat at the center of the room. They wore all manner of clothes—the roughspun cloak of the landed farmer, the leather boots of the traveler, the silk vestment of the successful merchant, and the threadbare shirt of the pauper were all on display—and all manner of uneasy expressions on their faces.

The nervous murmur was silenced at once by the creak of the wooden door in the front of the room, followed by the soft pats of silk slippers on the wooden floor as the Mandarin entered the room. Like all other Mandarins, she was tall, imposing. It would be proper to say that she “wore the Mantle well.” Her scales were a deep crimson, shot through with streaks of glittering gold, and the jet black surcoat of her station hung straight from her shoulders to the ground. Sewn onto the coat’s chest was a broad square, into it embroidered a blazing red-and-yellow torch.

Followed by her attendant, a sharp-looking woman in a forest-green tunic, she stepped onto the dais at the front of the room and turned to face her audience.

“Good evening.”

She paused. It was a formality—none of the poor souls before her looked to be in the mood to return the greeting—but it seemed appropriate nonetheless.

“My name is Lóngzhi. For those who have traveled here from elsewhere, I am the Prefect of the South Pass. I administer justice here on behalf of the Shining Emperor. But that is not why you are here. You are here because I am also a Torchbearer for the Huǒjù Jūn, chosen for my military aptitude and for the South Pass’s constant challenges with the Demon-touched.

“I’m sure it’s been a difficult few days for all of you. When you decided to take the oath of the Huǒjù Jūn, you had to say goodbye to your families and friends. You have had to come to grips with being, legally, dead. Many of you have had the bittersweet honor of attending your own funerals. You have been dispossessed of land and property, and your closest personal ties have been severed, replaced with the strange and distant reverence reserved normally for long-gone ancestors. And, as you all know, your difficulties are not going to cease any time soon. So allow me to extend, to you, a melancholy welcome. You are now the Huǒjù Jūn. You are the Army of the Torch, the fire that holds back the darkness.”

The Mandarin unfolded her arms and began to pace across the dais. Every eye in the room followed her.

“To your old family, you are dead. Everyone copes with that differently. Some grow to consider their comrades family. If you wish, I welcome you to consider me family—you may call me by my personal name, Zhi Zhao. We will have a lot of time to get to know each other over the next several months. I will see to it that you are trained, clothed, fed, and armed before you assume your final duties. And for as long as you survive this strange un-life in pursuit of those duties, you are welcome in South Pass to rest, and you are welcome to my counsel.”

Zhi Zhao opened her hand, palm upturned. Her attendant placed a wound-up scroll in her long, claw-like fingers.

“I should also mention that your duties in the Huǒjù Jūn may not be what you expect. Many of you have likely heard the famous ballads and poems of the great warriors of the past. And, indeed, these great works of art speak beautifully to ancient truths. But they concern themselves with grand battles, where armies thousands strong crashed against each other in battles for the soul of the entire Empire, times where the elite and noble Huǒjù Jūn saved all the Empire’s armies from certain defeat. And there may come a time when we rally the Huǒjù Jūn from every corner of the Empire to do just that. But until that day comes, you will work, day in, day out. You will range through the forests and in the valleys and across the mountaintops. Whether it is six, a dozen, or a hundred of you at a time, you will ward the darkness from the fringes and from the heart of the great Empire.”

Zhi Zhao began to unravel the scroll. Her golden eyes scanned the silent crowd before her.

“It is time to take the oath. Rise.”

The Traveler’s Almanac

Themmory Gesler

For my dear friend, Wonder

Traveling

Travel, my friends, takes many forms. Our feet may take us for miles and miles. Or we may ask a beast of burden to pull our cart, or bear our weight, thereby altering not only our speed, but our perspective on the land around us by insulating ourselves in the comfort of the wagon or raising us to the height of the saddle. Or we may allow the mighty or the placid waterways to guide us gently to their own destinations, even if they do not match our own exactly.

I, myself, prefer to travel by foot, as I am not a man in a hurry. I begrudge not my peers who choose the other modes, but I will say that the long, slow toil of a journey on foot brings rewards beyond compare. Seeing the world and its wonders at eye level has given me experiences and perspectives I could not find anywhere else.

I hope to share those experiences, that perspective, with you, friend. For not all people have the pleasure of travel. The humble farmer can go years at a time, spending untold hours mending tools and minding fields, unable to leave the land alone without someone else to watch it. A King’s agent may find themselves sent far afield, but are just as likely to find their duties anchor them in one place in perpetuity. If I can share a glimpse of life on the road with them, I will. I must!

And for those of you with the opportunity: I wish to entice you to don the boots and take to the roads. I hope to provide some guidance to keep you safe on the dangerous and wild paths, and to bathe in the riches of the Gods’ world.

Care

Traveling is dangerous.

It is known that the wilderness is not as safe or easy as the comfort of hearth and home. The rigors of travel may cause injury, far from rest and treatment. The buildings and neighbors that normally surround us are not at hand to shield us from the whims of fate or the fangs of predators. If we are to be travelers with any sort of longevity, we must exercise care and vigilance.

Never travel alone where it can be avoided.

Nobody who wishes to live longer than for the a week travels alone. The emissaries of kings are sent with entourages. Merchants travel in bands with mercenary escorts. Even warriors take the road in cohorts. Humble travelers would be wise to find one of the aforementioned groups to travel with.

The lone traveler is left in an unenviable position. They will be lucky to survive a week-long journey, to escape the great beasts of whatever clime they find themselves in, the bandits, or the wights. A month-long journey alone should be considered, practically, impossible.

It is said that during the height of the Ivian League, any man or woman with healthy legs could travel from Hyngvar Rock to the last waycastle on the steppe unmolested. It is said that maps of the League marked not just the cities and towns whose allegiance belonged to the League, but shaded the entire land with color, as if it were fully controlled, administered, and protected by the league’s legions. If such a thing were true, it would be incredible. But, regardless, this is not the case anywhere in the world now, even in the Sleeping Empire.

Where

There are innumerable places one may find themselves, and to try to catalog them all would obviously be quite impossible. But it is possible to describe in brief the sorts of things one might encounter.

The Old Forest

The Old Forest is perhaps a misleading name. A traveler in these realms may expect to find a wide assortment of geographies, from the scrublands to the east to the high seaside ridges in the north and the colossal Antillayan Range in the south. Primordial forests and deep marshes and lush river valleys and rolling hills may all be found here, as well as rocky expanses and arid plains. But if you walk far enough from all of these places, you will find yourself amongst the ancient trees. And so, we might consider this all one great plain dominated by the trees, who have deigned to allow some exceptional terrain in their midst.

The Kingdom of Anteianum, in the heart of the Old Forest, is where yours truly calls home. It is one of the traditionally considered Seven Kingdoms of Men, home to people of all shapes and sizes but founded and constituted by mostly humans.

The humans of the Seven Kingdoms settle mostly in their modestly-sized cities and hinterlands. Farming hamlets cluster together, usually no more than a day’s journey from each other and a few days’ journey from the nearest town or city. A Shire may occasionally be found amongst these hamlets—far enough for seclusion and to separate the crops, but close enough for mutual aid. These little rings of civilization are separated by wide swathes of wilderness—sometimes run through with roads (especially where the roads of the Old League may still be found, even if half buried), sometimes marked by a recently passing company or army, and sometimes utterly unmarked.

They are an abundantly multilingual bunch. The common language of the south, that any man or woman may be expected to speak, is Orsinic, the language of the steppe, as the nomadic Orcs have historically facilitated so much of the exchange (of people, things, and ideas) in the Kingdoms. But there are three other languages that may be commonly encountered on a journey through the Kingdoms: Nirthyn, the ancient language of Hyngvaryr; Carthian, found in the south and east; and Bryn, the native tongue of Bryniach. The Shire folk, naturally, speak their ancient language, but also often the language of their neighbors and a smattering of Orsinic.

Law in the Seven Kingdoms can be said to be administered by the cities. The Kings and Queens are the ultimate arbiters of justice, and all seven exert direct authority over their throne cities. But the particulars of how their justice is extended to other cities is complicated. Some cities are held as baronies, counties, or duchies, and as such their law flows more directly from the local nobility—subject to some level of oversight (or interference, should you see it this way) by the Crown. In the hinterlands and on the road, expect law to be more distant, although decent people do still hew to it when realistic.

The Seven Kings and Queens derive their authority, ultimately, from Ae, the Goddess of Grace. As the Messenger to the Heavens, she crowns the monarchs at the resplendent Solium De, bestowing upon them their mandate and authority. She also offers them counsel, it is said. And it is also said that, while it has been a long time indeed since Ae has raised the sword, she would do so should one of the Monarchs exceed their bounds.

The other principal people to be found in the Old Forest are the Old Folk: the Elves. The Elven tradition is to build villages that hide in the treetops or in the shade of wooded knolls, villages that are nigh impossible to find but in the favorable lighting of a particular time of day and only to the most studious of observers. It is said that the ancient birthplace of the long-lived Elves was a great and primordial world of magic (not hard to believe, given their otherworldly carriage), and that these hideaways bring them closer to that home. Most of these villages will welcome travelers who are sharp enough to find them and willing to respect the sanctity of the places, but be wary—villages that have been wronged in the past sometimes feel little need to treat visitors with any sort of deference.

The Antillayan Range

Travel in the mighty Antillayan Range, south of the Old Forest, is exhausting and dangerous in all of the ways one might expect, and more. The countless mountain passes and waypassages and sprawling underground cities—the old and the new—are claustrophobic, confusing, and unfamiliar. Just as I advise you never to travel alone, I advise you never to brave the mountains without a mountain-dwarf at your side. A dwarf born and raised in the mountainhomes learns an incredible intuition for depth. Just as a man may learn to shoot a bow or hurl a spear with a sort of reflexive accuracy, a mountain-dwarf understands whether a tunnel heads for the surface or for below, and how much farther one might expect to travel before cornering or reaching a destination: a skill that is absolutely necessary in order to survive extended travel in the depths.

The mighty Antillayan Range to the south is home to many of these Dwarves. The stout and hearty folk of the mountains were, millenia ago, said to be created (alongside the Half-folk) to be the servants of a Demon Prince, to mine his gem and ores for eternity. But they threw off their chains, cast down the demon prince, and now have claimed their heritage for their own. The great and storied clans of the Dwarves can all trace their lineages to the original miners of the Antillayan Range, and that range is where many of the clans stayed.

Civilization in the Antillayan Range is quite a bit different than civilization in the Kingdoms. The mountain-homes are grand, impossibly grand, but also very far apart. Rather than a modest city with a sprawling hinterland, the typical settlement is a thoughtfully architected, tightly constructed monument to planning and diligence. Their underground cultivation of crops must be central and efficient: while the mountain clans have made mining into a way of life and thus become exceedingly good at it, it is still a costly endeavor to clear enough stone for the crops needed to feed a city.

And these cities—dizzyingly tall, made rich by the wealth of the deep—are home to the clans. There are dozens of great clans in the Antillayan range, most of them tracing their lineages back to one great figure or another from the Age of Heroes. The greatest of these heroes are those who fought at the Anvil of Dawn. They emerged from the battle with the respect and gratitude of their peers, and were accordingly afforded power within the councils back in the mountainhomes. Power, of course, begets power, and the legacy of these great heroes is that their families, and the bloodlines they issue and relationships they cultivate through marriage and trade, form the cornerstones of society in the mountainhomes.

Law is not thought of in the mountainhomes the same way it is in the Kingdoms. Law is not, as it is in the Kingdoms, an edict that is respected because of the Queen’s authority which is respected because of Ae’s Word. Law in the mountainhomes is perhaps best thought of as a system of honor and respect. The laws of a clan’s home, so long as they are just, are to be respected, and to disrespect them is an slight, to flaunt them an insult. Should you insult your hosts, you may find that they wish to exact punishment, and that your own family would rather you bear that punishment honorably than to deepen the emnity. The effect of this is very similar to law in the kingdoms—if you violate the law, you may find yourself punished—but visitors in the mountainhomes have, at times, described the judgments rendered and edicts issued variously as “capricious,” “lenient,” “passionate,” and “abrupt.” Understanding the nature of these laws, I hope, may help a traveler avert a nasty surprise.

The Dwarves and those who live with them (many humans, halflings, and Orcs do, although the taller folk occasionally find themselves struggling to navigate the alleyways of the dwarf-built cities) speak the ancient language of the Dwarf people. This language is related to that of the Shire, that Dwarves and Shire Halflings find themselves able to conduct business with each other, haltingly, each speaking their own native tongue. The Dwarven merchants who trade the bounties of the mountains with the Kingdoms and the Orc bands have very often mastered those languages, having, in their old age, traded with successive generations of their counterparties.

The Thoran Veld

To the east of the Old Forest, the last of the trees gives way to brush, and finally, the last of the brush will give way to the Thoran Veld, the great green and amber expanse at the heart of the South. It is deceptively dry and, owing to the incredible distances, difficult to traverse. To navigate the Thoran Veld, one must seek the aid of the peerless horsemen who call it home.

Those peerless horsemen are the Orcs of the Thoran Veld. They constitute the greatest force on the southern continent since the fall of the Ivian League. The great bands of orcs ride the Veld, grazing their livestock and perfecting their archery, hunting the fantastic game and the deadly predators of the grasslands. Should you wish to cross the Veld, try to find one of these bands. They are nomads, and many of the erluks (the groups of several dozen up to several hundred who roam together) stop frequently at the trading towns and waycastles of the Kingdoms that border the Veld. Their lifestyle may be strange indeed, but many of the erluks are quite welcoming to settled folk and are happy help travelers across the Veld so long as they promise not to be undue burdens.

The erluks vary widely in character. An erluk might be thought of not as a city, bound by location and fealty, nor a clan, bound by blood and marriage, but as a creed that unites a people. An erluk will have its own riding songs—some familiar to other erluks, but some quite unique. It will have its own values, its own law, and its own legends. I emphasize this not because it is utterly strange—after all, we all know well the differences in the spirit of Orland and the soul of Ferrus—but because the extent of it can be surprising. A hundred-mile leg of journey across the grassland can take on a drastically different character if made with the Hornless Goats as opposed to the Wind-Spirit-Criers.

The orc-bands of the Veld all share a common language, Orsinic, and while they share the language with nearly every other people on the continent, they have elevated its spoken form to an art. Very few know how to read or write—those bands that do possess the knowledge do because they trade often or because previously settled, literate folk have joined their erluk—owing to the lack of need for the skill and the expense of writing materials in a pastoral life. In lieu of that, their spoken stories, and their skills in recalling and improvising from imposingly long sagas, are second to none. I am convinced that the deepest secrets of the history of the South are preserved best not in its crumbling ruins or in a secret wizard’s library, but in the great legends of the riders of the Veld.

The Valley of the King

The Thoran Veld backs up, in the east, to a ragged ridge of mountains, and beyond that is the Valley of the King. The Valley is the most arid place in the South, a desert so dry that the whirling winds blow loose sand for leagues and leagues without interruption. The vistas are remarkable and the beauty of the Valley unequaled, but the lack of food and water—and the cunning and dangerous creatures that have adapted to locate what little there is—make it challenging indeed to find the splendor.

The Valley is so named because, for as long as anyone can remember (and many elves have long memories indeed), it has been ruled by Deshret-Nemes. He is known as the God-Pharaoh and the Old King. The shining city upon the river, the House of Os-Kedis, is brought life by the annual floods that he ensures, and it is brought justice that he personally administers. Unlike the Seven Kingdoms, there is no delegated authority. Deshret-Nemes sees all that occurs within the valley, and he issues all orders to be carried out within his House.

Deshret-Nemes, his might, and his worship certainly warrant a great amount of awe, if only because the God Deshret-Nemes and the Goddess Ae could not be more different, and have indeed gone to war before, but now they and their people regard each other warmly, at rest. But the people of Os-Kedis are not without their own marvels; their art and architecture being quite fine and exotic to one who calls the Kingdoms home. The House of Os-Kedis may be ruled by the God-Pharaoh, but it is made what it is by its citizens, and the great chronicles of the Old Kingdom and the stories that ever trader tell attest to their wonderful works.

The North

I must confess to a shallow knowledge of the continent to the North and the peoples who live there. I have restless legs and cannot bear to travel long distances by ship, I am afraid. But the tales of the north are amazing to hear, and you may indeed encounter the people who call it home on your travels. There is the Sleeping Empire, whose great cities are spread as wide as all Seven Kingdoms’ amongst all sorts of breathtaking terrain (great granite valleys, mighty rivers, formidable jungles, and icy peaks), ruled by a great Golden Dragon-God, Jin-Mao Huang. He is said to be an honorable, but voracious and wrathful, ruler. There are great highlands in the continent, too; ragged and impassable terrain that is home to the Upland Realms and their varied Monarchs, the oldest and mightiest among them known to all as the Iron Dynasty. There is another smattering of of Dwarven clans, their lineages as old as their Antillayan cousins but their separation long and traditions foreign. And there is surely an endless bounty of mysteries that your author has yet to encounter!

Dear Abel,

I hope this letter finds you well. I understand it’s been a splendid growing season for your barley—I wish you a healthy harvest!

I write because I find that the last question you asked before we were forced to part ways has lodged in my mind. I find it, at once, arresting, as if I should stand still to contemplate it deeply, but it also tickles me and spurns my quill to motion. I told you at the time that it was a long story for a later date, perhaps on the day we meet again, but I think it demands at least some manner of answer before then.

You ask, why do the elves live so deep in the forests? Why don’t we build cities of wood and stone in the great clearings or upon the wide shorelines?

Why do we hide?

What tickles me is the myriad ways I could choose to answer that question. So I’ve decided to answer it every way I can think!

The first way to answer your question is that: it is as we have always done.

The Elder gave life to the elves in the Great Garden of Eternity, a place of magic and a place of glory. We were the first of the Gods’ servants to be awakened into life, and in the Great Garden, we were taught to walk and speak and write and learn—and fight. For outside of the Great Garden, the Legions of Abbadon reigned: timeless, formless, endless; evil eternal.

We, mortals and immortals, sortied forth and pushed the demons back into the Abyss, and we began to build a new home in Materia. But Materia was, and still is, a place of lurking dangers. We stayed near to the Great Gardens, our home, our refuge, where we might be safe if the worst befell us. It is the ancient forests of Materia that are nearest to the Great Gardens, and so that is where you find elves.

The second way to answer your question is that: it is as we like it.

It is not an easy thing to say goodbye to one’s home. The great forests of Materia, with their arcing trees and hanging vines, are the closest—in more ways than one—that can be found to the Great Gardens of our ancestors. There is magic in these old, beautiful trees, and magic is who the elves are. If you spend enough time with the elders, you come to a sense that they do not feel like they belong in Materia. They seek the Gardens, they seek the peaceful magic. They seek the solitude and contentment. The old forests remind us of this wonderful place, and also have enough food to sustain us and company to enrich us.

The third way to answer your question is to ask: why does anybody live where they do?

In the Age of Heroes, some untold eras after the elves came to Materia, a great Demon Lord gave life to the dwarves. Theirs was an unhappy birth, into the cruelty of his servitude. But they proved stronger than he, and he perished, and the dwarves and halflings were faced with a similar question: where should they go? The dwarves, for their part, remained mostly in the mountains. Their lives before may have been painful and exhausting in service to a vile taskmaster, but they had the skills to make a more rewarding life out of the mountains, and so they did. The halflings, given slight frames and nimble feet, preferred mostly to leave, finding homes out in the great fields and forests of Materia: the famous shires, themselves as difficult to find as the elven-homes. Their disguised hamlets served to hide them from the roaming beasts and lingering demons of Materia.

And a good thing, too, because within a few scant centuries, the Lord of Agony summoned the Legions of Abbadon once more to invade Materia. It was the camouflaged hideaways of the elves, the sturdy dwarven bastions in the mountains, and the clandestine shires of the halflings underfoot that prevented utter catastrophe in the first years of that invasion.

But hiding would not work forever. That is why one of the brothers to the Elder, the God of the Wind, sang the battle-song that birthed the orcs. They were born to ride the horses on the great plains of the Veld, plain to see, with little inclination to hide. And thanks to their victory at the Avnil of Dawn alongside their cousins, the elves; and their brothers-in-arms, the dwarves, they live to ride those plains today.

So if elves cloister themselves in the trees, halflings hide beneath notice, dwarves carve out mountainhomes, and orcs ride the wild Veld, why do humans settle in cities?

The answer, I fear, is the Wights.

The God of Many Lights, Alxos, brought the humans into being and gave them life: the youngest of the mortals, and perhaps the most vital. It is said that he intended to bring the children of the Gods closer together, and so he commanded the humans to seek, to travel, and to make the whole world their home. And so they did. But Materia is dangerous, and the demons and their foul puppets, the Wights, make it impossible to live out in the open. So the humans huddle in cities for safety, sending out great sorties to protect their farms.

And so the elven tradition of the woods and trees seems very sensible, no? In this, we are more alike than different. We all seek a home that comforts and nourishes us. And in that seeking, sometimes we stray from our relatives. A family of humans lives in our village! I know at least a half-dozen elves who live in the town of Wythe-at-the-Sea, just a few miles from you. A human couple rode with the last orc-band to visit us. But more often than not, home is where we were born. Home is, often, what we know, and what our parents knew, and what our ancestors knew before that.

The apple trees are bearing fruit, soon. I hope to match your barley harvest with some sweet fruit of my own!

• Ilenunas

Acolyte,

If you are reading this, I offer my congratulations. It requires uncommon character and talent to be recognized by a Chaplain and invited to begin the Trials. You have begun a great journey today, seeking knowledge that so many before you have sought and so many after will seek.

Acolytes like yourself may come from many backgrounds. While many acolytes have spent much time previously in worship and learning before being invited to join the College of Apostles, not all have. I have written this letter for all Acolytes, but especially those of uncommon character, who, although not well-read or learned in the Word of Ae, display the moral, mental, and physical fortitude that makes one worthy of apostledom but would benefit greatly from an introduction before being thrust into the Trials.

What you are likely to encounter first, and perhaps have least knowledge of, is the need to understand the function of the Temple of Ae. The Temple is the mortal extension of Ae’s will. Ae, the divine, is powerful beyond our imagining, yet she does not touch the minds of mortals—to do so would be to deny them what makes them mortal and alive. So those of us mortals who have received her light are duty-bound to act on it. And her will, given that she has remarkable power over the earth and the wind and the seas, is that we bear her message, her Word of peace and grace.

The College of Apostles is a body of people. Extremely rarely does it meet all in one place. The “College,” such as it is, is spread across the Seven Kingdoms, throughout the mighty mountain ranges, across the Throan Veld, and over the great seas. At the top of the College of Apostles, there are the Fourteen: the Seven High Apostles and the Seven Kings and Queens. It is the fondest hope of the College that more monarchs and even emperors might be added to this number. The Fourteen debate matters of the Word: how best to spread it, how to protect it, and how to see its edicts through. Yearly, they hold court with Ae herself, to perform rituals and coronations and to receive guidance.

Beneath the Seven Kings and Queens are their Chaplains, and beneath the High Apostles, their High Priests. The Chaplains and High Priests serve similar functions: to counsel their superiors and to ensure that the Word is upheld in the ranks below. The character of their service does differ slightly, however. Chaplains are often called upon to wage war. When they do, they are charged with ensuring that the war is just and conducted justly, and if so, they bring Ae’s own fire to the battlefield. The High Priests, on the other hand, are agents of peace. They bring healing and succor, no matter the circumstances. There are hundreds of Chaplains and High Priests, each answering to one of the Fourteen. The challenge of overseeing potentially dozens of agents on the part of the Fourteen has caused them to introduce certain peerages and ranks amongst their Chaplains and High Priests, but that is a topic for another time.

Beneath the Chaplains and the High Priests are the Champions and the Priests, which you are assuredly familiar with.

In introducing the Temple Hierarchy, I believe I have covered a few of the points of dogma that some acolytes find surprising or difficult. But there are a few more worth discussing.

Ae is the source of all authority in the Seven Kingdoms. She crowns the Monarchs; she vests in them their power to administer justice and raise armies. This is often a source of confusion: why does she not rule herself? Why, if their power derives from her, do they wage war against each other, as Ferrus has against Duranlach? Understanding lies in history. Ae founded the great Ivian League as a bulwark against the conquests of Hyngvaryr, and later, Os-Kedis. She raised the sword and fought against the brutality of war for its own sake. And when the war ended, the Ivian League was peaceful and prosperous. But after Os-Kedis withdrew its last armies, it was not a year before the Kings and Queens of the league were fighting amongst themselves.

Ae had thought she had conquered evil forever, but in fighting her war, she had only turned back one evil while another arose behind her back.

Ae fought against this, but the campaigns were ruinous, enervating. In time, even as Ae claimed victory after victory on the field, the alliances that formed the League fell into ruin, and Ae withdrew into mourning and contemplation. Centuries later, she returned to crown the Dawn King, and she has crowned each monarch in the Seven Kingdoms since. She, herself, has forsaken the sword, preferring instead to see that mortals rule themselves justly and ably. Mortals may fight—they may even war—but Ae herself cannot prevent this without directly touching mortal minds. Instead, she ensures a measure of justice, and has promised woe to those that betray the oaths of the coronation.

The Word of Ae can be complicated. Her world, beautiful as it is, is complicated! But her Will is that we comprehend it, we understand it, and that we live and breathe it. So we shall.

I wish you the best during your Trials. You would not have been invited if the Chaplain had not seen that you would be capable of it.

• Livia, Prime Chaplain of Bryniach

Agents Four and Five,

As I write this, you have yet to receive these “orders” in person, but as you read this, you have. Consider this a reference. Or perhaps a momento. Or a fleeting entry into the logs.

You are to investigate Grobestadt.

That is all.

---

Of course, like the deepening gloam that encircles a camp lit by a dying fire, it’s the context, not the order, that hides the monsters here.

The first of these lurking monsters is that I give you these as orders, written and spoken, which means that I won’t be joining you.

The Polite Company was founded upon the skills of Agents Zero, One, and Two. They envisioned a syndicate of ne’er-do-wells who nonetheless might be a great force for good in the world. They formed a guild that would ply its talents for intrigue and outright duplicity in order to accomplish what honest men and women could not.

Agent Two died in the pursuit of those accomplishments. Some months later, the other two began to reach out to their friends, colleagues, and contacts. They still had a Mastermind and Cat Burglar, and they had a Muscle and a Fixer, but they needed a Face. They needed a liar and a distractor, a negotiator and a coordinator. One of their partners, a royal poet at the Neverwinter Academy, knew someone—a young woman, romantic and idealistic in a much different way than his normal students. While he had many great and talented pupils with passions for the arts and knacks for guile and persuasion, there was one among them who loved her art so much it made her restless. She was eager. She was animated. She burned to be turned loose to work the Bard’s magic upon the world. So, one afternoon, agents Zero and One manufactured a chance meeting with her in the halls of the Academy.

That’s how I became Agent Three of the Polite Company.

And that is how I’d like to continue being Agent Three of the Polite Company. There is still so, so much work to do. There are lies that need to be told and there is leverage to be applied. Agent Zero has ideas and Agent One is back in action. This agent is eager to put her talents to work with them to see the Company’s work through.

The Grobestadt affair, nevertheless, remains of interest to the company. We have no active contract on it, but there are clearly sinister actors at play, and there’s reason to believe the stakes, however hazy, are high. Which brings me to the second monster hiding in these orders: the investigation. There is an element of personal danger and familial urgency involved for Agent Four. The vagueness of the “orders” above are such that you have wide discretion to handle yourselves as you see fit. Do what you need to keep yourselves safe. Do what you need to see to the complications related to Agent Four’s family. And if a time comes such that those are no longer consistent with “investigating Grobestadt,” merely say the word and you’ll have leave to pursue your personal objectives as necessary. I will be in close contact. You will have the support of the company as well as my personal support whenever you require it.

There is one more thing unspoken by these orders. The martial artist and ascetic, Rylo Ken, is likely to wish to join you in your journey to the West, and you are, of course, welcome to accept or deny his aid as you see fit. And, because I do believe this is important and I would feel negligent to withdraw my personal presence without compensating for that somehow, I recommend to you another. Her name is Muarillaithe, and she is—although this term translates rather crudely from Elvish—something of a godmother to me. She is practiced in ancient, powerful magic, and is quite more accomplished in the general art of spellcasting than I am. She is also rather eccentric. Aren’t we all?

The last few months have been enriching. They have been enlightening, humorous, frustrating, thrilling, and fun. It’s been a pleasure to work with both of you, and I hope that you return safely so that we may do so again.

Agent Three

The Dear, Esteemed, and Inimitable Caius,

I’m entrusting copies of this letter to Virgil and to Zero. If one of them delivers this letter to you, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.

You were petrified by a beholder. Zero had problems remembering his last few moments before his little hiatus, so I anticipate you might too. It was quite the scene! And you should see the pose you are being held in. Jaw set, eyes narrowed, one fist on the floor in a classic three-point wrestling stance—if I weren’t me, my heart would be positively aflutter to even look upon such a perfect sculpture. But since I am me, it seems more appropriate that I should set it to poetry.

But… I have no words.

Life has been dull without you. Not dull as a base synonym for boredom, mind you. Dull: robbed of its sharpness. Blurred. Drained of color. My dreams, usually suffused with serenity courtesy my elven blood, are plagued by melancholy. Every morning, I drag myself out of those dreams—sometimes, Virgil has to peck me out of them—but when I have fully escaped their languorous grasp, I free-fall into quite a different mood.

Fury.

You see, this could have been easy. Within a week or so of Zero’s encounter with the medusa, we had located a priest in Neverwinter who was able to restore him to his unusually fluid and animate self. But since we were so far north when you became stone, we thought to take up Ronaldo’s offer to seek audience with Louis Leonardo. But Louis now holds you—your proportional, majestic statue—behind a magical barrier, retaining you as a bargaining chip, promising your return and restoration if we complete his dirty work.

The moment we determined that his dirty work was as dirty as we thought it was, we crossed him, although he may not know it yet. We are the Polite Company, after all. We serve the good folks of this world we all share, and we defy the cruel and the wicked. We could never have completed his tasks as demanded.

So now we’re going to take back our collateral. Our friend.

But there’s more to it than just that.

For asking us to be his ruthless minions and for so callously depriving you of your days as yourself, for prolonging your imprisonment from the beauty of the world, I am consumed with an indignant wrath. I can physically feel it. It wells up from some place just beneath my heart, encircles my chest with heat, and courses down through my arms and into my fingertips. And it has put those fingertips to work. I’ve been drawing up plans for infiltrating the palace in Camelot.

And every single one of those plans spells out Louis’ death.

I read these plans and some distant part of myself, almost as if it were someone else, understands that this isn’t the place of the Polite Company. We don’t exact petty revenge. We don’t even exact grand revenge. When we were contracted to halt the advance of Camelot’s barbarian vanguard and turn back the main body of their army, I anguished over issuing orders to kill King Rell in his sleep, even be it in a battle pavilion just under the walls of Neverwinter. I anguished yet more over issuing orders to kill Lord Rory merely to be rid of his obstruction of the resistance to Camelot. I, thankfully, had to do neither: we faced Rell in honorable combat, and Rory was not enough of an obstacle to necessitate drastic action.

Louis demands no such action. The safest remedy to his threat is to avoid his notice. The most efficient contingency to that is to elude his reach.

But the fount of hate within me, lifting me to action, carries me ever closer to assassination.

We are due to receive a floorplan of the palace soon. When that happens, I will draw on the partial plans already compiled, and I will select one and detail it. I will force myself to plan for only what is necessary to recover you safely. There will be a contingency for disposing of Louis. There must be one.

But I no longer trust myself to carry out this mission with clear eyes for the goal. I intend to appoint Roland to acting executive officer for the mission. And after that? Even if I make it, I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same. I’ve seen a part of myself I cannot unsee, a part which clearly threatens to wrest command from me, and it would be negligent for me to ignore that. So, if you are reading this letter, I want you to lead the Polite Company. You’re among the best I’ve ever known. I’ve never seen hate in your heart. But I have seen resolve and wit. You can—and should—lead where I cannot.

I hope to be standing right there, watching you read this letter, so I can answer questions and urge you to take the mantle.

The world needs you, friend.

-Lyn

Dóin watched the river’s sunlit waters drift placidly past.

He knew well the danger of the peaceful scene, however. The rain-swollen river was deeper and its currents much, much more powerful than one would be given to suspect just by looking at it. And, since their haul was too heavy to carry over the river through the treetops, they had sent someone to look for a suitable ford.

“Your boar went south. South did not look prom—”

“Bain. Bain went south.”

“… Bain. South did not look promising; the bramble grows dense and the current slower.”

As he suspected, his hired hand, a mask-wearing man by the name of Cathaoir, knew enough about the wilds to know that a slower current meant a deeper, more formidable channel. And, like Dóin, he seemed to prefer to remain quiet and alert. But that didn’t mean Dóin had to enjoy the company.

“I trust Bain’s instincts with my life. Now is not the time to doubt them.”

“As you will.”

Half an hour later, as the golden rays of the setting sun slowly inclined through the leafy canopy above them, Bain greeted the dwarf and the man with a rustle and a grunt. Dóin smiled.

Bain gestured with his snout back over his shoulder, and then dropped something gently from his mouth onto the ground—a tattered green banner emblazoned with the sigil of a wicked black eye.

Dóin frowned.

“Interesting.”

“Indeed.”

