Veabella

The dozen olive trees provided the best coverage they had found after a day of searching. Combined with the scattered hills on the sides, it was a less than ideal location for spotting a quarry without being seen first, but Veabella was confident that they would remain undetected long enough to surprise their target.

She sat on a thick branch in the tallest tree, two man heights above the ground. The dryness of the past year thinned the leaves so that she could easily see for a great distance. Hidden in the grass were Simon’s spring traps. Their spiked edges had been dusted with dirt to prevent any glare. The sun was high in the sky, and they would need the light. The contract said the beast was the size of a pony, and that it moved like a blur. She put the viewing glass up to her eye again and scanned the horizon. Still nothing. Then, a figure on the crest of a hill. A human, albeit a small one. Running. Also, screaming. Twig.

“The rascal’s found it,” Donnes said, somehow commenting from the ground before Veabella had a chance to open her mouth. She can’t even see anything from down there…

“From the southwest,” Veabella said. “And he’s in a hurry.”

The four hunters on the ground moved to position themselves behind trees, disappearing from sight without a word between them. Veabella could no longer see any sign of them, but she could hear the cranking of crossbows being readied, then the placement of bolts. They were now arranged in a semi-circle, with Veabella in a tree that stood in the center. They waited in the relative silence of the grasslands. A silence broken only by Twig’s hollering.

“Oh, shit! Oh shit, oh shit!” he yelled between breaths. He reached the hill and collapsed onto the sharp grass. “They weren’t exaggerating. That thing is quick.”

Meffas poked his head out from behind a tree. “Then how are you still alive?”

Veabella could hear Xopher groan and then Donnes laugh. “You had to ask.”

“It’s eating,” Twig said, regaining his wind. “It took the bait, no problem. The trail will lead right up here.” He rummaged through a small pack at his hip, pulled out a reddish-brown chunk of meat. “I’ll set this right by my dear friend, Donnes.”

“It’ll be the last thing you ever do,” she growled.

The little man considered that, then took the wiser course of action and placed the meat by his feet.

Veabella looked back through the viewing glass. There was nothing on the horizon. She turned about in a full circle, but there remained nothing of note. Below her, Twig had moved to hide behind Donnes. The crew waited, the only sound a slight rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze.

She looked over to see Xopher unstopper a glass vial and drink the light green liquid within. Veabella reached down to the pack at her hip and untied it. She pulled out a glass vial of her own and removed the cork.

I hope I do not need this, but better to be safe.

She recoiled slightly at the taste. Bitter, the flavor an approximation of grass and dirt, she wished she had her canteen with her as well to cleanse her mouth. A few moments later, she felt the effects of the tonic, as a bolt of energy rushed through her body, and time slowed down perceptibly.

“You were dropping bait as you ran up here, yes?” Xopher asked Twig. “Not your stupid playing cards?”

“I would never drop those,” Twig replied. “They’re too valuable.”

Veabella could not see the others, but she had no difficulty imagining their expressions.

“Shut up, both of you,” Meffas growled. “If you have tonics, pop them. Let’s not get cute here.”

Someone made a retching sound, and then there was silence. Veabella could hear her heart beating, and felt as though she could feel every change of direction in the breeze. The new tonics they had purchased had been promised to increase adrenaline as well as focus. It was clear that at least the latter was true.

They waited for an indeterminable amount of time, the sun only slightly shifting its position as Veabella continued scanning the area. Then, from the same direction that Twig had appeared, a new figure was out in the distance. As soon as she saw it, it was closing. Much quicker than Twig.

“I see it!” she said, louder than needed. “It’s three hundred paces away.” Three heartbeats passed. “Two hundred.”

She put the viewing glass in her pants pocket, pulled her bow off her back. She nocked an arrow and trailed the beast. It had slowed down some, as if it sensed that something was amiss. The description of its size had been accurate. It stood on four muscular legs, the paws at the ends of those legs eggshell-colored claws at least three inches long. Its body appeared slick, covered in an eerie mixture of brown and dark green felt-like fur. Two large, golden eyes sat in the reaches of its dark face. But the feature that captivated Veabella’s attention was its jaws. They seemed to encompass three fifths of the creature’s head. The teeth were only slightly smaller than its claws. They were stained red. The beast had halted and was sniffing the air.

It should not be able to smell us. They had taken precautions against detection. Their clothes, and their bodies, had been covered with dirt and grass, and they had chosen a spot where any wind would be deflected by the hills. All the beast should be able to smell was the venison in the traps. Still, its apprehension was clear.

What was never stated in the contracts was the animal’s intelligence. A difficult attribute to define, for sure. Veabella also suspected most people did not consider that different species, and even individuals within a species, could have greatly varying intellect. It would have been nice to be able to anticipate a target’s ability to problem solve and react to different situations. The animal before her struck her as particularly keen. It seems too easy, doesn’t it?

They still had more tricks though. From the cover of one of the olive trees, a faintly perceptible rustling sound flitted to Veabella’s ears. It was followed by another, sharper sound. A kind of scratchy cry. The beast’s head turned. Before Veabella could react, the animal was behind the tree where the sound had emanated.

Damn! She shifted in the tree, dismay and embarrassment flooding over her. But there was not any time for self-pity or reflection. A crashing sound was followed immediately by loud slashing. She saw Xopher rush forward to where the animal and Ictorian were entangled, still out of her view. Xopher had his two-handed sword drawn and held at his side. Ictorian stepped back out of the coverage of the tree. One of the beast’s claws was stuck in his shield. It was another of the crew’s dirty tricks- shields made of wood that was softened by oil. The process made the object giving enough to be punctured, but strong enough to hold onto whatever broke the surface.

Ictorian’s strength was being tested. He sheltered himself behind his shield, as Xopher lunged forward and cut a sweeping arc with his two-handed sword. The blade bit into the animal’s shoulder. It yelped, an awful sound that made Veabella want to cover her ears. But she already felt as though she had botched her role in the engagement, so she instead loosed an arrow. It struck the animal in its rib cage. The other members of the crew emerged into her vision as well. However, their efforts were in vain. The beast dislodged itself from Ictorian’s shield and jumped horizontally, away from its attackers.

It would have stood a better chance in a direct fight. Its back left paw landed in a spring-loaded trap, the mechanism closing with an appalling crunching sound. Then the crossbow bolts hit. Small flames ran up the beast’s hide, accompanied by a slight hissing sound from the poison Twig had been bragging about. The beast made to howl, but when its jaw moved, no sound emerged. Again it attempted to voice its discomfort, but was unable to, its jaw shifting position awkwardly.

Donnes approached from behind and delivered a devastating blow with her two-handed axe, severing the beast’s back right paw. It stumbled and the bulky woman lifted her weapon again and chopped, this time right through the target’s neck. Its head fell to the ground, blood spurting, then decreasing to a drip.

Veabella remained up in the olive tree. As her heart slowed to its normal rate, she was able to take in the scene on the ground. The gruesome spectacle evoked an unexpected sympathy for the dead animal. Do not forget that it killed tens of humans. Still… the fight did not seem fair. It had been a forgone conclusion in their minds that they would kill the beast. Even if Ictorian’s whistle had not attracted it, they had other means of manipulation. Then again, that was the point of her occupation, was it not? To kill a target without being killed herself?

The true significance of what she had just seen played out was the brutal effectiveness of her crew. We could have won the tournament. The thought presented itself for the first time. She had never truly considered it before. Meffas began hunting before I was born. He must know how effective we are. And he still withdrew us. Why? Veabella had picked up bits and pieces of Meffas’s history over the past two years of working for him. She knew he did not like to talk about his past, and that he had suffered great losses in his life. She had a few suspicions, but had never followed up on those. What was particularly curious to her was that she had never been told not to ask. None of her crewmates had stopped her, or even given an overt hint that there was a line of inquiry she could not pursue. Nevertheless, the silence surrounding what had happened to their leader kept her questioning at bay.

Thinking on Meffas’s act of withdrawing the crew from the tournament left her feeling isolated for the first time she could recall. She felt as though she did not know her comrades as well as she had previously believed. It was true she was the newest member of the crew. What she wanted to know most of all now was, did they not trust her in particular, or was trust something that they held onto tightly regardless of the company they kept. The thoughts flooded her mind and overtook her, the truth of that revealed as Meffas stared up at her.

“Are you alright, lass?”

“Yes. Sorry,” she said, shaking her head. The older man nodded and turned back to where the others stood, huddled over the dead body.

Veabella waited for a comment on how she had failed to react in time to the animal’s attack. The comment never came however. And that fact put her mind at ease. Even if there remained secrets that the others were still reluctant to share, they treated her with kindness. I have to be patient. Twig and Donnes looked to her then and smiled. Their infectious grins buried any doubts she had. She climbed down to meet her friends.

Xopher had bent down to touch the corpse when Twig yelped. “Don’t touch it!”

Xopher halted. “For how long?”

“That I don’t know,” Twig admitted. “We’ll have to have Donnes touch it first to be safe.”

“Ha, ha, little man,” Donnes remarked. “Maybe I’ll just pick you up and plop you down on it.”

Meffas sighed. “We have to recover the head or else this was all a waste of time. I assume the poison cannot seep through burlap.” He paused as if expecting an answer.

“Uh, I think that should be fine,” Twig said.

No one moved to discover whether Twig was correct.

“Very well,” Meffas said. “Let me get this over with.” He walked away toward the supplies that were hidden behind a pile of rocks. Twig looked at Xopher. Xopher looked back at him. Then they both raced to beat Meffas to his destination.

It turned out that the poison could not harm someone through the burlap. Twig pulled out a tiny book and rifled through its pages to find that the poisonous dust had to enter the body to deliver its effects. Meffas ordered him to reread the book on their way back to Oslidor, at which time Twig informed him that he could not reread it, as he had never read it before in the first place.

Their journey back to the city was pleasantly uneventful. Veabella enjoyed the company of her crewmates and appreciated having uninterrupted time with them. As they approached the city walls, Veabella was riding next to Ictorian, but conversing with Twig and Donnes who rode ahead of them. Meffas and Xopher brought up the rear with the supplies.

“Yes, it could have,” Twig was saying. “I have no doubt about that.”

“Whether you doubt it or not is not reassuring,” Donnes droned.

Veabella had to raise her voice to be heard over the clopping of the horse shoes on the road leading into the city. “It would be a challenge to hit one with an arrow or a bolt. One point in which everyone agrees is how remarkably fast they were. And if that was the case, then who is to say it could not outrun the cloud of poison the bolt puts out?”

She thought Twig would have to think about that for a minute. He responded quicker than she anticipated. “Then the shot would have to be in its face. I could make that.” He turned around in his saddle. “You could too, Vea. Trust me, my modified bolts would stop a demon. If they’d had them back then, there wouldn’t have been so many deaths.”

Ictorian had been silent for hours. He was typically immune to Twig’s boasting, but he was unable to maintain his indifference this time. “You are assuming the demon ever actually existed.”

Now Donnes had turned around as well. She listened quietly as Ictorian, sensing eyes on himself, relented and continued with his thought. “The demon was said to be in Vinredor and was seen only by the eyes of the Vinredorians. And who is said to have finally slain the demon? Oslian Vinredor. A man who had never so much as raised his own weapon, before, or afterwards.”

Veabella considered that. It was not a new suspicion. However, having been born and raised in Vinredor, she had at least accepted the veracity of the demon’s existence. Too many people who were still alive claimed to have seen it.

“Perhaps the demon did exist, but its description has been exaggerated over time,” she posited.

“Perhaps,” Ictorian allowed. The three younger hunters waited for him to add to that response, but the tall, serious man no longer felt the obligation to speak.

Twig did not feel similarly. “What I always wondered,” he started, “was if there was one of these, nearly four decades ago, why has there never been another one?”

Veabella looked up to Ictorian. If he felt a sense of victory from that comment, he did not show it. She had to admit, Twig’s comment poked more holes into the tale. She thought of Oslian Vinredor slaying the demon which had viciously killed hundreds of people. The image she conjured up felt hollow. Then again, the old man she had seen in parades would have been much younger at the time.

Her train of thought was ended abruptly as a group of riders rode out of the city gate. That was not unusual, but what was strange was the speed at which they were moving, riding in fact at a full gallop. Ahead of her, Twig and Donnes steered their mounts to the side of the road. The riders would reach them in a few dozen heartbeats.

Veabella and the others pulled off to the side of the road as well. As the riders grew closer, Veabella could make out uniforms. City guards. A score of them. I wonder what happened.

The guards slowed when they were but a half a hundred paces away. Then, they fanned out, forming a circle around the hunters.

The guard who remained on the road in front of them spoke. “Meffas Yolhindar. You and your entire crew must remove and put down all weapons in your possession. In the name of His Excellency, the Divine King, Oslian Vinredor, I hereby declare you under arrest for the murder of the companies and attendees of the Fifth Hunting Tournament of Oslidor.”

What? How?

“This is an obvious mistake,” Meffas said. “As you can see, we did not even attend the tournament. We were out on a hunt, as the trophy we carry can easily prove.”

“The charges are murder by poisoning,” the guard said. “You will of course be given a trial. But now you must place your weapons on the ground.”

Veabella looked over to Meffas. His eyes were narrowed. She realized then that neither she, nor any of her companions were in their full armor. Her bow was on her back, and weapons were accessible to each of them, but they had been caught completely by surprise.

Meffas stared ahead at the lead guard. “To me!” he yelled, drawing a hidden throwing knife from his vest and flinging it at the man. It struck him in the shoulder and he recoiled. Next to Meffas, Xopher and Ictorian had drawn their swords. Meffas charged forward on his horse, the others following immediately.

The guards on their other sides were slow to react. A moment later two rushed to their commander as the others withdrew their weapons and began a pursuit.

The horses burdened with their supplies were left behind. Veabella did not know where they were headed. She prayed Meffas did. In her peripheral vision, she saw Xopher knock the sword out of the hand of one guard, and then kick another away. She turned to see the man fall off his horse and two of his companions turn back to assist him. The other pursuers were under fire from Twig’s crossbow. A bolt slammed into a shield, and a flame engulfed the metal. Veabella could just make out the poison cloud. The riders pulled up in front of it, and steered their mounts away, yelping in confusion. Moments later, the crew was a hundred paces away, the guards back in the distance seemingly having given up on the chase.

The city’s guards were going to send us to the dungeons. Thank The Hero we escaped. But where can we go? We’re fugitives, though we are innocent. Aren’t we?

Richard

He was alone in the laboratory. As much as he would have liked to have an audience, there remained a large enough part of him without the full confidence that this would yield the intended results. The human body is identical in all of the most important respects he told himself for the hundredth time since he had made his final decision. Reason had taken him this far, to the precipice of a potentially world-altering advancement. It had worked in other species, that he knew without any doubt. Would it work on humans? Who better to attempt the maiden voyage than its creator?

He sniffed the mouth of the open glass vial. It smelled the same as it had the past twenty times, a combination of vinegar, salt, mint, and clover. The animals never complained.

He had cancelled classes that day in an attempt to force himself to get over the final hurdle. He reasoned that he had a sufficient level of integrity to only cancel classes for the most important circumstances. Therefore, to not rest on his laurels, he needed to complete his experiment today. He had been in the laboratory since just after dawn, and the sun was beginning to go down now.

What finally compelled him to follow through on his plan was another conviction of his. That if he could prove the efficaciousness of his tonic, he could save the university’s herbalism department, and even the entire university, from being gutted and put under the direct supervision of the royal council. The image of the councilor, Yara, was clearly formed in his mind. He tipped the vial back into his mouth.

The liquid was somehow even more acidic than he had feared. It burned his tongue and then his throat. The sensation lingered for a few moments, but its horrid taste disappeared from his mind within less than a minute, as he felt the intended effect of the tonic begin to take hold. In front of him, and on the periphery, his vision became heightened. If he focused, he could see the grains of the wood on the table, or the individual sediments of the limestone walls. To be expected though. The question was, would this effect last?

A tonic that improved the imbiber’s vision had existed for well over three decades. It was in fact one of the first tonics to enter the public consciousness. The novelty of the effect, combined with the numerous practical applications, had made the concoction popular. It fetched a high price on the market, making its inventor a wealthy man. That inventor being Richard’s grandfather.

However, the effect of the tonic, like all other herbalism tonics, was temporary. Even in high doses, the user’s vision could not be heightened for more than half an hour. That still gave one time to see when there was little light, or give a person who could solely make out shapes a chance to see their loved ones again. The tonic was a laudable success. What Richard had done, he believed, was extend that effect indefinitely. And with that, the world would be forever altered.

What he had invented was only the beginning. Proof that an herbalism tonic could have a permanent effect would shatter previous conventional knowledge, and create a second herbalism revolution. Richard’s recipe would be in high demand, and herbalists around the world would be working all hours of the day to improve upon it and adjust it so that it would grant its effect to other herbalism tonics. That would be the beginning. In time, well, the possibilities were staggering.