---

Cathaoir gestured at the crude map, drawn from Dóin’s memory, in the dirt.

“If they’re encamped directly at the ford, they’ll have a vantage on our outbound journey. I don’t like the risk that they might give chase if we slip by.”

Dóin considered carefully.

“They could have their sentries here, on this outcropping. It would offer better view of the ford.”

“… and a worse view of the trail. Possible. It’s just the two of us—”

Bain grunted.

“Three.”

“… Three of us. We can easily make plans for an ambush and call them off if we see an opportunity to get by without the fight.”

“Good. Find a line on the sentries if they can see the trail. Bain and I will deal with anyone else wearing gear first. The rest of them should be easy pickings in their camp, as long as they’re in for the night. I hope you’re as good a shot as I hear.”

“I’m very good. I’ll do my job. But you should know that I’m not going to die for your smuggling run.”

“I don’t expect you to. In fact, it’s good to know I’m not working with a fool.”

---

Dóin examined the arrows in the hide quiver while Bain stalked the perimeter of the camp.

“Rusty. Bent. Bad fletching jobs. It’s a wonder they even still try shooting these.”

Cathaoir, kneeling by a dead orc, replied without turning to look.

“They do often find their targets. They like to stay sharp by hunting game out here, especially off-season when they’re not competing with human hunters. I’m not looking forward to the day an orc marksman gets his hands on a real set of arrows.”

“I suspect he would find himself handicapped, unable to aim arrows that themselves fly straight. Nevertheless: I would plan on shooting first. Best not to find out.”

Dóin heard a sickening crunch, and he turned to see Cathaoir’s dagger hilt-deep in the dead Orc’s chest.

Cathaoir apparently felt Dóin’s eyes on him and replied to the question in his mind.

“They’re very good at playing dead.”

Cathaoir drew an arrow from his quiver as he listened to the two men argue.

They faced each other by a tall pine, standing over a felled buck about fifty feet away and fifteen more below the oaken bough he coiled up in. At first, he couldn’t hear their conversation clearly, but their voices rose with their tempers.

“… clearly an arrow wound. I am insulted that you would…”

“Yeh insult yerself! Look at th’ tear on the belly, ragged and…”

“And clean. Uneaten. Stop playing the fool; you shot…”

“I DID NO SUCH THING!”

The accuser, dark-haired and clean shaven, wore the sigil of the Crimson Oak on the brooch of his cloak and a sword at his side. Cathaoir had met the man before, a ranger by the name of Stafford, who had presumably heard the deer fall. He was a fairly clever man, but too honest by half. His sharp widow’s peak was pointing directly at a similarly-tall man who kept his auburn hair short and his beard ragged. This one, too, wore a cloak, and his bow lay across the ground a few feet away. Cathaoir did not recognize him.

He continued to size the men up from his perch. Stafford was becoming more stern and the accused poacher more agitated, and they were beginning to shift on their feet. The argument could come to blows soon. Stafford was likely to have more training by far and the better arms for a duel. But this wasn’t likely to be a duel. Who would move first, and what would that move be? Would the hunter try to flee, or would he charge, closing into the bloody brawling distance that would negate the longsword’s advantage?

Cathaoir nocked the arrow.

But the rising tension was cut before its climax by a sound that could make a man’s heart stop. Cathaoir smiled.

Just eight long paces from the men, a bear towered over the scene and roared from its hind legs.

Stafford reached immediately for his sword while the hunter dove for his bow.

So that’s how this would be.

The bear, seeing neither of the men back away from the kill, dropped onto its forelegs. It pounded toward Stafford.

Catahaoir loosed.

The bear skidded over the dry leaves a few feet before it lay dead.

Cathaoir nocked another arrow, drew, and loosed.

Stafford yelled. The hunter behind him crashed to the ground. The ranger spun and pointed his longsword up toward the oak.

“MURDERER!”

Just as Stafford prepared to take cover and begin his advance, Cathaoir tossed his quiver to the ground and showed his hands.

“I won’t shoot. Go. Look.”

Stafford stopped and watched, stunned. But Cathaoir gestured again, and Stafford turned to take in the scene.

The bear lay a few feet away from Stafford with a fresh arrow in the back of its neck. But three more wooden shafts sprouted out of its back, their fletchings stripped and torn. The wounds must have been days old. The bear would have been driven to its brazen charge by a desperate mixture of pain and hunger. Then, Stafford saw the hunter. Cathaoir’s arrow had struck the man clean in the chest, and he had fallen on his back, just a few paces behind where Stafford was. He would only have been alive for a few seconds after falling—not long enough to overcome the shock and move from where he lay. And his right arm was reaching behind his back, contorted from the sudden fall.

Stafford kicked the man over onto his side. Under the bloodied cloak, the hunter had been reaching for a shortsword.

---

The ranger shouldered the deer while the interloper carried the pelts. The men had agreed that the poached deer should at least be taken to Oakhart and made use of, and Cathaoir could take his trophies from the bear.

They marched wordlessly for a while. After some time of listening to the crunching of the leaves underfoot and the heavy breathing of a hard, heavy march on a cold evening, the ranger ventured the obvious remark.

“Those were all your arrows in the bear.”

“Yes, they were.”

“You had been hunting it?”

Cathaoir had, indeed, been hunting this bear for days. He hated bear meat, but the pelts were mightily useful and valuable. And while hunting them was still forbidden this time of year, it was usually easier to argue with a ranger over a dead bear than over a dead deer.

So Cathaoir decided to twist the truth a little.

“My party encountered it, and I was able to scare it off with that first arrow. Once I had, I decided it was better to leave my group and make the kill than to leave it wounded.”

“It might have recovered.”

“Or it might not, and it might’ve killed someone over a meal.”

“That is fair. I will not make an issue of it.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I must thank you, too, for your shooting. It was very good and very noble.”

“You should’ve known he would take the opportunity. And besides, it wasn’t very noble.”

“Was it not?”

It was safer to travel with company, and safer yet to travel with company that doesn’t think to stick a sword in you when you turn your back. Cathaoir had shot the man as a favor to himself, not to Stafford. And this was by no means the first man he had shot.

He was in these forests, roaming and hunting out of Oakheart, because he had been exiled from Taemorden. He had failed as a guide—the man he left Taemorden with did not return with him. The young man had fallen from an ill-advised climb and broken both of his legs, and night and the wolves were closing in. The young man would never make it back to Taemorden, and every prayer he sang and curse he moaned brought more attention from the wildlife and more mortal danger for his guide. So Catathoir had killed him to silence him, and he had buried him to disgsuise his smell before he climbed into a tree for the night.

When he returned to Taemorden, he admitted his crime. A search party would find the body and its arrow wound eventually, and it was better to be seen as a murderer than to be seen as a murderer and a liar. For that, he was exiled and not hanged. He still wears the brand on his left cheek, over which he wears a mask. The mask that he tells most people is simply for the warmth.

He decided to twist the truth again, smiling beneath the mask.

“No. I’m told it’s not very noble to shoot a man from the high ground.”

“You look lost, friend.”

The masked man—peculiar, to wear a mask over his mouth and nose even in town, unless—no, nevermind. The masked man shifted in his seat to lock eyes with Allis.

“Oh? I know exactly where I am,” he breathed through the mask.

“Oh, no, no no. No, you do not.”

“I’m outside the Floating Acorn, drinking a sour wine, waiting for the sun to set while the First Flower festival procession passes by.”

“And you are lost, friend! A man of such darkness out here in the bright daylight. A man in the bleak winter of his life who, though he knows it not, seeks the bounties of spring!”

Allis pulled out the chair across from the masked man and had a seat. That caught the man off-guard. It always does!

“My name is Allister. What’s yours?”

“… It’s Cathaoir. What do you want, old man?”

“I want to know why this man, chiseled out of the very glaciers, is drawn so strongly to the first bloom.”

“I know the tavern keeper here, and he serves good wine.”

“And you chose to sit at one of the two tables he set outside, rather than in the empty tavern, where a man of your disposition might ordinarily be found!”

The man’s eyes twitched with realization. Realization! Here was a man that might be willing to turn his eyes upon the truth.

“You know not of my disposition.”

Oh, a shame. He was defensive. Probably to be expected of the ice-man. Not a problem!

“Oh, but I do. You see, there is much knowledge that can be gleaned merely by a man’s eyes, face, and place. You have not yet told me I am wrong about anything, yes?”

Cathaoir replied with bemused silence.

“You see? The facts of your glumness and your proximity to the sweet, mortal warmth of the festivities? In their very contrast they bring answers, and yet, more questions. But questions that themselves are byproducts of knowledge. Questions that themselves must be understood as progress toward further knowledge rather than the lack of it!”

“What if I told you that your senses will fail you, old man? What if I told you that you saw the wrong thing, that your explanation had failed? This ‘glum’ man knows that your eyes will fail you in the wilderness, and so you must not always trust them.”

“No matter. You see, to date, all that I have learned, nothing can be said to be truly inexplicable. The field of stars may change as the seasons pass, and as such new constellations must be drawn—a failed answer means that another one lies in wait!—but never has it—or will it, in my estimation—be truly impossible to see grand arcs above us. Even if many of the stars are invisible without the help of our friends, and even if we see only the tiniest sector of the night sky, even if during the day we cannot see them at all. The stars will be there!”

“… our friends?”

Allister grinned, and he waved his fingers through the air and spoke a few words of power. The pattern was deep and unforgettable.

Three little squirrels, woven from shining light, appeared on the table. Two chased each other merrily, and one hopped up to sniff at the wine glass.

Cathaoir stared.

“Understanding is impossible without them!”

Cathaoir’s eyes twitched again. Realization? Possibly!

“Ah, you had better drink that wine, Cathaoir.”

“… Yes. I can have Tolbert bring you a glass if you like.”

“Oh, of course!”

Agent Seven, ​ I’ve got big news for you. ​ The Rell contract has been completed to the satisfaction of the holders. This means that they’re going to see through the rest of the construction costs on the company keep south of the city. I’m sure you’re the first to appreciate just how much gold flow that opens up for us. As such, I have a few suggestions.

1. Let’s see if we can’t turn this gold into some more gold. After all, upkeep on the keep is going to be a significant gold sink by itself. I might suggest wilderness guide and escort services, especially if I can get Agent Five to take an interest in vetting candidates for the job—by no means a guarantee that she’ll approve of any, but a possibility. Another idea might be services with high entry barriers but low incremental costs: say, smithing for nails and horseshoes. The common folk may be underserved by the wealthy craftsmen who can afford to be in the business.

2. Make some friends among the old landowners. As the nouveau riche, we’re going to face the usual feudal challenges. I have confidence in our ability to field those, especially with my background and Agent Zero’s techniques, but the more tools we have at our disposal the less painful it will be.

3. Hire and train yourself some assistants. Since we’ve never breached this subject before: you have my word that we are not out to replace you. But consider what one of my old teachers at the academy taught about the “wyvern factor:” if an ornery reptilian were to swoop down from the sky and make off with one or more members of your group (they’ve got big talons!), what’s the smallest number of people it could do so with that would cripple your endeavor? It turns out that number right now is one, and we’re not doing our duty to the world if we don’t take care of that risk. Again: you are one of our most valuable, dependable agents, and so long as you keep up your work we will never fail to honor that. But catastrophes happen and we need to be ready for them. And with how busy we’ll be in the future, I thought you might appreciate a higher capacity to take on the challenges.

As always, I treasure your counsel on matters of coin. If you ever believe it may be better spent in pursuit of our quest to better this world, convince me and I’ll be right there with you.

Oh, and by the way, I have yet to expend that 500 gp asset I told you about. Here’s to hoping I never need to.

Regards,
Agent Three

In accordance with a request received by your office dated January 2, 2070, a Level III background investigation was initiated concerning Dr. Samantha Clara Hernandez. Transmitted herewith is a summary memorandum containing the partial results of this investigation, along with copies of interviews providing details of information contained in this summary memorandum.

You will be advised if additional information concerning Dr. Hernandez becomes available.

Sincerely yours, Johnathan M. Baker Assistant Director Criminal Investigative Division

NOTE: This case was opened on January 6, 2070. Dr. Hernandez is currently a practicing trauma surgeon at Virginal Hospital Center in Arlington, VA. She is being investigated for selection into the ALNITAK Program.

SUMMARY MEMORANDUM

Birth: Dr. Hernandez was born on October 13, 2031 in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

Education: Dr. Hernandez graduated from Richard Montgomery High School, Rockville, MD, in June 2049. She received a B.S. in Chemistry from Northwestern University in Evanston, IL on December 14, 2053 and then her M.D. at Johns Hopkins School of Medicine in Baltimore, MD on May 27, 2058. She received a Master’s degree in Chemistry from Penn State University in State College, PA on May 26, 2068.

Military Service: Dr. Hernandez was enrolled in the Northwestern Naval ROTC, and upon receiving her M.D. was commissioned into the U.S. Navy Medical Corps as an Ensign. She completed two overseas deployments, serving at Ourilândia do Norte during Operation Salvar Amazonia and at FOB Kosan during Operation: Ranging Tiger. She retired from the service on February 10, 2066 with the rank of Commander. Navy Personnel Command telephonically confirmed this information on January 8, 2070.

Employment: Dr. Hernandez is currently a employed at the Virginal Hospital Center in Arlington, VA as a staff surgeon. No information on previous employments, besides her military service, was provided.

Family Status: Dr. Hernandez resides alone in Bethesda, MD. Dr. Hernandez’s mother and father, Sophitia Oraya and Joseph Russell Hernandez, are both deceased. Dr. Hernandez’s husband, David Jeffrey Folbourne, is deceased.

Dr. Hernandez listed the following living close relatives:

Brother: Fredrick Duncan Hernandez Brother: Jordan Stefan Hernandez Son: Soren Rafael Hernandez

Based on background information provided by Dr. Hernandez, she has no close relatives residing in communist-controlled countries.

Interviews:

Dr. Patrick Ramsey Rinsler, a practicing anesthesiologist and colleague of Dr. Hernandez at the Virginia Medical Center, was interviewed. He advised that he had been briefly acquainted with her in secondary school but had not been in contact after graduation until she began work at the Virginia Medical Center. He stated that he was unaware of any current or past illegal drug use or alcohol abuse by Dr. Hernandez. He indicated that he has no reason to believe that Dr. Hernandez exhibits bias or prejudice against any religious, racial, or ethnic group.

He further offered that he very strongly admires Dr. Hernandez’s work ethic, describing her as “tireless, to a fault.” When prompted about this, he stated that he believes that she works long hours as a manner of coping with the loss of her husband. He clarified, stating that he didn’t believe that it was avoidance of an unresolved emotional burden; merely that she sought to model her professional life after the Stoics. It is unclear if Dr. Rinsler was being truthful in his defense. Pressed further, he stated that he believes her long shifts and her full engagement at work, and at her activities outside of work, may be having a deleterious effect on her social life. He indicated that he had witnessed her falling asleep at a social function. He hastened to add that believes she has the full respect of her friends and colleagues, and that her tiredness after hours was not severely damaging. Again, it is difficult to know how truthful Dr. Rinsler’s statements are in these contexts.

Dr. Rinsler stated that he believes Dr. Hernandez lives within her financial means, elaborating by indicating that her lifestyle was “understated” and “spartan,” despite her yearly income as a trauma surgeon. He related that he has a great deal of faith in her and believes she is worthy of a position of trust and responsibility.

Mary Elizabeth Folbourne, Dr. Hernandez’s sister-in-law, was interviewed. She advised that she and Dr. Hernandez became very close starting around 2060, when Dr. Hernandez met David Folbourne. She indicated that she has no reason to believe that Dr. Hernandez exhibits bias or prejudice against any religious, racial, or ethnic group. She also stated that she is unaware of any current or past illegal drug use or alcohol abuse by Dr. Hernandez, but indicated that this surprised her. When asked to explain, she stated that she, Dr. Hernandez, and Mr. Folbourne were heavily involved with an amateur theater group. When asked, again, to elaborate, she stated that many of their friends in the group did use illegal drugs such as marijuana, hashish, LSD, and MDMA, especially while attending musical performances, but she attested that she had never witnessed Dr. Hernandez use any of these drugs or any others, and indeed, she had the impression that Dr. Hernandez always refused them.

Ms. Folbourne’s comments spurred further investigation into Dr. Hernandez’s associates in the amateur theater group. Of the fourteen individuals investigated, two have been previously arrested for possession of controlled substances, but none have been arrested for or suspected of distribution. One is a self-described communist and he, as well as two others, self-describe as anarchists. None have any connections to any communist governments or known terrorist or militant organizations. This circumstance was assessed as low risk warranting no further investigation.

Ms. Folbourne commented favorably on Dr. Hernandez’s character and worth ethic, stating that Dr. Hernandez was a loyal friend and highly capable of switching between her roles as a professional, as an amateur performer, and as a companion. She recommended Dr. Hernandez for a position of responsibility and trust.

Twenty-two additional persons, consisting of colleagues, neighbors, professional associates, and social acquaintances, were interviewed. They provided favorable comments concerning Dr. Hernandez’s character, associates, reputation, and loyalty. They stated that they are unaware of any current illegal drug use or alcohol abuse by Dr. Hernandez, nor have they ever known her to exhibit any type of bias or prejudice against any class of citizen or any type of religious, racial, or ethnic group. They also commented that they believe Dr. Hernandez lives within her financial means. They recommended her for a position of trust and responsibility.

Further details concerning the aforestated facts, additional interviews, transcripts, and vital records follow.

“Nikolai to Yankee.”

The radio crackled to life.

“What is it, Commie?”

A loud BLOOP indicated that a third party—mission control—had begun to broadcast on the channel.

“Use your callsigns, you two.”

“да.” “Yes sir.”

“And keep it English on transmissions.”

“Got it.” “Roger.”

They both knew that it was only appropriate to refer to each other by their first names or their callsigns. But this was their twelfth hour of spacewalk training, and just the hour before, they had been informed that their mission timetable was to be accelerated in order to support the mission that was already on the Martian surface. And with that accelerated timetable came, inexplicably, a refreshed set of ridiculous training callsigns (Tundra and Bullfrog), promptly forgotten.

“Nikolai to Yankee.”

When she realized a second BLOOP was not forthcoming, Sam laughed.

“Yankee here. Go on, Red.”

“Suit pressure check? Feeling lightheaded.”

“Thirty-two kPa. All indicators normal. Any other symptoms?”

“Bah.”

Silence.

“Yankee to Red, repeat. Any other symptoms?”

“I read you, Yankee. Am trying to read own pressure. Suspect instrument failure on your end.”

Nikolai didn’t have any pressure gauge on his suit.

“Yankee to Red. Excuse me?”

“I Repeat. Am trying to read own pressure.”

Sam looked up from the instrument panel and leaned over to see out the porthole into the pool where Nikolai was suspended for his mock spacewalk. Nikolai had partially disassembled one of his pneumatic tools and fed a pressure line into a breach in his pressurized suit. He was fiddling with his oxygen apparatus while he did this—apparently, he knew what pressure the tool operated at, and he was trying to deduce the original pressure of the suit by equalizing the suit pressure with the tool pressure and then factoring in the adjustments he had made to get there.

“Yankee to Red. Did you puncture the suit lining to do that?”

“Can be fixed.”

“Red, any other symptoms to report? I see elevated heart rate now.”

“Heart rate up, yes. Gloves tight, hands likely swelling. I know what the low oxygen symptoms are!”

“You probably know CO posioning symptoms, too, but tell me anyway. Feeling chest pain?”

The bulky white spaceman in the pool turned a little bit, almost as if annoyed. Nikolai removed the tool’s pressure feed to the suit and closed a glove over the suit puncture to keep the water out.

“Ah ha, you just have lower tolerances, friend. A little poisoning makes a man stronger. Chest pain subsiding. I think your pressure gauge has failed, I have twenty kPa. Will adjust.”

“Good. Cease activity and report if you feel additional CO symptoms. Actually, cease activity anyway, we should fix the gauge and your suit before control gets down here.”

“Just lay your head down, lassy. Those horns must be heavy.”

“Shuddup, Harold. They’ve been there forever and I ain’t needed to put them anywhere yet.”

“But you do now.”

“And how’dya figure that?”

“Aw, look at yourself lassy. Five mugs in isn’t a good look for—”

“I dontgiveashit how you think I look.”

“… fine. How about this: you need to stop drinking, because you’ll feel like trash in the morning.”

“I always do, you nitwit.”

“That’s my point. What the Hell are you doing? This life can’t possibly be as fun as you seem to think it is.”

“Whaddya mean? I get out. I set things on fire. Professnally. Then I come back, and I reap the rewards.”

She thrust her mug skyward as she stumbled through the word “rewards.” Harold rolled his eyes.

“Your rewards, eh? You called your friend there slime…”

“He’s not my friend.”

“… and you tried to talk down on your other friend by using ‘elf’ as a slur. You know, the one who was either too forgiving or too tolerant of you to notice it? You think she deserved that?”

Tynfi didn’t have anything to say to that.

“Right. Your rewards. I’m cutting you off.”

“I don’t need your fucking moralizing. You’re my fucking barkeep, not my priest…”

“In the capacity as your, ahem, fucking barkeep, I’m cutting you off. And I know what you think of priests, so stuff it. I’m just here to help you out, lassy.”

“Quit calling me lassy.”

Someone was calling Harold away for something in the storeroom. He smirked as he departed.

“Just sit tight then, lass.”

When he was gone, she laid her head down on the bartop.

---

The streets were choked with dust. Three days without rain and constant foot traffic from the recent surge of military activity had kicked up every last loose particle of dirt into the air and hadn’t given it a chance to settle.

Tynfi arrived back at the Brave Warrior that morning coated in that dirt.

Her throbbing head protested against nearly everything, but it failed to protest against her legs as they took her to the nearest seat at the bar.

“Barkeep. Ale.”

The barmaid this morning was Dora, Harold’s sister… or wife? Cousin? Tynfi had never really paid attention. What was important was that Harold apparently hadn’t told her to keep Tynfi cut off. Dora ambled off to the taps.

Tynfi told herself that she was doing this to spite Harold. The thought gave her some comfort. But Harold had turned up the stone, and now she had seen underneath, and she couldn’t shake the thought: what was she doing? Every day she would pick pockets or chase down odd jobs with her misfit companions, a way of life but also, necessarily, a temporary arrangement—a life of crime tends to be fast and short. Every night she crawled into an uncomfortable tavern bed or camp cot. How could she keep doing that without even hope that someday it would change? There had to be something different, a future out there somewhere, be it near or far. But here she was, waiting for her ale, getting no closer to anything.

The barmaid was taking too long. Tynfi slid off her stool and stepped outside, just to be off of the stool, really.

A column of soldiers was marching down the street, visually punctuated by the rhythmic, angry silver glint of their armor as it reflected sunlight through the billowing dust. Tynfi watched as they passed, expecting a nasty side-eye or at least a suspicious glance from the lieutenant at the head. But she saw nothing so lively in any of their faces as they trudged along.

The dust made it hard to see much else. A bird passed overhead. A farmer drew a creaking wagon full of… something… along the road, disappearing into the dust as quickly as he appeared. A wealthy woman in a purple coat passed in the opposite direction, made visible through the dust by the bold pigments of her clothes until she turned the corner. A dwarf with what sounded like a bag full of scrap iron rattling over her shoulder. A portly child nibbling on a green apple. A balding man with a limp and a tantalizingly low-hanging coin purse.

All coming from nowhere and going to nowhere as they passed through the dusty veil.

Tynfi returned inside to her seat, anxious for her drink. Standing on street corners was a surprisingly risky activity for someone like her, and it made her nervous not to be doing something. And drinking was the something she knew how to do.

Dora slid the mug toward her, finally, offering a lazy conversation-starter. “Outside people-watching, hm?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s so dusty out today. Wonder that people can go about their business in it!”

“Doesn’t seem like much business goes on in this part of town.”

“Oh, I think plenty does. It’s just hard to see it cooped up in here, that’s all. And through all that dirt, of course.”

Tynfi, rapidly tiring of this exchange, offered only an “mmhm” in response.

Her ale was waiting for her.

Dear Mother,

A soldier’s meal
Is never veal,
But grain and eggs and water.

The pauper’s lot
May smell of rot;
She dreams her meals were hotter.

While troubadours
Seek wine and whores,
The sacraments of Alma mater,

The bardic duty
To see all their beauty,
Sought ever by your daughter,

Was never a chore
For her love grows more
For all the world has taught her.

Ugh. There’s something there worth buffing out, but I’m afraid my poetic instinct is growing dormant as I write less poetry and more prose. I spend so much time fighting against my chosen form rather than allowing it to serve as a gentle channel for my being.

The amount of prose being demanded by the circumstances will soon pass, I hope. The news from the countryside grows thick and tangled, and I’ve been navigating through it with my friends—you know how the adventuring life is, what with human nobles and kings scrambling to get their affairs in order, especially those that require talents like ours, while events hurtle toward some sort of climax. No, there’s no need to worry, I’m not going to be putting myself in the way of any marauding armies. I’m just doing my best to do right by the people around us, no matter what the men with swords have to say about it.

But I will admit to the other thing you’re always reminding me of. It’s been far too long since I’ve been home. It’s been far too long since I’ve gotten to hear your voice, to try to hone my clumsy, adolescent elvish against your splendid, consummate mother tongue. It gets better every day on the road, but I know. I know that despite my embarrassment at my flailing, that despite your fears that I’d never have enough time to truly learn the High Tongue, we were always truly happiest when I was reciting the Lema a’ i’ Numen… and you would call me a laito sintar.

I’ll be back soon.

Love,
Lyndis

Agent Fourteen,

I’m in receipt of your market ears report. Your customary thoroughness and thoughtfulness of analysis are commendable, and so I shall commend them! Allow me to suggest, though, that Abbey’s comments about Madame Red are rather more likely to corroborate the priest’s story about their encounter than to contradict it. Consider that Abbey is unlikely to offer comment on Madame Red’s generosity in that context unless she is motivated to do so, for some reason, and that a likely motivating factor for a comment is that Red’s frugality necessitates that Abbey wax grateful in order to earn her keep. It’s a possibility to follow up on if you have the resources to do so.

This next week is going to be a busy one. We have a lot of schemes coming together and a lot of leads that are likely to be generated all at once. I recommend that you keep Ten and Fifteen on the market beat, because we need someone of your caliber for a particular assignment in the Court of Wee Jas. As always, you have wide discretion to accomplish the mission however you need, but I’ve had Agent Eight doing prep work this one, and he suggests a middle-depth undercover op. One of you would assume the role of an adjudicator, the other a scribe. I suggest you take on the adjudicator role. It’s the higher-contact role, but it’s also far easier for you to command the op from that role than it is to do so from the scribe role. Work with Agent Eight. He’ll walk you through role adoption, maintenance, and contingencies, and he’ll be by your side throughout the op to cover for any breaches and to reduce contact risks.

He’ll also give you a more thorough briefing on the primary and secondary objectives, but to get you interested: we have reason to believe that some of the adjudicators in the court are not held to the same unimpeachable moral standard as the rest are. It naturally makes one wonder if there is a core-periphery dynamic at play or if there exist outside influences on the court… but until we can get some trained eyes and ears in the court, it is merely speculation.

Just the sorts of possibilities you like to explore, no?

I understand you have reservations about undercover work, but this is a case where your keen analysis is going to be needed during the op to determine likely leads and to make pivots. You’re one of our brightest, Fourteen, and I think you’ll pick up the art of cover sooner than you think.

Plus, I know you and Agent Eight have a particular chemistry together. Don’t worry, I’m offended by neither the spark of your affections nor the covers you keep them under, and Hell, I encourage both. What’s the point of all the work you do for the world if it’s for a world that affords you no love?

Just don’t let it get you caught.

Regards,
Agent Three

Agent Zero,

I won’t ask you for help, because I know exactly what you’d have to say about that. But I do know that you’ll listen.

Lord Rory continues to prove intractable. I can hardly believe that he is a true believer—his rhetoric slices like a politician’s, and his gold flows like a mercenary’s—but his motives are impenetrable. His position as a theologian-adjudicator means that he rules by fiat and so he can and indeed should remain completely opaque to his underlings.

I intend to meet with him tomorrow disguised as Fiery Val. I hold desperately onto a morsel of hope that forcing him off balance by blasting him with a commoner’s back-talk (Fiery Val’s specialty!) might allow us to peek underneath his theological edifice.

But that’s just what it is: desperation. Boss, you know best what happens when we’ve exhausted our other means. But exhausting our other means has never made us desperate before, because we always had you to make the final call. But how can I make the final call? I’ve killed people, sure. What mercenary hasn’t? But I’ve never given an assassination order. I’ve helped get you into and out of places to do the deed, true. But I’ve never suffocated a man with his own pillow. I’ve never administered lethal poison to a lady’s wine. I’ve never given Caius the orders to do anything quite like that.

You’ve done all of those things. But how can I? My soul recoils against this. I’ve tried writing the words alone, at my desk—the first drafts of a plan to sneak Roland and Key into Lord Rory’s estate and allow them to complete the assassination as they see fit. The words come and the ink dries on the parchment, but when it comes time to sign it and show it to the Company—to make those words mine, my orders, my will—my heart quails, my quill drops, and my resolve sickens.

Is my conscience making a coward of me? Or is my conscience merely warning me off a hasty course of action, like a bone-chilling wind dissuades unprepared travelers from a frigid bog? Perhaps I just do not see the path around. Perhaps we need not murder Lord Rory to ensure the armies of Neverwinter are prepared for an assault. But how long, then, can we spend searching in the weeds? When is it that groping around for the alternatives becomes more dangerous, and perhaps even more unforgivable, than bloodying our hands? And, worse, when the answers to these questions are unknowable, how must we act?

Boss, you should have named Caius to lead the company during your hiatus. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this. But do not fear that I will shirk my duty to the Company and the world. I’m going to soldier and overcome my misgivings if I need to. Because I know that’s what you’d have me do anyway.

Professional Regards (and a hardly-professional level of respect and love that I’m sure you’d roll your eyes at),
Lyndis

My Dear Meliathara,

Following three rainy
Days on the road, muddy
Boots sloshing, hearts pining
Feet tripping, roots breaking
Rhythms of thought under

Sunlight
A gentle ray
The moment’s rest beneath
His gift, a breath, respite
Joy, but unintended?
Might he know the grace ‘neath
His own incandescence?
His lot: a curse to bless?

Feet tripping, roots breaking
Boots sloshing hearts pining…

Do you like it? I know my Elvish is dreadfully clumsy, but I adore its poetic forms, so I thought I’d try to borrow some of their rhythms for a poem in the human tongue. It’s a first draft; I need to hammer on that second stanza, at the least. I’m certainly open to suggestions.

The experience is partially autobiographical. Write what you know, they say; I’ve known nothing but rain for a week. Even the single ray of sunlight is a fiction, actually. The poem was inspired by a moment of hopeful daydreaming, broken cruelly by a wayward root that nearly sent me sprawling into the mud. Not even an actual moment of rest.

Speaking of sprawling into the mud, I should love to introduce you and father to my new traveling companions. I know I’ve already written reams about Zero and Caius—I swear, someday we shall make proper introductions—but I’ve met three more! First, Roland. I think he’s rather like the kind of person you warned me not to associate with. He’s young, very young, and full of a rage. Not the rage of a wounded bear-mother or a hungry lion, but a very human, mortal rage. And he has magic baked into his flesh, seemingly still hot from the oven. Then there’s Key (pronounced more like “Kay”). She’s an Elven huntress, and she is possessed of the animal fury, the singular, unrefined and undivided purpose. Zero wishes to refine that purpose, which should be an amusing project. I wonder, though. We met her in a human town, and her mannerisms… has she no village? No Tel?

I know, I know… you would disapprove. Please don’t be too upset! This life is what I’ve always wanted. I want to see the unseemly and the dangerous just as much as I want to see the beautiful and the awe-inspiring. I earnestly believe, and have already begun to hear, the music in both of their lives. They will not hurt me—beneath the anger and pain, I believe they sing the same melody I do.

I know you’ve been at once so supportive and so concerned. I owe it to you to come back in one piece, and I intend to.

Well. Maybe not just one piece. Remember a week ago I wrote about familiar spirits? I completed the calling! I met a spirit in the form of a beautiful raven. I call him Virgil. He has this prodigious wingspan, and his plumage is that beautiful, silky blue-black that just can’t be captured in paintings. But I can’t help but feel a little confused. The familiar spirit that heeds the calling ought to be familiar, no? I didn’t expect him to be, well, him. He can be so grumpy and blunt and annoying. But I don’t know what it is. I love him. I just want to stroke his wings for hours on end, and I can feel how much he feels happily at home on my left shoulder and how it pains him to be any further away from me than that. I don’t know. I want to find out what this says about my own soul. But now, I have a dear friend, and his name is Virgil, and someday soon you shall meet him.

So, now, what’s this about father having found your secret flower beds? Surely you were aware that you can’t hide anything from that man! Expect them to be filled with those bright blue mushrooms again within the week. Did I ever tell you he once brought me along to help him find the mushrooms for that prank? That was the time he got bit by the snake! He made me swear to never speak of it. Well. I’m not exactly speaking of it, now am I?

I’m writing this on the third day of what might be a two week or so journey through some small villages. I’ll find a way to deliver it as soon as I can!

Love,
Lyndis

The City

The City is the enormous, sprawling feudal capital of the Kingdom of the Northern Reaches. The Lord Count and his Barons form a distant, self-serving governance while lesser nobles profit off the labors of the common man, who must band together to protect themselves from those dangers which lurk in the shadows.