If it did indeed work on a human. Richard stood, shifting his gaze to see the world that had been hidden around him. The room was still lit well enough that he did not need any visual enhancement to do his work, making the power granted by the tonic almost overwhelming. He felt as though his sense of vision was under assault, the light in the laboratory now bright to the point of stinging his eyes. It showed that there were too many details he had never considered, and which he now realized should have remained that way, their presence distracting. He had ingested vision tonics before, but never under normal lighting conditions. The tonic would be an incredible boon to those with vision problems, and it would allow one to see at night. But here and now, he was beginning to wish the effect would only be temporary, as he was having great difficulty seeing his surroundings in the manner he needed, without distractions.

It had been a typically portioned dose of two ounces. At his weight, the effect would normally begin to wear off soon. He sat down and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked at the clock on the wall, another sign of the advancements of the age he lived in. Herbalism and mechanics, the two forces which were propelling civilization forward. Just a minute more and he would pass the expected duration of a vision tonic. He closed his eyes again, and held them shut longer, as long as he could before curiosity overcame him.

One eye slowly opening, then the other. He could see the individual strokes of paint making up the numbers on the clock. I’ve done it!

He did not sleep that night. In the streets of Oslidor, he sought out unlit alleyways, investigating what only nocturnal creatures could see, witnessing the world which was hidden at night, a world indifferent to the light of day. He walked out past the city walls then, unerringly following horse tracks in the silty soil, his only purpose to test the limits of his enhanced vision. When he reached the banks of the Prime River, he waded out until he was knee deep in the dark water. Fish! Two, three, four… incredible…

That night felt like his first in a new land. When day finally broke, he ran back from the river to his home, carried on the winds of euphoria. At home, another place with heretofore unnoticed intricacies, it took him another few hours until he was able to keep his eyes closed and drift off to sleep, dreaming of what he would tell his colleagues and students.

When first he opened his eyes again, it was late afternoon. The shock of his intensified vision jogged his memory, and he happily got dressed and was out of the house in mere minutes. Rowland must know first. I’ve kept the secret from him for too long, and he knows I have been hiding something. But oh, will he be surprised by this! Then I shall tell Lydee. Likely she will desire to imbibe the tonic as well. That will have to wait some time, but she will understand.

He reached the center of the university campus in no time at all, partially because he had been nearly sprinting, but also for a separate reason. There were no students walking the grounds. The campus was deserted, silent. Pushing open the double doors of Lorgan Hall, the building which housed the herbalism, mathematics, geography, and history departments, he heard the first whispers of a human presence. His pace slowed as his heart rate increased.

His improved vision was forgotten. The mystery of his surroundings overshadowed his awe and enthusiasm. The voice became louder as he walked down the hall and reached the stairway. He stepped up the stairs as lightly as he could, attempting to make out the voice and its message. A female voice. Somewhat familiar, though he could not place it.

He stepped onto the upper floor and began to understand the words he was hearing. “Effective immediately.” That voice. That smug, flat affect. The royal councilor. A sudden torrent of anger and adrenaline rushed through Richard. He increased his pace as he headed toward the voice. Once in the lecture hall, he saw two dozen university staff members standing in a semi-circle around the royal councilor, Yara. Their eyes met across the room. A smirk appeared on the councilor’s face, chilling Richard with its humorlessness. A few staff members turned to watch him as he joined the gathering.

“Professor, thank you for representing your department,” Yara announced to the small crowd.

“I was unaware I had been summoned,” Richard mumbled.

“Perhaps Chancellor Cuvond did not extend the invitation.”

Richard looked over to Chancellor Cuvond. The woman kept her gaze ahead at an indeterminate point. The lines on her face startled him. He was unsure whether she had always looked so aged, or it was only his augmented vision. Seeing the obvious defeat in her expression and stance struck him in such a profound way that he felt almost violated.

“I will do you the favor, Chancellor Cuvond, of informing Professor Dosple of the unfortunate news. Master herbalist,” Yara said, the sarcasm in her voice another assault on Richard’s senses, “due to circumstances of which you are already aware, all university activities are being placed on an indefinite hiatus. This includes classes and the funding of the staff. The royal council will assist His Excellency, the Divine King Oslian Vinredor, in the lengthy undertaking of restructuring this institution so that it may one day again provide its intended services. Until then, the campus must be vacated. I am sure you understand the necessity of this regretful decision.”

His first impulse was to argue, present a counterpoint, but that quickly dissipated. Her words had stung him, but at a deeper level than he cared to admit. The university, his home, was being closed, but the greater insult came from the revelation that the herbalism department was not considered important enough to even attend the meeting. Depthless Sea, even Iniko is here. The old man was standing on the side of the group, head down in a book, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. My researching and teaching at this university have gone complete unnoticed. Or worse, dismissed as useless. He was sure Yara intended to hurt him, and the others as well. He suspected she was ignorant of the hurt her actions caused others to inflict upon him. She could not have planned that slight, no?

For a terribly lengthy period of time, no one spoke. Other than Yara, no one seemed willing to look his way. In fact, he was sure they were avoiding looking anywhere other than straight ahead. A rage began to rise up through Richard. Possible slights over the years flowed through his mind, mostly half-formed. A collection of feelings more than actual moments. For how long had he and the herbalism department, been considered a joke? The heat of his anger made his face feel flushed. His hands were in fists at his sides.

Through the fog of rage, an idea presented itself in his mind. Paradoxically, he now found himself in an opportune position. I can save the university. A spark of something else was alight as well. This was the perfect audience with which to reveal his discovery. Individuals who would understand the labor and intellect that went into such an advancement. People who would have no choice but to recognize, and appreciate, what he had done. Also, people who would then be indebted to him. But I will not abuse that. I only want what I have worked for. Appreciation.

He stepped forward then. “This is regrettable,” he conceded. “I have no doubt that there are many in this room who have attempted to persuade you against this decision. And, I also do not doubt that you have given a well-researched retort to each of their arguments. I understand that the long-term benefits of the education of the populace is somewhat intangible.” He saw that he had the full attention of the room. Save for, of course, Iniko, who had not looked up, and may have been asleep on his feet. “You asked me before, Councilor Yara, about my department’s contributions to the field of herbalism. I have to admit that, at the time of your inquiry, I was not fully truthful. I did, in fact, withhold some rather relevant information.”

Richard scanned the crowd of professors, deans, and researchers in front of him. Chancellor Cuvond looked away under his glance. He also saw his friend, Lydee. She looked to him as if pleading for a revelation that would save the university. He raised his eyebrows slightly in recognition.

“You look at me now, and I am sure I appear as I did when we last met. You, however, do not. Yesterday, I took a tonic of my own devise. This particular concoction is one that augments the user’s vision. Likely many of the people in this room have used it before. Yesterday was when I drank the tonic. Today, right now, my vision is as improved as it was minutes after I tipped the vial back into my mouth.”

He paused to see the recognition pass from one person to another, even in Yara. He was pleased to see that she fully comprehended the significance of his statement.

“And if you see me tomorrow, my vision will be the same. Improved. Permanently.”

Yara opened her arms. “That is excellent news, professor. I could not be happier to hear that you have made such a miraculous advancement in your field.”

“Thank you,” he said, finally allowing a smile to break through.

“I am especially pleased,” Yara continued, “because your work will so greatly assist the royal herbalist, for whom you now work.”

“What?” The smile vanished so quickly that it may never have been witnessed.

“You and your students have been gifted the opportunity to work for the royal herbalist. She is glad to have the support as she is quite busy. The details of your position will be delivered to you shortly. You are fortunate, professor. Unlike your colleagues here, you will not have to find a new line of employment.”

Yara walked forward, the crowd parting before her. “I have other duties to attend to. Fear not though, I will be back on this campus. The task of restructuring the university so it may provide useful services to the nation has fallen to me.” She halted before the door and looked back at the university staff. “Though, I should add, that may take some time. It is not a priority at the moment. I will get to it eventually, however.” With that, she exited the room.

I succeeded and failed, all at once. She has completely stolen my life from me.

Lydee

The sound of a large object falling onto the floor and breaking apart told her she was close to her quarry. She hurried down the hallway, purposefully looking straight ahead. On her side, boxes, tools for excavation, and potsherds lay haphazardly placed. All were covered in dirt, and many in dust as well.

I recall that Woller spoke highly of the man. However, Woller also spoke of him as though he were much older, and my friend was anything but young. Perhaps his senses have left him in the intervening years. She couldn’t help herself from taking a quick glance at the floor, her latent curiosity proving too strong to resist. Never mind. Some of these items have clearly been here for years.

She reached her destination and paused to mentally prepare herself before making her presence known. “I will have to take my time when considering who to blame for this,” a voice said from inside the office. Hero guide me.

“Greetings, Iniko,” Lydee said, making her voice as cheerful as she could.

A tiny old man was on his hands and knees on the floor, sifting through clay sherds. His white hair was wild. The reddish-brown dust on his clothes and face only accentuated Lydee’s fears. “Historian,” he nodded. “Have you been standing there long?”

“I only just arrived,” Lydee said.

“Not a candidate for guilt then,” Iniko said before returning his gaze to the floor. “No matter. I have more students than usual this semester.”

“May I have a minute of your time, Iniko?”

“If you return it afterwards, yes.”

Lydee frowned. Then the old man looked up, brushed himself off and stood. “A joke, of course,” he smiled. “I will enthusiastically find another manner in which you may repay me for my time.”

“Yes… well. I will be quick, I assure you. I only wanted to ask a few questions about an old friend of ours.”

“Who?”

“Woller.”

“I liked him. He appreciated my work. At least, he said he did. I assumed he was not being facetious. He saw the value in what I do- no! What I invented! What I brought into being!”

“I was under a similar impression,” Lydee said. “The two of you collaborated on a paper some years back, yes?”

“Indeed, we did. Our disciplines are intertwined. That is what I have been attempting to get across. My work is connected to so many other subjects.”

“Yes, Woller spoke along those lines. Iniko, what do you know of Woller’s disappearance?”

“He disappeared?”

“Yes. Roughly two years ago. Did you not notice his absence?”

“I assumed he had died.”

“Um, I do not believe that to be what occurred. There are rumors as to his sudden departure. Rumors that he had a covert relationship with a student.”

“If it was covert, how do you know about it?”

Lydee grinded her teeth. “Woller… undersold your intellectual prowess.”

“They all do. Let me give you another example so that you may avoid the same error of judgement in the future. You have been investigating our friend’s disappearance, and have come to me to see what I may know. As to his love life, I know nothing. The idea of sleeping with a student is repulsive, and, I believe, highly unlikely.”

“For him or for you?”

The old man shot her a nasty look. “Both. Now, while I may know nothing on that front, I know much about many other subjects. You would like to know what Woller and I spoke about the last time we were in each other’s company?”

“Please.”

“That I remember well. I will also remember this conversation well, so do not insult me more than you already have. And wipe that look off of your face! The nature of our conversation regarded his research at the time. This was, as you had mentioned, roughly two years past. He came to me requesting to view artifacts from the early days of the Xu dynasty. I, of course, had many. And I still do as I refused to allow him to take any out of my sight.”

“Do you know specifically what he was researching?”

“I do. But I will now make you wait for interrupting me.”

The scrawny old man folded his arms and stared at Lydee. She broke eye contact and scanned the room. It was filled with dusty artifacts. There were domestic items such as plates and pots, mostly made of clay. There were martial objects as well, swords, shields, and arrow heads. She could not deny it was an impressive collection. Standing there, surrounded by objects that were possibly thousands of years old, she felt as though she were coming to a true appreciation of Iniko’s work. Maybe if the man shut up, he would have more converts.

A few minutes passed and then Iniko unfolded his arms. “That seems a sufficient amount of time for your punishment,” he said. “Woller informed me that he was researching prices of luxury goods during that time period. He wished to see if the units of measurement had been the same in those days as they are in ours. They were, in fact, identical. Curious, no? That so much would remain constant over such a long period of time? No human has been known to live more than a century, and yet, society appears relatively stable. As if there were a guiding hand, helping us along.”

Lydee chose to keep yet another comment to herself. This one, however, was not an insult born of frustration. This comment was a belief that she held. The Hero still lives. And his words guide us. You may not yet acknowledge that, Iniko, but I believe you, and many, many others will before this year is out.

“That is what I know of our friend’s studies,” Iniko said, without a hint of suspicion towards Lydee’s silence. “That is what I know,” he continued unabated, “but not all that I believe. I have deduced that Woller was curious as to the effects of the much-maligned tariffs that have crippled Xu’s economy. He would be interested in learning the effects of tariffs in Xu’s past so as to make a comparison.” He then paused for a moment, a frown on his face. “Are you sure he is not deceased?”

“To be honest, I am not. But I believe he lives. And until I find evidence of his death, I will continue as though he is still with us.”

“You spent the time of your punishment looking over my collection. A fraction of it, in truth. I see you have come to the inevitable conclusion that archaeology is a noble and important pursuit. However, you may not take a single object with you. Is that understood?”

“Yes. I will do my best to fight the urge to steal.”

“As will I, to inflict another punishment for that cruel barb.”

Lydee had already begun to slowly back out the door. “Thank you, professor. When I find Woller, I will inform him as to your kind words.”

“If you find him alive, you may add that I am pleased he is not dead.”

Lydee waited for the elderly man to get back to work, then left as quickly and silently as she could.

The Old Man

The old man lay in bed, unable to find any relief in sleep. Harold had explained much to him that night. The people who had migrated this far north had arrived here, at the northmost village in the known world, to escape their pasts, a sentiment with which the old man well understood. Harold had not elaborated on that subject, and he had not asked any questions. What he did learn about the denizens of the village was that they quickly came to find that the isolated and barren area surrounding the lake was not as it originally appeared.

The problems had started with predators who stalked the land at night. Although the land was barely hospitable for humans, there was more animal life than they had believed possible. Vicious felines larger than tigers who were virtually invisible in the snow made their home there. Their translucent fur made for impossibly warm coats, but they could not be taken down by less than five men. The villagers had named them frostfangs on account of their enormous canines.

The animals had been used to feeding on behemoth, but slow-moving herds of herbivores the locals referred to as peelers, for their habit of stripping the bark from trees. With competition from humans, the frostfangs looked for new sources of meat. People began being picked off at night. The hunters were silent and their jaws were so large that they could kill an adult human before he or she could scream. A curfew was set in place, and the villagers made plans to leave the lake.

But while decisions about where to go were under discussion, a miraculous discovery was made. Among the fishing nets dredged up from the lake bottom was a slimy, purple plant, similar in appearance to seaweed. At first, nothing was thought of it, other than a slight curiosity over the color. However, as the harsh winter of that year continued, and food supplies dwindled, people naturally began to wonder if the plant was edible. It turned out to be more than just edible.

As Harold described it to the old man, the plant had strong medicinal properties. That first winter, a fever had cut a deadly swath through the village, killing nearly a fifth of the inhabitants. But a pattern had been recognized. Those who had eaten the lake plant had survived, and in fact, displayed lesser signs of fever than those who had not partaken.

One day, a woman from the outside world visited the village. She inquired after the plant and paid handsomely for a large supply. Then, she simply left without saying more to anyone, never even giving her name. She had headed north.

She returned months later to purchase supplies. She also informed the villagers that should they need healing, she could assist them. She had built a cabin for herself some twenty miles north of the lake. The denizens found that the woman’s offer had been humbly spoken. She healed all but the worst conditions, and never asked for payment in return.

During all this, the predations of the night stalkers had slowed with the taken precautions, but the threat still remained. Nevertheless, people were reluctant to leave their new home, fearing any other destination would see the same problem. It was then, in that period of relative calm, that a more sinister problem arose.

A man who styled himself as “The Emperor” sent men to protect the village. From what they protected the villagers, it could not be determined. They shied away from hunting frostfangs, but the price they demanded for their generous service was high. Taxes were collected each month, and the option of leaving the region was forcefully removed. The emperor wanted the lake plants, and he needed people to gather them for him. The animal attacks had been replaced by human oppression.

The plant that had gone from curiosity to a sense of salvation ended up chaining the battered people to the area. Individuals who had fled society in the hope of finding freedom now faced a tyranny against which they were helpless. The Imperial Defenders took whatever pleased them, and acted more savagely than any wild beast. Hopelessness overtook the village. People who came down with sicknesses that the herbalist to the north could cure chose the easier path of death than that of a healthy life of abuse. A dark cloud had swallowed what was supposed to be a haven. Until the old man had fought back.

After relaying the story, Harold asked the old man for assistance. “You have skill with a sword. Skill that I have never witnessed before. There are five more ‘Imperial Defenders’ who haunt us. If you could help us… be free of them, we could leave here and start a new life. When they do not hear from Virson, they will come to investigate. Please, stay until we have rid ourselves of them.”

The old man took his time in responding. He did not want to get involved. I am not a savior. I fear I have already made this mess worse than it was. Since when have my actions ever caused more than hurt?

“I will stay until my new boots are finished,” he finally said, adding no other comment or justification. He could tell Harold gave great effort to concealing his disappointment, and perhaps sorrow, but he said nothing.

He already had someone to save. A child whom he had sworn to care for. Though he knew it was not likely untrue, he would justify his actions by telling himself he did not have time to stay and solve this village’s problem. He had to keep moving as time was of the essence. Even one lost day could prove fatal. That justification did naught to help his sleep that night.

The old man waited until sunrise to leave his bed the next day. He planned to pass the day as efficiently as possible, only interacting with people who could sell him much needed supplies. Hopeful that the cobbler could work more rapidly than she had told him, he checked in on her that afternoon.

When she answered his knock at her door, he adverted his eyes, then cursed himself silently for his cowardice and ill manners. “By chance do you have a better sense of when the work will be completed?” he asked, eyes lifting slowly to meet hers.

She gave him a playful grin. “Impatient?”

“Yes.”

“I appreciate your honesty. Come in out of the cold.”

Her workshop doubled as her dwelling. The unadorned wooden walls were dark with soot from a constantly burning fire. The intimacy of being within a few paces of her bed made him uncomfortable. More than six decades of life and I am in some ways as innocent as a young boy. How long has it been since I have lain with a woman? I do not care to calculate that.

“I’ve only been able to begin this afternoon,” she said. “There is no change in my estimation of time, I’m sorry. If you want boots that will not let you down in this land, you will have to wait.”

He had not truly expected a different answer. He knew himself well enough to know his motivation for the inquiry was more personal. Still, he had not formulated a plan. He suspected his did not hide his unease well. He suspected correctly.

“I considered whether I should thank you for what you did,” the woman said. “I think I should. Thank you. What is your name?”

“You are welcome. You may call me Gray.”

“That is not your name in truth?”

“It is not.”

“I see. You were a soldier?”

His hesitation was immediately noted. “Never mind,” she said. “You do not owe me an answer. And it is not as though I know the stories of most of the people here. I believe you will find yourself among like-minded individuals in that regard.”

Part of him wished for the conversation to continue. That half warred with the half of him which wanted to be alone, far away from where he was. Knowing he would have more opportunities for awkward interactions with this woman, he decided to take his leave.

“I’ll not steal you from your work, then,” the old man said.

“Thank you again,” the woman said. “My name is Makani. It is my true name.”

The discomfort he felt was interrupted by a knock on the door. Makani excused herself to open it and in walked a woman who looked to be in her early thirties. It was a miracle she had been able to knock, her arms were so full of scraps of aged leather.

“Let me help you with that,” Makani said as she grabbed half the load and placed it down on her bed. The younger woman followed her lead, then stood, apparently waiting for direction.

“I think this will be enough. Thank you, Olisha. Could you check the storage for wool as well?”

The old man caught the woman, Olisha, looking his way, then quickly withdrawing her glance. “I will. I think I saw some in there just now.”

“Thank you. Gather whatever you can find, please.”

Olisha quickly shuffled out the door, never making eye contact with the old man.

“Sorry about that,” Makani said. “Materials can be hard to come by and I don’t have enough time, so Olisha lends a hand when I ask. She’s a kind girl, but rather simple. You see, I asked her to bring leather and wool earlier this morning. Hopefully she will remember this time.”

Unsure how, or if he was expected to respond, the old man nodded.

“Well, I suppose I’ll get back to work. There is still a lot to do,” Makani said, brushing aside the hair that had clung to the sweat on her face.

“Thank you… Makani,” the old man said.

“I’m happy to be of service.”

He nodded again, then left.

The old man passed the remainder of the day and night in his room in Harold’s house, periodically looking at a portrait of a woman he was beginning to feel as though he had betrayed.

Veabella

Year 1378 (Present Day)

“Since when was this shield so damn heavy?” Donnes growled for the tenth time. A few paces ahead, Veabella chuckled to herself. Leaving the bar area before Donnes and Twig was always a wise move.

The hunting crew traveled the beige cobblestone streets of Oslidor’s Mines industrial district, which distinctly lacked a mine of any type. Pedestrians did their best to walk in the shadows provided by the larger buildings, none wanting to be in the heat of the sun. Veabella had grown up north of the city, near the border between Vinredor and Ebanigan, and was not accustomed to weather of this nature. The sweltering afternoons of Oslidor were oppressive, especially beneath the weight of her gear, and it was still only morning.

Behind her, Donnes continued a steady string of complaints, while Twig was struggling to compose himself enough not to vomit. He wore an oversized pack that looked all the more gigantic on his small frame. It was filled near to bursting with gadgets he had created.

Meffas had rounded up the crew at dawn and given them the details of the contract he had acquired. It was a typical job, and no one had given a reaction to the news. They were now on their way to purchase equipment from the inventor, Simon Howswilder, and Veabella knew Twig was hoping to impress the man with his own works.

She walked between Meffas and Ictorian, the latter dwarfing her. The two of them always seemed to find a way to be standing next to each other, each gaining an unspoken benefit from the relationship of protector and protected. Ahead of them was Xopher, who had not spoken at all since the night before. Veabella knew he was still brooding over their withdrawal from the tournament, and she was empathetic to his disappointment as he had been anticipating displaying his skill in front of an audience, especially peers. She had no doubt that the only reason he held back his disapproval of the decision was because of a deep deference for Meffas. There was a story behind the younger man’s respect for the crew leader, but despite her many clever attempts to uncover it, it remained hidden from her. She suspected she was the only one who was not privy to that information. They’ll tell me eventually. Perhaps it would pay to stay out later with Donnes and Twig…

On both sides of the street, masons and carpenters toiled under the sun. Sweat poured down their faces and backs, leaving damp stains on their loose cloth shirts and pants. Veabella had not been in the capital city of Vinredor in years, and its hustle and development were in stark contrast to Goldcrest, the capital of Ebanigan, where she often found herself between contracts. It was exciting to see new buildings being erected, and to walk through a city where there was not a single unpaved street. She wondered if her sister had noticed these advancements, or if she had been too engrossed in her research to appreciate the world around her.

As they turned a corner, a paper which had been stuck to a wall caught her attention. “The Hero walks The Path,” it read. “Behold the fulfillment of His second prophecy when the sky is alight.” Lydee is not the only one with heavy expectations for this year.

For her part, Veabella was still skeptical. She knew her sister was an expert on historical matters, and she had assured Veabella that the first prophecy had in fact been fulfilled as was predicted. Nevertheless, she found it difficult to believe. Perhaps her sister’s assurances had had the opposite effect. The message had been printed in ink, a bold move considering how expensive the use of a printing press was. Veabella wondered if that detail was intended to be noticed.

Ahead of her, Xopher had halted before a large wrought iron gate. Two guards in full chainmail armor equipped with short swords stood in archways on either side of the gate. Though they could not have been unaffected by the heat, they showed no signs of discomfort. Beyond the gate was a marvelous fountain where water flowed out from the mouths of tropical birds made of white marble. Although the city was virtually free of grass, and the few strands that could be found were yellow and dry, the estate was covered in luscious a luscious green carpet, the like of which could not be found naturally within a fifty miles radius.

While Meffas approached a guard and spoke with him in private, Twig and Donnes finally arrived next to Veabella, the former leaning down to rest his hands on his knees. “If I were to rush the guards, do you think they would kill me?” Twig asked.

“I can kill you if you’d like,” Donnes offered.

“You should have told me earlier,” Twig moaned.

Meffas looked over and motioned them forward. A guard opened the gate and the hunting crew was escorted inward. A woman in a flowing silk dress awaited them at the fountain. “The master will be with you shortly. Please follow me,” she told them before leading them into the main building.

The vestibule was mercifully cooler than the outside, but the calming mood of the exterior was instantly replaced with a frenzy of activity. Men and women rushed through the room, disappearing behind doors, carrying crates of books, scrolls, maps, and tools. Empty spaces on the walls between framed paintings added to the sense of chaos. Veabella could hear the sound of carriage drivers bellowing orders on the opposite end of the estate.

The woman who led them into the building had told them to wait and then walked through a side door. A few moments later she returned without speaking and now stood beside the crew, completely still with her hands behind her back, staring at the door. Donnes and Twig slightly swayed in place, everyone’s eyes on the passing workers.

They waited for more than two hours before being allowed to go further into the mansion where they waited another half an hour. Finally, they were led into a room with a long rectangular table and a dozen chairs. At the head of the table sat a man in his fifth or sixth decade of life. He wore a dark green tunic with an elaborate design of golden colored leaf prints. Directly in front of him on the table was a strange stone, roughly the size of a brick which emitted a faint, white light. The inventor’s eyes were fixed on it until the door closed behind Veabella and he finally looked up to make eye contact with Meffas. “How can I help you, Meffas, my old friend,” he said, his attention clearly still being pulled away by the stone.

“We’re in need of more of your spring-loaded traps. The large ones. Also flame bolts, we could use quite a few of those,” Meffas replied.

Simon Howswilder removed his custom designed lenses and set them on the table. He bit his lip before speaking. “I wish you had arrived sooner. I may have one or two of the traps left here, but the rest of my arsenal is in transit.”

“Why’s that?” Twig asked. Meffas turned and gave him a dirty look, making the skinny man flinch. Simon clenched his fists before answering.

“I am moving my operation to Withigan. Therefore, at the current time, I do not have access to the majority of my merchandise.”

Veabella could tell Meffas was curious as to the inventor’s reasons for moving out of royal territory, but she also knew he would never risk being untactful. Twig did not share those reservations. He did, however, have the sense not to ask directly.

“Simon,” Twig said, “I made some modifications to a few of your traps.” He began untying one of the many pockets of his pack, then reached in and pulled out a crossbow bolt. It looked like the typical flame bolts that Simon had developed nearly a decade ago, the tip wrapped in animal hide to protect the flammable substance which covered it. The flame-producing tonic which coated the tip of the bolt was not the only aspect that separated it from a normal crossbow bolt however. The tips were removable and a tiny brass wick hid inside. When the bolts hit their target, the wick would light, and the tip of the ammunition would explode in flames. It was an invention that had made warfare more deadly, but due to the cost of the coating, it was mostly used by hunters on lucrative contracts. The only notable difference between this bolt and the others Simon created was a slight incision on the shaft of the bolt. Twig held it up proudly. “I hollowed out the shaft. Inside is a poisonous dust. On impact, the flames will reach the dust and explode. The poison paralyzes whatever it touches. The idea is, for the larger targets that don’t go down in one hit, the poison has a chance of spreading into the eyes, throat, or even lungs.”

The little man displayed an enormous grin. Simon nodded. “Very clever.” His view returned to Meffas. “Have my assistant gather whatever you need. It’s the regular price, even with the current drop in supply.”

He stood up then and made a nearly imperceptible bow to the crew leader. “Perhaps our paths will cross again in the future. Withigan is the land of opportunity. I believe Vinredor has lost an invaluable asset. But that is their concern, not mine. Good day, Meffas.”

With that, he lifted the glowing stone, tucked it under his arm, and exited the room. The woman in the silk dress had been present for the entire exchange. She cleared her throat to grab Meffas’s attention. “Come with me, sir. I will show you what the master has in storage.”

The rest of the crew then left and waited by the fountain. Veabella could not help but stare at Twig. He somehow appeared even smaller after the curt response from his idol. Those bolts were more than merely clever. A poison that can be delivered in that manner could be monumental. And that was only a fraction of what he’s created!

She walked over to her friend and put her arm around him. “He was just in an awful mood, Twig,” she said. “He wanted to say something even ruder, but the brilliance of your work stunned him.”

“Thank you, Vea,” Twig said without looking up at her. Though Veabella was only average height for a female, she had a good hand’s height over her crewmate, a fact she never brought to his attention, though she was sure he was constantly aware of it. She could not recall having seen him so hurt by another person in the past. While the little man was often the butt of jokes, he gave as well as he received, and always appeared to laugh off every comment. It was clear that the indifference shown by Simon had stung more than the much crueler intended remarks of others.

Twig shook his head and finally looked her in the eyes. “Just one more person who overlooks us. We fly low, but it won’t always be that way.”

“It wouldn’t have been if we were still in the tournament,” Xopher said, his back to them. The man then flinched and walked away from the others. Hero, what a miserable visit to the city this has been!

While the crew ate a lunch of fried fish and rice at a small open-air establishment, Veabella asked permission from Meffas to seek out her sister. With the excuse of wishing to speak about the notice she had seen in the street firmly in mind, she bounded across the city to the university. She did not like the way things ended with Lydee, and she wanted her to know she was no longer in the tournament. Moreover, she had seen a lot of herself in Twig and how he looked up to Simon, and though she knew she was going back in the hopes of kind words or a compliment, she could not help herself.

She asked a group of students who were no older than her for directions to the history department, and headed in that direction, the discrepancy between their scholar’s robes and her hunter’s trappings just on the edge of her awareness. There was still time for her to change course and take that path, she knew. Nothing would please Lydee more, yet I recoil from that choice. In truth, am I going to see her to rub my lifestyle in her face? To show her I will never bend to her wishes? Would she even attempt to sway me again? Am I looking to find out if she still cares enough to try to save me from myself?

She shook her head as she entered the building the students had indicated, an unconscious attempt to leave her doubts outside. Once in the hallway, she had no sense of which way to go, and so she followed the lone voice which echoed down to her. As she stepped close to the room from which it sounded, she recognized it as her sister’s. She peeked into the room and saw Lydee standing at a pulpit in front of a modest arrangement of perhaps ten students, their hands working steadily to copy her words.

“With a singular exception, the soldiers perished in the fire,” Lydee said to the class. “But their journals have survived, and many were even delivered to our own library. These are the types of primary documents on which you should base the majority of your research. Delivering an argument from firsthand accounts, especially those which were incidental and therefore without the bias of a secondary author’s opinion, is a stronger position than regurgitating another historian’s ideas. Furthermore, you never know what you may encounter, especially when you consider that many documents in our archives have never been read.”

The professor paused for a moment, then slowly turned to look at Veabella. Lydee gave a polite nod, then motioned for Veabella to enter the room and join the class, which she did, taking a seat behind the students. She watched and listened until the class ended, impressed with the confidence with which her sister spoke, and aware now that just as Lydee had taken no interest in her career, she had paid no attention to her sister’s calling until just this moment.

We do not look alike, either. Lydee with her hair short and neat as always, and I with a bird’s nest of tangles, tidy only when it is in braids, and even then, there are leaves and pebbles strewn about. No one would ever take us for sisters.

When the students filed out of the room, Veabella stood up and went to where Lydee was gathering the books she had open on the lectern. “That was interesting,” Veabella said.

“Thank you. We will see if any of my students follow through with my advice. They tend to prefer the easier route whenever possible,” Lydee said.

“Most people do.”

“Not us.”

“No. That’s one way we’re similar, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure there are more as well,” Lydee said, forcing a grin. “We’ll simply have to look harder.”

“I wanted to let you know our company withdrew from the tournament.”

“Why is that?”

“Meffas says it’s an unnecessary risk.”

Lydee only nodded at that.

“We have a new contract though, so we’ll be leaving the city in a couple of hours.”

“I hope it goes well. Safely. And, lucratively, of course.”

“Thank you, Lydee.”

There was another uncomfortable pause, the likes of which their conversations had been characterized by over the past few years. Veabella made to speak, but Lydee beat her to it. “I would like to apologize for being so… cold,” she said. “I’m concerned for you, but instead of making you feel as though I care, I fear I have come across as condescending and distant. I do not know of another way to reach you though, for I do not wish to be manipulative.”

“I think I could say most of the same to you,” Veabella said.

Another long pause.

“Have you seen the messages throughout the city?” Veabella tried. “The ones about the prophecy?”

“I have!” Lydee said, her voice finally sounding alive. “They get torn down quickly, but they show up again the next day. They’re putting the idea in people’s heads, so that they will realize what they are seeing.”

“What will it be, exactly?”

“A great light. That is the best description we have. There will be a great light in the sky, but it will not last. I only hope it remains visible long enough that it cannot be denied, even in the three royal nations.”

“And once the second prophecy is fulfilled?”

“There will still be two more, of course. But people will be ready for them. That’s the idea, I believe; that each prophecy builds momentum to the next one.” When she finished speaking, Lydee looked over her shoulder, then walked to close the door to the room. “He will return soon, Vea. It was a long time before the first prophecy was fulfilled, and it has been forty years since the last one. Each one will be closer together, so that the wave of support grows with them. At least that is what I believe. But it makes sense, does it not?”

“It does,” Veabella said.

“I know. We will have to wait a bit, but I think it will be in our lifetimes. The Hero will return, and we will be fortunate enough to be witnesses.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“For all of us, Vea, not just me. This is for everyone. The Hero will unite the world. That’s why he is doing all of this. It’s not just so that I can be proven right.”

“I know. I just meant I’m happy that you will get to see it.”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

“It’s this year, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It could be any day now, but it will be before the year is out. That is definite.”

“When the sky lights up, I’ll be thinking of you, Lydee, no matter where I am.”

“And I will be thinking of you, Vea.”