Fortunately, those people have heroes. While a population of 6 million will certainly harbor its share of murderers and psychopaths, it gives birth, too, to mighty heroes: beacons against darkness and rocks against the tide.

Against these struggles, day-to-day life plays out. Tradesmen and laborers earn their silver, merchants turn over gold, and nobles host balls and feasts. Exotic travelers come and go with their goods and stories. Rumors spread, and songs are sung. There’s never a dull moment here in The City.

Geography

The City is vast, covering roughly 200 square miles of land in dense construction. Most permanent residences are confined within the tall, solid city walls. Since The City has expanded over the course of several centuries, first westward and then eastward from the earliest settled city center, a network of gated walls cuts through the city, partially separating districts.

Apex

The city center, called Apex, is the wealthiest fifteen square miles of the city and is situated at the northern end of a hilly ridge. Buildings are tall, vaulted, stone masonry constructions decorated with dark paint, golden ornaments, gargoyles, and stained-glass windows. Just shy of a fifth of the population is wealthy and titled—a fat chunk when compared to the other regions of the city, whose nobles are vastly outnumbered by commoners. The streets are clean, wide and well-lit, even at night, and the guards and Hammerhearts wield most of their influence here. After all, this is where the Lord Count lives. But Apex is not without its dangers: its wealth attracts the most ambitious of the city’s wicked, and it culls them, leaving behind the most cunning and the most deadly.

Tarcken

West of Apex is Tarcken, the next-oldest region of the city. Buildings are mostly of grey stone construction interspersed with ancient wooden edifices that have managed to stand the test of time. With so many of its city blocks having been rebuilt over the years, newcomers find the streets to be meandering and confusing. The people of Tarcken are generally the savviest and usually have intimate knowledge of their home neighborhoods and of the peoples of The City. This produces something of a paradox: many of the most infamous lowlives and scoundrels are born of Tarcken, as are some of the most notable do-gooders and well-liked public figures.

West Quarter

To the west of Tarcken, beyond a wall called the Doomwall, lies the West Quarter, a broad swath of ruined city inhabited by the hungry, roaming undead. Venturing beyond the Doomwall is, officially, illegal, but the town watch has better things to do than to stop adventurers from embarking on such suicidal expeditions. Few remember the disaster that burnt down the West Quarter and left it to rot in undeath—only the oldest of living elves can recall the incident from their adolesence, and its true cause a thing of myth.

Masonrise

Upon the ridge south of Apex and east of Tarcken is Masonrise. The streets of Masonrise are generally more orderly than that of Tarcken and even cleaner than Apex’s. But what sets Masonrise apart from the rest of the city are the homes of The Guild and the Council of Light and Honor: the first, a league of tradesmen from nearly all lucrative trades, legitimate and illegitimate, which has its fingers in pies all over The City. The second is the religious heart for the faithful in The City. The people of Masonrise are defined by these two organizations: they are either steadfast in their loyalty to one or the other, or they grumble bitterly about both being so pushy so close to home.

Schwarzstadt and Eldeim

East of Apex are the twin boroughs of Schwarzstadt (Black City) and Eldeim. These are relatively new additions to the city, founded some years after the disaster in West Quarter, and they amount to a sea of wooden buildings of all sorts: tall manors, little hovels, stout inns and crowded slums. Very few of the people in Schwarzstadt or Eldeim are wealthy; most are common laborers or craftsmen. The dense sea of wooden shops and residences is pocked by open markets and squares, where people of all types meet for business and play. A little over half of the population of The City resides in Schwarzstadt and Eldeim. With such a dense, relatively poor population, the streets are dirty and oftentimes dangerous. Schwarzstadt has earned its name for its tall, interlocked buildings that create several levels of city, some of which never see the light of the sun. Eldeim is sometimes considered, even before Apex, the heart of The City for being the meeting palce and crossroads for nearly every type of mortal being imaginable.

Redgale

Bordering on Eldeim (to the north) and Masonrise (to the west) is Redgale. Redgale is the most recently settled quarter of the city, having been constructed and occupied only in the last century. Most of the city’s recent migrants live in Redgale, making it a confusing mishmash of humans, orcs, elves, and their thoroughly interbred offspring. They find themselves universally mistrusted outside of their corner of The City, branded as theives and adulterers. Their presence, to self-described “natives,” is toxic. But their money is not. Shopkeeps and innkeeps may keep a close eye on customers from Redgale, but they will grudgingly do their business with them all the same.

The Wilds

The six million citizens of The City must be fed somehow, and so The City is an island in a sea of farmland. Rows of wheat and fenced pastures spread as far as the eye can see, and they spread as far as the eye can see several times beyond that. Travelers can journey outward for days without a change in scenery. Then, suddenly, they will find themselves in The Wilds.

The Wilds are an expansive, uncharted realm of dark forests, misty bogs, and wind-swept plains. They teem with wildlife and danger. Many men and women, over the years, have embarked on expeditions into the deadly wilds, in search of treasure, glory, or knowledge. Some set out alone. Some leave with the sponsorship of a lordling and his armed entourage. Many never return. A few do, and a select few over the years have returned with extensive charts and notes. And yet, invariably, those charts are incorrect: sometimes, so disastrously so that dozens of hardened and armed explorers are doomed by their guidance.

The scant few tribesmen of the Wilds that appear in The City describe their home as a place of spirit and wonder. They say that it can sense the travelers that seek to conquer it, and it deems them unworthy. If pressed for more, the tribesmen invariably reply, “you would not understand.”

The Undercity

The city, by anyone’s reckoning, is very, very old. Hundreds of years of history have a way of pushing structures downward. Beneath the cobble streets of the city, especially in Apex and Tarcken, lie forgotten relics of the city’s architectural past. Naturally, these make great hiding places for predators and thieves.

A popular rumor amongst taverngoers is that there exists a complete underground network of streets and tunnels that can carry a skulking thief to any street in the city above. The town watch insists that most tunnels down below should have caved long ago, but the idea persists.

The Thieves’ Highway

They never look up.

It’s a bit of lore shared amongst lowlives, vigilantes, and anybody else with more than a passing need to travel quickly and avoid notice. People on the streets, save those who are extremely alert or are trained to do so, seldom pay attention to the rooftops. So those rooftops, with their lack of traffic and preponderance of chimneys, balconies, overhangs, and banners to hide behind, make the perfect avenue and the perfect getaway. The town watch will, at best, reluctantly post archers for public events and near important places. The Hammerhearts usually refuse to have anything to do with heights like those.

Some of the more famous avenues of the Thieves’ highway are:

• Black Street, in the heart of Schwarzstadt
• The Rook’s Tour, a line across the Redwall, up the Golden Wall, down the Silver Wall, and into Masonrise or Tarcken. Most often, the journey is actually made on buildings near these walls, but occasionally a young thief is dared to travel on the walls themselves (which are, of course, manned at all hours)
• Old Town Way, a loop around some of the more popular establishments (among rogues) in Tarcken
• The Fool’s Run, from Masonrise through the wealthiest districts of Apex, made exceedingly dangerous by the sloped, ornamented roofing in Apex and the personal mercenary forces in the area.

Society

The peoples of the city.

Languages

The major languages spoken in The City, in order of prevalence, are Kingsmannen, “Footstep,” Aldruthi, and Elven.

Kingsmannen (its name descended from “King’s Man-Tongue”) is a dialect of the broader human language family. It was made the official language of King Altrecht’s realm immediately following his conquests, and has functioned since as the primary language of The City, in which almost all business is conducted and most personal conversations held. Of the languages spoken in The City, it has the longest history and deepest body of literature. It is generally spoken at a deliberate pace, featuring closed vowels and crisp consonants.

“Footstep” is the nickname given to a hodgepodge of slang and loanwords borrowed from every conceivable language and used by quite a few of The City’s locals—and many of its criminals. Its main influences are Kingsmannen and the raw tribal orc language of the wilds, from which it derives most of its grammar. It is particularly useful for being difficult to pick out of a noisy crowd, as most of its phonemes sound very similar to those of ordinary Kingsmannen.

Aldruthi is another human dialect whose history is less well-studied than Kingsmannen. It is a distinctive language, spoken with rapidity and flow by its native speakers: the men and elves of the Wilds. Speaking it is a surefire way to earn the distrust of anybody within earshot, for not only is it the language of such a prominent group of outsiders, it is also rumored to be the language of deep and forbidden magic.

Finally, High Elven is spoken amongst the Barons and Count while entertaining. No true court functions are carried out in Elven, but that may be the reason why it is so popular with the nobles: it demonstrates that they speak at their own whim and not under compulsion of the King or his court. High Elven is thought to be a distant ancestor to Aldruthi, preserved in its body of poetry and literature, read by anybody with a classical education but spoken by a scant few.

Races

The City is mostly human. The nobility is entirely so, with the exception of a few notable Barons.

Of the non-human races, the most prolific are dwarves, half-orcs, half-elves, and elves, in that order.

Dwarves are best represented in the merchant classes in the city, which is unsurprising for a race of renowned tradesdwarves and craftsdwarves. Seemingly more often than not, they work on land owned by The Guild or are otherwise connected to it (fostering rumors that The Guild is connected to a thought-to-be-lost dwarven clan, but that’s another story). Most are first-generation immigrants, but owing to their long lives, have been in the city long enough to be welcomed as “native.” They generally speak fluent Kingsmannen alongside whatever dwarven clan dialect they spoke in their old mountainhomes.

Most of the elves, half-elves, and half-orcs in the city have some familial connection, recent or distant, to the Wilds. Most of them are outcasts from the wild tribes, whether by their own desire or not. Like most outcasts, they end up distrusted everywhere. Many of them do little to help that. However, quite a few elves, by virtue of their lengthy lives, are able to establish themselves in communities by spending a few decades learning the local tongue and earning a few friends.

The vast majority of all half-elves and half-orcs in The City are second-generation arrivals in The City: that is, they are born in The City to mixed parents who are themselves native to the Wilds. Nobody is quite sure why this is.

Other Races

Most elves of the City hail or descend from the peoples of the Wilds (“wood elves”), but a few claim not to. They speak High Elven and call themselves the Talunos, usually translated as “Equals,” who respect no kings, no vested authority, and no vassalage. Most in the City, men, elves, and half-elves alike, dismiss their claims that they hail from a great city—an elven city, filled with magic and grace, as great as this Kingdom in the north but ruled by no King—as wild tales. But it’s hard to deny their eloquence with their ancient tongue…

Halflings are something of a misunderstood group of people in the City. They are quite prevalent in the world, settling in hamlets and villages all over, and they have a strong culture of multilinguism wherever they are found. This includes the wilds, where explorers have happened upon numerous villages full of the friendly little folk, speaking fluent Kingsmannen and Aldruthi (as well as another, yet-unidentified tongue), only to never be able to find their way back to them. So Halflings in the City—whether or not they grew up in the City itself—are often mistakenly associated with the Wild Tribes, even though the Halflings of the wilds are a settled folk and the other peoples of the Wilds are thought to be nomadic.

Gnomes are even worse understood.

Tieflings number few in the City, but are seen everywhere because they’re simply so easy to see. The reasons given for their heritage are many and varied, but two stand out as important. The Temple of Pelor’s doctrine holds that the Tiefling heritage was born of one man’s transgression, that all of his sons and his sons’ sons may be tainted by diabolic influence. To them, tieflings are dangerous, unwitting seducers, who may repent by committing to a life of chastity, perhaps even joining the temple. Most tieflings, however, tell the legend that the Great Old King (whose name and realm have been lost to time) brought the curse upon his people in return for immortality for himself.

Dragonborn number even fewer. Despite being spread across the city, they form a tight-knit community, sharing resources as well as stories and gossip in their old Draconic tongue. It is said that in days long, long past, the great jewel of the dragonborn empire of Arkhosia stood where the City stands now. The Dragonborn take great pride in this old tale, but for the most part are well aware that the empire is not about to make a second coming.

Governance

The Countship of The City is a long-standing institution closely tied to the history of The City. Many voluminous histories have been written about them, and they are seldom discussed apart from each other.

The office is traced back to a man named Johan von Schwarclaes, the nephew of Altrecht von Schwarclaes (King Altrecht I). King Altrecht was a warrior who self-styled as a king after rallying the Tribes of the Northern Reach and leading them to conquer their neighbors to the south and east. He consolidated his power over the region by ordering the construction of a castle on a ridge overlooking the Scion River and a vast swath of arable land. This plot of land, known as Schwarclaes Hold, or simply Schwarclaes, became home to a small town that grew up around the castle for the purposes of its construction.

The castle was completed on Johan’s thirteenth birthday. That day, King Altrecht knighted him “Ritterklinge” Johan von Schwarclaes, bestowing upon him a tribal warrior title (Ritterklinge) and the responsibility of governing The City outside the walls of the King’s new castle.

That was in a day when all nobles were expected to heed the summons of their King and join him in battle. It is said that the first Ritterklinge of Schwarclaes to buck this responsibility was a magister by the name of Alfand Richtir, who detested being parted from his studies for years of tiresome warring. So, late in his tenure, he convinced a pair of renowned warriors to go to war in his stead in return for a gift of land and servants (to their families, should they not return).

In the many years following that, the city exploded in size and the titles and lineages of the many nobles grew tangled and nuanced. Now, the most common noble titles are those of Knight and Baron. The Knights are roughly analogous to the warriors of the magister’s tale: they control fiefs in the city bestowed by the Barons and collect taxes and levies from the peasants that live on those fiefs. The Barons (many of whom have inherited titles besides “Baron” but are often called such anyway, much to their consternation), then, own the vast majority of the land in and around the city, pledging them as fiefs to the Knights in exchange for the promise that the Knight shall answer when the King calls upon the Baron to fight. Finally, the Ritterklinge of Schwarclaes has since adopted the title Count, usually rendered Lord Count in the style of the rest of the kingdom.

Today, there are twenty-five established, landowning Barons in the city and hundreds of Knights pledged to their service. At the top of the heap is Lord Count Suttgart, a man with a barrel chest and a fondness for self-portraits. He spends his time keeping his thumb firmly in place over the Barons, who are content to ignore the daily lives of their peasants while they collect their taxes and engage in grand schemes of public one-upsmanship and private intrigue.

The Knights, as a result, have the most direct effect over the lives of The City’s citizens. They are a decidedly mixed lot. Knights with aspirations to higher nobility tend to behave as Barons, leaving their peasants to fend largely for themselves. Some feud with their neighbors. Some raise crushing taxes. Some impose no tax beyond what is owed to their Barons.

Finally, the Throne of the Northern Reach still resides in the King’s castle (with, astoundingly, the same name as it was created with) in the very heart of Apex. It is currently occupied by King Kalwurz II. The King is an heirless man of thirty with a distaste for Lord von Suttgart, his father’s appointment to the Countship, but he posesses little leverage with which to change the situation. He occupies himself with the outlying territories, having given up on exerting useful control over the nobility of The City.

Economy

The bulk of the land in the city (nine out of every ten acres) is held by the various Barons, pledged to the Knights for their fealty, and lived upon by the townsfolk in exchange for taxes paid on their yield. While the Barons and Knights are able to dictate the appropriate uses of their land by their rights as lords and landholders, they do not often do this in practice. The townsfolk are free to pursue whatever vocation will earn them enough silver to pay their monthly taxes.

As a result, The City plays host to a bewildering amount of different activities, both profitable and unprofitable.

Every fief has its share of cobblers, masons, carpenters, innkeeps, and tailors: such are the businesses found in large quantities in any city, by necessity. But each district in the city is said to have its own character, and there’s no doubt that certain professions are more successful in some areas than others. In Apex, wealthy merchants, art dealers, jewlers, and other purveyors of luxury goods and status symbols flock to the wealth of the old nobility. In the older quarters of the city, such as Tarcken and Masonrise, a combination of affluence and tradition supports a flourishing community of musicians and actors, while the bulk of the economy in the districts is supported by carpentry, masonry, and leatherworking. In Schwarzstadt and Eldeim, carpentry is also a staple, but business is dominated by the Scion River. Life in those boroughs is made by shipmaking, the transport of food through the river (which is the cheapest way to get such enormous amounts of grain in from the countryside to feed the city), fishing the river, and all of the unskilled labor involved in those ventures. Redgale, being the home of the homeless and the outcast, is best known for its incredible street performances and exotic goods.

The bulk of The City’s “exports” are the tools and equipment necessary to farm the vast tracts of arable land beyond its walls, though they can hardly be considered exports when the Barons that own those farms themselves reside in Apex. Following that, The City exports culture and military gear to the various other (much smaller) cities in the Northern Reaches.

Religion

The working population of The City is prone to cynicism. There are many people who dream to inspire hope, but the most broadly successful are the faithful of the city.

Light And Honor

The Council of Light and Honor is the body that governs the joint efforts of the temples of Pelor, Ioun, and Heironeous. It was formed centuries ago at the insistence of Deacon Irlen of the fledgling Monastery of Ioun, who saw that the more-established temples of Pelor and Heironeous worked at cross purposes. They were especially guilty of competing for tithes and courting the same faithful nobles for patronage. A Council of Light and Honor, Irlen contended, could cooperatively sustain the temples’ activities as well as coordinate efforts to spread worship throughout the city.

Each of the three temples retains their own clergy and hierarchy, maintains their own shrines, and preaches to their own followers, but at noon on the thirtieth day of each month, they convene a council. At that council, they select representatives for tithing, patronage, and outreach, coordinate festivals, and hold sessions of joint worship.

Separately, of course, the temples are just as important as they are collectively.

Temple of Pelor

The Temple of Pelor is likely the oldest of the temples, claiming that the temple’s first Primarch was invested by Pelor himself at the Dawn of Man. It’s easily the oldest instituion of worship in the city, as the temple itself maintains records since the first services were performed during the construction of the castle at the heart of the City. And, of course, it’s by far the largest in the city, attracting a majority of the city’s citizens over the course of a usual week for services.

The Temple of Pelor stands for, of course, Light, Strength, and Healing, and all the things that flow from those. It admonishes its followers to keep the light in their lives through daily observance, to lend one another strength in times of struggle, and to mend wounds and fences alike. Services are held daily, differing depending on the weather. The most important service, reserved for days of full sunlight, is the Gadur, the gathering of worshippers under the open sky in the grand courtyards that every temple maintains.

On doctrinal and canonical matters, the Temple is unique in that it allows lay landowners (a tradition rooted in the temple’s beginnings in heavily agricultural areas) to participate in formal theological and canonical proceedings. This has the effect of tying the temple closely with the old nobility of the City, and the old nobility of the City slightly closer to its subjects, in some ways.

Order of Heironeous

The Order of Heironeous is also an organization with a rich history going back centuries. They claim that their founding member was one of Heironeous’s Angels, referred to in scripture as Commandant, a being who still serves in the heavens. Therefore, the ranking officers of the Order are the four Lieutenant Commanders, who are said to be granted council with Commandant when Heironeous senses great need.

Beneath the Lieutenant Commanders are the Knight-Captains, a group of a dozen peers, famed for their nobility, martial prowess, and intellect and who are equal in responsibilities. The order they lead strives to be a meritocracy of the highest form, where the hierarchy guides justice, yet any member, no matter the rank, may be called upon to make sacrifice for the greater good.

The Order leads services, sometimes alongside the Temple of Pelor’s, and sometimes specially for Knights and soldiers. All are welcome to join in the worship of Justice and Order, and all are welcome to take up the Order’s banner in the name of Righteousness. But to join the Order’s hierarchy is difficult, requiring a special strength of body and spirit.

A peculiar feature of the Order’s theology is that “Just Kings” rule at the behest of the heavens themselves, and so the King of the Northern Reaches is (roughly) equal in rank to Commandant… and, though they are on different chains of command, the Lietenant Commanders are roughly of equal rank to the Lord Count. The Lord Count, much to nobody’s surprise, rejects this peerage.

Monastery of Ioun

The Monastery of Ioun is, too, an ancient institution, but one that traces much of its history outside the Northern Reach. Fragmentary records and attestations suggest that, while Ioun has always been regarded as a divine entity, her worship and the general traditions of monasticism may have been born in the south, perhaps even influenced by the Talunos. Regardless, the Monastery, and the life of contemplation and study that its members live, are well-established in the City. The Monastery holds sessions of worship and learning daily, drawing a small but devoted following.

The Monastery believes in the power of Knowledge and its use to elevate mortals to be more worthy and more perfect. Its “doctrine” and “canon,” however, are almost non-existant. Instead, the Monastery maintains a vast library of documents known as the Inscribia. Any monk in full standing may choose to add anything to the Inscribia, meaning that a dizzying array of different documents may be found, including histories, poems, recorded conversations, court records, geneaologies, polemics, and even children’s stories.

The Monastery’s central tenet is that the sole source of Knowledge is spiritual truth. Mortal intuitions may be occasionally faulty, but spiritual truth never is, and so all knowledge ought to be derived from moments of spiritual truth—it is these moments that are recorded by monks in the Inscribia.

The Monastery is famed, strangely, for its warriors. One of the oldest traditions in the Monastery is the search for spiritual truth not only in readings and in contemplation, but also in movement and bodily action. Many of these warriors choose to carry out their “Monastic” life in the form of travel, seeking the spiritual truth far afield, someday to return and share with their peers.

The Old Way

Most citizens of The City are faithful to the various Temples of Light and Honor or they are kin to someone who is. Those Temples have theologians, cosmologists, and theorists; and though they acknowledge that the Astral spheres touch and insersect with the Material Plane, they are prone to rendering “religion” as some concept separate and distinct from day-to-day life. Most of the people of The City, then, see religion—their time at worship—as altogether separate from the banalities of their working lives.

The Old Way, however, is a way of life.

The Old Way is a phrase first used in an obscure treatise by a theologian in the Monastery of Ioun to refer to a diverse but related collection of ancient practices taught in the Wilds. Those practices survive to this day, both in the Wilds and secretly at home in sleepy corners of The City (espcially Redgale). For the most part, those practices are mystic activities that are meant to influence the vagaries of fate, characterized by chants, rituals (short and long), invocations of “names of power,” and the use of certain totems and symbols. It is said that, behind all of these rituals and incantations, there is a set of sacred teachings and beliefs in forgotten primordial gods. The Druids, with their secret language, are rumored to be the very keepers of these teachings.

By an official definition agreed upon by the first meeting of the Council of Light and Honor, the term has come to mean ancestor worship, druidism, animal sacrifice, unsanctioned divinations, soothsaying, trafficking with demons, and an assortment of antiquated (and taboo) arcane disciplines. This, of course, muddies the water terribly. The Old Way is considered a Heresy to the Temples of Light and Honor, though the temples have, to this day, not been able to agree on the punishments warranted. The Order of Heironeous punishes heretics by imprisonment, the Temple of Pelor by banishment, and the Monastery of Ioun by mere excommunication. Nevertheless, the legal status of The Old Way makes it a common scapegoat for community problems, and it makes lives difficult for those accused (rightly or wrongly) of its practice.

Secret Society

Many secret and semi-secret societies vie for influence in the City.

Midnight Oil

It was the fifth day since Magdelyn Arhaus’s murder. One-by-one, the town had already hanged four men by the gallows. Somebody had to hang. But not a single one of their deaths had made anybody safer. Each night, somebody else would turn up dead. This time, a grandfather of six; that time, a devoted wife.

Six men, some friends, some strangers, some in mourning, and some merely seeking a challenge, met in a room that evening armed with steely determination and a detailed map of the little town. The legends say that they argued until the sun went down—and then until their candles had burnt down, and then until their lanterns ran out of oil—until, by the dying light of their last lamp, they discovered the solution that had eluded them.

The next morning, one more body turned up dead: a wicked, hulking beast with the upright gait of a man and the fur, head, teeth, and paws of a wolf. The townsfolk found it sprawled across a bed of belladonna upon the gallows.

The Midnight Oil is the oldest “secret” organization in The City, having continuously operated since long before any detailed histories of The City existed. It is a vigilante group that protects the “common citizen” by hunting down “predators”: most often, deadly monsters such as lycanthropes, shapeshifters, and demons that can pass as normal people. Sometimes, however, “predators” can extend to include assassins, thugs, and thieves.

The Midnight Oil makes no secret of its existence, but most of its day-to-day operations are carried out away from the prying eyes of its enemies. Individual members choose for themselves whether to keep their membership secret from others: members of the Midnight Oil are hailed as heroes by the citizens of The City, but public glory comes at a steep price when enemies wait around every corner.

The organization has a flat hierarchy: every member is fully instructed in the techniques and lore of the group and is a peer to every other member. No orders are given, and there is no chain of command. In practice, more senior and more experienced members take the lead, and members generally drift toward duties within the organization that suit them well, whether as investigators, hunters, contacts, or any other roles the Midnight Oil could benefit from.

Being vigilantes, they have a complicated relationship with law enforcement organizations. The town watch, interested more in order than in safety, distrusts them greatly. In the districts run by more jealous Barons, the watch may arrest members on sight. Outside of those Baronies, the outcome of an encounter between the Town Watch and the Midnight Oil depends on the individuals involved, the Knight in charge of the fief, the nature of the Midnight Oil’s recent activities, and sometimes, whether the officer of the watch has had his morning ale that day. The Hammerhearts are arm’s-length friends with the Midnight Oil, admiring the vigilantes’ sense of duty and spirit. Thanks to the terms of their contracts, however, the Hammerhearts are unable to fully endorse vigilantism.

While the group is not religiously affiliated, a disproportionate number of its members are devout followers of the Temples of Light and Honor. In particular, Pelor’s exhortions to spread the light against darkness and Ioun’s teachings of skill and knowledge seem to produce many citizens willing to carry on the vigilante tradition. Nobody is sure whether this is brought about by the shared symbolism, the teachings of the priests, or simply coincidence.

Black Fang

Fane Street? It was horrible. Residents are… were… family of six. Man was a stonemason. Wife and three kids helped with the work. His youngest brother was a priest at the High Temple; lived with them. Not… not any more. I got there, and first foot I set in the little house was into a pool of blood. Everywhere, blood. Couldn’t tell at first how many had been killed in there… had to pick up body parts, then try to figure out which limbs belonged to different people… I couldn’t. Most of the furniture was shattered and sticky with blood; I think some of the torsos were impaled on them. I can still smell the blood. I can’t get it off my boots, I can’t get it out of my mind…

Gnolls, the brutish hyena-men that they are, are not well-known for eluding capture in a city full of enemies and witnesses, nor are they known for cleverness or subtlety.

The Black Fang is a Gnoll Demon cult that defies these expectations. They aren’t a tribe of dumb brutes looking for their next meal and maybe some favor with an otherworldly being. They’re a cunning cult of Demon-worshipping murderers. Their mark is unmistakable: their victims are butchered. The aftermath is sickening to look upon. Most witnesses die with the victims. Those who survive describe, hysterically, the screaming and bloodbaths.

And somehow, they remain at large. They have never been seen all in one place. Vigilantes and law enforcement have claimed small victories by eliminating a three-gnoll cell or apprehending a single cultist, but these victories are soured by the knowledge that the main body of the cult is always lurking somewhere, plotting their next horrific slaughter.

Mana Lords

Once a great white knight in steel came riding down the way, He sought to slay the vile fiends that preyed upon the weak. A grey old man did tug his sleeve and softly did he speak: “Cowards sneak, but Evil weaves the avenues by day.”

Most nobles in the city are content to coast through life on lavish inheritences. Even the more ambitious aristocrats do little more than float their fortunes upon the backs of mistreated laborers.

But not all of them.

Three, in particular, are not satisfied with material wealth: Lord Wilhelm von Tolhost, Lady Alyssa Colvin, and Lord Baelin Blane. In public, they fulfil the roles of their Baronies: upholding the law, attending public events, and actively pursuing political agendas. But, unbeknownst to their subjects and their peers, they practice dark arts deep within the sanctums of their estates.

The Midnight Oil has given them nicknames: the Lord of Whitebone Tower, the Lady of the Astral Court, and the Lord of the Bloody Banner. This is partly a nod to their favorite arcane perversions (necromancy, the Far Realms, and human sacrifice, respectively) and partly a way to speak of the corrupt lords and lady without publicly accusing them of heinous crimes. To level such an accusation against such an influential enemy would be counterproductive and extremely dangerous. And so, no matter how many rumors damn the three Barons, no citizen ever speaks of them above a murmur, and those who have pledged themselves to fighting their evil must fight it in secret.

The Guild

Purchase Order:

• 860 torsion wrenches
• 1720 steel lockpicks
• 200 suits leather armor, ready for tailoring
• 50 suits steel chain, with tabard
• 200 crossbows
• 8000 crossbow bolts, steel-tipped
• 2 jars, roc poison
• 100 halberds
• 5 battle horns
• 2 vials, dust of disappearance
• 500 lbs. hops
• 600 lbs. malt extract
• 700 lbs. barley
• 400 barrels with tap
• 10 velvet handcuffs
• 15 whips
• 100 yards black lace
• 100 needles
• 100 yards thread
• 1 barrel perfume, lily
• 10 bottles oil

Delivery expected within two weeks. (Signed)

The Guild is a business venture, headquartered in Masonrise, capable of providing almost anything that could be asked for in exchange for money. They employ thieves, assassins, mercenaries, spies, bankers, prostitutes, brewers, farmers, blacksmiths, and even common laborers. The less-than-legitimate aspects of the enterprise are never officially acknowledged. Most of them are operated through fronts and run by wealthy people, some commoners and some noblemen, with unassuming pseudonyms.

Being the most significant non-noble landowners in the city, they draw ire from Knights and Barons alike, whose very notions of what is right in society are threatened by The Guild’s existence. But their influence, cunning, and ability to simply lay low in times of trouble have kept them safe from the old landowners.

Their operation is efficient and adaptable, being a distributed hierarchy that evolved from a handful of haphazard alliances. Political infighting within the organization is kept to a minimum by a small group of mysterious people known within the Guild as the “Oversight,” who are virtually unknown outside the guild.

Most citizens interact with The Guild on a daily basis one way or another—they might buy their shoes or food from a guild member, hear their news delivered by a guild crier, work in a shop owned or constructed by the Guild, or merely gossip about the Guild. For most citizens, it is merely another group of people working to get by in town. But the more one learns, the more one realizes just how much is going on beneath the surface… and the more one risks becoming an enemy to the Guild.

Landt Vampire Clan

Elsie turned the dark street corner in a panic, clutching at her dagger in its sheathe. No good: she saw the glint of intelligent red eyes down the alley. She wheeled around and looked toward the rooftops for an easy climb to the thieves’ highway, but she could only see blood seeping down the stony walls. She threw herself into a nearby wooden door, which opened with a crash. It was silent in here. She slammed the door, panting with exhaustion. Then her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she was staring into a pallid, gaunt face wearing the most wicked of grimaces. “Good evening, mortal” it said.

Among common citizens, the Landt Vampire Clan is the subject of rumor and idle gossip. It’s said that, centuries ago, they once ruled The City, growing ever more powerful on the blood of their underlings. Then, a single man, Oswin the Burning Blade, expelled them from the city’s governance in a single year of incredible tumult that finally culminated in Lord Count Orrik von Landt’s fiery demise.

To those in the know, the Landt Clan is alive, if not well. After the Burning Blade cut through their ranks, their succession became muddied, and so now nobody but the Landts themselves know who their shadowy Lord Master is. In fact, few but the Landts even know who the Landts are any more. Their clansmen and thralls—depraved and vile to the bone—lurk throughout The City, sating their bloodlust and biding their time. For someday, their Lord Master may claim the Countship that was his birthright.

Hammerheart

The half-orc, his left hand still balled into a fist, let go of the urchin’s collar and looked around. Somebody had shouted something at him, and he couldn’t tell from where…

“Down ‘ere, yeh big stoopid lug!”

He looked down as the urchin scampered off. It was a dwarf, only four feet tall, but nearly 300 pounds of muscle and heavy steel armor. Emblazoned on his chestpiece was Moradin’s Hammer, and in his meaty right hand he hefted… well, another hammer.

“Yeah, you. I don’ care if he was gon’ take yer gold. It’s our job to keep th’ order ‘round here, not yers. Hear me?”

Two thoughts wrestled in the half-orc’s mind listening to the little man speak. The first was irritated discretion. The second was furious indignance. Indignance won, and he swung at the stout creature with his still-clenched fist. There was a crunch as the dwarf shouldered the blow with steely plate, breaking the half-orc’s knuckles, and a crack as the dwarf hammered the half-orc’s ribcage. There was a thump as the half-orc hit the ground, and then there was silence.

“Ah, yeh’ll be fine in a few hours… Serves yeh right.”

The Hammerheart is a dwarven mercenary company of some renown in The City. They make their bread contracting to the various Barons and the Count to assist where more than the paltry town watch is needed to keep the order—high profile executions, festivals, escorts, and coronations. They make extra gold by leveraging their people’s oft-celebrated smithing trade. They’re professionals, and they’re well-known for honor in the face of adversity and even-handedness in face of chaos. They also have a reputation for being indomitable ale-hounds off-duty.

Raven Watch

Bright sunlight shone down on the square as a curious crowd gathered around the gallows, shuffling and chattering. Nearby temple bells were ringing, and a broad, robed clergyman was administering last rites. But Erik wasn’t interested in whatever poor druid or thug was getting the axe today. His eye was caught on the man in the jet black cloak in the crowd with only his gleaming silver eyes visible under the hood. This strange, dark man watched the proceedings somberly, and despite appearing wholly out of place in the bright sunshine, went unnoticed by the people around him. Erik elbowed the bearded man standing next to him, nodded toward the cloaked man, and whispered, “who’s that?” The bearded man replied, “that, my friend, is the Raven Watch. We don’t really talk about them.”