Neither sister moved, and the moment passed without comment. “I have to be going,” Veabella said. “It was nice to see you as more than just my sister. I was impressed.”

“Thank you. Maybe one day… well… I hope you’re safe, Vea. I mean that with all my heart. Be safe and listen to Meffas at least. He seems to have a good head on his shoulders, for a- never mind. He seems to be a good man.”

“Thank you. I will.”

“Goodbye, Vea. I hope you visit again soon.”

“Goodbye, Lydee. I will.”

As soon as she was back outside, she felt the tension she had not realized was there begin to melt away. How could it be that speaking with family was more stressful than killing deadly animals?

Cupela

The silence which permeated the interior of the carriage would have been too disruptive for most to ignore. For the man sitting opposite of her, his face in a book which he had already read multiple times, this was not an issue. If he had noticed the change in her demeanor which she had intentionally displayed, he did not care to acknowledge it.

The wheels of the carriage bumped over the cobblestone street, the movement jostling Cupela, yet not disturbing the man across from her who was lost in another book of myths. For a man of numbers and measurements, his love of tales which were obvious fabrications had always mystified her. That he searched the books as though he would stumble upon a revelation was all the more peculiar. A man who never jests, lost in a world of make believe; what an irony.

She looked over at Enfildio again, his eyes jumping between words at a frantic pace, an indication of his vast intellect, a character trait which enchanted her and overpowered the rational side of her brain. He was tall and handsome, though not overwhelmingly so, and more than twice her age. His goatee was gray now, as was his thick hair, which was currently hidden under a black top hat, the accessory matching the rest of his outfit. In the more than three years in which she had known him, Enfildio had only ever worn black. She was certain it was an affectation which he had worked to cultivate, as it was nonsensical considering the sweltering climate of Oslidor. It added to his allure, and helped to give him a mystique which was beneficial for one of his stature.

Cupela did not allow herself to admit her feelings for her employer, the pain of his romantic apathy too much to bear. It was enough for her that he confided so closely in her. He may make time for other women, but it was Cupela he trusted above all the others, and that was not a delusion on her part.

He chose only one of us to accompany him for this task, just as he allows only me to venture out into the city. It is not his fault he does not swoon over me; attraction is not chosen, it is a base reaction. For what truly matters, I am his choice.

Still the man did not look up from his book as the carriage rolled through the docks of the Quartz district, past the last stevedores of the fading day. The streets here were more worn, the ride less comfortable, and the grimy surroundings so dramatically different to what she was accustomed to. Enfildio had insisted on meeting the candidates immediately upon their arrival to the city however, and so this journey along the now empty stalls of fishmongers and stacks of shipping containers was her reward.

It is as though he does not want them to see the city proper so that they will not know what they are missing out on. I understand the sentiment, as it is easier to live without what you are ignorant of than to long for what you know you are missing.

The sky darkened as they rolled down the roughly-patched roads, the pungent smell of the river reaching her and forcing her to close the window. Enfildio had lit a torch within the carriage, allowing him to continue his efforts at squeezing the last drops of knowledge from the text, yet the Quartz district itself seemed a forgotten world at this time of the evening, visibility along the docks evidently not a priority.

The sudden halt of the carriage startled her. Enfildio was now alert as well, the book nowhere to be seen. Instead, his hands were in his long black cloak. His eyes were looking past her, his expression focused, and expectant.

From the front of the carriage, she heard an unfamiliar voice. “Put the reins down. Tell the passengers to slowly exit with their hands above their heads.”

“Sir? Madame?” came the voice of the driver. Cupela heard him get down from his seat and walk to the carriage door. “Beg your pardon, but it is important that you come out now with your hands held in the air. There are some men here…”

Enfildio made eye contact with her. “Stay seated,” he mouthed. In a fluid motion, he left his seat and stepped out of the carriage, raising his hands above his head, two tiny glass vials tucked between his thumbs and palms.

“Gentlemen,” she heard Enfildio say. “I recommend you find another potential victim this night.”

“That’s enough speaking,” the voice from before said. “Stand aside with the driver. If there is a woman in there, she best be dead or asleep.”

“Why is that?” Enfildio asked.

Cupela heard the sound of swords being removed from their scabbards. “I said no more speaking,” the main growled.

The next sounds she heard were an explosion and a high-pitched whistle like that of a tea kettle. Screaming followed, then a second explosion and an identical whistle. The screaming ceased abruptly and for a few moments, the only sound that remained was a low hissing. Cupela’s eyes darted around in her head as she attempted to make sense of what had just occurred.

“What in the depthless sea was that?” the driver gasped.

“Never mind,” she heard Enfildio mutter.

Her curiosity overwhelming her fear, she moved to look out the door. Yellow sparks were popping and dancing on the ground. The light they gave off was just enough to make out the forms of six or seven bodies. Enfildio turned around to see her. “More cost effective that hiring guards,” he said, entering the carriage as Cupela sat back in her seat.

I have never seen nor heard of a tonic that had an effect even remotely like that. How did he hide those from us? And for how long has he been in possession of them? She had suspected for years that Enfildio had kept secrets even from her, though she had believed them all to be of a personal nature. After witnessing this display, the thought of what he continued to conceal was enough to keep her mind restless for days.

Across from her, Enfildio had opened the book again, completely closed off to the outside world. At the very least, he did not react to her stare. Even after years of working alongside him, she was still unsure how to approach him, or where she stood in his regard. She knew enough of him to understand that he did not fully acknowledge what he had done out of a sense of showmanship. He enjoyed having knowledge that others did not possess, and he was fully aware that Cupela’s mind would be racing at what she had witnessed.

And of how he so coldly killed those men, his tone of voice or heartbeat never seeming to change? What does he believe I think of that? Or is he aware how queer it is? He is ever even-tempered, but is it an act? How can it be that I am so utterly unable to answer that question?

It startled her as well that she was less spooked than she would have thought having just witnessed her employer taking the lives of half a dozen men. True, they had assaulted them, but she felt that Enfildio’s ability to take a life had never been in doubt. It was an unpleasant thought, and so she turned back to the more mundane question of how the man had created a life-stealing tonic.

She opened her mouth to voice her speculation aloud, then stopped herself. Enfildio had sought her out not for the menial tasks that could be completed by a grunt, but for intellectual pursuits. He trusted her to solve problems with her mind. Was this, then, a challenge? Did he want to see if she could determine what ingredients, and in what quantity, he had used to make those tonics? Whether from a sense of familiarity with his mind, or a desire to feel important, she believed the answer was an affirmative. She decided to accept the challenge, as she was certain he knew she would. There was no alternative. If she did not solve the riddle, he would find someone else who could. Which is yet another concern…

“We are not progressing quickly enough,” he had told her a few months earlier, apart from the others. “The issue is one of man-power. Even with minimal distractions and four bells of sleep per day, we are unable to move forward at more than a glacial pace. The only solution is to make another hire, yet I do not have the time needed to yet again search the world for talent. We are fortunate that East Saltion remains a war-torn land. Hon Rin has become entangled in a bloody conflict, leaving the Scholar’s Guild surrounded by enemy soldiers. Its graduates are unable to find employment in their own country. Petty as they are, the Hon Rinese council will not allow the graduates to seek out opportunities in neighboring nations, and so I was able to coerce the three top scholars of this past year’s class to sail here.”

“You are to hire three more assistants?” Cupela had asked before she could think twice about stating the question out loud.

“No. Only one. But they are not aware of that as of yet. They will be unknowingly pitted against each other until I, with your help, am able to ascertain which is most likely to bolster our efforts.”

They have heard stories of Enfildio, the master herbalist, the man whose work changed the course of civilization. And so they crossed half the world hoping to stand at his side, an eagerness I understand fully.

As the carriage came to a halt, Enfildio closed his book. He waited until the driver opened the door to leave his seat. Just before he exited, Cupela spoke up, breaking the second long silence of the night. “Beserex root and phosphorous.”

He stopped and looked back at her, a pleased look on his face. “Correct, my dear.”

The gesture, and the words, made her feel as though all was right in the world, inspiring her as she left her seat.

They had stopped in front of an impressively grand ship of four masts, which was moored fifty yards out in the harbor. Their timing was impeccable, as two young men and a young woman stepped out of a boat and onto the docks. Their multiple layers of tight-fitting clothing instantly revealed them as foreigners, the way they hobbled on dry land indicating how long their journey had been.

“Greetings,” Enfildio said when they had closed the distance between them.

One of the men assumed the role of speaking for the group. “Thank you for inviting us to your nation. Even from here, it is obvious that Oslidor is a magnificent capital.”

The man who spoke was a step in front of the other two candidates. The young man behind him had not taken his eyes off of Enfildio, while the young woman, her straggly brown hair hanging down to nearly cover her face, had not looked up since she had gotten onto the docks.

“It is getting late, and you have had a long voyage,” Enfildio said. “I have made reservations for rooms for all of you at the Golden Pearl, a fine inn but a short ride from here. Cupela, my friend and associate, and myself will be staying at the inn as well. I have rented out the downstairs for tomorrow afternoon so that we may speak on the future without distractions. I’m sure you’re all fatigued; come- warm beds await you.”

If the three recent graduates exchanged words as they walked to the carriage, Cupela did not hear them, so overjoyed was she at the manner in which she had been referred to by Enfildio. Her steps felt lighter, her worries washed away out to sea as she reentered the carriage and sat side by side with her employer… and friend.

Erden

1348 (Thirty years prior to present day)

“The Lady left a message for you on her way out,” the guard informed him as he strolled into the vestibule of the Royal Library, not a heartbeat before the ninth bell of the day rang.

“Oh. What is it?” Erden asked.

“I don’t know. Check your desk,” the burly man said.

“I thought you meant she had told you to tell me something.”

“I understand what you meant,” the man said, cutting him off. Scratching himself, he turned to watch as an attractive woman walked by, the interaction with Erden now miles from his mind.

It was highly unusual for Udesip to be away from the library while the sun was up, and equally strange that she had thought enough of Erden to give him a correspondence. He was not the slightest bit comfortable with this convergence of improbabilities.

The note was on a plain piece of paper, in elegant calligraphy. The façade of a sophisticated aesthetic faded as Erden began to read, the brusque phrasing easy for him to imagine in Udesip’s icy voice. The basement is closed for repairs. Entry is prohibited to all, for any reason.

It did not take an intelligent man to realize she wanted it to be clear that Erden was specifically included in the term all. Intrigued, in the way that a child will touch a hot stove even after being told repeatedly that it will burn him, Erden immediately headed toward the entrance to the basement.

The sole door which led to the descending staircase connecting the main floor of the library to the cellar was now barred by several lengths of thick rope tied to pillars on either side. Subtlety was never her style. There were no signs that any ne’er-do-wells such as himself had attempted to breach the barrier. Those were not the only signs missing from the area, however. There were also no signs of construction. No sounds emanating from below, no dirty footprints, no materials strewn about. They must be working solely at night.

For a reason he could not articulate, Erden continued to stand in the middle of the room, eyes locked onto the scene in front of him. Despite her physical absence, he felt as though Udesip would be able to sense something was awry if he were to linger, staring at the entrance to the basement for too long. It would be best to move on with his day, acting with as much normalcy as possible.

Normal for Erden meant a work shift with an uneven balance of work and idling. He found himself spending more time reading the books he was paid to put away than actually cataloging or moving them. Every so often he would look up, sure that he would find Udesip directly in front of him, face unreadable, but body posture indicating extreme disdain. Then, a moment later, he would look back down and lose himself in the book yet again.

This day he was caught up in a historical account of the Kinorick Uprising. A decade past, the Vinredorian army had sailed to the island of Kinorick to quell a rebellion which threatened the stability of all of the Sun Islands in the Southern Sea. The 26^th company of the Vinredorian army singlehandedly fought its way from the shoreline to the capital, easily dismissing the local warriors before locking into fiercer combat with the legendary mercenary company True Brothers. Overcoming oppressive odds, the 26^th reclaimed the island for the Divine King, crushing the rebellion before it was able to poison the region.

He had been a boy during the Kinorick Uprising, and remained captivated by the heroic tales of the 26^th company, and their otherworldly swordsman, Abraham, whose deeds gave the company the moniker, The Blades. On multiple occasions, Abraham had faced down a dozen or more men and won, fighting with a brutal yet graceful efficiency. He was known now the world over as the greatest living swordsman.

“Erden.”

Oh no.

He froze, then attempted to place the book down in a manner which would make it appear as though he was only quickly checking its pages for signs of misuse. Not knowing how successful his ploy was, he looked up, bracing himself for the wrath of The Lady.

It never came. His friend Cupela looked down at him with a perplexed look. “I apologize for interrupting your work,” she said.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Erden said, or at least thought he said, loosening the tension in his body. “I didn’t expect to see you here again so soon.”

“I was lucky enough to be able to visit again.”

“Yes. I mean, I’m glad. So, you are back in the city now?”

“For the moment.”

“And, are you still working with that herbalist, Enfildio?”

“I am,” she said, before quickly adding, “Would you be able to help me find a text?”

“Of course,” Erden said, getting right to his feet. “I can help you find anything. What is it you are looking for?”

“Only some scrolls. Stories about journeys out into the Depthless Sea. Children’s tales, I think. They could be quite old. I looked in the stories on the fourth floor, but I could not find anything before the twelfth century.”

“Right, right. The older tales would be in the basement to be protected from the light. I can lead you there.”

They had taken a score of steps before Erden remembered some crucial information. “Wait. The basement, it’s closed. Repairs, I heard.”

“Could you go and look in my place then?” Cupela asked.

Erden debated how to respond without appearing as useless and impotent as he felt. “No one can enter now. Only the workers. It must be unsafe until they have completed the repairs.”

Cupela grimaced, the look on her face startlingly severe. “Are they making the repairs at this very moment?”

“I’m not sure.”

Cupela had already begun to move ahead. “Let’s take a look.”

Erden stayed a few paces behind her, unsuccessfully conjuring justifications for stopping his friend from going further. Before he had generated even a weak excuse, Cupela had read the sign, her arms crossed tightly around herself.

“I must get down there,” she said.

“Perhaps it will be accessible tomorrow,” Erden suggested.

“I do not have until tomorrow,” Cupela said, scanning the area in all directions. “Help me untie the rope.”

“We really should not. It is probably quite unsafe. There could be a cave-in.”

Cupela gave him an incredulous look. “You needn’t go with me. I suppose I can even remove these ropes alone.”

As he watched her dismantle Udesip’s barrier, Erden became increasingly unsettled. “I will go down as soon as it is safe. I will gather every text I can find and deliver them to you.”

“I’m sorry, Erden, but that won’t do.”

“Why such urgency for children’s stories?”

“Never mind that,” Cupela said, exasperated. “At least stand watch for me, will you? Put the ropes back as they were until I knock. I will move as quickly as I can.”

The door closed behind her, and Erden could hear her footsteps on the stone stairs, her pace rushed. The thumping died off until he was left in silence. If I put everything back as it was, I can wait fifty paces away and look busy until I hear her knocking. Please hurry.

He was unsure if he was using the same knots that Udesip had used, but they were the only knots he knew how to tie, so they would have to do. He saw no one as he glanced in different directions every few heartbeats, but that did nothing to calm his nerves. He was not accustomed to breaking the rules, and had he wished to travel down that path, he certainly would not have started by disobeying The Lady.

When the ropes were set back into place, Erden scurried to his work station to collect the materials he would need to feign the role of a competent employee. Selecting the perfect assortment of documents and practicing different expressions of dedicated concentration made him feel akin to a character in a tale of mystery. He had not been so enthusiastic about his work in ages.

Returning to the door with his cart in tow, fear was losing its grip, the feeling giving way to excitement at his role in such a mischievous act. Once safely amount the bookshelves, he paused to listen for any sound from Cupela. Fairly confident that he did not hear anything, he began to make an effort of pretending to be searching for the correct location to place a book. This act became terribly boring within a quarter of an hour, and before he knew what had happened, he was leaning against a shelf, reading. The danger he was so concerned with had vanished, as the entirety of his focus was now on Ten Principles of Herbalism, a topic that he had despised when he was a student. I would make a fantastic herbalist. It is all research and mathematics, areas I excel in.

Occupied with congratulating himself on his hypothetical prowess in the field of contemporary sciences, he was unaware of the figure who stopped to watch him for a moment before disappearing into a forest of books.

He did not know how much time had passed when he was finally aware of a light tapping sound. After ensuring that it was coming from the basement, he rushed to the door and untied the expertly knotted ropes with surprising ease. When he opened the door, he was greeted by a tower of documents. “Help me, would you,” a muffled voice pleaded.

While Cupela did a convincing job of blocking off the basement yet again, Erden eyed the many items she had brought with her. There were a scant few books, and those were in rough shape, with no titles in view. The majority of the documents were parchment paper, rolled and tied into tight scrolls. Without opening anything, he was unable to get a sense of what she had found. When Cupela had finished with the ropes and turned back to face him, he was still looking at the pile, head askew.

“As I said, it’s nothing but children’s stories,” Cupela said as she began to collect the documents. Before Erden could question her, he heard a voice from directly behind him.

“For what purpose did you defy my order?”

Erden turned to face The Lady. Although he was more than a hand taller than her, Erden was petrified by her presence. How long had she been there? Had she witnessed the entire scheme? Why had he been so foolish?

Erden could only look at Udesip, unable to formulate a reply. Cupela spoke in his stead. “It was my doing. Erden did not wish to, but I pushed him. He has no blame in this.”

As Udesip spoke, Erden became aware that her eyes were fixated on the documents that Cupela held. The Lady had not once looked at either him or his friend. “What is your name?”

“Why do you need to know my name?” Cupela asked.

“Why were you so eager for these documents?”

“I’ll put them back until the construction has been completed,” Cupela tried.

“You will leave them here,” Udesip said in her toneless affect. “Come with me to my office.”

With half of the documents in her arms, Cupela somehow managed to withdraw a small glass vial from her pants pocket.

“Do not!” Udesip said in a voice as cold and harsh as death.

Cupela did not listen. She uncorked the vial with her teeth before downing the light green liquid within. As Udesip called for the guards, Cupela raced forward, nearly knocking over the smaller woman.

After a moment of shock, Erden and Udesip ran after her, but Cupela was moving at an inhuman speed, the distance between them widening with each step. When she reached the library entrance two guards attempted to block her path. They drew their swords in futility, as Cupela was able to veer to the far right, taking advantage of another patron’s arrival, and flee through the massive doors and out into the streets. The Guards gave chase for a moment before the young woman cut behind a building, and was gone from their sight.

Erden stopped a few paces from the doors, panting hard. He looked out into the city, too stunned to think. A heartbeat before he turned around, he spotted an object lying in the doorway. He bent down to pick it up, and saw that it was the glass vial that Cupela had drunk from. Not knowing why, he softly squeezed it in his palm, and then placed it in his pocket.

Behind him, he felt a presence approach. Despite his recent exertion and the heat of the day, a chill coursed through his body.

The Old Man

It was not as he anticipated. Smoke rose from more than a dozen buildings, each sporting solidly constructed wooden rooftops. A path through the center of the village could be discerned by packed ice, a few inches lower to the ground than the rest of the white landscape. Massive logs were piled high in various locations, suggesting that the growth was not finished.

A young man had halted his movement across the town upon seeing the old man’s approach. From the distance of more than two hundred paces, it was difficult to make out the expression on his face. The old man’s pace did not waver as the villager hollered something inaudible to the old man’s ears. Within ten heartbeats, men and women emerged from the buildings, most armed with axes and other tools. The old man unconsciously sized them up, and saw no reason for concern.

The villagers began to form a semicircle as the old man closed within twenty paces of them. From the center of the group, a man in a cap of saggy black fur who looked to be nearing his fifth decade stepped forward. “Greetings, friend. What purpose do you have for traveling so far north?”

“I am searching for an herbalist,” the old man said.

“Aye, I know of who you speak. Your journey is not complete. She is still farther north.” The man paused as if expecting a response. The old man had not heard a question, and so gave none. “You know of our village?”

“No.”

“You will continue straight through?”

“I could use supplies and some new footwear,” the old man said, his toes nearly numb within the remains of his boots.

The village’s apparent representative looked back at his companions. One nodded, then another, and another. The youth who had first seen the old man did nothing but stare at him. He was just past adolescence, of average height, but muscles were evident even under layers of fur and wool.

“We can provide you with some food, if you have coin,” the representative said.

The old man continued to stand still. “I do.”

A glance at the old man’s ragged boots. “We can replace your boots as well, though it will take a few days.”

“Fine.”

“Follow me, then,” the man said. “There’s warm food and cold ale in the tavern.”

It was more expansive of a tavern than he had expected, with five tables placed throughout the common space. To one side of the room was a bar, a door behind it which the old man assumed led into the kitchen. A fire was burning in the hearth on the back wall, but it was not strong enough to heat the entire room. The old man sat alone at a table while the man he had followed passed through the door behind the bar. The youth had trailed them both and stood in the doorway, making a point to be seen. After a few moments of silence, a woman entered through the main door, her face mostly hidden beneath a thick brown hood. She carried a small wicker basket filled with cobbler’s tools.

She looked down at his ice-encrusted boots. “You’ve come a long way. I will take measurements for a new pair of boots. Do you need assistance removing those?”

The old man considered her offer. Do I appear so ancient that I cannot even remove my own boots? He looked up to shake his head. The woman had put her hood down, revealing her face.

The old man felt as though he had suddenly lost his wind. So similar. The same eyes. Older, but an identical shine. By the lines on her face, it was clear that she had seen more than four decades, which he knew made her too young to be the woman he had mistaken her for. And, of course, that woman was gone. The façade of indifference to the world collapsed and he was, albeit momentarily, a vulnerable young man again. He had thought that man dead, indeed had worked to kill and bury him. Now the tsunami of emotions, complex and seemingly intensified with age, assaulted him.

It all occurred in but an instant. He steeled himself and repressed that younger, weaker version of himself. He cut his gaze off, and went to unlacing his boots. When he had removed them, he looked back up at the woman. She gave no indication of having noticed the impact her appearance had made on him.

She used a length of cloth to take his measurements. He sat in silence, becoming overly aware of his own breathing. When the woman completed her task, she stood up, and looked at him with a neutral expression. “I need two days,” she said. The old man nodded. She took the hint of his discomfort and left the tavern without another word.

An old fool. That is what I am, he thought as he put his worn boots back on. Movement from the bar saved the old man from the unwanted, yet painfully familiar ache of self-reflection. He was too honest to deny it would not be more than a temporary delay.

Sensing the man’s intending hesitation, the old man put a nondenominational silver coin on the table. The man had removed the cap he had been wearing, revealing a receding line of newly greying hair which covered the back of his head. It accentuated the wrinkles on his face, a feature the old man had not noticed earlier. The weight of responsibility has aged him. Luckily, I have not seen a mirror in some time.

The man put a bowl of stew on the table, along with a wooden spoon, and the old man set to eating.

“Silver,” the man said. “That’s more than enough for this. Tell me what else you need, and I will find what I can.”

The old man’s eventual reply never came as the door to the tavern was pushed open. A large man entered, wearing a huge fur overcoat that was stained on one side with old blood. His boots were caked in snow and ice, and he wore a sword at his hip, pommel pointed forward, easily in view of anyone whom he faced.

He walked directly to where the old man was seated, and did not halt his advance until he was less than a hand’s length away from the village representative. His eyes though, were fixed on the old man. “Who is this, Harold?”

The host, Harold, had taken a step back. “Someone passing through.”

“You collected his tax then, on our behalf?”

“Not yet.”

“That was not smart, Harold,” the man said. “Now I have to visit more often to ensure this doesn’t happen again. And it was only a coincidence that I arrived at this exact time to see your cheating. Who knows how many times this has happened before?”

“No one has traveled through here in more than a year,” Harold said, his eyes on the floor. “I swear it, Virson.”

“Says the man who failed at his sole duty.” Virson jabbed a finger against the old man’s shoulder. “The price for entering the emperor’s northern realm is three silvers.”

The old man scraped the bottom of the bowl with his spoon, then put a spoonful of stew into his mouth.

“Is this old man addled?” Virson asked Harold.

“I don’t believe so,” Harold said.

“Then he’s just a fool,” the man said, unsheathing a sword at his hip.

The blade did not fully leave its sheath before it was battered back down by the old man’s sword. He was standing, the effort a single motion.

“I am a fool,” the old man said. “Of that I have no doubt. But I will not be extorted.”

Virson gasped, outraged. He jumped backwards and removed his sword, lunging at the old man, who lazily parried his swing.

“You dare assault an Imperial Defender?” Virson asked.

“I suppose so,” the old man said.

Virson again rushed forward. But with each swing he blocked, the old man pushed him further back toward the door, his blade was before Virson’s at every instance. The Imperial Defender stumbled over the step in the entranceway, narrowly holding himself upright. Back against the door, he attempted to spread out. The old man would not allow it. He hit him with the flat of his blade and pushed him out the door, where he tumbled onto his backside and sank into the snow. The old man followed him out into the cold.

Villagers had gathered around the tavern. They watched in awed silence as the old man stood in the doorway, a blank expression on his face. The Imperial Defender was breathing hard, his eyes seething with rage, as he lifted himself upright and pulled his weapon out of the snow.

“You have made a fatal error,” the man said, glancing to the side where the villagers were amassed.

The old man said nothing as he looked upon the Imperial Defender, but he could see the man’s body shaking, and the effort it took for him to catch his breath. When he finally slowed his breathing, he attacked.

The old man was instantly on him, the flat of his blade slamming into his face, breaking his nose. The man fell back hard into the snow, his gloved hands clutching his face, blood dripping down to paint the ground bright red.

The old man stared at his opponent. He could see tears in his eyes, one of which was twitching. Blood was forming a small pool in the snow. Virson reached inside his overcoat and made to withdraw a throwing knife. The old man was too fast. His blade went through the man’s chest. He quickly pulled the sword out, and the Imperial Defender fell face first into the snow, dead.

The old man looked at the villagers. As one, they gave him a look of stunned awe. After a moment, Harold walked over to the corpse. “You gave him every opportunity to live,” he said to the old man. “He could not hazard the blow to his pride. We need to bury him. Bury him, and hope the emperor never learns of this.”

The old man furrowed his brow. “Emperor? Other than the port towns, there’s nothing on this continent except a handful of villages.”

“Aye,” Harold replied. “But he is trying to change that. He already has a network of tax-collecting thugs set up. This continent attracts many desperate and cruel men. He is uniting them, and those of us who came here to flee oppression have found ourselves more at home than we had expected.”

The old man wiped his sword clean on the dead man’s overcoat. On the thick wool shirt that was underneath, he saw a bronze sigil. Upon closer inspection, he saw it was a serpent.

The woman who had taken his measurements came over to him then, her mouth open slightly, her breath pluming in the air. “I’ve never seen anything like that. He had no chance against you.”

“Years of experience,” the old man sighed.

“Stay at my house tonight,” Harold said. “I will tell you the way of things here.”

The old man nodded. Harold’s invitation was not the one he had wanted, but it was still welcome.

Yara

She relished striding the halls of the palace. The people she passed were at her disposal, quite literally, when she deemed it necessary. And while telling a lowly servant what to do had lost its excitement over the years, enforcing her will on an aristocrat was still nothing less than euphoric. The only hesitation she had was a nagging doubt that the thrill would diminish if she partook of it too often. Therefore, she did it just frequently enough to maintain the intoxication.

The workers and various palace attendants had learned their lesson. The entire path she tread from her office to the council room was startingly devoid of life, a testament to her reputation. The circumstances gave her an opportunity to view the multitude of tapestries covering the gray stone walls. The fabric needed to weave a single tapestry required much more coin than most citizens of the nation could accumulate in a year. And Vinredor was the richest nation in the world, its population thriving. The royal family had commissioned the tapestries for hundreds of years, and the current divine king, Oslian had not only continued the tradition, but indeed increased the rate of production. Each work of art depicted the heroics of the Vinredorian royal family, resplendent with the royal shades of violet and crimson. The largest, most brightly colored, newest works hung in the highest traffic areas. They also were the ones that featured Oslian himself.

As she turned the last corner, the arched doorway to the council chamber entered her field of vision, forty steps down the hallway. She believed she could perceive a slight adjustment in the stance of the guards, their posture straightening. She strode past them without acknowledging their presence.

Yara took her seat to the left of the still unoccupied throne. The chair on the throne’s right was for the royal herbalist, Esther, also yet to arrive. Across from Yara were three other advisors. Iligor was an elderly man who had been on the council longer than Yara, but had fallen out of favor with Oslian over the past decade. The other two were relative newcomers. Rovellia, a plain woman with few ideas who Yara believed to be half her age, and Martin, a dour-looking middle-aged man who Yara would admit made clever suggestions periodically.

Yara loathed them, one and all. They in turn, feared her, she believed. A reasonable response by her estimation.

None of her rivals had locked eyes with her yet. Another action that spoke volumes to Yara. Fine that they do not. Hiding from me tells me much, and none of it favorable for those three. Oslian could do better. He keeps them for political reasons. I do hope they realize that is why they are allowed to sit here.

“Rise for His Excellency,” a royal life defender announced. Even Yara quickly stood. Through the doorway, Oslian Vinredor, Divine King of the nation of Vinredor. His immaculately crafted tunic of dark purple with crimson lining hung loose on his shoulders. The elderly man had recently passed into his ninth decade of life, but still the pommel of his iron sword, Demonsbane, protruded from his sword belt. He held his head high as he walked to his throne, looked over his advisors, and sat.

“Esther will not be joining us,” he said. “She has an assignment which requires her full attention. I trust her absence will be covered sufficiently by those present. On to the matters of the day.”

“Your Excellency,” Iligor began, “As you instructed, I have investigated a variety of avenues for new revenue. It is my belief that an increase in the tariffs on goods originating from the southern islands will provide much of what is required for your project. There is a precedent for-”

Oslian slammed his fist on one golden arm of the throne. “There will be no new taxation.” He coughed, opened his mouth to speak, and coughed a second time. “Did I not make that abundantly clear in our last session?”

Yara smiled inwardly. She could sense Iligor’s unease, the hesitation as his desire to contradict Oslian warred against his better judgement. He chose the path she had hoped he would forsake. “Yes, Your Excellency. Uh… other options have been brought to my attention as well, though I fear they are inadequate to the task.”

“We appreciate your honesty, Iligor,” Oslian said behind heavily lidded eyes. “Where would this council be without your honesty? Now, who here has managed to complete the task they were assigned?”

Yara was curious as to what the other councilmembers may have unearthed. Rovellia shifted uneasily in her seat, eyes firmly planted on the tabletop. Martin appeared unperturbed, and finally locked eyes with Yara. Feeling challenged, she decided to speak.

“My inquires into the wastefulness of the university have proven fruitful,” she began. “Your Excellency, as you know, the university relies completely on your treasury for funding. My investigation was launched to ascertain to what extent is that investment being returned to us. The answer is, I am afraid, that the return is essentially nonexistent.”

Oslian broke into a fit of coughing, the effort of which left evidence of tears in his eyes. “Explain, Yara,” he said after regaining his composure.

“I met directly with the deans of each major department at the university, as well as the university chancellor. The funding received by the university has been increased nearly each year. But what it is being spent on? An herbalism department whose advancements are nothing in comparison to Esther’s work. A history department whose scholars’ recently published work has covered such illuminating ground as the history of a distant fishing village and records of the journals of former prisoners. Other departments include theoretical mathematics, which after more than two decades of existence, has yet to provide a single tangible application, economics which has given our economy the useful benefit of hindsight, and a department which refers to itself as ‘archaeology’ and consists of a single professor who is clearly senile.”

Yara was now standing, enjoying the perspective from above her rivals. “Your Excellency, I do not exaggerate when I say that the university staff believe themselves beyond your jurisdiction. They pursue their own interests and expect you to pay them handsomely for the honor. If their work is as essential as they clearly believe I say we have them prove it by acquiring their own funding.”

“What is the current budget of the university?” Oslian asked.

“Slightly less than two million jewels each year,” Yara replied.

Oslian paused to moisten his lips. He breathed out in a veiled effort to repress a cough. “That is a far greater sum of money than I was aware of.” The elderly man adjusted himself on his throne. It appeared as though he thought to stand, then made the assessment that he would remain seated. “Yara, I thank you for bringing this to my attention. I have been preoccupied with… other issues. The state of my beloved university pains me. It was a gift I gave to this nation, my intention being to have the university, in part with the royal library, bring a much-needed increase in the level of education and knowledge of the populous. It appears that I am the one who has learned from this venture. Without the guiding hand of an enlightened leader, an institution will fail to reach its potential, and indeed, fall back to that most basic of human desires- pride. I know the disposition of the type of person who becomes a professor. I have had interactions with them for many years, longer than most people have been on this earth. They claim to seek knowledge, when in reality, they wish to convince others that their ideas are correct. The effect of a lack of oversight is plain to us all. There will be a temporary closure of the university, until a time in which I declare. I will restructure the entire institution, after my new palace has been completed. In that endeavor, the money will not be wasted.”

He smiled, then laughed briefly before another coughing fit began. When it subsided, he looked at Yara. “Well done, my dear.” He looked at Rovellia. “What have your investigations yielded, Rovellia?”

The young woman was visibly uncomfortable. The image warmed Yara’s heart. “My investigations are, at the moment, yet to be completed, Your Excellency.”

A triumph.

Last to share his findings was Martin. Instead of being called upon, he preempted the divine king. “Your Excellency,” he said. “While I have not located a sole source of revenue equal to 2,000,000 jewels a year, I have found money from a similarly unlikely source.”