The Raven Watch is a nickname given to a mysterious group of people whose members wear outifts of complete black. And under those outfits, they have glassy, silver eyes. They don’t speak. Even when present, they seem to have no presence at all—they pass beneath notice in plain sight. They can be seen, if looked for, at all major public events, including executions, tournaments, and processions. They’re also found, watching, in taverns, alleyways, and rooftops. Only they know why they watch and what they’re watching for.

In the few cases where members of the Raven Watch are accosted, the moment they are restrained or harmed, they vanish, leaving behind an empty cloak.

Notables

People

King Kalwurz II

Kalwurz von Stahlstein II was born to King Rodrick von Stahlstein and Queen Maria von Feuerhander and was named after his grandfather. He grew up in the ancient Schwarclaes Keep surrounded by all manner of nobility. It is said he was enamored with tales of honor and chivalry as a child, and he left for the Eastern Territories with Sir Stanley Reddown (a captain in King Rodrick’s armies) the day he became eligible for squireship. He spent his teenage years as a squire and his early twenties as a Knight, immersed in the study and direct application of battle tactics, wartime leadership, and diplomacy with foreign peoples.

When King Rodrick died under mysterious circumstances, Kalwurz returned from the East (now twenty-six) to personally serve in his mother’s honor guard—an extremely unusual measure. One year later, she was taken by fever. Kalwurz was coronated two weeks later, his face clearly still drawn with grief in the public ceremony.

With his extensive and excellent military record, King Kalwurz II has the nearly unanimous respect of his subjects. The Barons and the Lord Count, however, have sensed the threat posed by such strong public opinion, and have taken it upon themselves to flaunt and consolidate their power. As a result, the King has found it difficult to curb the Lord Count’s influence, and he finds that his only real power is over the ongoing military campaigns out East.

Oswin the Burning Blade

Oswin von Feuerhander was born to Sir Arden von Feuerhander and Lady Astia von Eiheir during the height of the Landt dynasty. He was the son of exceptional circumstance: his father was a Knight raised to a position of nobility for valiance in service to the throne, and his mother was the most powerful Baroness in Tarcken. He had the city’s finest tutors in the classics and theology as well as one of the most famous martial instructors in the history of the realm: his father.

The legends describe him as a bright young man, impressing his parents and tutors alike with his rapid progress. Oswin’s parents both passed when he was eighteen, and he disappeared from The City for two years. He reappeared as a mystery entrant at the end of a tournament, where he challenged the foremost knight (and most feared vampire) in The City, Sir Hauer von Landt, to single combat and emerged victorious, slaying his foe with a burning hand-and-a-half sword. Lord Count Orrik von Landt ordered his arrest, but Oswin slew the guards and escaped. Over the next year, he was blamed for the murders of forty Knights and Barons as well as two Clergymen: all bearing the family name (and the family curse) of Landt.

Finally, he caught up to Lord Count Orrik von Landt and laid him low in a battle that burned down one of the oldest quarters of Apex.

After that, he set aside his sword and returned to his Barony, where he eventually married and became known, too, for his patronage of the Temple of Pelor. He died at the age of fifty five, survived by his son.

Places

The High Temple

But Who Will Vet our Vendetta?

We’ve all heard it a million—nay, millions—of times before. The novel was better than the movie! They totally ruined it! It just didn’t seem necessary to dumb the story down so much!

But really. Do we really think that, or do we think that because that’s what we’re expected to think?

V for Vendetta is a comic, one of the all-time greats, published serially from 1982 to 1989 and later in graphic novel form. Alan Moore wrote and David Lloyd drew, and in 2006 the Wachowskis wrote and produced a movie adaptation. But you probably know all of that already. V for Vendetta occupies one of the most well-traveled and fertile crossroads of our modern Anglo-American zeitgeist: where superhero comics (Superheroes! So hot right now), comic book movie adaptations, sci-fi dystopia, and political commentary intersect[^1]. If you haven’t seen the Guy Fawkes mask… no, you’ve seen it, you just might not recognize the name, because really, Guy Fawkes is the least important element of the whole enterprise.

But that’s only why we’re talking about it, why the porcelain mask looms, ever-smiling, over popular culture. But what does it mean? For that, we need to do some reading.

A Bastard’s Carnival

There’s thrills and chills and girls galore
There’s sing-songs and surprises!
There’s something here for everyone, reserve your seat today!
There’s mischiefs and malarkies
But no queers or yids or darkies
Within this bastard’s carnival—
This Vicious Cabaret!

I’ll go ahead and say something up-front about V for Vendetta, the graphic novel. It is pulpy. In fact, a lot of things floating about our pop culture these days are pulpy. Nobody ever seems to want to give a proper definition for pulp, instead offering the history of the term as an ink cloud before escaping into whatever it is they really wanted to say. I suspect it’s because nobody is confident that they really understand pulp. So allow me to be the first to make the attempt and die trying:

1. Adj. Pejorative: trashy, superficial, exploitative, sensational. Among the (many) things that Serious Literary Types think is beneath them and Real Grown Ups insist that they’re too sophisticated for.
2. Adj. Affectionate: sensational, lurid, crass, brutal, over-the-top, crude, unabashed.

You might think the second definition doesn’t sound terribly affectionate. I assure you it is.

Topic sentence: V for Vendetta is a dystopian political commentary structured as a pulp serial that unapologetically observes the conventions of the genre, and that is one of its greatest strengths. This is something that Moore and Lloyd tell us in the very first chapter of the novel. The two main characters, Evey and V, are introduced in the first page. Evey layers on the makeup and slips on a revealing dress in her bedroom while V dons his mask and his wig in a hidden parlor surrounded by bookcases and rousing movie posters. Evey attempts to prostitute herself to a cop, who calls his boys over to join in on the rape before the murder. V quotes Macbeth, literally swoops in, and saves her with tear gas and explosives.

The pulp is strong in the sexual bluntness, the in-your-face parallelism, and the classic heroics. And it doesn’t let up for the rest of the book. One of Alan Moore’s favorite conceits (seen a few times in V and several times again in Watchmen) is to juxtapose speech with action: for example, the bishop Anthony Lilliman gives a sermon about “that wrath which did rain fire from the heavens,” the text of which is overlaid on the illustration of V falling upon the guards out front of Westminster Abbey. The reason I call attention to this particular device is that it’s a helluva blunt instrument. It’s a device that is immediately and extremely obvious to the audience, and a ten-year-old with minimal familiarity with composition could probably explain how and why the author/playwright/director employed it. But we need only embrace the bluntness of the pulp to discover that not only does it successfully convey the obvious message, it also forms part of the novel’s rich thematic texture. To see how, reword what I said before about this particular device: instead of “juxtaposition” and “overlay,” think of it as “saying something while something else is going on underneath.” Put that way, it can be seen as a metacommentary on the novel itself. What Moore and Lloyd are saying, to whoever is listening, is that “things might happen in the comic, but something else is going on underneath. Pay attention!” And the ability to do this is afforded to them by the conventions of the genre and the medium they have chosen. Something that cannot be done just the same in other genres. Get what I’m saying? ¡Viva la Pulp!

And remember, too, drama of the technique. It, and everything else about this book, is striking and dramatic, theatric and vaudeville. All the world’s a stage.

So let’s meet the performers.

What An Awesome Segway That Was

V for Vendetta can be thought of as a superhero comic, but I have a feeling that Moore and Lloyd would chuckle at the suggestion. It’s more a politically grounded character drama whose dramatis personae and their relationships are the core of the story.

V, of course, is the masked-and-cloaked avenger whose character arc is the main plot of the novel. We learn a few things early on about him: he is a performer with a flair for the dramatic. He has a deep love for the arts, quoting Macbeth and Faust and even the Rolling Stones as he pursues his foes. He is sensitive to Evey’s thoughts and feelings, and there’s something nurturing about him, even despite his abiding mystique. Frankly, the more I write the more I’m convinced that V is simply the art of performance manifest.

Anyway, V rescues Evey from the fingermen—the cops—the night he blows up Parliament[^2] and takes her into protection in his home, the Shadow Gallery. Throughout Book One (Europe After the Reign), V abducts and assassinates several members of the ruling fascist party, carrying out his titular vendetta. But my favorite moment is his scene with Lady Justice atop the Old Bailey. He strikes up a conversation with her in the dead of night—himself playing both ends—and admits to her that he has been seeing another woman. That woman: anarchy.

Page 40

This scene is the decoder ring for V as a character. It’s easy to underappreciate, seeing as it’s a monologue that doesn’t seem to move the plot anywhere. But it tells us everything about V, it does so in two and a half pages, and that is so cool. First, the obvious: where once he flirted with justice, now he is wholeheartedly devoted to anarchy. Secondly: V flexes his vocabulary, turning what otherwise might be a silent, contemplative moment into a full blown soliloquy, a performance for no one in particular: V would not be V without the drama. Thirdly, the frames in the comic focus tightly on V’s mask and Lady Justice’s stone visage, as if to equate the two. The hint is that V is a symbol just as much as Lady Justice is herself—something that gets made more explicit throughout books two and three. Fourthly: V is talking to himself. Let’s not forget that. He is possessed of a certain weirdness, a madness—the madness of Hamlet and Lady Macbeth, a madness with charisma, a madness that captivates.

Now that we know a little more about V, we can begin to understand his relationship with Evey. He rescues her from the night and shelters her in the Shadow Gallery, where she gratefully accepts his shelter and comfort. He also takes her under his wing as a student, teaching her about the art lost to the censorious Norsefire regime. She is innocence rescued from the brink—the fact that V rescued her before she was able to successfully prostitute herself is not a narrative accident—and taught to live again. Importantly, despite her closeness with V, she maintains her innocence throughout the novel, including three important scenes: the first after she is made accomplice to a murder and expresses her horror at the events (she had offered to help V unaware that murder was his purpose, his only warning being a reference to Faust when she made the deal). Afterward, V lets her go back onto the streets of London, where she falls in with Gordon. Gordon is a good man at heart, but a criminal, and he meets his end at the hands of a worse criminal: Alistair. And here, the second important scene: she takes Gordon’s gun and is about to make an attempt on Alistair’s life when she is snatched from the streets again (by V, although we don’t know this at the time). Her innocence, again, is rescued from oblivion. Her last test comes after her ensuing, ahem, reeducation, where V offers to finish what he had interrupted:

Pages 176-177

What a line, by the way. “It is as easy as it is irrevocable.”

She declines. Why is this all so important? It’s important because despite that V is looking for a protégé, he is also looking for an opposite and a complement. V needs someone to create a new society in the wake of his purposeful destruction, and talks about this more and more as the end of his mission approaches and he prepares to pass on his mantle (one of my favorite lines: “But let us raise a toast to all our bombers, all our bastards, most unlovely and most unforgiveable. Let’s drink their health… then meet them no more.”). He hopes Evey will be this person, and these scenes show that she is. In true literary tradition, there are some other, visual-and-text-level struts to this complementary relationship, the biggest one being the scene of revelation on the rooftop, post-reeducation, where Evey being reborn into the rain echoes the frequently repeated frame where V escapes from his prison into the roaring flames.

As this is going on and V becomes more and more sure of Evey, his efforts to educate her intensify. He begins simply, by drawing her story from her and assuring her that the fascist thugs of the world are unable to harm her. He offers her his library, an endless stream of quotes from the timeless classics, and even bedtime stories about the Land of Do-As-You-Please. He teaches her about drama and magic. And then he does one of the most famously anti-heroic deeds in all of fiction: he imprisons Evey in a fake concentration camp. You see, V himself was forged in the crucible of atrocities that was a concentration camp, and he believes that the only way for Evey to truly learn what it means to be free is to experience what he experienced. He tortures her, starves her, locks her in a rat-infested cell, and fully convinces her that she has been captured by the fingermen and is going to be executed unless she divulges information about V[^3]. He introduces to her, through a rathole in her cell wall, a letter from a lesbian actress, Valerie, imploring her to hold on to her principles—the same letter V himself received through a rathole in a cell wall all of those years ago.

Page 160

At the end of this, Evey is faced with a test, not of her innocence, but of her resolve. She is given a damning confession to sign that will end the torture and may result in her finding work with the fingermen, or else she will be taken out back and shot. Her response? “Thank you… but I’d rather die behind the chemical sheds.”

The most horrifying part is that it has worked, and after Evey recovers, she thanks V for putting her through the harrowing ordeal. The ethical argument of whether it was the right thing to do—to deceive and subject a human being against their will to intense pain and psychological horror in order to better them as a person—is fairly well-traveled, and until we can all agree on the matters of ethical philosophy, it’s fundamentally unanswerable. But as Evey furiously struggles to understand what’s been done to her before her moment of revelation, she does have another criticism to offer V’s approach: “You’re wrong! It’s just life, that’s all! It’s how life is. It’s what we’ve got to put up with. It’s all we’ve got. What gives you the right to decide it’s not good enough?” Now, given the context of the rest of the book, I’d conclude that Moore and Lloyd deeply believe that even the most painful, ugly steps toward freedom are better than meekly accepting the comfortable evils of a fascist society. But this line is an acknowledgement that the epistemological foundation of that belief is fraught, at the least. Who are we to decide, really? V does anticipate that question, in a way—he’s bringing Evey face-to-face with the other side of the comfortable evils, so she herself can decide. But that doesn’t make what he does before she decides any less horrible[^4].

In the end, the man who goes by V dies, and Evey takes up the mantle. She dons the cloak and the mask, and she begins the great enterprise of sculpting the chaos of post-Norsefire England into the anarchy V hoped for. And in that way, V will never truly die.

To Think the Way He Thinks, and That Scares Me

This brings me to the other important relationship I want to briefly explore, and that is the relationship between V and Eric Finch. Where sixteen-year-old Evey possesses goodness and strength of spirit, Finch is much older and much more pragmatically-oriented. He’s a good man who’s been molded by the fascist society to accept the idea that order is preferable to chaos. We’re introduced very early, however, to the idea that Finch doesn’t see eye-to-eye with the ruling order. His first real conversation with Adam Susan, the Leader, in the novel goes like this:

Page 30

Finch is the investigator (“The Nose”) who is tasked with bringing V to justice after he bombs parliament. He is, narratively, in the best position (besides Evey) to learn about what V really stands for. And he indirectly admits this much, even: “Because if I’m going to crack this case… and I am… I’m going to have to get right inside his head. To think the way he thinks. And that scares me.” As befitting a person tasked to highly cerebral work, Finch is a learned man. In investigating the bishop’s murder, he demonstrates a remarkably full understanding of V’s dramatic devices. He notes that V employs a famous quote related to Charles Manson (“I am the devil, and I come to do the devil’s work”), he recognizes his reading of the twenty-third Psalm, he sees how V makes a mockery of the old doctrine of Transubstantiation, and he identifies Beethoven’s Fifth being played over the recording.

So if Evey is V’s counterpart, Finch is Evey’s counterpart, in a way. Finch represents experience, opposite of youthfulness; he represents understanding of the arts and of society; opposite to receptiveness and new encounters. And while Evey’s transformation is at the forefront of the novel’s conclusion, Finch is more the model of what it would take and what it would mean for a person who lives under fascism to turn on it and pursue freedom. So how does it happen for Finch? Slowly.

Finch’s development is set in motion late in book one when we learn that he had a romantic relationship with Delia, the medical scientist who experimented on V in the camps and who became the last victim of his vendetta. In taking the first murderous steps toward freedom, V hurt someone close to Finch and enraged him. And yet when Finch discovers and reads her journal of the ghastly things she was involved with in Britain’s holocaust, he is possessed by it. He acknowledges that it could well be a forgery, but he cannot shake the ring of truth.

Months later, after a removal from the case thanks to his inability to get along with the new, thuggish head of the state’s law enforcement (Peter Creedy), Finch procures some LSD and sets out to the remains of the Larkhill concentration camp, seeking answers. I’ll admit, my first impression of the LSD sequence was that it was a tropey self-insertion common to people who have taken hallucinogens and feel the need to evangelize their perspective-altering properties, but I now think that’s an overly cynical reading. The LSD didn’t give Finch any information he didn’t already know—this scene isn’t totally a plot convenience—but it did allow him to absorb and experience the camp, his mind already soaking with the awful knowledge contained in the journal. It also functions as a bit of a symbol for our model citizen-turned-away-from-fascism: in order to understand V and to understand the prison he lives in, he needs to partake in forbidden experiences.

Finally, now that he can think like V does, he is able to follow in V’s footsteps to Victory Station.

V, however, has already set his dominoes in motion. The final nudge was to bomb and destroy the tower that contained the state’s surveillance machinery, giving the people of London just enough wiggle room to get outside and meet each other, to begin little acts of rebellion, to come into contact with the forces of order… and for that contact to plunge London into riotous chaos. So by the time Finch arrives at Victory Station, V’s mission is nearly complete, and that is why V allows Finch to shoot him before he limps back to the Shadow Gallery to speak one last time to Evey.

What follows is one of the most ambiguous events of the whole novel. Finch genuinely celebrates that he was able to bring down V and returns to the offices of the ruling party, proclaiming his victory. He didn’t stick around to watch V die, but judging by the amount of blood left by the retreating masked man, Finch figured he wouldn’t have long to live (and he would be right). But when his assistant, Dominic, presses for details, Finch declines. Where did this happen? “I don’t remember. Must be the drugs, eh?” A frame of the Victory Station sign suggests that Finch remembers perfectly well where it happened; why doesn’t he speak? Does he not know that V has more planned, more going on beneath the station? He saw the subway car, but did he not see the explosives beneath the flowers? Does he believe in V’s purpose, but if so, why did he shoot V? Or maybe he simply doesn’t appreciate that the location is important?

I think the most likely reading is that Finch sought to punish V for his spree of murders (and conversely, V knew that he deserved it) but, beyond that, did not believe that the Norsefire regime should know more about V’s plans. Now, why Finch doesn’t believe the regime should discover the station is perfectly inscrutable, and given that I’ve been reading Finch as “the model for a citizen who turns against fascism” it might suggest that there might not be a single, easily identified motivation at play. It might be a gut distrust of authority, it might be a decision arrived at after painstaking consideration, or it might be somewhere in between. Whatever the case is: Finch, knowingly or unknowingly, allows Evey to finish V’s work pushing England over the brink and into a new era.

By Any Other Name

While all this is going on, there are two other threads I want to touch on. The first is the story of Rose Almond, Derek Almond’s wife who becomes a widow halfway through Book One. Her story is a window into the lives of the disempowered: she endures a crumbling relationship with the abusive Derek until he is cut down by V, after which she is courted by the media mogul Roger Dascombe. She finds him revolting and his advances skeezy, but in the end, she is faced with the question: what other choice does she have? She, like much of London, is dependent on the oppressive, abusive regime to survive.

Unfortunately for her, Dascombe is V’s very next victim, and soon we find out that her only recourse is to become a burlesque showgirl at the Kitty Kat Keller club, demeaning work that she hates. Again, we catch a glimpse of the novel’s thematic fabric: she’s an honest woman whose work is a performance. It’s a lurid, sullying sort of performance, but it is a performance nonetheless, and as we’ve seen, the performers and the “liars” of the novel are the ones with the purest of intentions.

Rose’s story comes to a close after her desperation pushes her over the brink and, as part of the mounting turmoil in London, she pulls a gun on Adam Susan’s motorcade and kills him.

The other thread is that of Alistair “Ally” Harper, a Scottish gangster attempting to expand operations in England. Alistair is the worst sort of criminal: brutal and impeccably mercenary. He provides an important counterpoint to the novel’s anti-establishment protagonists we aspire to, as he is the kind of anti-establishment that we hope to never meet. Ally’s thugs are roped in by Peter Creedy to help law enforcement keep its head above the rising tide of chaos in the city, making him a sort of stand-in for the idea that authoritarian governments will stoop so low. But he’s willing to betray Creedy for a raise, and he is hired by Helen Heyer (wealthy socialite and wife of the state’s chief of surveillance) to aid her bid to usurp power from Susan. When Helen’s husband, Conrad, finds out, he and Ally kill each other, completing the parable of the scheming and self-destruction of power.

One scene in particular stands out as representative of Ally’s ethic: following his betrayal of Peter Creedy, Creedy begs Ally to shoot him and put a quick end to it. Ally refuses: why waste the ammunition when his razor will do?

Vicissitudes

But the rest of us here at Culture Conquistadors are talking about Jupiter Ascendant and the Wachowskis. It’s about time I get there, too, isn’t it?

Any time a novel, graphic or otherwise, is adapted to the Big Screen, the received wisdom is that the movie is going to be shallower and in some way a disappointment to the novel’s die-hard fans. I’m not going to pretend that this received wisdom is entirely false. On the most basic level: the novel took me about seven hours to read cover-to-cover, and the movie runs a bit north of two hours. This sort of time disparity is common for adaptations, and unless there is a lot of bloat on the page or a truly unrealistic density of ideas on the screen, it’s safe to bet that the movie is shallower or is at least missing some of the threads that the original author saw fit to include.

But that doesn’t need to mean that the movie is bad or even that it’s any worse.

Accusations on that level, I believe, are often (usually?) motivated by a particular mix of childish signaling games. “Criticizing this thing shows that it is beneath my tastes and therefore that I am to be respected” is a painfully common conversational trope. In college dorm rooms, over dinner, at the water cooler, in line at the store, on internet message boards, everywhere you see empty criticisms offered by people consciously or subconsciously hoping it’ll make them look better. The other element to this is that, since books occupy a higher spot on the intelligentsia’s “culture totem pole” than movies, criticizing the movie in favor of the book also offers a convenient way to signal that one is sophisticated, a world apart from the hoi polloi at the cinema.

In case it isn’t yet clear: I find these kinds of empty criticisms detestable. If you want to engage with our twenty-first century culture/art/entertainment/pop-art by making claims about the relative merits of a novel and its movie adaptation, you’d best be able to explain how you came to that opinion or else face the towering menace that is my literary nerd rage.

So, with all that said? Yeah, the movie isn’t quite as good as the book. But! The Wachowskis went into it with their eyes wide open, and I want to argue that the decisions they made in the adaptation reveal a deep love for the original text, great care taken to preserve (some of) its messages, and great intelligence applied to the enterprise of including as much of the novel’s themes as possible.

Some quick notes on things I liked:

• I was afraid that, despite the movie being rated R, it would soften the corners and round the edges of Norsefire’s nasty authoritarian England. By and large, it did not. It dotingly preserved the pulpy crassness of the novel, even inventing a few of its own brutalities to keep pace (“Percy gives his Beretta a blowjob, Keyes dies in a fire…”). There was only one bit that I can think of that clearly got cut because it was too extreme for movie audiences (see footnote[^3]), and I don’t think it’s hard to see why.
• Superhero comic movie adaptations feature a lot of action porn. V for Vendetta, as a pulp comic serial, includes a bit of action porn already. I’m pleased to say that the movie absolutely did not go overboard with it. Suspense and audience interest were sustained by much the same methods as were employed in the comic without resorting to overblown and overextended action sequences.
• On the other hand, the movie did spend a great deal more time on the fireworks that V produced. Where the comic included only a few frames of towering flames for each of V’s demolitions, the movie extended those into longer sequences, notably the destruction of Parliament set to the 1812 Overture. And that, in my opinion, was a wonderful idea, fitting perfectly with V’s character and the story’s texture. It seemed to me like Moore and Lloyd would have done the same thing if comics allowed them to do it.
• V’s masked face is used often to build tension in the novel: sometimes we can’t tell what he thinks of what he’s seeing until later in the novel when we understand more about him. This mystery is played up by frames drawn tight around his mask, much the same way the frame might show only a character’s eyes. The movie makes great use of this device, too.

And some quick notes on things I didn’t like:

• The movie dwells on Guy Fawkes much, much longer than the novel does. It does this, presumably, for the benefit of American audiences who aren’t used to the symbol of his mask. The problem is that Guy Fawkes himself isn’t terribly useful to the story. Sure, one of the ideas is that he should be celebrated as an anti-establishment figure, but Guy Fawkes was caught up in the confusing Protestant-Catholic conflicts of his time, pursuing an agenda that’s mostly alien to modern audiences. So the more we focus on him, the more time we spend tempted to try to read into issues that aren’t relevant to the story. Really, this comes down to the fact that the comic co-opted a symbol that had somewhat taken on a life of its own, beyond Guy Fawkes himself, in Britain, and it would be best if American audiences could somehow be helped to appreciate that without having to get a history lesson on Fawkes himself. Not that I have any good ideas.
• The language of the movie is updated to contain vocabulary more recognizable to the audiences of 2006. Or, put more cynically, the Wachowskis wanted to take potshots at the Bush administration. For example, much of the state propaganda in the movie took on anti-Muslim aspects, and the state’s news anchor, Lewis Prothero, is recast as a Fox News-esque pundit. Some of the fleeting visuals of the concentration camps showed Abu Ghraib-esque scenes. Evey’s parents were silenced environmental activists rather than closet socialists. It’s a fair thing to do, to update political satire for new times during the process of adapting an old work. The problem is that the movie tries to maintain the symbols and imagery of fascism as well as these modern insertions, and it woefully confuses and dilutes the strength of those themes. The movie could have been stronger by being more faithful to the fascist elements—maybe with some updated visuals, because something tells me riot-police-as-fascists could be done well—but never losing sight that it’s fascism that the story is about. The movie would stay relevant just fine as a story about people and about the nasty things people can do to each other under the thin guise of keeping order.
• Pursuant to the modernization of the story, the movie’s plot is given a standard-issue revelation where Finch and Dominic discover at the end that all of V’s individual targets profited greatly off of some medical science conspiracy concocted at the Larkhill concentration camp. This supplants the movie’s explanation for V’s targets, who all became Important People in Positions of Power by participating directly in the military arm of Norsefire and carrying out its atrocities during the British holocaust. This falls pretty squarely under the heading above of “it conceptually works, but you’re diluting your story,” but I’m singling it out for special attention. I think the theme of people achieving power through a sort of vile, militaristic old-boys’ network is much stronger (and less trite, to someone living in the year 2015) than this new one that’s about money being powerful.

But, as I said before, the body of the novel is contained in its characters’ relationships. So the surest way to see how seven hours becomes two hours is to follow the characters and see how they change.

Let’s start with Evey. Evey is played by Natalie Portman, who gives, I think, a pretty great performance and a serviceable English accent in its pursuit (but what do I know; I’m hardly a movie critic or a Brit). But Evey is markedly different from the word go. Evey is no sixteen-year-old would-be prostitute with little worldly experience; instead, she is a capable young woman with a job in the media office, who is “out to visit her uncle” (later, we learn it was to pay a visit to Gordon, who later, we learn is in need of a beard. But I’m getting ahead of myself!) when she is caught past curfew by the fingermen. She is, same as before, rescued by V, but the dynamic between them is radically altered: she is not content to merely learn from him. She stands up to him more strongly than book!Evey[^5], abandoning V of her own volition after V murders the bishop rather than returning with him to the Shadow Gallery and being dropped off in London later. Movie!Evey is has a much more solid cultural footing than her comic counterpart, being able to engage and recognize V’s classic quotations rather than having to ask where each one originated.

But why is Evey so different? This kind of thing doesn’t happen on a whim. Millions of dollars and tens of thousands of man-hours went into turning that screenplay into a film; it’s unlikely that such a drastic and consistent change in characterization happened by accident. I can think of two main reasons: first of all, there is less time to make Evey’s transformation happen. In the novel, it takes Evey a full year and lots of “screen time” to transform from a scared teenager to an anarchist symbol and creative force for the world. The movie simply did not have time to do the same thing and for it to be convincing. It’s not as simple as sticking in a montage halfway through and calling it a metamorphosis; establishing elapsed time and experience like that requires tens of minutes of screen time to work. That’s a lot of minutes.

There’s a second important reason, I suspect, for Evey’s altered character: Rose and Helen. Rose Almond, unfortunately, is completely missing from the movie, as is Helen Heyer. Their absences do have the effect of changing how Adam Susan must die and how we experience the plight of the oppressed, but they also remove the only other sympathetic, living woman from the story as well as the only powerful woman. Yeah. Without Rose’s voice, the story is being told entirely by men, at least until Evey matures. Without Helen, no women in the story have any control over their own destiny, save possibly Evey. The question is, even if the movie were able to capably convey Evey’s journey as it was present in the novel, would her resolve at the end of the story make up for the first hour and a half of the movie where all of the women are either bit characters, dead, or dying? I suspect the Wachowskis chose to empower Evey early on specifically to ensure that women were not depicted merely as helpless creatures for most of the movie, and I contend that it was an intelligent, heads-up decision.

Moving on: I don’t have a ton to say about it, but I want to note that the fake concentration camp scene is lovingly preserved from the moment Evey is thrown into the cell to the moment she embraces the rain on the rooftops. It is terrible and powerful on film, and that is a great victory for the movie.

But if the earliest parts of Evey’s arc are clipped, so too is the end. In the movie, Evey never dons V’s mask. In fact, the entire end of the movie is quite a bit different. Whereas in the novel, V destroys the state’s surveillance apparatus, in the movie, V mails Guy Fawkes masks and cloaks to tens of thousands of Londoners, thereby allowing them to escape the Eye a different way. The primary motivation for that change seems to have been to allow for the visuals in the movie’s climax, where the people march on Parliament as a horde of black-cloaked Fawkeses and, as it explodes, remove their masks to reveal people of all walks of life, including a great diversity of characters who had actually died at the hands of the regime. It’s a striking sequence, but it means that Evey herself doesn’t fully inherit V. Movie!Evey speaks to Finch at the end to convey the idea that V is more than a man, he is a symbol, and he stands for everyone who has felt the weight of oppression and the call of freedom. Book!Evey understands it differently: V stands for anarchy and his work isn’t over. The people still need a V to make something of the chaos. This statement is a bit lost in the movie, where it seems more like V’s ultimate victory is sealed as Parliament comes crashing down and the people of London commemorate his brave fight by honoring the symbol of his mask.

The entire arc of the movie is foreshortened in this respect. The novel actually dabbles in a bit of revolutionary philosophy, including a frame where a woman is shown holding a copy of The Confessions of a Revolutionary, and more on the next page where V discusses the unfolding events with Evey:

Page 195

This subtlety is missing in the movie, and that is its greatest weakness. The movie retains its anti-fascist message, but it loses completely its anarchic message. All that remains is the Guy Fawkes mask, a celebration of a man who dared to blow up the government. And while that’s a fine thing to retain, it’s a damn shame that the rest is lost.

Finch’s role is largely the same in the novel and the movie, so I’ll pass on over him for now, except to note that Stephen Rea portrays a powerfully sour man. It’s a different look than in the novel, where Finch is more reminiscent of the hardboiled pulp detective, but it’s certainly not a bad one.

Gordon, however, got quite the makeover. In the novel he was an underground booze dealer that Evey fell in with, and in love with, with nowhere in particular to go. In the movie, Gordon is a comedian who runs a slapstick act for the state-run broadcasting company, acquainted with Evey through their mutual place of employment. Book!Evey accidentally finds Gordon after V drops her off on the streets of London, whereas Movie!Evey actively seeks him out after abandoning V with the bishop (neatly fitting in with her adjusted character). After a brief stay with Gordon, Evey learns that: 1) he is an art collector and possesses a Quran that would be his death if it was discovered, 2) he is gay, which would be his death if it was discovered, and 3) he has just produced a bitingly sarcastic act portraying Sutler (the Movie!Leader) as being cartoonishly unable to apprehend V. This goes on to get him thrown in prison, and as it turns out, the discovery of his Quran does get him executed.

It seems that Gordon’s character was transformed thusly to better highlight the regime’s oppression and to account for Alistair’s absence[^6]. Since this is a movie, after all, characterizing the regime needs to be done expediently and with a minimum of awkward exposition, as compared to the comic, which has the time to weave in flashbacks and recollections that won’t seem contrived. I really dig that Gordon was made into a performer for these purposes: he fits right in with the rest of our cast of performers, it was a perfectly natural role for Stephen Fry, and the Charlie Chaplin-esque satire was spot-on. On the other hand, this means that the movie completely excises the criminal element of the novel, and dadgummit, that criminal element was an important part of the greater whole! Ah, but it was less important than much of the other stuff that was going on, and so it was, sensibly, cut.

Aside from the missing themes of anarchy, V is mostly unchanged (“besides the fact that it’s about a hundredth of the weight of a lion and hunts mice and lizards instead of wildebeest, yeah, a housecat is mostly the same thing”). Hugo Weaving is given the most technically difficult role in the movie, to depict a flesh-and-blood man whose face cannot be seen for the duration of the story. He’s convincing, for sure, and his body language, stage presence, and dreamy baritone carry the role perfectly. However: the Wachowskis made some further tweaks to the character. In the novel, V is relentless, even mystical, and he hardly seems human. So far as I can remember, he shows no regret nor any signs of stopping. But in the movie, V has some moments of doubt. Evey leaves, and V angrily tosses his mask against a mirror. Evey emerges from her fake prison, and a slight yet emotive tilt of the head shows that V knows that he has done something vile. Why choose to humanize V in this way? This is the one decision in the entire adaptation that just doesn’t make sense to me. It could be as simple as that he was the male lead and the Wachowskis thought he needed a nudge in the “more likeable” direction for the mass market. Or maybe, with fewer characters and a shorter timeframe to work with, they thought that an easy way to draw attention to V’s darker side would be for him to express doubts over it. In either case, I don’t think it was necessary. The entire point of V’s character is that he’s hardly a man, he’s an idea. And they already went in full-bore on that concept with the scene where V kills Sutler and Creedy (a beautiful bit of pulp, by the way. “Beneath this mask, there is an idea, Mr. Creedy. And ideas are bulletproof!”) Why back off of it, even a little bit? We have Evey to sympathize with, especially now that she has some verve from the beginning. The audiences themselves can decide what to think of V.

In the end, what the Wachowskis accomplished capably what they set out to give us. Well, better than capably. The movie has flair. It’s arresting and inspiring, and it was executed with great technical skill and a clear reverence for the source material. I do wish they would’ve more fully explored V’s anarchist side, but maybe it wouldn’t have worked in a two hour movie or even a two-and-a-half hour movie. I don’t really know; I’m just a nerd on the internet.

In summary: Pulp genius, translated by people with a gift for it to a medium in a way that awkwardly clips its main arc.

England Prevails.

[^1] Producing some truly horrific YouTube comment sections.

[^2] In case you’ve seen the movie and not the novel: yes, you heard that right; Parliament blows up first.

[^3] One of the most disgusting details of this sequence is that, as part of her “in-processing,” Evey is subjected to what is implied to be a virginity examination. This comic does not flinch or shirk.

[^4] Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four also approaches this question. In the end of the book, Winston is reeducated, and he is happy to be ruled by Big Brother, and it is horrible. Like Moore and Lloyd, Orwell despised fascism. But I believe their works all admit that, if one’s foundation for morality is basic “happiness” (as might be suggested, for example, by utilitarianism), these appalling authoritarian governments might satisfy that. I think that idea repulses them, and they would contend that there is—there has to be—a meaning to life that runs much deeper than just “happiness.” In my opinion, they’d be right, and that pushes me toward the conclusion that what V did was justifiable. It’s a truly uncomfortable conclusion to reach. But that is the beauty of literature, that we engage these ugly questions and admit difficult things about ourselves.

[^5] My usage of Exclamation Mark Notation may or may not be primarily tongue-in-cheek. I’ll never tell!

[^6] ALISTAIR IS MISSING. UGH. Possible motives for the Wachowskis writing him out include: they didn’t have enough time to address his criminal themes (which is probably more true than I’m willing to admit); they wanted to avoid the only Scottish guy in the whole story being a murderous crook (the kind of thing that gets heavily scrutinized in big-budget movies; I don’t know whether to give the comic a pass on it or not); they didn’t have enough things for him to do in the story since he mostly interacts with other supporting characters that got cut. Ugh. Ugh! It was almost definitely the right decision, but he was such a great character. Ugh.

Religion

Halfling mythology is best described as vital, wild, and fluid. New stories are told seemingly every day, and it’s common to receive strikingly different accounts of events from two halflings who live on different shores of the same river. Even the relative divinity of a given figure depends on who you’re talking to: Yasmine is a Goddess to some and a demigoddess to others.

To outsiders, this is puzzling and frustrating. But the halflings themselves wouldn’t have it any other way.

The Travelers

There’s just about one thing that just about every halfling agrees about: the great heroes and divines of myth travel. At times, they explore, other times, a few may join each other on the road, and in times of great struggle, they have been known to all travel in a great caravan upon the heavens.

Who they are and why they travel is subject to much spirited debate. Here are some commonalities:

Rondel

Rondel is many things: plump, jolly, drunk (in some tellings, unbecomingly so), flirtatious, kind-hearted, and maybe a little selfish. Rondel, above all, enjoys fun—for himself as well as others—and travels to seek it out. He is not the great hero of many stories, but he is vital to so many of them—he represents comfort, warmth, and spirit, and is a stalwart friend and invaluable support to his comrades.

Yasmine

Yasmine a frequent companion and something of a foil to Rondel. Where he is carefree and gently hedonistic, Yasmine is determined and practical. Yasmine prefers to go where it is difficult to go—in some stories it’s because she has a duty to fulfill, but in others it’s because she simply enjoys the challenge. Despite their differences in outlook, Yasmine and Rondel get along well together, as both have long since found qualities to admire and cherish in each other… though they’re not above the occasional spat.

Jaffrey

Jaffrey, or Jaff, is running from something. Some say he is a thief who has stolen something precious from a more powerful God. Some say he betrayed, or was betrayed, by a friend. Yet others insist that he is being chased by a legendary predator or a sinister evil. Whatever the case, Jaff represents fear, swiftness, loneliness, and thrill, and many a prayer is whispered in his name. He rarely travels with others for long out of fear of endangering those he respects.

Eldice

Eldice is a warrior. Her personality differs radically depending on who is telling the tale, but her deeds are always heroic and she always protects her charge. Sometimes she seeks the fight—sometimes she seeks the fight in less-than-commendable ways—or sometimes the fight comes to her.

Candice

According to some, Eldice is not merely one, but two separate people. Eldice protects the innocent and fights for justice, but her identical twin Candice fights merely for the thrill of fighting and without regard to her victims. Can Eldice and Candice be told apart? Do the other Travelers know of Candice at all? Do Eldice and Candice even know of each other? Only the storyteller knows.

Rokko

Rokko is the friend to the wild beasts. He tames them, or converses with them, or sometimes even lives with them. In any case, he generally prefers their companionship to that of his fellow halflings, although it is said he has a certain respect for them. Some of his greatest deeds have been done at the expense of mortal halfling populations: preventing loggers from destroying forests or hunters from taking great prizes. And this means that to some, Rokko is a hero, and to others, he is an anathema.

Brandti

Brandti is the patron traveler of the homeless. His home has been destroyed by fire, by raiders, by earthquakes, by dragons, by accident, or sometimes by his own hand. By most accounts, he is the least talkative of the Travelers, even more taciturn than Jaffrey. Despite that, it is agreed that he is wise in the extreme, and anything he does say is sure to be something of incredible insight and value. In most tellings, he is a powerful wizard who seeks out magic, for through magic he may finally find a home.

Anna

Anna is the merchant extraordinaire, always about to ply her wares and make new friends. She almost never travels alone, as she constantly seeks out the company of friends and strangers alike. She negotiates fiercely, but fairly. Many storytellers even claim to have met her themselves—a claim not often made of the other Travelers.

A Note on Theology

Human listeners are often struck by the diversity of stories told and the outright conflicts between two tales concerning the same God. How can both be true, they ask? Surely one of the storytellers is mistaken. But the truth of the halfling divines is that their lives are not singular. They travel through the planes, through time, and through media unknowable to mortal theologians. Their lives encompass all that is told about them, their forms are ever-changing, and they are quite beyond mortal comprehension.

At any rate, they do have a sort of clergy in our world—their storytellers—and who are we to question their word?

Esteemed Seeker,

You are a bold one indeed to initiate such an inquiry! Our Order respects that, despite our rather significant differences theologically. You will note that I insist on the truth of what I write; Exus is a mighty warrior and is our God-Guardian; however, as one theologian writing to another, I will adopt a slightly more academic manner, out of respect for my peers on the mainland.

I will begin with the doctrine of the Temple of Thania, as theirs is the older position. In their readings, the Temple decided (long ago, in councils whose documents are woefully lost to time) that Thania alone occupies the pinnacle of Godhood, and that, while she is not per se the font of godhead, she is the lone divine capable of deposition: that is, the death of another divine. She proved these capabilities with the deposition of The Mother and Father, Cyra and Ralis. Attempts were made by the other divines, Exus, Iva, and Hral, to jointly depose Thania, but they were unable, as the very act of deposition is one of death and it is Thania alone who wields that power. Thus it became that Death rules over divine beings much as it rules our mortal lives.

The Order takes a different reading. It is the newer reading of our accumulated scripture and lore, codified at the Council of the Second Fleet, attended by devoted theologians like Penelope of Llewyn and Brykos Thunderoar. This reading holds that deposition is not an inborn aspect of death, but rather, it is an act that can be performed by a sufficiently capable being like a man may slay another. This act is suffused with the aspects of both death and war, and the implication is clear, that Exus and Thania rule jointly in the celestial spheres—and thus, on our mortal plane.

It is our belief, indeed, that Thania did not act alone in the deposition of Cyra and Ralis. Eternity and War had become wed, and all of time was occupied with the warring of the souls. Their children, among them Thania and Exus, saw how the spirits on what would become mundus warred and suffered eternally, and so they devised a solution: Death. They intended to separate Eternity into the aspects of Death and Life, and so Thania would take and became Death, and Exus would take the remainder of Eternity, Life, and he would also take and become War, thus becoming the God of Warriors. With the approval of their siblings, they deposed Cyra and Ralis, and our mortal world was born thusly.

It can be seen from this that Exus is no mere arbiter of strength, but he champions for us mortals in the Realms. Indeed, we see this in his commandments unto us, that we fight for those who cannot against those who would have them suffer. He commands us to take up our sword to push back evil, even if it does not encroach. These are not the commandments of a mere judge.

You will see these doctrines and these commandments enshrined in our art. Like the mainland icons, our icons of Thania represent her only with her eyes closed, for only the dead may meet her eyes. But, too, Exus’ icons must always depict a sheathed sword, for only the dead may feel its edge. Many icons take this a step further; one of the finest statues in our world resides in the base of the North Tower, depicting Exus offering his sword’s hilt, as a squire might, and this hilt may be touched from a walkway on the tower’s sixth story. This iconifies two things: that only the living may grasp his sword’s hilt, and that one of the greatest acts of altruism in Exus’ name is to teach the ways of war to those who need it—in that way, one does not merely offer their strength in a fight, but they offer their teachings, and in a way, their sword, in all fights thereafter. His round shield, too, is a feature in most icons, so as to better represent his command to fight with balance and discipline, and not alone a tenacious offense. His armor differs from icon to icon; it is said that he wears that which is exactly suited to the environs he campaigns in. And finally, he wears a beard hoary with experience, a mouth that smiles pridefully upon his mortal charges, and eyes ever vigilant upon the horizon.

That should be a sufficient introduction to the matters for a Seeker such as yourself. If you wish to inquire further after any of this, I welcome you to reply and do so, or to even pay a visit to the North Tower in Tyrapolis (a finer city I have never found!).

Yours in correspondence,
Alexos the Giant

O, Mighty Seas!
What life you have given, and recompense you will take!
You are the God-Father whose majesty we honor,
To whom our war-captains are grateful and beholden.

The Sea People

The Sea People, sometimes Sea Peoples or Sea Farers, are the humans and humanoids who trace their cultural lineage and bloodlines to the first human settlers on the southern edge of the continent—the First Men. Their culture is one of ambition and voracity, which might explain how they came to occupy so much land on the southern and western shores of Parinaktan, and why their mother tongue, Thalasmil, is a widespread second language and language of trade. But that culture has a darker side: one of conquest and plunder, of razing and looting, and of enemies over every horizon.

History

The Sea People say that the First Men sailed out of the eastern mists on the Voyage Without Beginning and sighted land on the southern coast of the continent now called Parinaktan. They found the shore to be rocky, with plenty of shelters; they found the soil to be forgiving, fitting for a place to call home. So they did, and they fished and they farmed and they grew. Soon, they were thriving. The city of Hupolis was, truly, among the first of its kind: a walled city with a strong agricultural base supporting a city of craftsmen and traders.

But it wasn’t enough.

The Sea People pushed northward, toward the Old Forest, edging ever closer to the dangerous predators and strange creatures that lurked within, until finally they could grow no closer. For years, the Sea People hunted and skirmished and struggled at the edge of the forest until Tyra the Warbringer, first daughter of Chief Axies and first Tyrant of the Seas, taught them the ways of war. Within a year, the Sea People had driven the hostile spirits and prowling beasts of prey from the forest by bringing to bear their physical strength, human cunning, fiery hearts, and Tyra’s warrior discipline. And in doing so, they had also discovered something mighty and terrible: conquest.

Tyra the Warbringer would later bring conquest to the Sea Peoples’ dwarven neighbors to the east, burning and looting their capital city. Drunk on power and awash with wealth, she would embark to found the city of Tyrapolis on the distant Island of Birds.

In crossing from the east coast to the land that would become Tyrapolis, however, were sewn the seeds of Tyra’s fall. On Toyipsios, the rocky island thrust out of the south sea and thousands of feet into the air, an enclave of corrupted men who fed on blood and preyed upon sailors watched as she passed.

Tyra would spend many years in her city, teaching its people the ways of seamanship and war, until word reached her that the vampires of Toyipsios had begun raiding and plundering the coast—her coast. She raised a navy and her finest companion warriors and sailed for Toyipsios… and her doom. Tyra was slain in the battle and her companions scattered.

The immediate aftermath of her death was a shattering of the political bonds of the Sea People that would never fully recover. Without a leader whose strength the warriors of Hupolis and Tyrapolis could respect (and with no planned succession), the cities became independent, effectively governed by their local officer-chieftans. Chief Sarkos of Hupolis, hoping to take advantage of Tyrapolis’ loss of its finest warriors, led an invasion of the city. He was repulsed, and for his efforts many of the lesser outlying cities on the coast declared their independence from Hupolis.

The Sea People would continue to grow, to settle new coasts, and to raid their neighbors. Their numerous city-states continued to grow in wealth and power, occasionally forming leagues and constantly warring with each other. Only four times in their history have the Sea People united under the same banner. The legendary heroes able to unite their people are known as the Tyrants: Tyra the Warbringer, Toth Son-of-Ixos, Deadly Krossa, and finally, Yjax I and his son, Thrask the Warlord.

Thrask, Son of Yjax

Yjax I rose to prominence on the back of a tidal wave of wealth. He was born into an old and powerful family, and he was astute and strong enough to turn that wealth into a well-armed and impeccably-drilled core of companion warriors—and then to raid and loot and plunder until he was the most powerful man in the world. He took an elven woman to wife, and their son, Thrask the Warlord, was groomed for succession. In Yjax’s final act of cunning, he raised and educated Thrask himself in the utmost secrecy. By the time Yjax died, Thrask was still just on the cusp of adulthood—but as a half-elf, half-man, that meant he already had 30 years behind him. And he had spent every one of those years under the tutelage of one of the most capable warriors mankind had ever seen.

The day of Yjax’s funeral, Thrask declared himself the Tyrant of the Seas. It was brazen and impudent, and the gathered lords met the proclamation with amusement—until Thrask defeated twenty challengers, back-to-back, in single combat.

Thrask the Warlord immediately raised his armies and marched for the nearest conflict, a brewing showdown between the halflings of Cura and the Aquamvolanti, the mighty dragons of the seas. Although Thrask’s army was forced to withdraw from its first encounter, they would make an end-run and sack the very homeland of the Aquamvolanti.

And, as befitting of tradition, Thrask would return with his spoils to found Heliopis. But, also like Tyra, his self-indulgence blinded him to the growing threat: the Orcs. They came in the night, falling on the great city of Gralinth in enormous waves. The city was able to hold out for mere days before the mighty orc hordes overwhelmed their defenses and sacked the city.

So now, Thrask waits in Heliopis. Already he has summoned the largest army mankind has ever gathered, but still more arrive. He drills his men, confers with his war council, and sharpens his sword, for he intends to drive the orcs back… and then to show them the meaning of conquest.

The Cities of the Sea

The Sea People have built four great cities and several lesser ones, each its own polity, and each with a distinct culture and history.

Hupolis

Hupolis is one of the oldest and wealthiest cities on the continent, but its grandeur is best measured in its sheer size and its military might. The dense inner borough of the city covers several square miles and is built almost completely from the hulls of decommissioned ships, their masts forming a skyline of thick wooden beams and hempen rigging.

The city is governed by the Admiralty, the body of every legally-qualified captain who calls Hupolis their home port. They elect from amongst themselves a Port Commander whose authority is, theoretically, absolute. But the military forces of the city are provided by the captains, their knights and companions, and their men-at-arms, so the Port Commander can only rule on a strong political foundation.

Tyrapolis

Tyrapolis was founded as a grandiose exhibition of wealth, but flourished as a trading city. The grand temple at the center of the city is built from the very gems that were looted from the Dwarven kingdom by Tyra herself—including the north tower, fashioned out of a single vein of pure emerald.

Tyrapolis was able to repel Sarkos’ invasion, but the military losses were too great for the city to sustain its traditional hierarchy, and the military governance collapsed. Out of the ashes rose the Order of the Emerald, the first known chivalric order, dedicated to the defense of justice and the guardianship of the downtrodden. They represent one seat of the Enclave, whose other seats are populated by the representatives of the various guilds and other religious orders of the city, and whose Master is “chosen by the citizens,” a phrase that carries different meanings at different times.

Gralinth

Gralinth is—or was—a colorful city built on imported stones and bustling trade. Originally founded as a simple trade outpost, it grew rapidly into a center for commerce between the halflings, elves, and men of Afon (when raiding parties weren’t using the city as a base from which to pillage those peoples, of course). The powerful spirits in the forests made it difficult to harvest lumber, so the city is nearly entirely made of stone.

Gralinth’s political landscape was long dominated by the wealthy mercantile elite, who would occasionally swear fealty to upstart warrior-kings. But a warrior’s power wanes as his strength fails him, and the merchants’ money would always outlast their lieges. The city was recently sacked, however, and a huge number of its citizens taken as slaves by the newly risen Orc horde. The old political order has been swept away, and in the ashes of the city there are many who seek to rebuild it… in their preferred image.

Heliopis

Heliopis is the newest of the great human cities and Thrask’s grand showpiece following in his first conquests. It was built atop the ruins of the Halfling city Cura, or rather, around those ruins. Thrask ordered the old fortifications to be torn down and moved father outward, and the new city is growing in the space between the new outer wall and the ruins of the old city. As for the ruins themselves, Thrask has rebuilt the palace, and his army is currently camped in the vast ruins around it while they gather their numbers for battle.

Culture

The Sea People are widely diverse owing to their long history, wide geographical spread, and relationships with their many neighbors. There are some commonalities, though, especially as they relate to their shared heritage as the descendants of the First Men.

Religion

Death is chief among the deities of the Sea Peoples, personified as the pale and alluring goddess Thania. She is always depicted with closed eyes, for to meet her very gaze is to die. She is graceful, decorous, and uncompromising. So powerful is she that she has struck down a few of the other gods herself, namely Cyra, the Goddess of Eternity; and Ralis, the War-Father.

So to the Sea People, death is a daily act of divinity, a reminder of the beauty and grandeur of the world and Thania, its ruler. All religious services are carried out during funerals, making each person’s funeral a public event (if there are no dead to bury, as is often the case in towns and villages, a service may be administered alongside a mock funeral). To witness a death is holy, and to bring death as a warrior is seen as a form of worship, but to bring death capriciously—to murder—is an insult and a heinous crime, which can only be made right with a just execution (usually by beheading).

Men and women amongst the Sea People are not considered adults until they have witnessed a death, human or otherwise. This is often an execution or a hunting expedition during the child’s teenage years so that when the child has reached physical maturity they are ready for the mantle of adulthood.

At Thania’s [LN] side are three major deities: Exus, God of Warriors [LG/N], Iva, Goddess of the Spirit [N], and Hral, God of the Seas [N]. Beneath them are twelve lesser deities:

• The Speaker, Lord of the Wind and Waves [LN]
• The Crier, Font of Storms [CN]
• The Lightbearer, Lady of the Sun [NG]
• The Weaver, Angel of Love [CG]
• The Strider, Spirit of the Night [N]
• The Tiller, Steward of Earth [N]
• The Devourer, Soul of Fire [CE]
• The Inquirer, Tamer of Magic [NE]
• The Seer, Warden of Time [LN]
• The Whisperer, Keeper of Secrets [NE]
• The Bearer, All-Mother [NG]
• The Reaper, Messenger of Death [LN]

Funerals are usually administered by the Temple of Thania, the most powerful religious organization in the great cities of the sea. Independent temples, small and large, exist for all of the major and minor deities, though none command public attention quite so much as the Temple of Thania.

Society

The great cities of the sea are home to people of all walks of life, but all of those people live and die by the sea. Their bustling economies rest on the backs of their great merchant fleets and the swiftness of their longship raiders.

Although each city and each town might have a different formal structure for its governance, the society is so shaped by old wealth and power that their politics look remarkably similar. All of the cities have some form of military power in permanent residence—perhaps not a standing army, but the combined forces of the raiders, mercenaries, and armed merchant ships (present in nearly every last settlement) represent something similar. Some are hired directly into the city guard while at port, while others are called upon in times of unrest or in defense of the city, often in exchange for political favors. And sometimes, that body of warriors plays a more active role in the politics. While “raiding” within the city is considered dishonorable at best, it can be seen as a justifiable punishment for an overreaching noble, and many savvy warrior-princes have made their names doing just that over the years.

The nobility of the Sea People are the old merchant and warrior families. These families usually engage in long-distance trading and land ownership in the feudal style, whether they were catapulted into wealth by a legendary raider or slowly amassed it over generations of shrewd dealing. Not many continue to raid and plunder, although there exist a few famous examples, like Yjax I.

Beneath them on the totem pole is the diverse body of merchants and craftsmen. Most make out a fine, if hectic, living by traveling frequently and plying their trade wherever it suits them best. Many aspire to greatness, though those that can often turn to the sword as the faster, though far more dangerous, path to wealth and glory. As this class of traders and warriors is so geographically mobile, it’s the most visible, and when an outlander speaks of the “Sea People” they are very often referring to this group of people.

Finally, as with all societies, there exists a huge agricultural base. The wealthier members of this class are fishermen: boats are expensive to own and operate, but there are great rewards in a good catch. The rest farm the fertile soils of the coast, riding out the droughts and the blights and living under the protection of feudal warrior-lords. They have frequent contact with the merchants and craftsmen of the cities thanks to the mobility of those people, and will often play host to a raiding party preparing to sortie by land.

The Order of the Emerald

The Order of the Emerald is a knightly order in Tyrapolis dedicated to the ideal of justice and the defense of the innocent. It is so named because its founding member, Penelope of Llewyn, administered her knights’ first oaths in the north tower of Tyra’s palace.

If only it were so simple to truly describe the Order’s place in the world.

The Order is situated in the heart of one of the oldest wealthiest cities in the world, and one with a fearsome reputation for its warriors and raiders. There is nothing just about the archetypal raid, and it is, in the purest sense, exploitation of the innocent and defenseless. This places the Order directly at odds with some of the most powerful men and women in the world, and indeed, the Order has undone many raiders and even several would-be Tyrants in counter-sieges, pitched battles, and even ambushes.

It survives against the odds thanks to its unique popularity with the people of Tyrapolis, political support from the city’s new and old wealth, and long tradition of martial expertise.

The Order is well-endeared to the people of Tyrapolis thanks to its long history, full of storied defenses of the city and philapthropic efforts quite unlike the usual warriors of the seas. Its lower-ranking members serve as the city guard and have a reputation for even-handedness where other cities’ watches do not. Additionally, its efforts against raiders and pirates earn it gratitude from the enormous mercantile sector in Tyrapolis, which depends on clear straits and healthy relations with other peoples to continue to thrive—relations which are threatened every time a raiding party torches a monastery or carries off hostages into slavery.

The Order is headed by a Grandmaster, whose duties include the administration of the knightly oaths and overseeing the military organization the Order. The Grandmaster has several lieutenants, including the Master-at-Arms (responsible for law enforcement in Tyrapolis as well as discipline within the order), the Master of Theology (responsible for all non-military aspects of the order, including its record keepers and chaplains, and representing the Order in formal political and public functions), and the Quartermaster General (responsible for the Order’s considerable material resources). Beneath them in the hierarchy are the customary ranks of officers. The lowest rank for knights who have been properly initiated into the order is that of Lieutenant.

The Order, and particularly its current Master of Theology, Alexos the Giant, is involved in a long-standing theological dispute with the Temple of Thania over the legends and character of Exus, God of Warriors. The specific doctrines involved can be complicated and obtuse to all but the most serious of theologians, but the heart of the disagreement is whether Exus is to be seen as an impartial arbiter of Thania’s death on the battlefield, meting out victory to the strong and death to the weak, or if he himself fights for justice. The latter, which is the position of the Order of the Emerald, implies that he is powerful enough to be peer to Thania and have a say in who receives death—a radical heresy in the eyes of the Temple of Thania. The Temple itself has been reluctant to formally accuse the Order of heresy, however, as the customary punishment for heresy is death, and the Temple does not wish to ignite a military conflict amongst the Sea Peoples. Thrask the Warlord is preparing to bring the military might of the Sea Peoples to bear against the Orcs, and he is not known to be forgiving to those who would interfere with his plans.

The campaign setting is something we’ve nicknamed the Pale Dominions and was cooked up by a bunch of us over a game called Dawn of Worlds. It’s got all of your typical Fantasy Heartbreaker features, so if you can imagine it as part of your character’s story, it’s probably somewhere in the world.

Geographically, the Pale Dominions are spread across one continent (roughly the size of western Europe) and two large and several smaller islands.

On the main continent:

• The northwest peninsula, isolated from the mainland by a forbidding mountain range and cradling a great shallow bay, is dominated by ancient swamps, forests, and a cursed city roamed by the spirits of the dead.
• The center of the continent is rugged and mountainous throughout, featuring two peaks: one is Anexus, the bridge to the heavens, and the other, Flametongue, is the volcano home to the tieflings and the azers.
• The west coast features an ancient forest inhabited by fey.
• In the north are fertile riverlands of the Afon river valley, inhabited by men known as the Afonites. They are bordered to their east by a large desert and their sister people, the followers of Aheknu.
• The southwestern peninsula is mostly low hills, fertile grasslands, and forests, and it is home to the Kingdoms of Rel.
• The south and southeastern coasts are rocky and wind-swept, home to the Sea Peoples and the Dwarves of the Hills and Seas.

To the east is a snowy and heavily forested landmass at the edge of the world, inhabited by strange men and dragons, and to the south lies another large island.

On the peoples of the dominions:

• The most ancient are the Darastrix, the High Dragons, masters of arcane magic. They watch events unfold below them from their floating city of Iskorkathel, although some of their number have departed for other locales.
• Aheknu, the eldest of the blue dragons, created the race of men to serve him. Many millennia later, a great prophet led tens of thousands of those men out of their desert home and to the Arian River in the Afon River Valley, turning their backs on their God. Aheknu and his people continue to build monuments to his own greatness, while the Kingdom of Afon forges on in its search for the truth of the divine.
• The other ancient lineage of men, calling themselves the First Men, sailed from the East and settled the southern coast. They have spread far and wide, bringing their seafaring expertise, their voluminous trade, and their penchant for war with them everywhere they go.
• The Dwarves are also an ancient people, and find themselves spread across the world. While they all consider themselves brothers and sisters, the clans of the Mountains don’t always see eye-to-eye with the clans of the Hills, to say nothing of their cousins on the Seas.
• The Elves once lived in the magical northwest of the continent in great numbers until calamity destroyed their greatest city and scattered them to the winds.
• The Halflings, too, had a great city by the bay, a great hub of commerce… but it was not even thirty years ago that it was sacked by Thrask, Warlord of the Sea Peoples, who now gathers his strength to strike back at the Orc Horde that has come hurtling out of the mountains.

Arca

The thin dueling blade weighed heavily on Arca’s hip.

She shifted the scabbard and leaned back against the rough-hewn rock wall. This place was cold, but comfortable. She was getting paid to watch over the darkened entrance to the mines by a roaring waterfall, deep within the mountain, far from the fearful glares and hurtful whispers of civilization. The stout and dusty miners out in the dormitories, even now, were probably glancing behind themselves and conferring to one another about her wicked horns, or her pearly, scheming eyes, or her diabolical whip-like tail, but at least the waterfall drowned out the echoes.

Far from it all though it might be, Arca wondered if it was far enough.

---

She had been playing cards at a stale-smelling tavern with a particularly gullible crowd, or so she had thought. There was one fellow across the table wearing a beautiful blue surcoat and a searching pair of black eyes—the kind that have seen people cheat at card games before—so she knew she had to play it safe. She dove for two hands, dealt one more, and then worked her magic.

But the man in the blue surcoat had seen this one before. “You can’t fool me, witch.”

“What makes you think I’m bluf…”

“You are not; you are cheating, witch. And you had better leave this table now.”

Arca stared. The nervous minerdwarf and befuddled carpenter at the table didn’t look like they knew what to think, so she figured if she looked hurt enough she’d be able to salvage this one.

But then the man in the blue surcoat stood, brushing aside his coat to reveal the rapier at his side.

“Get out of my sight, she-devil, or we shall resolve this honorably.”

The blood rose to her face and she stood too.

They stepped outside into the night and the chirping crickets while the innkeep fussed and admonished them to take care of this nasty business behind the stables instead of full view of the streets. The man in the blue surcoat ignored him, donning his gauntlet and drawing his blade while Arca tried to meet his cool gaze.

In a flash, they were at each other. Arca thought herself capable with a dagger—a skill she kept well-practiced—but against his cold instinct and alarming speed, she was lost. She was cut and pricked and parried until her anger ebbed into panic and his steely demeanor gave way to jeers and taunts.

“Worthless! Go scamper off to your father and tell him your mother should meet a real man.”

Before he could make his next thrust, the night sky was alight, and the crickets were drowned out by the roar of flames and the startled cries of passerby.

---

A cloaked man had turned the corner and was striding down the tunnels toward Arca. Her vision was blurred by tears and the man’s footsteps were completely inaudible beneath the waterfall, so she hadn’t noticed him until he was far too close. She yanked the rapier from its scabbard and gripped it hard.

“Who are you?”

The man drew back his hood. He was a man, but he wore his hair long and showed youthful elven lines on his face. “I am called Star, and I represent justice. Who are you?”

“I’m guarding these mines.”

“You are accused of murder.”

Arca gritted her teeth. “Then… then obviously you think you know how I am.”

“I’m afraid I don’t, actually. That’s why I wanted to ask you.”

Arca squeezed the hilt even harder. “I’m a murderer, apparently. What the Hell more do you want to know?”

The man sighed and smirked a little, a sight that did not calm her.

“This is what I get for trying to be stoic and terse. It just sounds cryptic. Look, you’ve been accused of murdering a man by the name of Ralen Suttgart and of sorcery. The punishment is death. But I made sure to ask around, and I learned that it happened during a duel. I see the tears in your eyes and the paleness of your face. Something tells me you’re no cold-blooded killer, despite what the witnesses would have me believe.”

“I’m not putting down my sword. You’re going to have to take it from me.”

“Oh, so you do want me to kill you now, is that it? I think not. You may not have said much, but you’ve told me all I need to know, and I have a sixth sense for these things. You’re going to atone—Hell, you’ve already started—and so my God commands me to stay my hand. And I will obey, gladly.”

“Atone? How? You call this atonement? You think I’m not going to turn around and kill you in a fire someday?”

“I think you know those answers. Anyway, you should probably leave this place. No great sorcerer has ever been made in the back of a cave, after all.”

He was gone in the space of a blink.

In truth, she didn’t know those answers, and she didn’t know what she’d do if she ever crossed paths with him again. She wasn’t even sure whether she actually hoped that would happen. But he was right about one thing: she needed to leave this place.

Arca adjusted the scabbard on her hip one more time, and then she left the mines.

Just like my prior sermon on The Sword in the Stone, I’m going to begin this one on The Queen of Air and Darkness with a cruel, vital critique.

The title character doesn’t speak a single line!

… and…

… er… that turns out to be a very effective strut in T.H. White’s storytelling structure.

Look, I don’t have a good, general, hard-hitting criticism to open with. And maybe I don’t even have any stern pronouncements to sustain my disapproval through to a cold, rueful conclusion. Maybe someday I’ll grow up to be big and strong like the adult book critics, but not today. Today, I just like this book too damn much.

Act One

In 1939, The Witch in the Wood was published as the second book in T.H. White’s Arthurian series following The Sword in the Stone. It would later be substantially rewritten and renamed The Queen of Air and Darkness for the 1958 series compilation, The Once and Future King.

Why, you ask, does that heading up there say Act One, when this is clearly book two? It’s because this book is tremendously different from book one. Through the modern lens of the three-act structure, this book appears to be laying the foundation, and it’s laying the foundation for something much different than The Sword in the Stone was preparing us for. It is true, the first book did establish themes we get a glimpse of in this one. Merlyn employed some unforgettable, unconventional teaching devices to teach the Wart—or to let him teach himself—the things Kings must know. The Wart learned about war, he learned about human struggle, and he learned about politics. And now that he is King Arthur, he does have an opportunity to channel those lessons.

But King Lot isn’t the real villain. He’s just a patsy. He’s just a pawn, or at most a knight, on this board.

So this is Act One. And it’s the Act One for a far different Act Two than the one that might have otherwise followed The Sword in the Stone.

Saxons, Normans, and Gaels, Oh My

The black cat lay on its side in the firelight as if it were dead. This was because its legs were tied together, like the legs of a roe deer which is to be carried home from the hunt. It had given up struggling and now lay gazing into the fire with slit eyes and heaving sides, curiously resigned.