Martin had Oslian’s attention. Yara’s as well. The complete lack of foresight into what Martin spoke of making her uneasy for the first time that day. “Waste is, alas, a more common theme than any of us would like. Your Excellency, I made an inquiry into the disbursement of funds for your military. A sum of 400,000 jewels is assigned to improving the weaponry. However, even the generals themselves admit that no grand advancement has been made in years. Much of this money is being paid to Simon Howswilder. A brilliant man, no one doubts. His past work has done much to ensure your military has the equipment it deserves. Unfortunately, those advancements are in the distant past. Not only has he not delivered new equipment to the military in more than half a decade, he no longer pursues those avenues. He is currently obsessed with rocks which he calls ‘dawnstones.’ They produce a small quantity of light and heat. He has been studying them for years. Your military has gained nothing from this diversion.”

The man paused to let his words sink in. Yara could not help herself from wondering where he would go next. And how does he know all this? My people watch him, and he rarely so much as leaves his home. He has agents, but who? “More dismally,” he continued “is the fact that the military leadership has grown fat and indolent. When was the last engagement they were involved in? It has been decades. They likely feel there are no threats, and therefore relax. Do any of us believe that our neighbors to the east sit idly, or that the island populations would not revolt again if they sensed weakness? Even more concerning, Sunset’s merchants grow wealthier each day, yet they want more. And what song is constantly being played into their ears? That of the independence of Withigan. There are men and women there whose wealth dwarves that of any person in our nation, with the exception of our divine king.”

Yara looked at Oslian. His expression had shifted over the course of Martin’s speech. Anger had changed to determination. He appeared stronger, younger than he had just minutes before, as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders. Yara believed she was witness to the final step toward a decision that she knew Oslian had been contemplating for a long, long time.

“I suggest,” Martin continued “that we sever our deal with Simon Howswilder, who no longer has any interest in the defense of this nation. Furthermore, the salaries commanded by your military’s leadership are vast. Yet, what have they done to earn those rewards? I think Your Excellency would be wise to deal directly with the rot in the fabric of our nation’s defense.”

Oslian had raised himself to a near-standing position. His veined hands gripped the sides of his throne. “Your words have shown the truth of things, Martin. All around me, the will of the people is failing me. A complacency has set in. I have given this nation too much. They have forgotten what life was like before the reign of Oslian Vinredor. My fear now, is that our enemies have taken account of this.”

Her thunder had been stolen. Her efforts would be an afterthought, and the future ramification of this could see her rival granted the title she knew should be given to her. That I alone have earned. Grand Advisor. Though… there was a piece of information she had come across that may shift her ruler’s attention. As she was about to speak, a new presence entered the council chamber. The royal herbalist, Esther. She swiftly approached Oslian and clandestinely handed him something. She closed his fist with her own hands.

“I apologize for my tardiness, Your Excellency,” she said as she sat down.

Oslian said nothing. Unsure of how this latest development had shifted his mood, Yara hesitated. Until, she looked at Martin. Full of himself. Manipulative. Furthering his agenda through the efforts of others. He will pay. She steadied herself. She knew she had one piece of information that would be of particular interest to the divine king.

“Your Excellency,” Yara said. “There was another intriguing detail I uncovered in my investigation.” All eyes turned to her, as she knew they would. “News of an old acquaintance of yours, who is said to have disappeared in a puff of smoke. The former professor of history, Woller Karuvian. He left the university two years ago, and no one has seen him since. He fled in the middle of the semester, with no witnesses to his flight. No one can say where he went, and he did not so much as tell his colleagues he was leaving.”

“What?” Esther said, a look of shock on her face. “Two years ago?”

Oslian’s hands had begun to shake. “He must be found,” was all he managed to get out.

A silence overtook the chamber. Confident just a moment before, Yara was unsure of what to say. She knew there was history between the Divine King, the Royal Herbalist, and Woller that went back more than forty years. But the nature of their relationship was a mystery to her. There is much here that I need to uncover.

After an excruciatingly long period of time, Oslian broke the silence. “Yara, you will discover where that man went. You will find him, and you will bring him to me. This council meeting has ended. Everyone out.”

What precisely have I stumbled upon here?

Lydee

Year 1378 (Present day)

Her face was noticeably bloated. Bags like welts protruded below her eyes. She walked as quickly as she could through the first floor of the building, the knowledge that a vigor tonic awaited her in her office helping to push her along. It had been another long night working by the light of a small oil lamp. Authoring a paper which substantiated a religion at direct odds with that of her own country, all the while crafting the work in such a way as to avoid unwanted attention and criticism the like of which could be criminal, was taking a toll on her.

Four main buildings made up the university proper. They had all been constructed a few years before Lydee was born, each edifice constructed of limestone, a match to the Fostrilya Royal Library, the material being abundant in the south of the continent. They featured massive windows to let air in, a feature of which the students and staff appreciated considering the sweltering heat common in Oslidor. It was hot year round, and being inside was often considered a punishment. But the design of these buildings, all of which were the work of a single architect, was such that finding oneself indoors was actually a pleasant relief from the climate.

The wing of Lorgan Hall housing the history department was quiet in the mornings, and seeing anyone in the halls before the ninth hour when lectures began was a rarity. The eighth bell had just rung, and Lydee walked alone. As always, she was thankful for the quiet and calm which gave her an opportunity to think without having to attend to the needs of others. And I would prefer that Richard not see me in this state. He is fond of declaring that I do nothing but work; he does not need to know he is correct.

A few steps from the door to her office, she was struck by a sudden sense that something was amiss. Her pace slowed, and she soon saw that the door was open. She was certain it had not been left that way. Her heart in her throat, she gingerly stepped to the precipice of her office.

“Good morning, professor,” said a woman seated behind her desk. Lydee simply stood in the doorway, too frightened to respond.

“You are uncomfortable,” the woman said grinning. The contrast between the smile and the darkness in her eyes made Lydee shiver. “Enter.”

Lydee swallowed, then stepped through the threshold. A cursory examination of the room revealed that the woman had sifted through the shelves. Scrolls had been retied and set down at odd angles. Books were replaced so that the spines were unevenly aligned. A small moleskin notebook that she did not recognize was lying on her desk directly in front of the woman. She had no idea who the woman was, and though she was standing in her own office of a dozen years, she was now unsure whether she was even allowed to sit in one of the remaining chairs.

“You may sit,” the woman said, as if reading her mind. “My name is Councilor Yara. I speak with the Divine King’s voice in matters of the state.”

Lydee’s breath was taken from her. Attempting to fight off the panic which encompassed her, she exhaled slowly, then asked, “What can I do for you?”

“You are the dean of the university’s department of history. I am speaking with each department lead to determine why there has been such thoughtless waste at this supposed institute of education. I am looking forward to your explanation as to how a department which produces nothing of value can have asked for, and I am disappointed to say, received, an increase in funding each of the past two years.”

The relief that this interrogation did not relate to her research gave way to outrage at having her profession disparaged. Not thinking, Lydee attempted a weak defense of her station. “We have more students attending than ever before.”

Yara leaned forward and picked up a book that had been lying on Lydee’s desk. She opened it to a page that had been dogeared. “An enrollment of fifty-six students. And a staff of five professors. Your classes are not well attended, I gather. Not a surprise, as history has no financial benefit. Tell me, with only fifty-six pupils, how to you justify such an exorbitant amount of coin?”

“Well, in truth, we currently only have four professors.”

An eyebrow lifted. “It says here, ‘five.’”

“Professor Woller Karuvian is no longer with the department.”

“Woller,” Yara whispered to herself, a spark of recollection in her tone. “He is still on the list.”

“That is my error. He should not be there.”

“Yet he is.”

“He did not… officially resign.”

“You terminated him?”

“He… left.”

Yara’s focus had not wavered, yet the intensity of her stare had grown. It took a sizable amount of resolve for Lydee not to quaver under that regard. “Elaborate.”

“I must apologize, but I do not know what happened. Woller left without speaking to me. Or anyone.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized she had made a grave error. What have I just done to you, my friend?

“And he remains listed here. My, I cannot fathom why one would accuse your department of mismanagement.” When Lydee did not reply, Yara continued. “The students who study here, upon exiting the institution, what boon do they grant our nation?”

“Some of my very own students have gone on to publish works of historical import.”

“Do give an example. One that has improved society.”

“Madame councilmember, history is not a good that can be measured as are grains or dairy. The value is an improved understanding of how civilizations and people function, over the long term. With a thorough analysis of the past, we can help avoid future problems.”

“That sounds quite impressive. Can you provide me with a concrete example of how the work of a single individual who has graduated from this university has helped our nation avoid a future problem?”

Lydee was silent.

Another chilling smile. “Thus. Tell me of your current research. That is how you pass your days, looking into old documents and charging the citizens of this nation for the time, yes?”

No more missteps. I cannot afford another. I must get through this and then correct the mistake I made. “My research is varied, but it centers on confirming the veracity of disparate historical accounts. I wish to know the truth of the past.”

“And if I wanted to be educated by your discoveries, where could I find them?”

“The work is, at the present time, still being compiled.”

“If this university produced useful results as well as it produced excuses, I would not find myself here. Alas, here I am. I will tell you what I am going to do. I am going to speak with the Divine King. I am going to inform him of the expenses of this institution, and I am going to enlighten him as to the output, and management of resources. Do you know that he is in the process of constructing a new palace? One which will dwarf the current edifice and protect his royal person behind a multitude of layers of defense? It is quite an undertaking, requiring a significant quantity of coin. He does not want to increase the burden of taxes on the populous. I believe he will be pleased to learn there are other ways of funding the project.”

The councilmember exited without a farewell. There was much for Lydee to consider. There was no doubt that the university was soon to face significant and damning changes. The lack of oversight that had allowed Lydee freedom in her research now showed its cost. Was she now in her last semester as a professor? What would she do if not this? She could not imagine her life any other way than it had been for the past twelve years. Yara’s words had stung her, as well. If she were to lose her position, what could she fall back on? There was not a great demand for historians, and her skills lay solely in that arena.

Yet, those questions were not what tore a hole in her stomach. That was reserved for the feeling that she had betrayed her friend. Woller had left under suspicious circumstances, the story being that the professor had been engaged in a romantic relationship with a student, and fled in disgrace. Lydee had always found the rumors difficult to believe. Woller’s high degree of professionalism, mixed with his obvious lack of grace when speaking with women, had given the rumors a hollow feel. If they were untrue, then why had he disappeared?

She recognized his name, and noted the peculiarity of his exit. She enjoys investigating as a means of delivering punishments. She is not done with Woller, and therefore neither am I.

Erden

1348 (Thirty years prior to present day)

Drifting out of a daydream, Erden slowly began to realize he had been recording information he had not truly processed. It was not the first such occurrence. Checking the ledger, he saw that he had not made any errors with his notes, the lack of consequences all but ensuring further episodes of inattentiveness.

He had begun his employment at the Fostrilya Royal Library even before its construction was complete. When he learned that it was possible to earn a living amongst books, he was immediately and thoroughly enchanted with the idea. His parents were less enthralled.

His father was a person who was disappointed as though it was his primary character trait. Erden was sure the man had praised him at some point in his life, but in the way one is sure they had had dreams the night before even if they cannot remember them. A former soldier, he had made it clear from early on that he wished for Erden to follow in his footsteps. When his brother who was younger by six years had beaten him with a play sword, the last drop of hope his father had died a pathetic death. Having to admit that a position at the library was a good fit for his peculiar boy, his father sighed, relented, and shifted his hopes and dreams onto his other, more sensible children.

Stretching his arms, Erden rose from his stool and placed the documents he had been classifying into a cart before going about the task of placing the approved writings in the appropriate locations. He was not the one who sought out and collected these scrolls, parchments, tablets, and bound books. His role was simply to inventory and transport the works so that patrons of the library could locate them efficiently. Still necessary work, he often told himself.

As he lifted another book up to find its place on a shelf, the title caught his eye. Fables and Myths of the Common Man, a collection of stories that he had read dozens of times. It included his absolute favorite tale, that of the Forged Carapace, a mythical impenetrable armor. It was a story which he had read dozens of times, and in which he could effortlessly return to in his mind. This time however, as he flipped through the pages his thoughts turned in a different direction. Instead of images of epic battles where men covered in scaled armor cut through their hopeless foes, Erden was picturing a friend of his who shared his love for fantasies, and this story in particular. Where is she now, I wonder. Off on her own adventure, perhaps.

He first met Cupela during the nascent days of the royal library. From a tiny village in the far east of Vinredor, the young woman’s arrival in the city of Oslidor coincided with the library’s frantic and public gathering of tens of thousands of documents to position itself as the world’s greatest institution of knowledge. Having been raised in an environment lacking in reading material, and longing to learn all that she had missed in her isolated life, Cupela was in awe when she first entered the building. While she read up on history and philosophy, what captivated her the most were tales of adventure, battle, and magic. After noticing how she would spend entire days reading some of his favorite stories, Erden made a point of introducing himself.

A friendship quickly flowered, with both individuals gaining from the relationship. For Cupela, she had found a guide to the city and the formal academic world. For Erden, he finally had someone with whom he could share his love of fiction.

Over time however, Cupela had grown distant. Where once she had been a daily visitor at the library, she would now go weeks without making an appearance. More troubling to Erden was that she would avoid giving reasons for her absences, and would never give him a direct answer when he questioned when he would see her again. Though she would periodically appear, acting as though she still cared for their friendship, Erden was struggling to maintain his willfully optimistic view of the situation.

He no longer felt as though he knew her, but could not countenance the thought that she was maliciously evading him. Then what had spirited her away? What was responsible for her erratic appearances and behavior? If he asked her again, would he receive a sufficiently satisfying response?

Again pulling himself back to the present, Erden closed the book and continued on with his task.

The sun was beginning its descent, and the caretakers of the library were methodically igniting the dozens of torches ensconced on the walls when Erden filed away the last of the texts. His mother and father would expect him home soon. Having been ordered to collect bread and turnips for their meal, he knew he needed to move with haste. After returning his cart, he briskly traveled from the back of building through the ostentatious lobby. Enormous pillars of limestone created a perimeter around the spacious room while drawing attention away from the stacks of documents and towards a marble statue in the center of the floor.

Despite having passed this attraction thousands of times, Erden’s gaze was captured all the same, his mind contemplating the subject of the intimidating structure. The delicately cut masonry depicted the Divine King, Oslian Vindredor, in a triumphant pose. A handsome, athletic man who appeared to have recently entered his fourth decade of life, his right hand held high his legendary blade, Demonslayer, while a frightenedly grotesque decapitated head was cradled in his left arm. The artistry was so sophisticated and precise that each individual scale on the face of the demon could be seen.

There was a story as incredible as any that Erden had read. Though in contrast to the books he loved, this tale was true. The being had appeared suddenly, as if from the depths of the abyss, and slaughtered hundreds of citizens before the Divine King himself struck it down, cutting its head clean off. Thus, it was proclaimed that the gods had sent a test for the newly crowned Divine King, who at the time was the last of the Vinredorian line. His victory, when so many others had failed to slay the demon, had proven that his rule was to be unparalleled.

The Crown dubbed it Oslian’s Trial. The common folk knew it as The Bloody Horror. Erden had only been a boy on that day and he wondered if having been at an impressionable age when such a historic event had occurred was what led to his love of adventure stories.

He would have continued down that trail of thoughts if not for a voice, unexpected at this late hour, emanating from a side door. Halting so as not to make a sound, Erden listened attentively.

“With the others,” a man’s voice stated authoritatively.

Erden saw the familiar figure of the royal library’s director, Udesip surrounded by stacks of documents. Speaking to her was a middle-aged man Erden had seen delivering writings before. As he spoke, the usually imposing Udesip nodded her head vigorously, whatever emotions she was experiencing hidden behind her dark grey mask.

“I will bring what remains in the morning. You will have this completed within two passes of the moon,” the man stated. “I trust you have not depleted what I gave you.”

“No. Of course not,” Udesip quickly replied.

“Grand. In that case, I will be off. You have my utmost confidence, as always.”

“Thank you-” Udesip said, cutting off her final words, as though she had thought better of what she was going to add.

The man gave the slightest of nods before turning and walking out of Erden’s view.

Wishing not to be seen spying, Erden made for the main doors, pausing when he reached them. He waited a hundred heart beats to ensure he would not cross paths with the man who had delivered the documents before pushing the heavy door open and walking out into the evening heat.

The next morning, while he passed through the Royal District on his way to the library, Erden thought about the interaction he had witnessed the night before. There was a history of Udesip collecting entries for the library at odd hours, and at side entrances. Not for every delivery, but for some, as though those shipments required more security than others. Never before had he considered the peculiarity of Udesip’s actions for more than the briefest of moments. Afterall, she was an odd person, as were all the men and women from the independent city of Siviltesh.

Like most of the citizens of the three royal nations, he found their custom of covering their face with a painted mask as slightly off-putting, as though they did so in hope that their reactions could not be read. In addition to having her face concealed, Udesip always hid her entire body, save for her hands and neck, under the same nondescript, loose, flowing beige robe. Although she had been his direct supervisor for nearly three years, Erden had no idea what the woman looked like, having only seen her eyes.

More vexing, on the few occasions when Erden had come by to assist her during a shipment, or when he had approached her as she was looking through the deliveries, she always sternly hurried him away like a scolded child. He saw no good reason for her to dismiss him so. Her appointment as director of the library had preceded his employment by less than a season, and he had never made a major error. He could not even recall her criticizing his work. Still, she did not trust him. Was it just him, or did she trust no one? True she did not speak much, and he knew nothing about her personal life. If she had a family, she had never mentioned them.

As he considered this, he realized no one at the library was friendly, or even comfortable with her. When they spoke of her, they would refer to her as “The Lady,” and even though at least half of the staff were women, it was never in doubt of whom they were speaking. At the same time, no one would openly speak ill of her, at least not at the library, as though they feared she was always listening from just out of sight. Fear was an apt word. For while Udesip had never raised her voice at him, or threated him, he was nevertheless terrified of her. It was not the type of fear one felt toward a venomous serpent or an impending war. It was more sinister than that; the type of fear one was afraid of saying aloud, or even giving conscious thought to, for fear he would be cursed.

Upon entering the vestibule, Erden was relieved to see no sign of the library’s director. A glance at the side entrances showed that Udesip had already inspected yesterday’s delivery, the mass of documents no longer present. Anticipating this would mean a fresh set of items to catalogue, Erden made for his desk.

He was surprised to see the desk was empty. Perhaps she is still reviewing them. The crates where borrowed books were stacked were packed, however. He would have to fill his time recording their return and relocating them to their assigned homes. Time enough for his morning daydreaming.

The majority of the documents had been processed by midday, as good enough a point for halting for a meal as any. Thinking now of freshly caught fish from Thale’s Lantern, Erden tidied up his area before making for the exit. He had not made it halfway when a woman carrying a stack of books approached, her gaze shifting quickly from side to side. Could it be?

“Cupela.”

The woman stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “Happy noon to you, Erden. You look well,” she said in a thin voice.

He was about to say the same before he realized he would be speaking dishonestly. In truth, the young woman, who was nearly the same age as him, no longer looked so. With large dark circles under her eyes, and forearms he could wrap his hand around, she looked like a twisted children’s drawing of her true self. Having spent the past few months hoping she would visit the library, he now wished she had not.

“It’s been some time,” he decided on.

“Three seasons and eleven days,” Cupela replied, making what Erden believed was an attempt at a smile.

“Have you been traveling?”

This time it was Cupela who hesitated before speaking. “I have been busy with work,” she said, never once meeting his eyes.

“Ah,” was all Erden could think of to fill the silence.

“It is good to see you, Erden,” the young woman said, finally looking back his way. “I’m sorry that I cannot speak with you now, but I need to borrow a few books and I do not have much time.”

“I can help you with that,” Erden suggested. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t want to trouble you,” Cupela replied. Then, making to walk away from the encounter, she added, “I will see you again. I do miss you. But today… I must be going.”

Though his father may not have believed it, Erden was astute enough to know he should press no further. And so he stood motionless as he watched her disappear into the stacks, feeling as helpless as a lost child.

Chapters from the first completed novel, The Sky Alight, are posted every Saturday. Start your journey with chapter one.

The Old Man

The world was frozen. The green and brown that broke through the white was muted, covered in frost. The only motion was his own steps. The old man marched on.

His journey was due north. He strode confidently, when in truth, he was surviving on nothing but the slightest bit of hope. He was a man who was easily consumed by duty, a flaw he was well aware of. One of his many. None of which he shied away from at this point in his life, if he ever had before.

He knew no one was following him. Years of experience told him that, but he did not need experience to be certain. Tracks would be glaringly obvious in the snow and there was no cover for miles. The entire continent was empty save for a handful of villages. And the rumor of a healer.

If he had been followed, the people in his wake would have been in for a shock when he turned around and they saw the creases that defined his face, and his white beard. The grace and strength with which he walked would have been unexpected on a man who had lived nearly seven decades. But the old man was full of surprises.

Covered head to toe in furs, his coat the grey of a beast unique to this part of the world, he was the only entity in motion now that the snowfall had ceased. On his back, an enormous brown canvas pack, once near to bursting with supplies, but now mostly empty. The journey had been lengthy, and his progress was diminished by wet snowfall which made it feel as though he was walking through thick mud. The snow boots he wore had not endured his travels well. They were held together now by knots of animal tendon he had spent hours carefully wrapping to prevent the seepage of snow and bitter cold. His first order of business upon reaching a village would be to replace them with a newer pair.

Besides his outerwear and pack, his only other visible possession was a two-handed sword, sheathed and laying tight across his back. Looking at him head on, the sword would be barely visible. Which would be a deadly oversight.

The map in his possession placed him less than twenty miles from a lake that supposedly housed a settlement. The man who had sold him the map admitted it was not up to date, but had assured him there were people living there. His destination was even further north, to a location not on the map. That was where a miraculous healer was purported to live. An herbalist with the skill to cure a deadly condition. Yet the old man was not ill. Despite the scars that lined his body, he was incredibly hale. His search was not for himself.

I have time. The phrase repeated as a prayer. And, as all prayers, a thought that he needed to be true.

He had travelled for months, completely alone. But even before this journey, he had been alone for a quite some time. He had lived without friends or family for so many years that he was disgusted by how comfortable he felt without another human presence. Though it had taken years, he had eventually developed the awareness that isolation was unhealthy. Yet it was a refuge for him. A safe haven away from the potential for loss.

The façade of emotional safety had been broken recently, and the old man was again faced with fear. He had the strength to name it fairly, and that was what it was. Fear. An all-encompassing fear of loss. A fear born from tragic experience.

I cannot let her down. She is my last link.

He paused upon the first sound to break the silence in hours, unsheathing his sword in a single motion. The blade glimmered. A figure rushing in from his peripheral vision. The old man swung, blade cutting through a swiping paw. A side step and another cut. The beast was dead. Blood gushed from its neck. The old man cleaned his sword on its grey fur. He knew not what to call this animal, the species who had attacked him multiple times on his journey. This continent had wildlife all its own, creatures he had never seen nor heard of. That the beast attacked without hesitation spoke to the scarcity of humanity in the region. It had paid for its ignorance with its life. It was not the first being to underestimate him, and he knew it would not be the last.

As good a place as any to make camp for the night, he thought. Scarred hands deftly crafted a fire pit, the concentration needed for the task a relief from the monotony of walking which left him trapped in his own mind. The skill he had demonstrated with a blade was not his only talent. Years of experience had honed his mind in cruel ways, and when the fire was ready, and the meat was roasting, he made an elaborate effort of checking every last article of supplies in his pack, any excuse to keep his mind away from his usual thread of thought. Therefore, rope was taughtened yet again, his meager possessions checked over, his blade oiled and sharpened, perishable goods resealed. A sole item remained at the bottom of the pack, but it would make an appearance before the night was over. It always did, much to his dismay.

After the meal, when he could think of no other tasks with which to occupy his mind, the old man reached into the bottom of the canvas bag. The light of the fire did not reach the darkness where he pushed his hand, but he did not need it. The object he grasped was precisely where he knew it would be. He pulled the circular silver charm out and took a deep breath. A click and a painting the size of a large coin was revealed. A portrait of a woman. The first of the old man’s many losses. He closed the charm and held it tightly as he slept, alone in the tundra.

He awoke before dawn. The morning air made him feel devastatingly ancient. But the old man could manage physical pain. The challenge was graciously accepted as he rose to meet the day. It promised to be a noteworthy one. He believed he would arrive at the last village the map vendor had spoken of, leading to his first interaction with other humans in months. Whether he wanted to or not, he would mull on that as he walked the final miles. His isolation would be ending. The thought should have been comforting. It was not.

His sleep had been fitful, as it often was. Now, in the creeping light of the early morning, he began the ritual that gave him his true rest. Withdrawing his sword from its scabbard, the old man’s expression shifted. A look of calm determination conquered the grimace which had covered his face. He closed his eyes and went through the motions that he knew by heart. Every step, every swing a note to a song he had written when he was a young man. It was a song he played through rainstorms and droughts, blizzards and sandstorms. The song was the part of the old man that he still loved, and he played every note to perfection. It was his way of managing the world, both the exterior world and the interior.

Time passed unmeasured and without concern. When he finished, he simply slid his blade back into its home. Then, the old man continued on his way, his steps lighter than should have been possible for one his age. In his subconscious, located deep, but within reach, a familiar sensation was blossoming, born from the knowledge that with human interaction came distinct possibilities for one such as he. And, the possibility he knew he wished for, though he did not give it life by stating it, was that he may have cause to use his skill. The old man lived to use the skill he possessed- his prowess with a blade.

Richard

“What does the data say? The numbers tell the story better than we can.”

Richard gave a gentle smile to the small gathering of young people who were staring at him with looks ranging from concerned to confused.

“Inconclusive,” Rowland, a final year student said.

“Inconclusive… as of this moment,” Richard corrected.

“There is no noticeable effect on the subject.”

“Again, not as of yet. After data, patience is our strongest ally. We mustn’t forget optimism as well,” Richard said. He was standing at the back of the herbalism laboratory, speaking to a small gathering of students. To his side were half a dozen wire cages, each one housing a small animal with gray fur and exaggeratedly large ears. Sunlight entered the room through multiple rows of windows, the yellow light reaching just short of the cages, a point which Richard had insisted on. The animals were not pets, but the heat of an Oslidorian afternoon was oppressive, and he would not countenance unnecessary suffering.

He leaned over to take a closer look at the subject. The animal truly did appear unaltered. He also knew the data showed nothing. Nevertheless, he had no lack of patience or optimism. Not anymore. Not after the dramatic success of the past season.

He stood up, and wiped his palms, the grin he had worn for the majority of the past week plastered to his face. “We shall check again next week,” he said. “In the meantime-”

Who? Someone was standing in the doorway, a woman he had never seen before. The air she gave off was one of cold contemplation and supreme confidence. How long has she been there? The enthusiasm which had carried him through the day had blocked his sense of time, and he had no feel for how long he had been speaking, or the possible duration of the stranger’s presence at the entrance of the laboratory. He shook his head and turned his attention back to his students. “In the meantime, you have reading to complete. I will be available tomorrow afternoon if you require my assistance. You are dismissed.”

As his pupils exited, Richard felt unease rush through his body. The woman did not move as the students shifted themselves to slide past her. Her eyes had been surveying the equipment, the animals, the windows… now they were firmly locked on him. She looked him up and down. Her expression unchanged, she stepped forward.

“I am here on behalf of his Excellency, the Divine King, Oslian Vinredor,” the woman stated.

Richard swallowed. They know? Impossible…

“Now that you are aware of who you have arrogantly made wait, what say you?”

“I… apologize,” Richard tried.

“Yes. I see your regret. Understandable. Is this the only location you have where we can speak?”

“My office. Follow me. Please.”
The walk through the hallways to the atrium was torturous. Richard’s mind raced at the possibilities of this encounter. Whatever the directions his thoughts took, they returned to one likelihood; his discovery had been compromised. It would be taken away from him. He had full confidence that the tonic was ready, but he wanted it revealed and applied on his terms. He knew the implications which would be drawn from what he had created, and the revolution it could spark in his field.

A tonic which gifted the imbiber a boon for not just a few tolls of the bell, but for a lifetime. As a singular entity, it would be a wonder. As a concept, the revelation that herbalism could give lasting enhancements, it was perhaps the world’s greatest hope.

Had he delayed sharing the information because of pride? Was that an inherited curse? No. Grandfather was a man of action. I am not. Do I shame his legacy?

Opening the door to his office, he wondered whether the last few weeks had been a dream. The euphoria that had accompanied him now felt completely foreign, as though it had never been a part of his life, the joy and pride of his discovery erased and viciously replaced with dread.

The instant that the door opened, the woman stepped passed him and into the office. She moved directly to the end of the room and seated herself behind Richard’s desk, taking his chair. He was left to sit on a stool, which he only did after sensing that he had been granted permission.

“You are Richard Dosple. You are the head of the university’s department of herbalism.” Delivered as statements of fact.

“I am.”

“My name is Councilor Yara. I speak with the Divine King’s voice in matters of the state. Do you realize the burden that maintaining this department places on the nation?” A pause for breath. “My estimation is that you do not, or else you would have adjusted your expenses, or your output. I have not spoken with the university head yet, but she will be hearing from me promptly. My analysis of her wastefulness is increasing with every conversation with department leads that I have. Professor Dosple, the Divine King graciously founded this university nearly thirty years past. Evidently, that act of generosity was interpreted as an act of charity. This university, and this department in particular, are not but a drain on the finances of The Crown. Having said that, I am open to being persuaded that your department should continue to receive funding. What say you?”

Richard felt as though the air in his lungs had left him. He was woefully unprepared for the monologue delivered by this royal official. His tonic was seemingly safe for the moment, but his career and, in fact his life, were under assault, the accusations and insults blindsiding him completely. Yet what could he say? The university’s achievements in the field of herbalism were as those of a child’s when compared to the body of work of the royal family’s master herbalist, Esther.

“The value of educating future generations of herbalists is difficult to judge in the present,” he said, hopeful that his words sounded as though he believed them as badly as he wanted to.

Yara’s eyes seemed to shift, becoming sharper. “I heard the speech you delivered to your pupils,” she said. “The data. What story does it tell us?”

“We have done important work in regards to improving the nutrition derived from Esther’s tonics. Even you would admit the job of feeding the people of the nation has been made easier by our labor.”

“I asked for data. Numbers, professor.”

“A twenty-percentage point increase in the vitamins released.”

“As that is the first accomplishment you have mentioned, I will assume it is your department’s greatest. There are individual herbalists throughout the world who have achieved more than your entire department has, and in less time.”

“There are projects in various stages of development. We do not publish our findings until we have completed our experiments and have had our findings reviewed by others.”

“Is there a tonic your department has been developing which would make me change my mind?”

“As I said, our research will be published when it has been completed and reviewed. These advancements take time.”

“You are quite skilled in the art of giving excuses, professor. Were that you were more skilled in the art of herbalism.”

With each barb she shot at him, he could see in her eyes the satisfaction that lowering another’s perception of himself gave her. She had been enjoying her time at the university, making unrealistic demands and foisting an outsider’s ignorant perspective on an educational institution.

“I will let the Divine King know what I have learned here,” she said. “He will not be pleased, I assure you.”

“Is the Divine King planning changes for us?”

“Oh yes, I do believe so. Significant changes. Permanent changes.”

“Such as?”

“The Divine King does not present his plans until he is ready,” she said with a smirk. “Now, if you have no other excuses, I will be on my way. There are still many of your self-absorbed colleagues with whom I must speak.”

A final opportunity to save the department still clung to life. All that was required was the revealing of his grand work. The price would be, he well knew, a permanent transfer of ownership of what he had worked so long to create, of what would place his name among the deities of the field.

He said nothing. Pride, Grandfather. It shames me.

Now the smile which had adorned his face belonged to another. And she made sure it was recognized as she brushed by him on her way out of the office.

Veabella

She was glad to hear laughter coming from the other side of the door. The interaction with her sister had hurt her more than she expected. She had thought she was without the need for her sister’s approval, but that had been wishful thinking. Lydee may have said she withheld judgement of her younger sister, but Veabella felt otherwise. And the critical eye of someone she respected made her feel like a child, which was, she knew that in many senses, true.

Through the door and into a roar of drunken boasting and singing. Back to her life in the here and now. Back to the comfort of her friends. A true comfort, not just an escape from the judgmental opinions of her sister. These were the people Veabella loved.

Every table was occupied and there were not enough chairs or stools to seat the patrons. Veabella slid her way through the crowd as she inched inside, keeping her hands on the knives at her hips. The loudest table was where she was headed. That would be where her companions, Twig and Donnes would be playing cards. Veabella smiled when she heard and then saw them seated in the middle of the tavern. They were easy to spot- Twig, a short, skinny man in his early thirties, smaller than most boys who had only reached adolescence, and the tall, bulky Donnes, a woman of a similar age. The contrast of their sizes was laughable, and the butt of many jests from others, though never from Veabella. Across from them was an older man she did not recognize.

“My turn,” Twig said, slamming a painted rectangular piece of wood onto the table below three other equally sized pieces.

The stranger leaned over and looked at it. “A fitting card for the situation,” the man allowed after his inspection.

“It’s a good card because I made it,” Twig smiled.

Veabella came up from behind him. “Are you winning?”

“Of course!” Twig said. “I never lose at Factions.”

Donnes grunted then laughed. The other man scowled. “The game just started,” he said.

The grin on Twig’s face was implacable. “That was a winning card,” he said.

The man across from him was riffling through his hand, tongue sliding across a gum line of mostly missing teeth. “Here,” he said as he set a card down.

Twig leaned over. “Ha. I have just the thing for that.” He drew a card without looking and played one from his hand. “Good, huh?” he asked the man.