The cat ends up in a boiling cauldron by the end of the scene, and that’s the side story of this chapter. The first chapter. This was quite the surprise coming off the indelibly cheery Sword in the Stone. Anyway, the main strand is upstairs, where Queen Morgause’s four children (Gareth, Gawaine, Agravaine, and Gaheris) whisper to each other about the Normans’ past wrongs to their family. And, alright, maybe I do have a complaint: I can’t keep these characters straight. They’re all redhead Gaelic kids with confused moral compasses, they’re never apart from each other, and, of course, their names all sound the same. I’m sure a very careful reading—with notes, and flowcharts—will reveal more about their characters and their individual differences. But aside from a very interesting scene involving a unicorn and their mother’s transient love, we’re going to need to wait until their arcs interact with Arthur’s to know what they stand for in this story. That’s disappointing, given the amount of pages dedicated to them in this book, but I have high hopes that it’ll pay off shortly.

My high hopes are mostly founded on the circumstances of their upbringing, as Gaels and as family enemies to the Pendragons.

You see, Arthur’s central conflict in this book is with their father, King Lot. As the children recite to each other the story of their family’s bad blood with the Pendragons (Uther the Conqueror slew their grandfather and took their widowed grandmother as wife), King Lot marches to war. “Revenge!” exclaims Gawaine. But Merlyn takes a different view. The point he drives at with Arthur is that King Lot seeks no redress for any particular wrongs, nor is he raising his banner for any moral or legal cause. Lot and his league of celtic lords are marching on England because they can. The throne appears weak to them, inherited by a boy king with an unusual legal basis for his claim. The risk to their persons is minimal, because the chivalric code of the High Middle Ages demands it, above all else¹. All that’s left is to stir the passions of their subjects by condemning Norman oppression and the Pendragon legacy.

This conflict foments so many cool things.

First, Merlyn’s purpose in the story comes into sharp focus. Sure, we know that he’s Arthur’s mentor. But now we know why Arthur’s mentor had to be a crazy old coot from the future. Arthur needs someone capable of telling him about the evils of war, and there is nobody better for that than someone who has lived through World War II. Arthur needs someone who can study the long arc of history like we can, knows a flimsy casus belli when he sees one, and knows how “racial histories” can be at once meaningless and critically important. Arthur needs someone who knows that King Lot is not truly a superior man to the peasants he commands. A man born and raised in the High Middle Ages is unlikely to share our (the audience’s) perspective on such matters, but a man born and raised in the 20th century just might. This is cool enough for me to forgive (but not entirely forget) much of the silliness of the first book.

Arthur also comes to the foreground and begins earnest development as a man and as a King. I’m not necessarily upset that he was an innocent sponge for the incredible world around him in The Sword in the Stone, but this is far more interesting. I have three favorite Arthur scenes throughout the story. The first is atop the battlements:

Arthur, who had been playing with a loose stone which he had dislodged from one of the machicolations, got tired of thinking and leaned over with the stone in his hand.
“How small Curselaine looks.”
“He is tiny.”
“I wonder what would happen if I dropped this stone on his head?”
Merlyn measured the distance.
“At thirty-two feet per second,” he said, “I think it would kill him dead. Four hundred g is enough to shatter the skull.”
“I have never killed anybody like that,” said the boy, in an inquisitve tone.
Merlyn was watching.
“You are the King,” he said.
Then he added, “Nobody can say anything to you if you try.”
Arthur stayed motionless, leaning out with the stone in his hand. Then, without his body moving, his eyes slid sideways to meet his tutor’s.
The stone knocked Merlyn’s hat off as clean as a whistle, and the old gentleman chased him featly down the stairs, waving his wand of lignum vitae.
And he was happy.

This scene is so laden with both characterization and metaphor it’s impossible not to completely love. The obvious part is Arthur’s refusal to exercise his absolute sovereignty as King in such a manner. But also: Arthur regards the workman from such height and distance, and yet he knows his name! Meanwhile, allow me to gush over the line: “Merlyn was watching.” It’s a beautiful sort of understatement, where White conveys the crushing gravity of the situation by refusing to employ any sort of adjective or adverb. Instead, he drains all detail from the scene except for Arthur and his stone, and takes three words to tell us that Merlyn finds those two objects the most important things in the world in this moment.

Arthur not only passes the test, he makes us wonder if we should ever have been worried in the first place.

Later in the story, Arthur comes of age in the full view of his war council. He delivers a speech to Kay, Merlyn, and the assembled nobility that beings hesitantly and haltingly, but gathers steam as his future comes into vision. Merlyn continues to employ his finest technique: refusing to help Arthur pass the most important tests of his youth, so that he may be truly ready to face those later in his life. The speech itself contains Arthur’s central thesis in this story, and presumably his thesis in the two stories to come: Might does not make right. His adversary, King Lot, may believe that his power entitles him to make war like it’s a grand afternoon fox hunt (a potent simile White returns to again and again), but Arthur sees how wrong that is for the conscripts sent to the war, the villages burned, and the people terrorized. King Arthur proposes a new order of chivalry, one built around truer notions of fairness and kindness to all people—not just the “noble” ones.

But to bring this new chivalry to life, Arthur needs to take some lessons from his father².

At Bedegraine, Arthur begins the battle by falling upon Lot’s camps in the darkness of the night, explicitly ignoring the knightly convention of pitching the battle in the morning after breakfast. Not only that, but he orders his cavalry to run down nobleman and conscript alike—even ordering his knights to avoid interfering with the fighting between the commoners, if possible. And when Lot’s retinue is in dire straits, French cavalry spring from hiding in the forest to deal the last crushing blow of the first day. So as to show his opponents—and his allies—what it meant to be at war, Arthur had intended that “they were to press the war home to its real lords—until they themselves were ready to restrain from warfare, being confronted with its reality.” That line may be somewhat reserved, but put into the context of the actual battle—described vividly with the sounds of thundering hoofbeats of the warhorses, the quaking of the earth beneath them, and the immense shattering of arms—I think it’s pretty clear that what Arthur is doing is crushing a rebellion. Ruthlessly. Daddy would be proud.

The second day of battle ends with King Arthur accepting Lot’s surrender. King Arthur’s ferocity wins the day, but as for its real goal—showing the barons and dukes real war, so that they may refrain from making a hobby of it—its success has yet to be proven.

Questing

The book isn’t without its levity.

King Pellinore, Sir Grummore Grummerson, and Sir Palomides (a newly-introduced Saracen knight) are out questing, and they deliver to us some truly weird scenes. Including their very first scene, where they arrive by barge in the Orkney Isles (Scotland), humorously unaware that their political affiliations place them technically at war with the locals. The locals draw up in a circle, astounded by the wealth on display in the knights’ armor, and then “in the minds of both women and men, irrespective of age or circumstance, there began to grow, almost visibly, almost tangibly, the enormous, the incalculable miasma which is the leading feature of the Gaelic brain.”

Huh.

So far, The Once and Future King has done some strange things with “racial” concepts. It must be said that ethnic groupings in the middle ages were important. Identifying with one’s “nation” didn’t become exceedingly important until the 18th century, so if you were going to identify with anything on that scale, it would be with the people whose language you spoke. In high medieval England, the Anglo-Saxons spoke the west germanic language that, by this time, would probably be called English. The Scots (often “Gaels” in this tale) would have mostly spoken Scottish Gaelic, the Irish had their own brand of Gaelic, and the Normans spoke French. There are accounts of Anglo-Saxons displeased with the Norman ruling class, and there are accounts of hostility between the Scots as a people and England as a ruling entity. So a certain emnity between peoples seems like an appropriate thing to include in medieval fantasy, and indeed, it’s an important part of Arthur’s place in the world (even if nowadays serious anthropologists avoid the word “race” because it makes all sorts of crude and flat-out incorrect implications). White takes care to distance Arthur from it in some ways: at Bedegraine, Arthur sends his peasant levies to engage and occupy Lot’s levies, and part of the justification for it is that their “racial struggle” had a “certain reality even if it was a wicked one.” But then you get scenes like this, where White makes frustratingly vague declarations about the Gaelic people, and he tends to cast Scots and Irishmen as all of his drunks and cheats and wicked children. I’m inclined to be charitable given Arthur’s feeling of brotherhood for men of all cultures and tongues, but I have my eye on you, White.

Anyway, The knights go on to (continue to) produce some enjoyable, if a little confused, satire of knightly romance. King Pellinore pines for an unattainable lady in a tower—though really, in the end, it was just that their letters to each other weren’t getting delivered—while Sir Grummersom and Sir Palomides fuss over his cessation of the hunt for Glatisant, the Questing Beast. By the end of the story, they stitch together and dress in a tandem beast costume to try to reignite Pellinore’s passion for the hunt, and for their troubles they only succeed in kindling a different sort of passion in Glatisant herself. It reads quite a bit like a Bugs Bunny cartoon acted by the Monty Python crew. And as satire, it functions a little bit like that, too: it’s worth some giggles, but maybe it’s taking the absurdism a little further than my unsophisticated American sense of humor can put in context.

The three Knights serve another purpose in that they’re geographically close to Queen Morgause and her children, so there are a handful of opportunities to juxtapose the Norman (and Saracen) knights with the Gaelic nobility. Queen Morgause makes a pass at the knights, for reasons we are unsure of. The attempt is implied to be unsuccessful, and I wager it’s because of the knights’ delightful obliviousness. The Unicorn hunt, where the four children rope a frightened scullery maid into being the bait so that they may ultimately slay a graceful and peaceful creature, might be some sort of horrible inversion on the pointless but completely charming hunt for the Questing Beast. The children are filled with the fecklessness and occasionally wicked impulses of youth, where the knights seem to be youthfully earnest and innocent. I do so ever hope that this is meant to be characterization for the coming stories, because it could be very cool to see these characters all grown up—and even sitting at the same Round Table, judging by some of their names.

Air and Darkness

The book ends with the King and Queen Pellinore’s wedding. Given the characters involved, we’re not terribly surprised to find it delightful and a little bit silly. But the very last page of the book casts a tremendous shadow over the entire story: Arthur, alone in his throne room, is visited by Queen Morgause. She’s still chasing Normans, it seems, but this time, she brought a Spancel—a long tape of human skin, taken from the silhouette of a dead man—and used it as part of a foul spell to enchant and seduce Arthur.

In this book, as in many tellings of the Arthurian legends, Morgause is Arthur’s half-sister, born of Arthur’s mother, Igraine, and the Earl of Cornwall. The narrator has this to say³:

It is why Sir Thomas Malory called his very long book the Death of Arthur. Although nine tenths of the story seems to be about knights jousting and quests for the holy grail and things of that sort, the narrative is a whole, and it deals with the reasons why the young man came to grief at the end. It is the tragedy, the Aristotelian and comprehensive tragedy, of sin coming home to roost.

And it seems The Once and Future King, too is destinied to end in tragedy. Any guesses as to how the The Candle in the Wind ends?

The Queen of Air and Darkness is a wonderful story, peppered with humor and horror. I’d say it’s got just the right amounts of both, though the humor was a bit silly for my taste. But, like The Sword in the Stone, its greatest achievements are the ones it promises to set up for future stories. Arthur’s next task is going to be, presumably, to establish his Round Table and to get the knights of the realm to actually sit at it. He’s going to have lots of different backgrounds and personalities to grapple with as well as a leaden political climate, and they’re going to test his nascent leadership capabilities.

Hopefully, some of those personalities include the redhead children. I’ll be a little angry if I spent chapters puzzling at the purpose of their ambiguously racist antics for nothing.

Spoilers for The Sword in the Stone ahead. Eventually.

Take a gander at the movie poster for Inglorious Basterds. Go on, it won’t take you long. Watch the full-length trailer if you’ve got the chance.

If you’ve seen the movie, something about this should strike you as odd. What about Shosanna? What about the German soldier boy, Zoller? Those weren’t exactly bit parts, you know. And, more subtly, what about the character of the movie? The trailer cuts to black as Donny Donowitz, the Bear Jew, swings his bat at the sergeant’s head, but in the movie we see every gory detail. We see the Basterds laughing while Donowitz strikes the sergeant’s convulsing body, again and again, until it finally goes limp. I think it should be obvious that a movie that cuts away from that impact (to a shot of Brad Pitt and his jolly band of misfits wincing, perhaps) is very different from the one that lingers and forces us to watch. If not… you’ll have to take my word for it, because really, the point is that I went in to the theater expecting to see one thing, and I got something almost entirely different.

I may have gotten a little carried away in making that point. But, all that said, I’m here to tell you that the folks in marketing have been doing the same thing for decades. In books, even!

The World’s Greatest Fantasy Classic

Yes, this is literally a case of judging a book by its cover and the dangers thereof. Regardless of the conventional wisdom on the matter, you don’t put “THE WORLD’S GREATEST FANTASY CLASSIC! CAMELOT AND ROMANCE AND WIZARDRY AND WAR” on the front of a book unless you’re hoping to foster a certain set of expectations. Specifically:

• Chivalric Romance
• Epic scope
• Great pride in the fantasy genre, possibly to the point of self-seriousness
• Wonders, mystery, majesty

With those expectations in mind, let’s have a passage:

It was almost too hot to think about this, but the Wart stared down into the cool amber depths where a school of small perch were aimlessly hanging about.
“I think I should like to be a perch,” he said. They are braver than the silly roach, and not quite so slaughterous as the pike are.”
Merlyn took off his hat, raising his staff of lignum vitae politely in the air, and said slowly, “Snylrem stnemilpmoc ot enutpen dna lliw eh yldnik tpecca siht yob sa a hsif?”
Immedately there was a loud blowing of sea-shells, conches and so forth, and a stout, jolly-looking gentleman appeared seated on a well-blown-up cloud above the battlements. He had an anchor tattooed on his stomach and a handsome mermaid with Mabel written under her on his chest. He ejected a quid of tobacco, nodded affably to Merlyn and pointed his trident at the Wart. The Wart found he had no clothes on. He found that he had tumbled off the drawbridge, landing with a smack on his side in the water. He found that the moat and the bridge had grown hundreds of times bigger. He knew that he was turning into a fish.

So much for Wizardry in the World’s Greatest Fantasy Classic.

Alright, with that out of the way, let me introduce the book.

The Once and Future King is T.H. White’s novelization of the Arthurian legends, published in 1958. It is composed of four books: The Sword in the Stone, The Queen of Air and Darkness, The Ill-Made Knight, and The Candle in the Wind, of which the first three had been previously published individually (though The Queen of Air and Darkness was originally The Witch in the Wood, a longer novel with, reportedly, substantial differences). To place this in the history of fantasy literature, The Lord of the Rings had just been published in 1955, and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe in 1950. But White had been writing and publishing the individual pieces since 1938—we certainly can’t expect a whole lot of influence from that first round of postwar fantasy novels.

I’ve read The Sword in the Stone. It seems reasonable to stop there and write about it before continuing, seeing as it originally stood alone, and I’ve got a lot to write about. Admittedly, it was not then billed as The World’s Greatest Fantasy Classic. So let’s set that complaint aside for a bit and get into it.

Living Backward

White wastes no time introducing and characterizing the story’s main characters. The very first paragraph gives us the Wart (whose name is derived from Art, which is further derived from his full name, which at this point is no mystery¹), the batty governess that takes out her frustrations by rapping his knuckles, the firstborn and heir to the estate Kay, and his father and local authority figure Sir Ector. We lose the governess by the end of the paragraph, but at this point we’re only short one major character and a handful of minor ones, and we already feel for the poor Wart and can sense future tension between him and Kay, who is apparently above such unfortunate nicknames. All this I very much appreciate.

Things take a turn for the comedic before the first page is flipped over. The battiness of the governess is played for laughs, and once she’s dismissed, Sir Ector has a conversation with Sir Grummore Grummursum, local knight who happens to be questing in the neighborhood, over some wine and about the boys’ tutelage. Tough day questin’, asks Sir Ector? Yup, replies Sir Grummore. White is the one who’s playing with the word quest like this, not I. The two knights talk about questin’ a bit like that’s the word they use for their nine-to-five. And speaking of which, White introduces us to another one of his devices here. Sir Grummore suggests sending the kids to Eton. The narrator helpfully explains that Sir Grummore didn’t say exactly this, because Eton is understood to be the home of a boarding school that hadn’t been founded at that point—rather, the narrator is just trying to get you the feel for what was said. Same with the wine—they’re not drinking port, really, but it’s the same idea.

Huh.

The Wart eventually gets lost in the woods thanks to Kay’s careless falconry, where he meets the terrifically bumbling King Pellinore (whose title and very existence I can’t yet explain) and, later, Merlyn. Merlyn is an odd fellow who keeps a talking owl (Archimedes) and a whole host of more mundane animals for company, and he claims to live backward through time (and cleverly illustrates how this affects his daily endeavors by asking the Wart to draw a letter by looking at it through a mirror). Let’s be explicit about this: Merlyn is a walking anachronism. When his spells backfire, they do so in goofy ways, like accidentally conjuring the Morning Post or a bowler hat instead of his wizard’s cap. He rattles off anecdotes about Britain in the 1800s to a puzzled Wart.

Again: huh.

Throughout all of this, White’s prose is wonderful. He writes with that fantastical, contractionless storybook lilt that should sound familiar to anyone who remembers fairy tales with fondness. At the same time, he brings to bear a mighty vocabulary for the trappings of day-to-day life in medieval England: fieldwork, jousting, falconry, you name it. It wonderfully illuminates the differences between medieval life and ours. The exacting and subtle classifications of woodland mammals and birds, in particular, seem like they could only be at home in an era where the Forest Sauvage was your back yard and its wild denizens constant companions in your daily life.

I suppose White’s intention is to build and really immerse the reader into the lives of his subjects and then, by breaking up the narrative with some allusions to times closer to ours, contrast it sharply to our weary world. I really wish he hadn’t done this. I’d rather cannonball into the fantasy world and stay there, even if it is a bit of a silly place. I don’t need to be reminded that it’s 2014 (or 1938, whatever) to understand how different, mysterious, and fanciful it is.

And it is fanciful, indeed. The short list of the Wart’s exploits include being transformed into a fish, falcon, ant, goose, and badger (to learn lessons about might, nobility, war, unity, and humanity, respectively), finding Robin Hood, learning the art of woodsmanship from Maid Marian, infiltrating Morgan le Fey’s fey castle, and, of course, pulling a certain sword out of a certain stone.

These adventures are all, essentially, parables, told with an honest simplicity. Wart’s time as a falcon is spent amongst the other hooded falcons, and he must navigate their parliamentary procedures and rituals with his wits and his guts. The ants march to war, but amongst them the Wart only feels alienated and disturbed by their, frankly, alien and disturbing society, which in turn says things about our own. These are not especially profound revelations—the Heart of Darkness, this is not—but, again, they are simple and honest, and they show us the color of our main characters: the Wart, earnest and humble, who thinks himself trapped by circumstance and is mostly unaware of his own great potential and destiny; Merlyn, a wise old man who strives to communicate the Truth in its truest form, parable, and who has amusing quarrels with the local feudal authorities; and Kay, the haughty young nobleman with everything to his name, but who we’re pretty sure has a decent heart way beneath all of it².

Of Alternate Histories

Oh, and different is another word for it.

Some background: the island of Great Britain was originally inhabited by a Celtic people known as the Britons. The Roman Empire founded a province called Brittania in 43 AD, which crumbled in few centuries but left its mark all the same. In the fifth and sixth centuries AD, a mix of Germanic tribes, the Anglo-Saxons, settled/migrated/conquered the island, displacing the Britons and founding, eventually, the Seven Kingdoms of England. Vikings periodically rolled in to make a mess of things. In 1066, William the Bastard (later, the Conqueror) of Normandy would claim the throne by defeating Anglo-Saxon King Harold II, who had hurriedly marched his army to Hastings from its victory over the Norwegian army at Stamford Bridge. This ushered in the era of Norman England, where French became the language of court and William the Conqueror set precedents for the English aristocracy that last to this day.

Historically, King Arthur is guessed to be a king in Sub-Roman England: that is, he was a Briton who ruled after the Roman Empire departed, but before (and during) the Anglo-Saxon invasions.

This did not suit T.H. White.

In chapter 22, King Pellinor delivers the news: King Uther Pendragon is dead. So far, nothing unusual about that; we know King Arthur needs to take the throne eventually. But then, Pellinor says this:

“It is solemn, isn’t it?” said King Pellinore, “what? Uther the Conqueror, 1066 to 1216.”

I had spent the greater part of the book wondering what kind of role King Arthur was going to play in the world, and, of course, what the historical/fantastical balance of the story was. This line resolved those questions so violently it made my head spin. The unmistakable implication is that, in this world, Uther Pendragon won the Battle of Hastings in 1066 and proceded to rule for a century and a half³ (a fact buttressed by references to the Norman aristocracy and Anglo-Saxon “rebels”⁴ elsewhere in the story).

Maybe it doesn’t line up to the historians’ best guess at the situation, but it is really damn cool. T.H. White spends quite a bit of time establishing and foreshadowing future themes in the Wart’s education under Merlyn, like clashing cultures, propaganda, unity, and war. I can only imagine that the legacy of Uther Pendragon, a larger-than-life version of William the Conqueror⁵, is going to be loaded with these heady, weighty struggles for his young heir. That is most exciting.

Rightwise King Born of All England

I opened this essay with some acrid questions about what kind of great fantasy classic The Sword in the Stone was, and you may have noticed that I’ve pretty well backed off since then.

Normally, I might edit my introduction so that it would join better with the rest, and so all of my thoughts would flow gently toward some coherent, proper conclusion. But this isn’t high school, so I didn’t. This way better captures my opinion of the book, anyway. I started completely put off by White’s anachronistic style and irreverent play on high medieval romance. But the technique he employs and the flair with which he fulfills that vision are mightily impressive, and honestly, those self-absorbed knights could stand being knocked down a peg anyway. And beneath the satire and the trappings and the prose is a kind of pre-coming-of-age story with well-thought-out characters who are both mythical and so very human, and maybe it’s because they don’t need to fill those stuffy romantic archetypes. For that, I can’t hold a grudge.

All I can do now is be excited to see these characters launched into the meaty middle of the Arthurian legend.

The centipede demon bounded to and fro, occasionally landing directly above Nak, who thrashed about at it whenever it was nearby. His footwork was stodgy, given the space limitations (four steps in the wrong direction would take Nak into the magma pit), and his bladework was panicked, given the demon’s bizarre urge to stand directly overhead.

The compact struggle sent Nak back to the nearby bonfire a few times. In the end, as always, Nak prevailed. It may have been more bull-headedness than careful strategizing this time, but an ugly victory was a victory all the same.

Nak donned his prize (an orange, charred ring) and dashed over the magma, which now felt quite lukewarm to the touch.

Lost Izalith

Nak stood on a path overlooking Izalith, a city of charred stone buildings rising out of the magma. Or, he would be overlooking it, if it weren’t for all of the legs in the way.

Lost Izalith suffered from a curious infestation of thirty-foot-tall pairs of legs of petrified bone, mounted to the lower half of reptilian spines and their tails. In short, the place was overrun with dragon asses. One of the enduring mysteries of Lost Izalith was how those dragon asses could see Nak. But see him they did (when he strayed close enough), and Nak was forced to flee from their mighty temper tantrums or be trampled into the magma.

Nak was trampled into the magma several times. One too many times.

Two hours later, Nak blasted the last one into the ashes. The dragon asses had earned the distinction of being the first species to drive Nak into a genocidal rage.

The Bed of Chaos

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
She seems to thrash upon her lair, and smite
Like a great Goddess would her enemies sear;
With whips and pits to fall, and flames to fear!
So shows a lonesome knight tumbling below,
In trenches opened swiftly with savage blows.
The beatdowns dodged, I fled her reach of hand,
And, leaping down, found wood and safe sand.
Did my heart smile till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne’er knew joy ‘fore I killed this mite.

The Duke’s Archives

Nak now held whatever was left of the original souls of both Life and Death, for whatever that was worth. Now, he was looking for the very last shard of Gwyn’s own soul, held by his friend and confidant, Seath the Scaleless. Seath had made his home in a great library overlooking Anor Londo, and much to Nak’s dismay, he had appointed a pair of mechaboars to door duty.

Nak edged ever so slowly to the first one, remembering all too painfully that he was only able to defeat its brother many weeks before by exploiting its inability to fit into a hallway. This hallway, on the other hand, fit the mechaboar nicely. And, unfortunately, it did not leave much room to get out of the way when the mechaboar charged.

Nak died.

The boars were not so lucky when Nak returned. Nak remembered, along with his inglorious victory, a message he had read long, long ago: “Weakness: fire.” But this time he had more than firebombs.

The boars perished one right after the other. Nak concluded that Chaos Fireball was considerably more powerful than alchemical trickery.

Need Ring

What the hell did “need ring” mean?

Nak shrugged and walked into the fog wall. He was startled to find himself locking eyes with Seath the Scaleless.

He couldn’t let his surprise last long. Seath was just out of reach, atop a cluster of crystals, and this called for some pyromancy.

Except it didn’t.

Nak threw three or four fireballs of varying strengths and even cast a soul arrow at Seath, only to find his skin impregnable, his position unassailable. Seath cast a final spell and flooded the little cavern with sharp crystals. Nak died.

Nak woke up… what? At a different bonfire? In a cage? It seems that Seath, in his studies, had found some way to exploit the link between the undead and the bonfires. Nak uttered some naughty words, finally grasping the meaning of “need ring.” A Ring of Sacrifice would have allowed Nak to keep his amassed souls and humanity with him. As it was, he found it unlikely that he would be able to find his way back to the little lair in the archives.

Oh well.

Instead of dwelling on the lost souls, Nak stood up, killed the serpentman that was so thoughtfully leaning against the rails of his cell, took its key, and left.

The Crystal Cave

The Duke’s Archives were bad enough. The collected guardians of the archives, mostly crystal swordsmen, bowmen, and channelers, seemed to make a point to kick Nak when he was down. Arrows whistled at him from all directions, swordsmen attacked in maddening tandem, the channelers hurled soul arrows at him from out of reach, and then they would teleport to and fro to avoid the bite of his greatsword. Nak was even suckered by a mimic, after killing one and letting his guard down for the next.

But none of that, and nothing Nak had ever accomplished to this point, prepared him for the Crystal Cave.

The Crystal Cave was a yawning pit in the ground, and the only descent was on the slick blue faces of crystals thrusting out of the walls at aimless angles.

Except for where the only descent was by invisible walkways over the chasm.

Nak fell headlong into that chasm… certainly more times than he wished to.

By the time he made it safely to the other end of the cavern, he had wished several times that it was in his nature to cry. He thought a good cry might have helped. But alas, he was a warrior. He was simply not born to cry, no matter how good it would have felt. So it goes.

Seath the Scaleless

Nak tossed off a pair of fireballs, again, to no effect.

Nak leapt forward and drove his blade into Seath’s pale flesh, again, to no effect.

Nak backed off and watched carefully. The Crystal Cave had him furious. He was not about to get killed by Seath and be forced to traverse that horrible pit again. But taking out his anger directly wasn’t working. He rolled under a magical beam and avoided the crystal growth beneath his feet while his mind fought through the fog of adrenaline for answers. He found his answer as he backed away from a lashing of Seath’s tail. He smashed the tiny crystal pylon, which he realized must have been what Seath had swooped in to protect. Then he killed Seath. He killed Seath dead.

Nak would have preferred if that fight were a lopsided beatdown in which he punched the ageless, yet suddenly very mortal dragon repeatedly in his smug, ugly snout. It wasn’t so. It was a protracted duel where Nak managed to exercise quite a bit of restraint to ensure that Seath was unable to curse and kill him.

The details, however, mattered little. Nak never needed to return to the Crystal Caves again.

Nak returned to firelink shrine, souls in hand, to find out what final task Kingseeker Frampt had in mind.

Age of Fire

The serpent stared, mouth agape.

“Ahhh… ohh!”

That’s… it’s alright, Frampt, no need to…

“The Lordvessel is Satiated! Magnificent… You are the righteous successor to Lord Gwyn, the new Great Lord.”

… no need to gush. So that’s it?

“And I am Kingseeker no more. Your acquaintance was an honor!”

I get it Frampt. I appreciate your help, too, but…

“I must admit, I am fond of you humans…”

… okay, fine.

“May you enjoy serendipity, and may the Age of Fire perpetuate.”

Thanks for the well-wishing, Frampt. I guess I’ll figure the rest out myself.

A few minutes later, Nak trudged down a path, ankle-deep in the ashes. The Lordvessel had taken him to the Kiln of the First flame: ancient, grey, and all but completely burnt out. The air and ashes lay in complete stillness, as if the very space had been hollowed of its life… save for Nak and the last of the Black Knights. Gwyn’s honor guard, lonely in the dunes. Nak had a feeling he knew what came next. A half-crumbled coliseum could be seen from anywhere in the blasted desert, rising out of its epicenter. Nak grew closer to it with every Black Knight he laid to rest in the ashes.

Nak passed through the final fog wall and into a darkened arena. Across the field of ash shone a single streak of red light. It lay motionless just long enough for Nak to see the grey face of an old, tired king in the gloom behind it. Then Gwyn bore his fiery sword aloft and charged.

As Nak and Gwyn danced and crossed blades—and as Nak trekked to the arena between his deaths—Nak struggled with the physics of the situation, and the theology, and the politics. He had guessed that it would come to this. But what was the Age of Fire, really? What did it mean to link the flames? If Lord Gwyn had done so once, why would he stand opposed to Nak now? Was Gwyn hollow? He wasn’t undead; how could he be hollow? What right did Frampt have to declare Nak his successor? Would Nak assume custody of Gwynevere as his daughter? That would be strange. What about Gwyndolin? That would be yet stranger.

Nak finally overcame Gwyn, after hours of deadly combat. Whatever Nak had done, he had done it with dogged persistence, which, with the curse he carried, would allow him to overcome seemingly anything. Except for one thing: his doubt. His doubt, indeed, was merely made deeper. If he had any reservations, why pursue the his course with such tenacity that not even death could deter him?

Let there be no guilt. Let there be no vacillation.

Here, standing in the ashes of the world, over the lifeless body of its last guardian, those assurances seemed cold and feeble. But whatever Nak had done, he could not take back. So he reached down for the bonfire.

Nak died one last time.

Nito was dead laid to rest vanquished. Nak possessed his soul, and with it, whatever primordial power of Death still lingered within it.

Strictly speaking, it would do little good; Nak would need to feed all of that power to the Lordvessel. But maybe it would play the role of the good luck charm as Nak forged further into the Demon Ruins?

Or maybe Nak simply didn’t need luck any longer.

The Ceaseless Discharge

Nak stood over the body crumpled on the altar. He couldn’t help but think that the hulking, stories-tall, malformed, magma-oozing creature waiting soberly behind him was peering over his shoulder, just itching for him to disturb the body.

Nak obliged, and took off running.

Sure enough, the beast shuddered and hurled itself into action. Nak would later learn that he was the forlorn brother of the Witch of Izalith, keeping vigil over his sister’s last remaining possessions. A sad story, to be sure, but if the monster was wielding his eternal gratitude in defense of his sister, he wasn’t very skilled in its use. He swung wildly, and his tells were even larger than his blows. Nak sidestepped and rolled under them with ease, and his retorts were too much for the fiery sentinel to handle.

As he perished, the magma ebbed, and a path into the ruins cooled and hardened.

Chaos Ember

“Imminent sorrow”

“Tears ahead”

“Be wary of pincer attack”

This was all very ominous. Nak looked down the hallway. To his right, a stone wall. To his left, no wall, just a few crumbling pillars and a pleasing view of the magma below. Far, far down at the long end of the hallway, a chest.

Nak raised his shield and inched forward. Step… step… step… pause… step… step… rumble.

With a crash and a thorough upheaval of the dirt and stone floor, Nak found himself surrounded by huge (as if they would be any other size) burrowing rockworms. And then… nothing happened.

Nak stood for a moment, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to fall. It did not.

He inched forward and baited the one before him and to his left. It flailed. He stepped beyond its reach, and back in to punish it. And so on, and so on.

And then they were dead, and Nak held in his hands another ember, swirling with life and chaos.

Firesage Demon

Nak wiped his forehead. It was hard work dispatching legions of capra demons in the heat of the demon ruins!

He passed through the fog wall and watched as a grotesque winged fat-demon plodded toward him, holding aloft its hammer-catalyst.

Then he killed it.

Centipede Demon

Nak wiped his forehead. It was hard work killing demon pyromancers!

He passed through the fog wall and OH GOD OH HOLYSHITAARARAGHroll

A hunched over, mutated form was throwing punches with a horrible, carapace-covered bug-arm from across the lava lake, and Nak no longer had the luxury of self-reflection. He had to roll, sidestep, run, avoid the lava, roll…

OH GOD IT’S JUMPING EVERYWHERE WHAT THE roll, roll, OH GOD LAVA IS HOT

Nak died.

Now that he had the time for self-reflection, Nak mused that maybe he wasn’t quite as unstoppable as he thought he was.

Nak stood up from the bonfire and did something he had been waiting weeks to do.

CRUNCH-CRUNCH… CRUNCH-CRUNCH… CRUNCH-CRUNCH.

Nak charged down the path down Firelink Shrine, bounding through the skeleton duos and leaving behind nothing but fine dust and bits of bone as he went. This was a vengeance was long in coming.

It was pretty alright.

Nak held up his shield to the flying, exploding skulls, whose terrible mystique was gone since Nak got a good look at them in New Londo, and moved deeper into the Catacombs.

Nak first noticed that something wasn’t quite right when he burst through the first skeleton within the Catacombs proper. He didn’t feel the weak influx of souls he normally would. He thought little of it, until a few seconds later, while dueling another skeleton, this one reassembled itself behind him.

Nak had heard of this one before. But he figured: eh, he’d be fine.

Nak put his trust in his armor, his Elite Knight Armor worn by the Knight of Astora that had freed him from the Asylum, and sprinted through the Catacombs.

Nak stumbled through piles of bones, chased by a mad contingent of skeletons, shouldering through their haphazard attacks. He bore left into a little alcove, crawling with beetles (harmless, but unnerving). In that alcove: an unlit bonfire, and a wretched little man with a skull lantern and a mean look about him.

Nak figured that this was the guy he had to stab to make the skeletons stay dead. Nak was right. Nak was further pleased to learn that the Necromancer would not return when he took his rest at the bonfire.

Pinwheel, and Profanity

Nak was frustrated.

It wasn’t the first time Nak had felt rage bubbling close to the surface. He’d long learned to quell those fires, since all they ever seemed to do was spur him headlong into sloppy mistakes. But this time, he needed an outlet, and this deep in the lonely catacombs, the only outlet was Pinwheel, a hunched-over, black-robed form wearing three mismatched masks. Pinwheel drifted languidly from corner to corner of his chamber, a confoundedly outsized sarcophagus, while Nak chased after him, waving the Greatsword of Artorias to and fro.

“Wheel skeletons? WHEEL SKELETONS?”

Pinwheel careened about and weaved two illusions of itself into being.

“WHO THE FUCK’S IDEA WERE THE WHEEL SKELETONS? YOURS?”

Pinwheel directed a fireball at Nak, who sidestepped.

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU’VE DONE? DO YOU?”

Nak stepped, slashed, and stepped again as a few more fireballs wandered in from behind him.

“Look, at least have the courtesy to EXPLAIN HOW THEY FUCKING WORK.”

Slash, sidestep, slash-slash.

“How in the HELL do they KEEP ROLLING and GRINDING and KILLING AFTER THEY RUN INTO MY GODDAMN SHIELD?”

Slash-slash-slash. Pinwheel listed and then faded, silently.

“FUUUUUCKK.”

The Tomb of Giants, and more Profanity

Nak climbed out of Pinwheel’s workshop and into perfect darkness. He wondered, in between strings of profanities, why the catacombs should be so well-lit, but not the Tomb? Maybe Nito, being the First of the Dead, enjoyed fostering hope in his visitors, that he might better kill it.

One step at a time, Nak followed the rocky path down. He had aid in the form of little, multicolored sprites—path markers—that had been dropped on the ground by some party before him. But those weren’t the only lights in the darkness. Ahead, two red eyes glinted, about 11 feet (of course) above where the ground should have been.

Nak raised his shield and closed the distance. The massive skeleton swung its massive curved blade at him, and he deflected it. He began to circle, that he might evade its attacks instead of bearing them on his shield, but the skeleton lifted its leg and thrusted—leading Nak just enough to make solid contact. Nak caught the bony foot directly on his shield and held strong to keep it steady, and keep it steady he did… unfortunately, at the cost of keeping his feet on the ground. Nak hurtled backward and then downward, and downward, and downward.

Nak died.

It was a long trek back to the Tomb, filled with anger and dread.

With the first two skeletons cast aside, Nak faced crisis. Something, somewhere in the darkness, was launching giant-sized arrows from a giant-sized bow, and the only way forward was a slide down into the unknown.

Well, Nak thought, why come out here in the first place if he was just going to settle for the devil he knew?

Nak slid, and at the bottom, he was greeted by not one, but two skeletal monstrosities. And whatever archer had been lobbing veritable spears at him was now doing so from very close by.

Nak died. It sounded a bit like: FWANG—-CRUNCH-PIERCE-CRUNCH-BANG-uuughhhhh.

The next time Nak died, it sounded much the same.

As with the next time, and the next time.

Nak was getting exceedingly tired of making the journey from the bonfire in the catacombs, dodging the (fucking goddamn) wheel skeletons, and tiptoeing into the tomb. So after he disassembled the first two overlarge skeletons, he sat, and he grasped after ideas in the crushing shadows.

When he finally grasped one, he was sure he must have gone Hollow. He tried it anyway.

He took off his armor.

Wearing only a shield and the scabbard for his greatsword, he slid down into the unknown.

FWANG—roll—CRUNCH-CRUNCH-uuughhhhh.

FUCK.

Large Divine Ember, and Profanity

Nak stood on a ledge, peering down into another large sarcophagus. Three of the giant skeletons clamored and clanged with their swords at him, fortunately unable to reach.

Curiosity took Nak, and he dove into the chamber:

CLANG-BANG-fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-CRASH-CRUNCH-roll-CRASH-fuckfuckfuckfuck-snatch-CRASH-CRUNCH-CRUNCH-uuughhhhh.

Nak died.

At the bonfire, he rummaged through his sack and located his prize: a brightly glowing ember, one of the tools of Andrei’s trade. It pulsed with divinity.

Nak got up and carried on, utterly contented with the fact that we would never return to that horrible clusterfuck.

Patches

“You know what I mean? Don’t you? Please forgive me. You and me, we’re jolly Undead outcasts, aren’t we?”

No, Patches, we aren’t, replied Nak.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, let’s not mope about, eh? You’re still alive, I’ve said I’m sorry! Wait, I know! Here, take this. It proves something, doesn’t it?”

A pair of humanities? Yeah, that sure does prove something, Patches. Something about the two dead guys in the pit you kicked me into. How kind of you to spell it out.

Nak kicked Patches into the pit and plunged afterward with the mighty Greatsword of Artorias.

Patches died.

The Rest of the Tomb of the Giants

Just ahead, two red eyes watched Nak from the darkness. This pair was just three feet off the ground, not eleven. Nak lifted his lantern (maybe he did owe Patches that—Patches did “show” him where it was, in his own way) and gazed upon a freakish, quadrupedal skeleton… dog? Skeleton… boar? Skeleton… whatever. Nak swapped the lantern out for his shield and inched forward and…

RRWRAAAAAAARARAGHGHGHGHghghghhhhh.

Nak died.

The First of the Dead

SKREAAAAAAAAAHHHHH-PIERCE.

Nak died.

He wondered. First of the Dead, as in the first being to die? Or First, as in some kind of Lordly title, whose realm was the Dead? He leaned toward the latter; if Nito was already dead, how was Nak to kill him?

And if Nito was some sort of King of the Dead, should Nak owe him fealty, or undying enmity?

Even more philosophically: Nito had claimed Death as his own by inheriting the Soul of Death from the First Flame. Nito was, so far as Nak could tell, a tangled mass of skeletons, skulls, and putrescence. So, did he look like that before he found it? Was Death made in his image, or he in Death’s image?

For once, Frampt’s words had some sort of meaning: let there be no guilt, no vacillation. Nak conceded that he was probably overthinking this a bit.

Nak jumped down into Nito’s cold, stony lair and charged forward, his greatsword singing.

Let there be no guilt. Let there be no vacillation.

Those words echoed ceaselessly in Nak’s mind. The Primordial Serpent called himself “Kingseeker Frampt,” spoke with a droll, nasally voice, and related tales of heroism and godhood—all while his oversized teeth clattered like the hooves of so many bulls. Nak had known Frampt since shortly after ringing the bell in Blighttown, but time in acquaintance had not made the friendly serpent any less weird.

At any rate, Frampt had been the one to guide Nak through Sen’s fortress, which Nak would still be bitter about if it weren’t for the fact that it led to Anor Londo, a place of stately, gothic beauty—and challenges worthy of warriors of his stature. In Anor Londo, he had slain countless Silver Knights, triumphed over giant sentinels, and visited furious justice upon Lautrec of Carim (for all the creepy but helpful undead Nak had met in Lordran, it was almost odd that the creepiest of them would be a murderer). He had done battle with valiant Ornstein and terrible Smough, and he had knelt before beautiful Gwynevere and received the Lordvessel, which he was fated to use to succeed Lord Gwyn.

The strange serpent now entreated Nak to slay the most powerful beings in Lordran:

• The Four Kings of New Londo, corrupted by their hunger for souls and sealed away beneath the ruins of their kingdom,
• Seath the Scaleless, Duke of Lordran, driven mad by his quest to obtain the immortality that he, alone amongst the dragons, lacked,
• The Bed of Chaos, the frightfully deformed creature born of the Witch of Izalith’s attempt to rekindle the First Flame,
• and Gravelord Nito, First of the Dead.

The Four Kings and the Duke had been bequeathed shards of Gwyn’s soul. The Bed of Chaos and the First of the Dead still possessed the power drawn from the First Flame all those millenia ago. Nak would need all of it to fill the Lordvessel.

The beings who possess these souls have outlived their their usefulness, or chosen the path of the wicked. Let there be no guilt—let there be no vacillation.

As Nak crept through the ruins of New Londo, he wasn’t even sure why the Kingseeker had bothered to warn him with those words. How could he possibly have any guilt about this fight?

Shit was extremely evil down here.

Every few minutes, a restless ghost would float through a nearby wall and attempt to thrust a spectral dagger through Nak’s perfectly corporeal armor. Even beyond being obviously malicious spirits made restless by a horrible catastrophe, the ghosts were absolutely evil the way they would float just beyond reach, flail at Nak through walls, and swarm him in numbers unhindered by the limits of physical spaces. That, and Nak had to willingly visit a curse upon himself (and renew it every few minutes) to be able to fight back.

Nak died… quite a few times.

Finally, he spoke to Ingward, the last of the Sealers, who kept watch over New Londo. After issuing a few ominous warnings (of course), Ingward left Nak with the key to unseal the lowest, darkest reaches of New Londo, where he would find the Four Kings.

Nak accepted the key and its burdens. First, however, it was time to run some errands.

Sif: a Flashback

AROOOOOOOOO!

pant pant

CLANG

slice slice slice

CLANG

slice slice slice

AROOOOOOO!

VICTORY ACHIEVED

The Legacy of Artorias

“Forge, I can. Strong, I am.”

There were scant few in Lordran who hadn’t formed the habit of ending every sentence with “ha ha ha ha” or “heh heh heh!” or “KEH HEH HEH HEH” (goddamn Lautrec). Nak made a point to befriend these people.

It paid off. Nak gave the Giant Blacksmith the Soul of Sif and his trusty Bastard Sword, already worked to perfection, and watched as the blacksmith transformed it. The blacksmith finished and handed Nak the Greatsword of Artorias, a weapon with a curse and an inner power beyond anything Nak had ever held, much less fought with.

Nak dashed off to the nearest Sentinel, held the great black blade in both hands, and swung!

Nak immediately stumbled backward with the shock of the blow.

Nak swung, and stumbled. Every time he made contact, the blade did its part and dealt terrible damage to his enemies, but somehow Nak could not follow through.

After the sentinel had taken the liberty of sending Nak back to the bonfire, Nak realized his mistake. He needed more faith. To wield this sword, once borne by of one of the very Knights of Lord Gwyn, required devotion. Devotion, of course, required souls.

The Four Kings

As evil as New Londo was, Lower New Londo was eviler.

By opening the floodgates and draining Lower New Londo, Nak had freed the Darkwraith Knights, the elite soul-hunting servants of the Four Kings themselves. Ingward had warned Nak about them: the Darkwraith Knights were never meant to walk again. Releasing them, necessary though it may be, would be releasing a terrible darkness upon the world.

But they fell, one after another, to Nak, who slew and trounced and cleaved through them with the Greatsword of Artorias… and no small amount of glee.

After slaying legions of Darkwraiths, putting to rest twisted masses of souls, and vanquishing a few more pesky ghosts, Nak stood at the top of a turret, hemmed in by a fog wall. What now? The spiral stairs downward led to an empty pit. The turret led no further upward; its top floors presumably crumbled centuries ago.

Nak stepped down to the very last step and looked downward. This wasn’t the first time it had been necessary to make a leap of faith. Nak stepped.

Nak fell and fell and fell and fell and died.

Nak combed every corner of New Londo, pleaded for help from Frampt, threw himself into the pit in the turret several more times, and held back immense frustration at the comfortable bonfire at Firelink Shrine.

Then he saw it: “Need Ring”

Nak banged his head against the wall, and again, and again, and once more, for good measure. Then he put on the Covenant of Artorias—the Ring that “symbolized Knight Artorias’s covenant with the beasts of the Abyss,” which he had earned fighting Artorias’s companion (the white wolf Sif), and stepped off the last step into the Abyss.

Nak landed in the emptiness. Not long afterward, the first of the Four Kings, wearing feathery, tattered regalia (and measuring a good thirty feet in height, of course) floated out of the infinite nothing.

Nak charged, and was blasted by terrible occult magic.

The second King descended upon the fight.

Nak stoop up (upon the surprisingly solid footing that the nothingness provided) and advanced upon the first King, bringing to bear the might of the Greatsword of Artorias. He swung, and swung, and swung, until the King swung back, flattening Nak, who bounced back up only to be scorched by the second King’s sorcery. Nak stood and vanquished the first King with two more sweeping blows of his mighty greatsword. By then, the third King had arrived.

Nak died.

Nak sighed.

The Three Kings

Return to the Abyss for the fourth time.

Charge. Sweep. Strike, strike, strike, block. Strike, strike, roll-strike. Strike. Roll. Strike.

Charge. Sweep. Block… block… die.

Return to the Abyss for the fifth time.

Charge. Sweep. Strike, strike, roll. Strike, strike, roll. Strike, strike, strike, block. Strike.

Charge. Sweep. Strike, strike, strike retreat—ouch. Strike, strike, roll, block. Strike.

Charge. Sweep. Retreat. Die.

Return to the Abyss for the sixth time.

Charge. Sweep. Strike, strike, roll. Strike, strike, strike, block. Strike, strike.

Charge. Sweep. Strike, strike, strike, block. Strike, strike, roll. Retreat, roll. Charge, Sweep.

Charge. Sweep. Strike, strike, strike, strike, take the blow, strike, strike, strike.

Piercing screech.

That was only three. Where’s the fourth? Oh, there’s a bonfire here. Oh, there’s the shard of Lord Gwyn’s soul. Good enough.

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ‘tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Spears and Mallets of outrageous Fat Men,
Or to lay down before the cozy bonfire,
And by avoiding end them: to rage, to quit
For good; and by a quit, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
Of Fat Man’s butt slam? ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To rage, to quit,
To quit, perchance to Sleep; Aye, there’s the rub,
For in that bliss of sleep, what madness comes,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes Calamity of cursed undeath:
For who would bear the Pikes and Swords of Knights,
The Giants’ Halberds, the Fat Man’s hammer strokes,
The thrusts of Ornstein’s Spear, the swift retreat,
The glimmering of new hope, and the Doom
That newborn dream with such swiftness meets,
When he himself might his comfort make
With idle Despair? Who would Armor bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary helm,
But that the dread of madness after death,
The assuréd Hollowing, from whose bourn
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Heroes of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is re-emboldened, with the rich stain of Fear,
And final battles of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Futures turn awry,
And lose the promise of Defeat. Soft you now,
Fat Smough and Swift Ornstein? Foes, in thy Trouncings
Be all my deaths made worthy.

Nak was in uncharted territory for the first time in several days (now that he could navigate Blighttown in his nightmares). He inched forward, shield first.

Click.

He recognized the sound instantly as a trap mechanism and stepped aside as the bolts went whizzing past his ear. But even after the firing of bolts had ceased, he heard another rhythmic sound emerging from the darkness: footsteps.

An eight-foot lizardman charged at him on its beefy hind legs and lofted a rusty cleaver. If there’s one thing Nak had learned during his time in Lordran, it’s that combatants bigger than him (that is to say, almost everyone) had the right of way when attacking, so he braced his shield arm and stepped aside. He prepared a counter-slash, but thought better of it when he saw that the beast was relatively nimble, and he was carrying a hefty blade. So he blocked, slipped, and backed up, buying time and analyzing its habits, preparing for his own assault… And then another one charged out of the darkness.

Nak died.

It would be a long day in Sen’s fortress, Nak thought, as he left the bonfire. Minutes later, he charged past a second set of axe-pendulums and into a crackling bolt of energy that hurled him back into the last axe-pendulum, which in turn tossed him into the pit. Nak died.

That was a folly that he was not likely to repeat, Nak thought as he walked back to the fortress. But he did, and he died.

Maybe, he thought, this would be all the punishment he need endure? He would later slay the lightning caster—maybe this was it!—and advance to the first rolling boulder trap, which would kill him as he scrambled straight into another boulder after he missed the side passage that would have saved him.

Nak returned to the trap and dove into the side passage. He dodged the cleverly hidden bolt trap, slew the lizardman, and found another rolling boulder trap. Figuring that “up” was the order of the day, Nak waited for a boulder to pass, and then charged up the passage toward the source… into another boulder. Nak died.

And died.

And died.

Nak made it up the passage before getting flattened by the second boulder once in nine attempts. When he did make it to the top, he squandered the opportunity on a poorly-considered fight against two lizardmen at once. Nak died.

Finally, he decided to run downhill. It was a long passage, and each step heightened Nak’s fear that the boulder would barrel over him from behind until, at last, he reached the bottom, where a wooden chest sat askew in a little room beside the boulder’s path.

Nak, relieved stumbled over to the chest, opened it, and discovered that it had teeth. And arms, with which to grasp him. And a tongue, with which to taste him. Nak died.

It was a small comfort to lure the gangly mimic out into the boulder hallway and watch it get smashed by the unstoppable mass of rock. With that, Nak could return to his business: taking the crude elevator up until it smashed him against a spike ceiling and dying.

Nak died, and he died, and he died.

Finally, after hours and hours on trial in the dingy dungeon, he made it out to the sunlight atop Sens’ Fortress. He took a few tentative steps out into the fresh, foreign air and up to a nearby staircase. At the base of the staircase was the most apt message Nak had read in his life: “Be wary of amazing trap.”

Nap stepped up the staircase and beheld a flat stone platform that had been blackened and scorched by fire. He stepped forward… and stepped… and stepped… until finally, he heard in the distance an unfamiliar “HAROOMPH!” That was his cue to tumble back down the stairs and take cover while a deafening crash and explosion blasted the rock platform clean above him.

Nak looked around and found the source: atop the highest tower of the fortress stood not a beautiful princess awaiting rescue, but a dusty, meaty giant hefting another epically oversized firebomb to toss down at Nak.

Nak ran.

Atop Sen’s fortress, Nak would dodge those firebombs, slay the hollow Prince Ricard, dodge more firebombs, overcome a Tower Knight, dodge still more firebombs, and stare at the fog wall. He was certain that there was something terrible beyond that fog wall. He turned back to find a bonfire, and finally, was unable to dodge one of those mighty firebombs.

Nak made one last journey through Sen’s fortress. This time, he did not hesitate at the fog wall (and this time, he found another helpful message: “Here!” at a cliff just above a well-hidden bonfire).

The terrible foe waiting for Nak at the top of the terrible fortress was the Iron Golem. The huge construct hurled its axe at Nak, but only made contact with the rubble at his feet.

Nak would reflect later, standing upon the empty battleground, that the very first moments of the battle were emblematic of the whole affair: an intimidating gesture, mostly for show. The Iron Golem did kill Nak twice, of course, but a mere two deaths was nothing to the (what felt like, at least) scores of deaths Nak suffered in the fortress proper.

But it was over now. Nak’s long nightmare was finally over. The Lordvessel could not be far now! The damnable fortress was behind him for good! Now what was this bright circle on the grou—what the fuck? Albino imp-gargoyle-things? And not here to stab Nak? Just to take him to Anor Londo?

Whatever. Good enough.

Training Montage

Nak returned to the misty forest. His head swirled with the humbling of the Capra Demon and the thrill of the Moonlight Butterfly, but he knew he had to quell them and focus on one thing: souls.

His encounter with the Capra Demon, however brief and brutal, gave him much to think on at the bonfire. He knew he couldn’t simply reply to its ferocity in kind: if there was one thing he had learned in this cursed land, it was that monsters larger than himself had the right of way. He had to evade the demon’s assault and then reply in time to dodge again.

Griggs of Vinheim offered a solution: Magic Weapon, a sorcery that could help Nak better exploit what few openings he had. Andrei offered another: better weapons and armor through titanite. And, in the back of his head, Nak was always aware of the final solution: more training.

All of these solutions required more souls than Nak had. So he stood up from the bonfire and stepped down the stairs to the forest before the Grave of Sir Artorias. It was time to grind.

The Depths

Nak pulled his sword out of the ground and wiped his brow. It was funny how the deceased demons would vanish forever, and yet he still needed to clean the blood off of his sword and armor.

After a short time of rest, Nak sheathed his bastard sword, belted on his armor, and marched off to the Depths, key in hand.

For the entirety of the short time Nak spent in the depths, he was filled with a sense of foreboding. Maybe it was claustrophobia: unlike in the Burg, Parish, and Darkroot Garden, there was no open sky above his head here, only stone walls and ceiling close overhead, glistening with slime. Maybe it was the alienness of the creatures down here: Nak was well acquainted with withered hollow, undead knights, and demons by now, but the poisonous rats, caustic slimes, and freakish basilisks put him on edge. Maybe it was the loneliness. Firelink shrine was home, where Griggs, Petrus, and the dour man were resting, and it was so very far away.

What Nak didn’t know was that his unease was just a portent for things to come.

He passed through the last fog gate and saw a body crumpled up against a wall far on the other side of the wide, open chamber, wearing the very same style of armor Nak began this journey with. He found that concerning.

As if on cue, the floor began to rumble. Nak was unsurprised—when does the floor not rumble when heralding the arrival of the top of the food chain in these places?—but his nonchalance was washed away when a putrescent dragon crawled up from the deepest of the depths. The dragon’s torso was grotesquely wide, and it seemed as though its mottled flesh had rotted away to expose its ribcage. The individual ribs bowed and flexed, and that’s when Nak realized that they were teeth. This dragon had a gaping, fifteen-foot-by-forty-foot maw in its chest, and it intended to eat him with it.

Nak nearly died of fright. He ran.

The fog wall kept him pinned in the lair with the monstrosity, but Nak could still run at full tilt to avoid the toothy death that came crashing to the floor. He ran, however, into the dragon’s lashing tail. Nak died.

Nak had long decided that undeath, far from a curse, was a blessing. It was to be expected that Nak’s first exposure to hideous murdermonsters like the Gaping Dragon would end in his death. All the better to determine the monster’s habits and learn when best to thrust, and when better to block. So Nak stood up and charged back into the dragon’s domain.

He died a few more times, but learned quickly that the dragon was desperate to envelope him in its horrid thorax, and that when it missed, it needed to crawl over to and up a wall so that its body would be vertical again. Its single-minded quest to reach the wall gave Nak ample opportunity to hack at its tail with the heaviest weapon he carried—his trusty bastard sword.

Nak held the key to Blighttown in his hand as the foul-smelling creature faded from Lordran. He had heard of this place, Blighttown, and he knew it meant climbing even further from the comforting sun and Firelink Shrine. Beyond that, it was a place of stench, darkness, and, well, blight. The thought did not sit well with him.

And yet Blighttown was about to defy even Nak’s expectations.

Beware of Hope

What Nak expected was a long and horrible trudge through poisonous foes, deaths beyond deaths, and possibly the end if he were to go hollow. What Nak got was far worse: hope.

Nak’s descent into Blighttown was measured, controlled, and uneventful. He battled the poisonous fatties, he cut his way through the twisted inhabitants, and he even managed to avoid (for the most part) the toxic blow-darters who lay in ambush. He even had time to muse on how appropriate the name for the place was: so far as he could tell, Blighttown was literally a teetering shantytown built on top of the plague, all drenched in inky darkness.

For a while, Nak died more times after missteps off the treacherous wooden walkways into the abyss than he did by the hands of his mutant foes. Those missteps were frustrating, but his progress was steady and confidence high.

Then he reached the bottom.

He made camp at a bonfire in a large sewer outlet at the very bottom of Blighttown. When he stepped back outside, he realized that there was no way forward but through the poisonous sludge. So he waded in, purple moss close at hand to treat the symptoms that resulted startlingly quickly from wading waist-deep in the horrible stuff. His eyes watered in the rising stench, trapped in his stuffy full helm.

He took the first opportunity to climb back onto the shanty wooden structures. As awful as they were, they were better than swimming in poison. Up he went, battling mutant bug-beasts and swatting at frustrating, overgrown, carnivorous mosquitoes. He mis-stepped, and died.

The next time, he made it to the jury-rigged mill-elevator operated by one of the fire-breathing dogs. Again, he slipped on his disembark and died.

The next time, he made it to the top of the elevator and up the ladders further, and he detoured into another sewer outlet. Three humanoid creatures armed with toxin blowdarts awaited him. For once, he was unable to avoid contracting the terrible toxin, and died, convulsing.

The next time, he dispatched the blowdart snipers, but climbed down onto the lower floor too hastily and was set alight by a swarm of fiery hounds.

After that, he had finally cleared the outlet, so he continued his journey upward, and out of Blighttown.

He climbed to the top of the last ladder and found… nothing. This platform was a dead end. Nak combed for hours, certain that he had missed something (he had; there was a cave entrance not far from here that would lead him out of Blighttown, but that was just as well since he had unfinished business in this distasteful place), until, finally, he dove off of the highest platform into the sludge, and died.

He sat at the bonfire for a bit, trying to assure himself that he was not yet hollow. The recent suicide attempt was merely born out of frustration and the understanding that it wasn’t really suicide… right? Nak was only sure that he had staved off insanity when he reached the rational and bitter conclusion that the second Bell of Awakening was down here somewhere, and he would have to push through the evil sludge to get to it.

Beware of Tears

The evil sludge brought him to Quelaag’s Domain.

It was a lump of tree limbs and spider silk rising out of the morass on the far end of Blighttown, a long wade guaranteed to result in swamp poisoning. Nak, in another moment of clarity, feared he would be forced to make this journey repeatedly. He would.

Past three dumb, hostile brutes with pet boulders (whom doubled as rather effective weapons), there was a tunnel through the webbed mass, into a cave, past three poor souls whose backs bulged with parasites (Nak only made the mistake of trying to put them out of their misery once: the parasites fought back, and fiercely. And if they were going to reappear every time he died, was he really helping?), and into the cavern lair of Chaos Witch Quelaag.

Quelaag resembled the most twisted, nightmarish centaur imaginable: the upper body of a comely young woman, and the lower body of a two-ton tarantula with demonic flames licking at the cracks in its carapace.

Quelaag smirked, and bared her fiery greatsword.

Nak sighed, and broke off running.

Like the Gaping Dragon, Nak ran furiously to avoid attacks and learn how Quelaag would telegraph her strikes with huge windups and obvious tells by the (sometimes lumbering, sometimes frighteningly quick) spider. Unlike the Gaping Dragon, this did not make the fight particularly easy. Nak died.

Nak plodded back through the sludge to face Quelaag again. Nak died again.

Each long trudge through the swamp was met with a fiery reprisal. Sometimes they came quick and summarily. Worse, sometimes the flames took Nak after a lengthy bout. Sometimes he was out of Est and Quelaag was barely standing on eight wobbly legs before Nak perished along with his hope.

A wise man once said in another realm that there cannot be true despair without hope. But neither can there be victory without hope. And victory cannot be sweetest without despair.

Nak was running out of purple moss to treat his poisonous fevers when he stepped into Quelaag’s lair for the last time (he later realized that this meant he had been killed by Quelaag nearly two dozen times). Finally, he dodged lava and fiery brand alike to visit death, which he was so versed in, upon the Chaos Witch. He had run completely out of Est in the waning moments of the battle, and his tattered pyromancer’s garb (which offered better fire protection than his elite knight’s armor) was drenched in sweat. But he trembled with adrenaline, knowing that the Witch, too, was on her last legs, and he waited with mounting anticipation for her to offer another opening. Finally, she did: in her arrogance, she thought to wash Nak in lava to banish him again, but this was the very move Nak had hoped for. Her spidery body strained with all of its energy to expel the lava, leaving none to avoid the bite of Nak’s blade.

Before long, Nak was pulling with all of his might to ring the second and final Bell of Awakening and truly begin his quest to end the curse of the undead.

It was, of course, not the end. There was another bell to ring, somewhere in the deep, forbidding caves beneath Lordran. Nak had a long quest ahead of him.

Bustin’

Nak handed over the souls. In turn, the broad-chested, white-bearded smith thrust the Seal of Artorias upon him.

There was a door not far into the Darkroot Garden that was sealed by a faintly detectable sorcery. It stood directly beside the path onward, and a bonfire hid shyly behind an illusory wall, ajoined. It seemed to beckon—welcome, even—passerby.

It swung aside at first contact with the seal, and Nak stepped down into the hazy forest beyond. At the bottom of the steps, Nak paused. Those weren’t his footsteps. They had all the familiarity of mail clinking against plate (comforting familiarity, since it meant Nak was wearing his armor), but they were lurking somewhere in the haze, and they were getting closer… fast.

Nak raised his shield just in time to thrust a two-handed sword aside, away from his helm.

Nak had fought towering stone guardians, a hulking Taurus Demon, and a pondering titanite demon. He had been scorched by a dragon and scintillated by a butterfly the size of a house. Even one of the undead knights he had fought was wearing what was surely two hundred pounds of armor. Nak was entirely unprepared to face an adversary of his own stature.

He backed up and hurriedly swapped his bastard sword for a more manageable longsword—he would need the agility. Hopefully he could do without the weight and leverage of the larger blade.

Nak and his knightly adversary danced in the dark, quiet forest for long minutes. It was the romance of violence: two wills, two bodies pitted against each other in a struggle to determine who was the better man.

Nak emerged victorious, his shield arm weary and his sword arm still trembling with adrenaline.

Just a few paces further into the forest, he spotted another foe. It appeared to be a Sorcerer of Vinheim-turned-Forest Dweller. Nak launched himself into another noble duel…

Until the thief padded out of the forest and stabbed him in the back. Nak died.

Beware of lying in ambush

Nak spent several hours in that forest, fighting the knight, sorcerer, thief, wanderer, and cleric. He died many, many times, but his collection of souls grew with each victory.

Stronger and fiercer than ever, Nak turned his attention to the Undead Burg. He had, a while back, acquired a key that would open the way to the lower levels of the burg, which he found to be teeming with thieves, rotting hounds, and lost sorcerers. Well, one lost sorcerer. After Griggs of Vinheim was seen safely back to Firelink, Nak slew the last of the thieves and stepped through the mist…

RRWRAAAAAAARARAGHGHGHGHghghghhhhh

Nak, having spent long hours honing his sense of rhythm and patience against the Forest Dwellers, was entirely unprepared for the horrible onslaught visited upon him by the Capra Demon. Needless to say, he died.

Nak returned to Firelink shrine. All he wanted to do was destroy something. So he learned some basic sorceries from Griggs, marched down into the Darkroot Garden, and destroyed the Moonlight Butterfly, alternating the glimmering bolts of Soul Arrow with furious overhand bastard sword swings.

Sorcery, huh. Promising.

Nak woke up.

He sat by the glow of the bonfire contemplating, preparing. Today would be the day he would ring the Bell of Awakening. He was so close. He just had to get through the Bell Gargoyle… and his friend, the other Bell Gargoyle.

Nak thought: you know what, fuck it.

Nak went downstairs, past Andrei (who possessed an inhuman ability to work every waking and unwaking hour of the day) and into the chamber beyond.

The room was cavernous, and its roof had not collapsed despite that its floor was littered with the remains of its supporting columns. At the very back of the room, a hulking form held itself up on one arm, and it turned its faceless gaze upon Nak. It began channeling energy into its staff.

Nak had been here once before: this was the point where he had backed out of the room and returned to the Parish. That time, he had yet to contend with anything more sorcerous than firebombs and self-animating skeletons, and he had no intention of rushing into such an encounter. But, now that he thought about it, he was undead, and he had little to lose by dying so close to the bonfire he would inevitably return to.

Nak stepped down into the room and rolled under and around the first golden bolt of energy. He sidestepped some debris, rolled under another bolt, and launched himself forward, lifting his bastard sword…

Crunch.

The result was a bit disheartening. The demon really was made of animated stone, and while it clearly felt the impact of the blow, it had slowed him little, and it would clearly be a long battle.

It would be a long several battles, actually. After deflecting a few blows with his heater shield and countering with a swing of his own, Nak was dismayed to discover how far backward and how quickly the demon could leap, despite clearly missing one of its legs. He was also dismayed to find how easily it could overpower his defenses with a single flying, overhead blow of its stony trident.

So Nak died. And again, and again, and again. But fortunately for Nak, he was armed with undeath and steely determination, unlike the demon, which was banished forever when it finally fell under Nak’s blade.

Behind it, Nak was to find a place of wonder, beauty, and tears: the Darkroot Garden.

He stepped cautiously into the gloom with his shield up and padded forward on the weedy undergrowth until the first enemies emerged from the tangled path. With some help from those who came before him (“Enemy ahead,” “Beware of right,” though he never did make use of “Weakness: fire” owing to his limited supply of firebombs), he forged deeper, deeper into the garden. His only opposition: the plant monsters with whipping vine arms, and the stone guardians with slow and predictable attacks and a very manageable spell (“Beware of Sorcery”).

Nak reached the top of a broken stone turret and stepped through the ominous white mist. He stood on a thin wall, its ramparts either worn by the long passage of time or beaten down. The mist closed in behind him, and the mist blocked his passage at the other end of the wall.

The mournful notes of a distant soprano, accompanied by a gentle harp, floated to his ears.

The moonlight butterfly lofted overhead, an image of grace and beauty, eclipsing even the looming moon itself. Nak stared.