“Another one you designed?”

“Of course.”

“You know I can’t read, yes?”

“That’s why I’m playing against you.”

Donnes laughed again. “You two are fools.” She looked at Veabella. “Vea, thank you for arriving and sparing me from this idiocy.”

The giant woman put her arm around Veabella and guided her to the bar. “We’ll leave him alone with his new friend. A captive audience who has yet to be victimized by his charm.”

“Where’s everyone else?” Veabella asked.

A shrug. “Haven’t seen them since yesterday, I think.” Her eyes narrowed in contemplation. “Not sure what day it is.”

“We arrived yesterday.”

A smile. “Then tomorrow is the tournament.”

“What do you know about our competition?”

“I can out drink them all.”

“And in terms of fighting?”

“Don’t tell Xopher I said this, but with him on our side, I like our odds. Also don’t tell Twig, but he’s damn handy in a pinch. Best not to tell anyone anything,” the burly woman said.

“Not long ago, I’d have paid solely for a glimpse of the competition. Now I’m part of it. It’s surreal, Donnes.”

“Sound like you haven’t had enough to drink. I’ll order you one.”

“Thanks.”

“Twig will pay for it. Again, don’t tell him anything.”

The comfort of being with her friend relaxed Veabella. The ale which went directly to her head assisted as well. She did not want anyone to know the profundity of the nerves which were tearing a hole in her stomach. The feeling reminded her of her first hunt. She had had no formal training. Truth be told, she had had no informal training either. And then, as now, it was the deceptively caring and complex Donnes who comforted her. Meffas had clearly taken the role of her father when she left home, as he did for the others, a truth that was left unsaid but impossible to ignore. Donnes was not as a mother though. She was as an older sister, perhaps the one she had always wished for, one who taught her what she wanted to know, and never looked down at her. It was fairly macabre how her still living family members had been replaced by lethal hunters, but it could not be denied. She had a new family now, and there was no sadness in that realization. Veabella loved her crew. They were everything she had ever wanted.

“You’re drifting off, lass?” Donnes said, elbowing her in the side.

“Sorry, I haven’t eaten since morning,” Veabella said.

“Thought you went to see your sister; she didn’t cook you anything? What kind of an older sister is that?”

“The kind who is more interested in books. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t eaten all day. I’m surprised she hasn’t forgotten to eat or drink and simply withered away beside a pile of old writings.”

“Sure you two are related?”

“I’ve wondered on it, but yes. We’re each more like one of our parents. I’m more our father, and she’s more our mother.”

“Except for the motherly qualities,” Donnes quipped.

“Yes. Except for those. I cannot imagine Lydee ever having children, nor anyone proposing the idea to her.”

“Hmm, I had a couple brothers and sisters when I was young. Don’t know what happened to them. ‘Suppose the ones that’re living are still on the farm. That wasn’t the life for me. It wasn’t a choice either, after I beat the piss outta the governor’s bratty son. Gave me a good excuse to leave.”

“You’ve never gone back to see them?”

Donnes waited a moment before answering. “No. Not my kind of people,” she said before tilting her head and drinking down a full tankard. “Barkeep, another, if you would be so kind.”

Veabella enjoyed Donnes’s philosophical side, and she looked at her friend with open admiration until she felt someone approaching them. An athletic man in his late twenties was aggressively pushing his way to the two women. Unlike the majority of the patrons, he was wearing a scowl. Veabella smiled at him when their eyes met. He smiled back before remembering that he was supposed to be perpetually brooding.

“Xopher! Join us!” Veabella said sincerely.

Donnes’s look of curiosity at seeing the man in a tavern at this hour made her smile even more. Xopher did his best to ignore the large woman.

“Meffas wants to see us. He has a room in an inn not far from here. Finish your drinks and follow me. I’ll grab Twig as well, assuming no one has stepped on him.”

“I’m ready now,” Veabella said, standing up.

Donnes took the opportunity to finish both of the tankards, and in a few heartbeats, they were all out and onto the street.

Twig knocked on the door, then opened it before receiving an answer. The room was plain, with a modestly-sized bed, a worn nightstand, and a battered wooded chest the only furniture. In the center of the room was Meffas, a somber look on his lined face, the lips of his closed mouth barely visible through a thick beard of black and gray. Next to him was Ictorian. The tall man was in his late forties, perhaps less than ten years younger than Meffas, though much more muscular and intimidating to strangers.

Meffas motioned to Ictorian. “Close the door, please.”

Xopher stood to one side of the room, arms crossed, with Twig and Donnes sitting on the side of the bed. Veabella remained by the door which Ictorian was guarding now, possibly unconsciously. Meffas moved his tongue in his closed mouth before speaking again. “I withdrew us from the tournament,” he finally said.

Veabella caught a slight change in Xopher’s stance. No one else moved. “I know you all had been anticipating the event. I’m also aware you won’t agree with my reasons for removing us. But I’m going to state them anyway, and then that will be the end of it; tomorrow I’ll be searching for a contract.” He cleared this throat then, the only sound in the room. “I’ve had a bad feeling about the tournament since the beginning. It isn’t safe. I know the history of these events. A lot of the teams don’t make it out alive. We face beasts like these on all our contract, yes. But never forget that we take our lives into our hands each time we go out. To do it in this manner, with no threat to innocent villagers or farmers being posed, it’s reckless glory-seeking. Furthermore, and I hate to say this, but it’s the way of things- we should not have been selected by the guild. There are other companies who were passed over for reasons that were intentionally left unsaid, and that does not add up. I will not put my people into harm’s way under those conditions.”

Veabella could not tell if he expected resistance to his speech, but regardless, none came. His face unreadable, Meffas simply walked out of the room. Ictorian looked over the others, then followed the captain.

Xopher stood straight as an arrow, arms tight across his chest. Donnes shrugged. “Good that I did not wager on us to win.”

“Good for you,” Twig replied.

Veabella grinned. “You bet on us?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he moaned.

Still unmoving, Xopher scowled. “We wouldn’t have won. Not the courage needed.” He strode to the door. “He was right about one thing though. We should not have been selected. The truth of that is clear enough, is it not?” he said, slamming the door without waiting for a reply.

Twig swept a hand through his unkept hair. “Enough people underestimate us. I don’t. We would have won.”

“He’s just doing what he thinks is best,” Veabella said. “We have to trust him.”

“We do,” Donnes said. “We’ll get over it. So, back to the tavern then?”

Lydee

Year 1378 (Present Day)

The Fostrilya Royal Library in the capital city of Oslidor was massive to the point of being intimidating, despite its luxurious style. The limestone walls were made of perfectly even-sized rectangular prisms, the flawlessness of the forms speaking to the work of a master. Ridged columns rose up from the ground on the exterior and first floor of the structure, giving it a regal appearance. But professor Lydee Rislin was no longer entranced by the architecture of the building. Instead, the sprawling size and numerous twists and turns were now threatening.

No one is watching. No one is interested, she repeated to herself, the effort at calming her nerves failing. Was she being monitored? She acted as such, treading cautiously at every turn, attempting to maintain a permanently neutral look on her face. Among other safeguards, she dared not request a lease on a single document, for fear that the lists were tracked, and she feigned interest in sections of the building which were unrelated to her research, hoping to lead potential spies astray. It’s silly paranoia. And yet…

The truth was that her work would be deemed treasonous because it was. But she had a duty as a historian and a believer to shed light on a history that had been deliberately obfuscated by the royal families for fear that it would undermine their claim to legitimacy. The Divine Representation of the royal family and the claims of the holy books of The Path were incompatible, and so Lydee’s religion had been outlawed. However, her research could reveal that the true historical evidence proved the veracity of her faith, not the lies of the hereditary monarchy.

The Divine King would view any display of her findings as a direct rebuttal of his right to rule. Nevertheless, revolt was not her motivation. Instead, it was an intense desire to demonstrate the veracity of her faith. Faith. Does that word apply to me with the knowledge I have? Confidence is more apt. I have confidence in The Path.

The primary sources she had found had all corroborated the historical records of the holy books of The Path. Each new paper or scroll she found proved that the events written about in the three volumes had happened when and how they were described. The truth of this was ironically substantiated by the banality of the documents she found. They had been written for practical purposes completely unrelated to promoting the faith. Here a soldier’s diary, there a declaration of trade between nations, others mere lists of property rights. The authors of the writings would never have dreamed that their words would one day have such importance.

No one is watching. No one is interested. At times she worried the people she passed could hear her thoughts. She was no actor; she knew fear was writ plain on her face. Had that man walked by her earlier? Had that elderly woman sat on that same bench a week ago? She could never let her guard down, the effort draining yet strangely invigorating, the importance of her work amplified by the danger.

Lydee replaced the irrelevant book she had been using as a prop back on the shelf and walked stiffly toward the nearest staircase. As she backed through a large set of intricately designed doors, she was startled to hear commotion. The fact that such noise could go undetected through most of the library was a testament to the size of the building. She craned her neck to get a view over the railing without attracting attention, and saw that extra oil lamps had been lit on the ground floor. It quickly became clear why, as she saw a dozen people rushing about. In the center of the action was a man Lydee knew solely by reputation. But what a reputation.

Simon Howswilder. An inventor who had designed and constructed weapons, optics, implements for transportation, and machines that were beyond the imagination of the common man. He was positioned in a room which featured one of his most famous inventions, a machine which measured time with no maintenance or need for sunlight. The clock was an accomplishment that had stunned even the most forward-thinking intellectuals, making the bells of the country run in perfect concordance, and granting the world the efficient and ridged concept of the hour. Many wealthy and powerful people had gone on the record as declaring that its construction and efficacy were dubious before it was completed. They were all silent now.

The famous inventor was barking directions, seemingly at multiple targets simultaneously. Men and women were running to and from him, weaving in between the limestone columns of the large room to place documents on a huge oak table before hurrying back out of Lydee’s sight.

“Every last one!” the man bellowed. He rubbed his forehead between his thumb and first two fingers while shaking his head. Before him on the table was a large cloth map. Lydee could not make out what it represented, but dark circles were drawn over numerous areas. The inventor’s staff were frequent occupants of the library, but Lydee had never seen the inventor himself there. He had talent at being seen in more lofty and prestigious locations than this, places with which Lydee was unacquainted. Still, her students would mention having seen, or more likely, having heard that others saw him among the wealthy and powerful. She was thankful for the spectacle he made, drawing the attention of the other visitors. Even she wished to know what exactly he was doing here…

“Found you,” a voice said from behind her.

Lydee froze. Her muscles, including her heart, seemed to cease functioning, the dread so fully encompassed her mind. Panic made her mind blank.

Then, into her field of vision appeared a thin, athletic young woman with a smile on her face.

“Vea,” Lydee breathed out, putting her hand to her chest.

“Lost in your own world again?”

The professor could only nod.

The young woman’s clothes were a stark contrast to the loose-hanging, pristinely white cotton robes Lydee wore. She was attired in a sun-faded, scratched leather vest and well-worn, light brown woolen trousers. Evidently she had slipped passed the guards, as twin hunting blades hung from the sides of her belt. “I thought you would be here,” she said.

“I was just about to head home,” Lydee said before she could prevent herself from lying.

“You really don’t look well, Lydee. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, I’m sure.”

“I’m fine. I’m used to working long hours.”

“There isn’t much else you enjoy.”

“Just lower your voice, please.”

The younger woman giggled irreverently. “Mother and Father would get a laugh from seeing us together here.”

“Have you seen them recently?”

“No. We’re just in the city for a tournament and then we’ll be right back to work. Have you heard about it? The tournament?”

Lydee raised her eyebrows “You know I haven’t, Vea.”

“It’s a hunting competition, of a sort. An exhibition. Our company was selected by the guild to represent the entire nation. I came to invite you to watch us.”

“Knowing that not only would I decline, but that I would insist you come to your senses and return home,” Lydee said, looking at her younger sister expectantly.

Veabella’s look was not the playful grin Lydee had anticipated. “I wanted to at least give it an honest attempt,” she said.

“I just worry about you. You say it will be an exhibition, yet there will be live animals, mankillers in fact, won’t there?”

The younger sister did not wish to respond, nor did she need to.

For a time, both pairs of eyes avoided making contact. Finally, Lydee broke the uncomfortable silence. “Do you remember when you used to accompany me here?”

“More or less,” Veabella said.

“At first, you spent most of your time seeking hiding spots. We’d arrive together in the morning and I wouldn’t see you again until the lamps were being lit. Later, when I broke you down some, or when you were finally amenable to reading, you would pass the days with your face in a story. Adventures.”

Lydee could see that Veabella could not have withheld her smile if her life depended on it. And Lydee smiled too, seeing her sister’s joy as the memories resurfaced after so many years.

“You never recovered, did you?” Lydee said.

“I have some tales now that could top most of what I read.”

“It’s good to see you, Vea.”

“You too, Lydee.”

“Well,” the older sister started, “I will wish you good fortune. And further, I will admit to being impressed with your success. I had no idea your company was so well regarded, though to be honest, I had intentionally avoided learning anything about it.”

“Thank you,” Veabella said. “We’ve completed a few more lucrative contracts, but the recognition was a surprise to us as well. Maybe not to Xopher, but to those of us who don’t have unchecked egos at least.”

“I should be heading home,” Lydee said. “There is work to do.” After a brief moment, she stepped closer to her sister. “I’m sure you are aware of what year this is. Of the precipice we’ve approached. The importance for our faith.”

“Of course, Lydee…”

“No one will be capable of denying this one,” Lydee whispered. Then she took a step back. “Make sure you’re alive for it.”

“I missed you, too” Veabella said.

The older sister then surprised the younger, for perhaps the first time. A tight hug that lasted for longer than was originally intended. “I did miss you. I cannot help the way I am, Vea.”

“I know.”

One last glance behind her, in which nothing was amiss. Lydee gave a slight sigh of relief, wishing it was not just for show, then led her sister down the staircase, one soft step at a time.

The royal families of the continent of Saltion have ruled for time immemorial. The entrancing, otherworldly gemstones that signify their divine right to govern were gifted to them by the gods. Their shared bond has maintained the balance of the political landscape, their positions representing the only accepted faith.

The truth of their story is about to be unearthed.

1. What is Grasp for Eternity?

Grasp for Eternity is a multiple POV (point of view) epic fantasy series that follows a wide variety of characters whose stories intertwine. The first novel takes place during two time periods that are thirty years apart- later additions to the series will explore other time periods as well.

The impact that history has on the present is one of the major themes of the story, and readers will get to see the consequences of events and decisions that took place years before.

The world of Grasp for Eternity is one at the precipice of revolutions scientific, industrial, and religious.

2. What makes this different than other epic fantasy?

The largest difference is that there is no magic in this world. There are no wizards, elves, dwarves, dragons, or other typical tropes of high fantasy. Still, the scope and setting are similar.

Grasp for Eternity also features characters from a wide range of lifestyles and professions. There are the traditional soldiers and kings, but there are also university professors, scientists, industrialists, and other characters that are not usually associated with epic fantasy.

War is not the only game of high stakes.

3. An epic fantasy without magic?

Magic allows for deus ex machina. Have you ever read a story or watched a movie where the characters have their backs to the wall, only to be saved by a special magic power that you had no idea even existed?

Have you ever thought, “If he can shoot fireballs, why didn’t he do that earlier?”

Do character deaths seem cheap, when you know the author can bring the character back to life in the next book?

This fantasy world follows the same laws of physics as our own Earth, but it has its own unique geography, history, and cultures. It’s a world with clearly defined limits, where actions have weight just as in real life, and problems cannot simply be solved with magic.

That’s not to say this world is “just another Earth.”

In place of magic, there is herbalism.

Like in our own world, humans use plants as cure for ailments and to improve overall health. The difference is, in the world of Grasp for Eternity, there are plants that are much more potent.

Herbalism tonics give short bursts of improvement to abilities that humans already possess- strength, quickness, vision, etc. An herbalism tonic cannot give someone the ability to fly or to shoot fire. Think of it as pharmaceuticals with greater potential.

But herbalism is a new science, and the people who practice it have yet to discover the limits of its power…

4. What is the story of the first novel?

-A historian learns about the strange circumstance of a colleague’s disappearance, and wants to know why the Crown is so concerned.

-An outlawed religion claims that this year will see the fulfillment of a prophecy that cannot be ignored.

-A pioneer in the field of herbalism searches for immortality, keeping his research, and those conducting it, hidden from the world.

-An aged swordsman is the only hope for a defenseless village.

-A hunting crew is framed for murder, but the reason why is shadowed in secrets.

-And more, across two time periods.

5. Is this all just in your head? Will these ideas ever see the light of day?

The first novel in the series was originally completed in 2022. Since then, it has been edited and rewritten a number of times. However, the main plot and the driving forces of the world have remained the same.

All that is to say that this is not just the promise of a fantasy series. It is already underway, and the first novel has been read by a handful of friends and family members.

6. What is the purpose of this Substack?

To introduce people to a new fantasy world, with chapters being released once per week, every Saturday.

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