The moonlight butterfly drifted over Nak… and shot spears of shimmering light in all directions. Nak dodged. It drifted backward, and thrust sorcerous beam across the ramparts. Nak dodged. It flew overhead, and cast toward Nak a frayed ball of rainbow energy. Nak missed his footing. Nak died.

Nak woke up, bewildered. After a while, he got up and began his long march back to the Bell Gargoyles. At least they were ugly. And, more importantly, they came close enough for Nak to stab them.

Nak killed the Bell Gargoyles and rang the Bell of Awakening.

The End.

The stairs curled up around the turret before straightening out, up through one gate, under an arched bridge, and through a second, closed gate.

Nak sized up the defenders on and about those stairs. One soldier gripped a tattered spear just up the steps, one surely lurked right around the corner of the first gate, and two held crossbows on the bridge above. But the foe that dominated Nak’s attention—the star of this show—was a half-ton, ten-foot-long boar, inexplicably covered tusk-to-hoof in banded armor.

Nak raised his trusty heater shield and inched forward, drawing out the first spearmen (and the one hiding, as promised, around the corner). He dispatched them with four slick strokes, and took two steps forward to encourage the mechaboar out of its hiding spot. The mechaboar swatted at the ground with its hoof, and Nak knew what that meant. He dove to the side, but too early! The mechaboar adjusted, and caught him in full stride with its tusks, hurling him backward into a pillar. Nak tried to stand up, but not quickly enough. The tusks returned. Nak died.

Nak tried, across about ten deaths:

1. Rolling past the boar, only to find that he had to deal with crossbowmen as well as the boar,
2. Heeding the advice on the ground (“weakness: fire”), only to realize that a single firebomb would not kill the mechaboar before the mechaboar killed him,
3. Heeding other advice on the ground (“weakness: back”) and slipping up to the bridge to dispatch the crossbowmen before diving from the bridge and delivering a spectacular plunging strike… to the stone three feet behind mechaboar,
4. Luring the boar down toward the turret entrance into which the mechaboar could not fit, and striking only when the mechaboar grew frustrated and turned tail to return to its post at the closed gate.

Nak’s eventual victory with the fourth method was especially ignoble, but he was tired of being rent asunder by mechatusks.

Beware of Right

Nak advanced down a narrow hallway. Ahead, he could see that it ended in a T-junction. The wall of that T-junction wasn’t actually a wall, it was beautifully worked column/archwork that afforded a view of the old and serene forest, but he couldn’t get caught up in that. He had to navigate this junction carefully: danger could lurk around either corner.

Fortunately, a fellow undead fate-seeker had left him a softly glowing orange message: “Beware of right.” Nak smirked as he inched toward the junction… and he wheeled around upon the unsuspecting Hollow spearman, waiting in a small nook on the right hand side, holding up its own shield. Nak kicked to break it guard, and then—STAB.

There was a rapier sticking through his back. Nak died.

Just beyond the helpful but ultimately misleading warning, Nak found himself on his hands and knees scrawling a message of his own: “Beware of left.” Hopefully the next poor sap to blunder down this hallway would catch on and not merely shrug off the seemingly conflicting warnings.

Mr. Smith

Nak weighed the options, literally and figuratively: broadsword? Bastard sword? Stick with his trusty longsword? Better armor?

He had found a veritable candy shop in this bleak and abandoned parish: Blacksmith Andrei, a perfectly human fellow who was willing to take Nak’s gathered souls in exchange for forged weapons and improving those Nak already carried.

So many decisions.

Nak eventually bought a bastard sword and asked Andrei to improve his armor and longsword before he charged outside to try out his new and terrifying weapon.

He smashed the first hollow he found, sending it flying. He broke straight through the feeble guard of the next, and he effortlessly cleaved through the pesky caped, rapier-and-buckler fencer that he had dueled with on several occasions.

It was going to be a good day.

Two Is Company

The Bell Gargoyle was a fearsome creature indeed: it hefted a twelve-foot-long greataxe in its muscled arms, and its tail had been fixed with a hundred-pound steel axe head, which it would swing in devastating arcs while airborne. Nak found this to be a wonderful use for his bastard sword: he could swing it in great arcs of his own, focusing his energy into one blow when the gargoyle had landed and dropped its defenses, and retreat before it would counterattack. He measured his attacks carefully, noting that he had to maintain enough composure to keep his shield up and deflect its tail strikes without being thrown backward. He dodged, he swung, he blocked, he sidestepped… he had found his rhythm again. Maybe the Taurus Demon had taught him all he needed to know?

Then Nak’s ears heard something strange. The beat of the wings changed.

There was more than one set in the air.

Nak dove forward right as a second bell gargoyle landed behind him on the sloped church rooftop. He scrambled out from between the two monsters and held his shield up. Now he had to anticipate attacks from two directions, from four different sources: two enormous greataxes, and two lashing axe-tails. Opportunities to restore himself with Est would be short and risky. His analysis was cut short by another sound reaching his ears, this one vaguely familiar: a deep growling, accompanied by the sound of seeping air. Oh no. The gargoyles could breathe fire.

Nak died.

He awoke at the bonfire above Andrei’s workshop, listening to the regular tink-tink-tink of the blacksmith’s hammer. He put his shiny new equipment aside. This had worked before, why not again? Nak went to bed, counting hammers instead of sheep.

Forward, step, step, thrust! Shield up, back, backstep-forward-lunge! Take it easy. Back… way back, stop… up, up, lunge! Such was the rhythm in Nak’s head. It was like an old fencing bout: forward and backward, staying out of reach until it was time to strike.

The patience, the rhythm, and the careful method paid all paid off when the Taurus Demon disintegrated into the light at the end of Nak’s sword.

But now, tired and completely out of Est, Nak had to find his way to the next bonfire. He lowered his sword and shield and stepped through the turret and down, onward, into the unknown.

That’s where he met Solaire of Astora. Solaire, the jovial. Solaire, the helpful. Solaire, the encouraging. Solaire, the man with a purpose. And so on. Solaire asked Nak if he would care to extend the hand of friendship or carry on his way alone (a third option, scrawled in orange on the floor: “try attacking”). Nak accepted his overture and received a White Sign Soapstone, which he learned would allow him to reach out to other undead in order to offer or give aid. He was hesitant to make use of that power, however, as he feared it would lead him to undead even unfriendlier than the Hollow. Or perhaps he was afraid that they’d be as friendly as Solaire?

He stepped up from the balcony and looked upon the path forward: a wide bridge held by no less than a half dozen Hollow soldiers. But Nak, currently hyperaware lest he be caught off guard and find himself back at the cellar bonfire (he wasn’t sure if the Taurus Demon would return, and he didn’t care to find out), saw the real danger: the huge, blackened scorch mark across the entire width of the bridge, extending down about ten yards of its length. But he saw no other way. He raised his shield. His eyes flicked back and forth, from the nearest Hollow soldier, to the sides of the bridge, to the sky, and back to the soldier. Finally, a few paces onto the blasted stone, he knew he needed to focus his attention on the advancing swordsman.

WHOOOOSH

Nak was on fire.

His hyperawareness had mostly paid off, as his feet had left the ground at the very first moment his ears had heard more than the passing wind, and he found himself rolling backward even as his vision filled with blinding red flames. He ran into the nearest turret and held his shield to the entrance, five, ten, fifteen seconds—he hadn’t died yet, but the menace could return at any moment. It did not. He peered out the door and down the bridge… at the enormous red dragon that now perched upon the building on the opposite end of the bridge. The dragon, it seemed, did not want him crossing that bridge, and was prepared to enforce that desire. Nak, momentarily, dismayed: how should he hope to accomplish something that a dragon was determined to make sure he could not?

But then he remembered: he was undead. What was the worst that could happen? Death? Pah.

He looked up and down the bridge and saw his opportunity: right in the middle of the bridge’s length were short causeways running along its side with stone guards he could hide behind. He took a moment to plan: he could go slowly to minimize the chance that the dragon found him to be interesting, or quickly to minimize exposure to danger. The decided upon the latter. He took a breath. And then he ran, and ran, and ran, until he heard the dragon sucking in its breath and made it to the causeway and found that, even better than the stone guard, there were stairs downward.

And then he was safely at a bonfire beneath the bridge’s surface while the dragon’s fire rushed over the stone roof above him.

After taking a moment to acquaint himself with this room, making note of the doorway out, he looked back at the stairs. He had thwarted this dragon so far, perhaps he could reach his destination in complete defiance of the beast? What a victory that would be!

Nak took one, two, three bounds up the stairs and out onto the bridge, where he was caught full in the face with the searing flames of dragonfire.

Nak died.

Well, it was probably time to check out that door in the bridge room.

Lordran, land of the Undead, is a strange place indeed. It is said that the closest thing an Undead can have to a home is one of the several bonfires scattered throughout its labyrinthine terrain. Outside of those bonfires, time twists and warps and bends back upon itself. One of the effects of this is that when an Undead warrior cleaves through the hordes to reach a bonfire and rests there, he will leave the bonfire to find that those hordes have returned, exactly as he encountered them the first time.

Nak sat at at a bonfire in a bleak tower cellar in the Undead Burg. This village was beautiful once, and still boasted some gorgeous views, but was now completely overrun by the withered and insane Hollow. Those Hollow, Nak recalled, tended to distribute themselves such that he could think of his march onward in a certain sequence of encounters that went like this:

1) A crossbowman and two dirk-holders just outside the cellar, 2) Three knaves, above and out of reach, hurling firebombs onto a narrow walkway, 3) A dirk-holder, a battleaxe-wielder, and a “soldier” (with a more complete suit of ragged armor, shield, and sword) just across that walkway, 4) Two more dirks in what used to be a tavern, 5) Two dirks and a firebomber just up a ramp, 6) The three knaves with the firebombs again, but this time within reach of Nak’s sword, 7) A crossbowman on a short turret, which Nak usually dispatched before engaging the three soldiers down a ramp which the crossbowman had a commanding view of, 8) A dirk at the top of a ramp into a large turret, 9) Two crossbowmen and the Taurus Demon.

The very first time he had left this bonfire, Nak had fought his way, with caution and poise, to the Taurus Demon, whose incredible brute strength and massive club proved to be his undoing.

But frustration does funny things to a warrior for whom death is but an inconvenience. The next time he set forth from the bonfire, he charged the firebombers too quickly when he finally reached them, and succumbed to the flames. After that, the first soldier across the walkway caught him with his shield down and punished him for it. After that, his impatience with the very first crossbowman paid off with two crossbow bolts in his chest and a dirk in his back. The next time he reached the fifth encounter, he engaged too quickly and was felled by firebombs he could not dodge while fending off dirks with his shield. The first soldier undid him again, indirectly this time, as he couldn’t mount an effective defense and was pushed out into the hail of firebombs on the walkway. The next time he reached the seventh encounter, he forgot to slay the crossbowman, so a bolt caught him between his shoulder blades and was immediately followed by a spear in his gut.

Finally, after summoning the last of his patience to take the fights slowly, Nak reached the high stone wall atop which he did battle with the Taurus Demon. He found a ladder behind him, which led him up to the turret where he could neutralize the pesky crossbowmen. He climbed down and was ready when the THUMP, THUMP announced the arrival of the huge demon. He watched closely as it advanced and hefted its huge club overhead—that was obviously the key to this battle; even a demon with muscles its size couldn’t swing that massive leaden weapon quickly enough to catch a practiced warrior. He watched his distance carefully and felt the ground rumble underneath as the club ruptured the stone inches in front of his toes, and then he barreled past. The demon raised the club just as Nak was slipping past its armpit. In just a few paces he would be past the demon, with plenty of room behind him to keep his distance…

The demon swept around with his club, and with a metallic crunch, hurled Nak off of the wall.

Nak died.

Nak stared blankly at the warm bonfire for a while. When he had finally quelled his adrenaline and rage, he put his sword, spear, and shield aside and went to sleep.

The Taurus Demon would still be there tomorrow.

The sword whispered as it flew through the cold air, and it nearly rang as it pulled across bone.

Nak stepped back and raised his shield as two skeletal warriors pressed in on him. He backed up to the stairs, trying to buy time to find an opening. His back foot reached the first stone step without seeing one—so he lashed out, hoping to find something. Instead, his sword made a pathetic scraping against the ribcage on his left, and the skeleton on his right drove is curved, notched blade through his flesh.

Nak died.

Nak sat at the Firelink Shrine, wondering how many deaths it would be before he finally succumbed to the madness. As it was, he was about ready to break his sword over a rock. The Bell of Awakening (something something something fate of the undead something else), or, at least, one of the Bells of Awakening, was in the catacombs, and the path down was guarded by three pairs of skeletal swordsmen. Nak had been beheaded, sliced, stabbed, and run through seven times before he had finally defeated the first pair, only to discover the second pair not fifteen paces further down the path. The novelty of being undead and the sickly sweet taste of the Est were both beginning to wear thin.

Then Nak had an idea.

He approached the skeletons cautiously, eyes peering just over the edge of his shield and just under the edge of his helm. Damn their creepy laughing skulls. One swung, its blade clanging off of his shield. That was his opening. From behind his body, Nak swung his morningstar in a wide overhead arc until it made thunderous contact with the skeleton’s skull and ribcage, sending bones flying every which way.

It was glorious.

He learned quickly that the skeletons had a limited ability to reassemble themselves (presumably by whatever foul energy had seen them assembled in the first place), but if he was extraordinarily patient (which he was not always; he would still die several more times before his final triumph), he could bludgeon them until finally they would not stand.

With the first two pairs of skeletons down, Nak climbed the path to a secluded set of graves where another pile of bones lay scattered across the ground. He threw himself forward, morningstar first, hoping to end this quickly so as to claim the nearby treasure quickly and carry on with his mysterious quest.

Then he saw the tibia that was, itself, taller than he was, erecting itself upon a skeletal foot the size of his torso, supporting a skeleton that was exactly the size its tibia would suggest. Holding a sword. Proportionately sized, of course.

Nak died.

When he returned to the fork in the road, he chose the other route, halfheartedly vowing to return later.

He climbed down, down, down to the catacombs, where the fading light of the entrance behind him revealed a single skeleton before him. He engaged, certain he had the advantage, and sure that he could sustain his progress with enough caution.

As he managed his footwork and distance, he couldn’t help but notice the eerie red glow behind the skeleton. As he made to strike, that red glow surged, nearly blinding him, and overwhelming him with burning pain. Scorched and staggered, Nak separated himself from his sparring partner and hurled himself up the stairs, until he made a wrong turn and…

Nak died.

Maybe the morose old warrior sitting by the bonfire at the shrine had the right of it after all, Nak thought as he tried to forget what it felt like to be hit with a sixty pound sword. He squinted uncertainly at that man, and then back at the fire. He must have tried it all. The shrine was a crumbling stone ruin; it certainly didn’t lead anywhere. The only way past it was through the catacombs. Which just left the way Nak came, which he’d seen quite enough of…

Wait.

Nak came by way of giant raven. He’d never actually gone that other way.

Nak turned around and saw a stairway leading up, up, up, to a city full of undead, and somewhere beyond that the second Bell of Awakening.

The first two Hollow he met on the stairs, he cast aside with three effortless strokes of his blade. A block here, a thrust here! Slice, hack! It was invigorating! Then, has he made to strike the third, a fourth hurled down a firebomb from a perch above.

Nak died.

But at least it wasn’t the goddamn skeletons.

The Legend of Nak

Dark Souls is a brutal game. It’s said that it’s meant to be difficult to force you to strategize: charging headlong into many fights will get you killed. Of course, even being cautious, you’ll get killed. A lot. Online, much of the community keeps up a proud tradition of withholding help from newbies, other than a peculiar system that exists in-game whereby you can write cryptic messages (chosen from a short list of templates) on the ground in your game and that message will appear in others’ games, should they choose to look. They range from vague but useful (“beware of sniper”) to empty but reassuring (“praise the sun!”) to mean (“try: jumping off” written on a bridge over a chasm) to downright silly (“beware of gorgeous view”). Outside of this, players say, you really ought to try to figure out how to make it through the hardest sections of the game on your own. There’s more reward when you finally do.

Anyway, after sharing some of my experiences with Jeff, he suggested that I blog my exploits, that I may have a chronicle of all of my blunders, my victories, my multitudinous failings, and hopefully my ultimate triumph. He may not have expected me to take that suggestion seriously; I’m not totally sure. But here it is, told from the point of view of Nak the warrior.

The Undead Asylum

Nak was a warrior. That’s what he needed to do, so that’s what he grew up doing. He never left his humble home without the tough leathers and tarnished steel that kept him alive day-to-day.

And there he was, wearing those tough leathers, sitting in a damp, dark, and cold prison cell.

He wasn’t really sure how he’d gotten there. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. He was only sure of why: in this land, yes, the undead were led to the north where they would await the end of the world. Oh, right. He was undead.

Memory sure is a strange thing.

Clank, clank, clank went the cell down the hall. That guy was undead too; only, it seemed he was far dumber. Clank. He didn’t seem to understand that his withered frame couldn’t compete with wrought iron. Clank, clank. Worse, he didn’t seem to understand how irritating the noise was, made especially so by the promise that it would go on until the world ended.

Clank.

Clank.

Creak.

Plop.

A knight had kindly dropped Nak a cellmate through the ceiling of his cell. Undead, presumably. But still, and lifeless. Unlike Nak. Nak was beginning to wonder dully what exactly it meant to be undead. And why anyone would throw a dead/undead/redead/deathless/goddamn corpse into a prison.

Oh, because it had a key on it.

Nak grabbed his broken sword, suited up in those leathers, and marched on out of the asylum. He would suffer the clanking cage no longer.

The end.

Bouncer

Except it wasn’t the end, because prisons have guards. This one, it seems, mostly undead who have gone insane from lengthy cycles of death and rebirth (“Hollow”). Inmates running the asylum? Just the sort of cosmic joke that goes unappreciated by the inmates who aren’t running the asylum.

All told, the broken sword served to dispatch most of those guards.

Except for the one that stood fifteen feet tall, weighed four tons, and carried a club bigger than Nak was.

So he ran. And then found a real sword. And returned. And fought, and won. That’s just the kind of guy Nak is. Persistent.

Which is good, because the first time he encountered a crazed Hollow holding a shield, he flailed at the shield for a little bit before thinking to himself:

“Hmm. Maybe if I time a parry right, I can force him off ba—”

Stab. Stab.

So Nak died.

The end.

Mass Transit

Except then Nak woke up. Undead, right. So he stood up, marched over to the Hollow that had killed him, blocked its first stroke with his own shield, and then stabbed it to death.

After conversing with a dying knight who had a poetic purpose to which he had dedicated his unlife (to ring the Bell of Awakening, so that then, the undead may know their true fate), Nak decided that carrying on his torch was… well, it seemed like the only thing really worth doing. That meant that the next order of business was escaping the asylum.

Nak scaled the graveyard on the cliff overlooking the asylum. Written in orange runes on the ground was a message: “straight ahead!” So naturally, Nak took every step gingerly, expecting to fend off hordes of undeath, or crazed rats, or giant rolling stones, or at least a nasty mosquito swarm. He’d heard how cruel the world is. But, as it turns out, the world’s cruelest trick is suspense. No harm came to him as he climbed to the very edge of the cliff and struck a dramatic pose.

Before him rose, suddenly, a raven with a twenty foot wingspan. He held his pose. One foot slightly in front of and above the other. Proud, ready for anything. This megalithic raven would take him to Lordran, where he would meet all challengers and seek his fate.

In his mind, all he could think was: “WHERE THE FUCK DO THEY MAKE BIRDS THAT BIG”

Time of Need

The seven of you were brought, all at once and together, into the audience chambers of Grand Seer Nur ad-Din. The guards hefted you into the ornate, candlelit room brusquely and stood in silence.

The Grand Seer, seated cross-legged at a low table, did not turn to face you. “These are the men and women I asked to see? Very well. Leave us.”

The guards stepped outside and the heavy doors closed shut. The smell of frankincense and lily wafted through the room, around the striped pillars and through the ornate rugs and curtains.

The Grand Seer turned to reveal a face few had ever seen: under the bulbous turban, hazy eyes were set into deep ochre scales and the proud lines of an old, old dragonborn lineage.

“Surely, you know why you are here.”

You made to speak, but could not.

“Ah-ah. Listening is important. I shall tell you very many surprising things, connected by the finest web of silk. If I am interrupted, those tiny threads may escape your notice!”

“Men from the Western Lands, where grass grows wild, water flows freely, and they forge swords as straight as their arrows, will be arriving in some months’ time. They seek to slay Thranzitar, the Great Dragon of the Sand Sea. This cannot be. Thranzitar is our protector. He is our angel. That is why you must slay him before the Western Men can.”

You might have gasped, but you could not. You could not breathe!

“You see, Thranzitar has made a pact with us. When he grows old and weary of his form, as he has hundreds of times before, he wishes to die, but he does not wish to leave the mortal plane! We assemble the seven greatest warriors in our realm. Those warriors feast with the Great Dragon, and they bring him the Diamond of the Phoenix for him to eat. He will fly into a great and terrible rage, and the warriors must slay him by the Sword of Six Jewels. When this is done, he is consumed by fire and is reborn into a new body, to protect us anew!”

Your comrades, too, began to turn a sickly blue color, grasping at air, praying for breath. The Grand Seer looked out the window of the minaret, down upon the streets of Lut Antalya.

“But our very own Caliph Mehmed… he is a wicked man. He stole the Sword of Six Jewels from Thranzitar and removed the jewels! He gave one to the Western Men and the other five to his five trusted Sultans, payment to keep them silent for his deception. But I am the Grand Seer. Nothing escapes my notice.”

The seven of you sprawled on the ground, suffocating. Darkness creept into the corners of your vision.

“You are the seven great warriors of the ritual. You will find the Diamond of the Pheonix in the Golden Necropolis. You will retrieve the six jewels and the sword. You will complete the ritual of rebirth for Thranzitar, who, with renewed vigor, will oust the invaders and have his vengeance.”

As your sight faded and your mind grew numb, you heard the Grand Seer walk over to you.

“It has been twenty years since those jewels were stolen. Nine times, seven great warriors have sought to restore the Sword of Six Jewels. I pray you will succeed where they failed.”

The Caliph

Caliph Mehmed grew tired of the rugs and cushions of this chamber. He longed to be out in the blazing sunlight of Lut Antalya. Just out the window of the audience hall, he could see the sun-baked rooftops huddled around the tents, flags, merchants, con men, thieves, and freaks of the bazaar. His city, his pride and joy… if only business would conclude more quickly, he could indulge in it.

“That is enough, treasurer. The taxes may wait for another day. Master of Spies, report.”

The Master of Spies, Arkfang, was a lean thing with blackened scales and yellow-golden eyes, almost more lizard than dragonborn. It was unnerving to think about who he might have descended from.

“Your Grace, there is much that requires your attention.”

Blast.

“Go on.”

“The Grand Seer has assembled seven more warriors in an attempt to reforge the Sword.”

“What is it I appointed you to do again, Arkfang?”

“My sincerest apologies, your grace. The seer is an old, proud man, possessed strongly of this… notion… that the seven great warriors shall reincarnate until they succeed.”

The caliph irritably shifted his voluminous bulk across the cushions. His tail had fallen asleep.

“Arkfang, I demand this be stopped now. Kill these seven and ensure there will be no more, or I shall have your skinny little head on a plate.”

“I suppose your order still stands that I may not have the Seer killed?”

The caliph sighed. “Yes. If only we could…”

His thoughts drifted. In his younger days, he might have done all this himself! He was a warrior. His people were a warrior people. He took what was his because he was strong. He strode through his crowded city—his city!—confidently, shoving lesser men aside and proudly absorbing the awe-struck stares of passerby. He could travel to Lut Tulemein and be welcomed with a grand parade of painted warriors and exotic beasts, himself the very jewel of the procession. Wherever he went, his friends worshipped the ground he trod upon, and his enemies—and glorious battle—lurked around every corner. The closer his enemies were, the better!

“Yes, your grace?”

“We bring them to us! Arkfang, recall the sword’s jewels from the Sultans and reassemble the sword. You have my permission to lean upon them if they are reluctant. Do not kill this group of seven ‘warriors’ yet. We are going to give them their weapon.”

“And then, your grace?”

“We shall keep our friends close and our foes closer, Arkfang.”

Evidence

There was no knocking on the door. At this time of night, nobody ever knocks. At this time of night, if there’s someone or something at the door, they’re going to kick it in… for better or worse.

The door shattered into splinters and dust as a huge man in comically undersized leather armor punched it through with an enormous bare fist. Before the pieces had all fallen to the ground, two men wearing boiled leather over chainmail and carrying crossbows were already three paces into the house, checking corners and sweeping areas.

In a few noisy seconds, they had canvassed the ground floor of the humble little home. The pots and pans in the small cooking area were thrown, clattering, across the dining table, the cushions in the corner had been turned over with a thwump, and the stonecutter’s workshop to the left of the door had been combed and its equipment rattled thoroughly. When the dust had settled, the only movement in the room was the flickering of the enormous man’s torch and the dancing shadows it cast.

Both of the crossbowmen kept trained eyes on the staircase. The mustached one muttered to the huge man behind him.

“Seriously, Grug? A stonecutter? What kind of paranormal freak disguises himself as a craftsman?”

“Grug dunno. Smart parormal freak?”

“There’s no evidence anywhere in here. No ectoplasm, no suspicious fur, no caked blood, no half-eaten squirrels, no bizarre assortment of alchemical reagents, not even a stray ritual candle! Tell me, Grug, how exactly would a paranormal freak hide something in a workshop like this?”

“Stone box?”

“Damn you Grug, you’re hopeless. You’re a big, loveable, and hopeless. Let Alan do the investigating from now on. Or maybe one of those seven new rookies that joined yesterday…”

The bearded man, Alan, hushed them. “Shhhh! Hear that?”

They heard a soft whimpering from upstairs.

“Alan, take the point. Look, Grug, all we’ve done here is upset the poor little girl. We’ll say we’re sorry and go get some sleep.”

Grug scratched his chin as he followed his compatriates up the narrow stairs toward the loft. As Alan pushed the door open just a crack and Fredrich began to assure the little girl, “There, there. We’re sorry for the mess…” Grug yelled “SNAKE!” and dove atop the two of them with an enormous bound. “Oof!” Alan landed prone, and Fredrich landed supine, staring up at Grug.

Grug, looking Fredrich squarely in the eye, wrested Fredrich’s crossbow from his hands and hurled it sideways through the door into the loft. There was a shriek, a crack and splintering, and then silence.

As Grug climbed to his feet and picked up the torch, Fredrich sprang onto him.

“WHAT THE FUCK? SERIOUSLY, IN THE NAME OF PELOR AND ALL HIS SAINTS, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FOR?! WE’RE NOT HERE FOR BLOOD, WE’RE HERE TO PROTECT THE—”

Grug hushed Fredrich with a broad finger. “Snake girl.”

“What?”

Grug pointed. Alan and Fredrich looked.

On the floor in the tiny loft, covered in splinters, was a petite teenage girl, gazing at the ceiling. She really was beautiful, right down to the lifeless nest of snakes that made up her hair.

The Midnight Oil

The door creaked open, ringing the little bell as it went. Fredrich and Alan tiredly vaulted over the empty bar to get to the back room. Grug simply stepped over it. The back room was dominated by a long table, at the end of which a half-elven man with long hair and a well-kept goatee pored over papers. The three sank into comfortable, high-backed leather chairs near to him. Fredrich spoke.

“Close out the investigation at Frond Street. Medusa. Four years old, maybe? I forget how long it takes those things to mature. Commendations to Grug for a thorough investigation and quick thinking. Oh, and the investigation at the High Temple turned out to be a dud. No mummy lord. Just some gossip and rumor taken a little too far.”

The man looked up and smiled. “Very good! Commendations to Grug. You guys have been busy. Two tonight?”

Fredrich managed a tired smile. “You know us, Redford. Can’t rest when we can see our leads coming together.”

“It’s true, you three are like hounds. You do the Midnight Oil proud. And the six million citizens of The City sleep safer for it.”

In the silence, Grug blushed, and even Alan cracked a wry smirk. Redford went on.

“Well, now that you tell me you’ve just closed two cases, I hate to ask this of you, but…”

“Is it the rookies?”

“Yeah. They’ll need induction. And if you have any cases that look… well… none of them are ever easy, but let’s not start them off trying to hunt down the Black Fang, eh?”

“Hah! It’ll be our pleasure. Grug, you want to do the honors? You’ve earned it. I’ll fetch the oil.”

Lord Taigan

“It’s growing dark, milord.”

Lord Taigan could plainly see that, but he checked his retort. He had scolded the young lieutenant plenty enough today; more would not be necessary.

“Tell the men we’ll make camp in an hour.”

He considered the logistics and the placement and concluded that here was as good a place as any. His host would make camp upon this approaching hill, exposing themselves to the bitter wind and prying eyes, but no matter. A display of force for these serfs in their hamlets would be good for them; they’d be seeing more of it shortly. And a commanding view of the highland countryside couldn’t hurt if any sabotuers were lurking in those peaceful little snow-blanketed villages.

He wondered what happened to those seven…

“Milord, it’s been an hour.”

“Yes, Lieutenant. If you are so eager to make camp, would you venture to make the orders yourself?”

That shut him up.

He was absorbed in thought about the disappearance of his seven fellow commanders, and couldn’t bear for that to be interrupted. Not all of them were lords; some of them were woodsmen and scoundrels, a few were even magicians! It would be exceedingly difficult to find them. A brash lordling might saunter up to the nearest marching army and request parley, figuring he’d find his way home with a friendly army’s escort or a hostile army’s ransom. A woodsman would avoid the roads and find his way to his goal without care for armies or townships. A magician… you can never be sure what a magician would do, such fickle creatures they were. And if all of them banded together? It would be impossible to know.

They had vanished immediately after he had given the orders to have them killed. Did they know they were going to be betrayed? Where did they go? North, further into the Highlands? South, back to the Kingdom of Bannea? What did they aim to do? How would they accomplish it? Whatever the answers may be, he knew for sure that he now had two missions. His original mission was, given to him and his seven comrades by Queen Ysandra herself, to lead the armies of Bannea into the rugged highlands to pacify the highlanders and tame their lands. Such brutes whose leaders bore names like Owen the Bear, Ugly Greck, and Mulchen Twigfigngers. Humans. Orcs. Elves. Half-breeds. Owlbears. Direwolves. Treants. He had to pry them from their ancient castles, chase them out of their Elder Forests, and crush them upon the hilly fields of battle. And now he also had to find out what had happened to his seven comrades and what exactly they were going to do in the Highlands. And there was also the worrying matter of those foreigners that kept appearing on the shoreline…

“Milord—”

“Shut up, Lieutenant. You are dismissed.”

He already saw what the young officer was going to point out: a storm on the horizon. And he saw it so much more clearly.

The Highlanders

“Aaaahahahah! Now tell the one about the time you peed on an owlbear’s eggs!”

Laughter filled the warm longhouse. Owen waved one of the clan’s boys over. “Haha. No more stories tonight, Horald. We have—oh, what do those sissy Banneans call it?—ah, ‘matters of state’ to attend to. You, boy! Another ale for every man and woman at the table, and one for yourself. You’ve been good tonight.”

Before starting on business, Owen the Bear sized up his audience. Furs, hides, and tartans all around. No studs or leather—seems nobody expected a fight this time—and plenty of red cheeks on those broad jaws. Good.

“All right. Messengers! Speak now. If you have anything about the Banneans, start.”

A man and a woman at the table, probably the least drunk of them, stood up. The woman dressed warmly with thick hides and dirty boots, and her hair had been tousled by the wind.

“The Banneans made camp at Heatherdown last night. Suppose they’ll be at Redfield tonight. Slow march, they’ll probably be at Man Face Rock in five nights.”

Owen sighed. “Yes. Yes, I’ll send a man to Ugly Greck tomorrow. I hope the old codger still has the guts to join us in the battle. You, what’s your story?”

The man, barechested and broad, spoke.

“The Banneans only have one commander.”

Owen was unimpressed. “So?”

“Two nights ago, they had eight. I saw the other seven running like Hell for the Wispwood. Soldiers gave up the chase when they got to the forest’s edge.”

Owen leaned forward. “Now that’s something. Are any of them rangers?”

“Could only see silhouettes, but I’d bet my balls one of them is.”

“Heheh. Don’t make bets you can’t afford to lose, clansman. Now then, you’ll be heading up the team to find them…”

“No,” spoke an old, ragged voice.

The longhouse fell silent. The gnarled old woman at the corner of the table eyed Owen menacingly. Owen stammered. “I… then…”

“I know what you were going to say next. ‘To find them and kill them.’ No. You will bring them here.”

Owen nodded and turned back to the barechested man. “Aye then. Those are your orders.”

“What if they resist?”

“You heard the woman, clansman. Now go to it. Any other messages?”

One stood up, removing his hood. The room gasped. Owen nearly fell over in his chair.

“Mulchen? You haven’t… you haven’t even sent a messenger in forty years, and now you show up in person?”

Mulchen Twigfingers spoke in bitter, low tones. And somehow, the entire room heard him perfectly clearly.

“Elves prefer to do important business in person.”

“I get that, Mulchen. But what happened at Bear Tree…”

“Behind us. Not important.”

“Not important?! That’s… Mulchen, that battle…”

“Not. Important.”

“Then what could possibly be so important?”

“The foreigners. They’re coming, and they’re neither Man, nor Elf, nor Orc. They’re dragons.”