Yara

As quickly as the elation of the previous night had run through her body, a dark cloud had fully obscured it, leaving no trace of the brightness she once felt.

She had made a careless mistake in her haste, and although it was unlikely, perhaps she had underestimated the historian. Lydee had known she was coming, and had disappeared into the night. It was Yara’s first error in the unraveling of the mystery. It would be her last, as Lydee would soon learn.

As the object of her dark mood was elsewhere for the moment, Yara shifted her attention to the hapless prisoner she had captured. Marshaw was down in the dungeons, having survived the tonic and knife wounds she had given him. Guards had transported him at her orders to what they affectionately referred to as the polishing rooms. When a gem is imperfect, it must be polished so as to remove any tarnish. If it cannot be salvaged, it is discarded.

She would have to hurry with her activities as her requested audience with Oslian was to be held in less than two hours. That only gave her enough time to work off some of the edge. She would have to come back later to polish the tarnish off of her dark mood.

“Councilor,” the guards by the entrance said in unison as she approached. Yara glared at them, halting them in their efforts to attend to the gate. She recognized them both. One was gaunt and tall, the other his opposite. They both chewed that revolting plant, lavonen, the juices of which had turned their teeth and tongues yellow. Lavonen gave off the odor of rotten cabbage, but gave its users a slight lightheadedness akin to a mild alcoholic drink. Yara was disgusted by the men, their habit, and their lack of respect.

“Grand Advisor,” she snapped.

“Beg your pardon,” one said.

“Forgiveness,” the other added, lowering his gaze.

“Be thankful I have not cared to learn your names,” Yara said before entering the gloomy stairwell.

Perhaps if I have the time, I will visit some old friends. Assuming they still live, it will be enlightening to see their conditions.

A smile briefly passed over Yara’s face as she recalled the triumph of placing her two old nemeses behind bars. It had been an act of genius to punish her rivals and use their plight as advancement for her own career. She hoped to replicate the accomplishment one day, and she had a few names on her list.

The staircase led deep into the earth, four floors below ground level. The gray stone walls and haphazardly laid mortar were an indication of the changes in the realm since the construction of the dungeon. During Oslian’s reign, Vinredor had grown wealthier at a rapid pace, and its leader made sure that his every deed glorified that progress. The ongoing draft for the new palace featured lavishly expensive and ostentatious details at every level, even in locations where no one would likely ever set their eyes after its construction. Down in the dungeons, one had no idea of how prosperous the outside world had become.

Yara did not know how many cells there were, and as the palace had been constructed seven hundred years ago, it was likely no one else did either. Nevertheless, she was certain the dungeon held no fewer than half a thousand individuals. In her time as a councilor alone, over two hundred people had been imprisoned, never to see the light of day again. It was Oslian’s policy of choice to keep criminals alive. He had not given a reason for this, and no one had challenged him.

Only certain individuals were granted the privilege of residency in the royal dungeons. Commons crimes such as theft, murder, and rape would see the guilty losing limbs or their life. The dungeons were for those people who had committed acts of treason or inflicted pain and suffering on the royal family. These criminals were the vilest, for their acts would upset the order and safety of the entire kingdom if they were not punished justly. Down here, they would have time to reconsider their actions, and beg for a mercy that would never come.

The final level of the dungeon was so far underground that Yara could see her breath plume in the light of the oil lamp she carried. It had been so long since she had been away from Oslidor that she had forgotten how vicious the cold could be. At least she did not have to live down there.

The guards who delivered Marshaw said he was in the first cell on the floor, a space saved for those still awaiting formal conviction. Yara had insisted the man be placed on the lowest level due to his role in a religious conspiracy against the state. The other cells on the lowest level were likewise occupied by traitors and seditionists of the highest order. Yara’s old nemeses were on the first floor, as she had not had the pull to have them placed further down at the time of their incarceration. Fortunately, that meant they were more likely to still be alive. She could not imagine anyone surviving long in these temperatures, especially when the guards would invent excuses to get out of delivering meals.

The first cell was directly ahead of the end of the staircase. Yara steadied herself so that she would not shiver in front of the criminal, and then approached his cell, lamp out in front of her. “Good morning,” she said. “It is morning, despite what you may believe.”

There was no response. This was not the time to play coy with her. Yara stood inches away from the cell and held the lamp up as high as she could to fully illuminate the small living space. In the back left corner lay a body. It was not moving, and beneath it was a pool of blood, frost beginning to form along its edges.

Yara cursed and withdrew a key from her pocket. She opened the door and stood over the body to see that its wrists had been slashed vertically along the veins. The man’s face showed a look of contentment, in one hand a tiny blade which would have been used for shaving. Yara knew the prisoner would have been checked before entering the dungeon. Someone had given him the blade. The conspiracy ran deeper than she had believed.

She left the dungeon in haste, only breaking her stride before the guards so as to keep up appearances. Before leaving for the palace, she would rest in one of the royal gardens to collect her thoughts and think on how to present all she had learned to the Divine King.

The heat of the morning had swept away the cold from her body, and she sat now beneath the shade of one of the meticulously pruned bright green palm trees which made up the perimeter of the garden. Yara thought on the most recent development, as well as the disappearance of the professor. She had to reach Lydee before she found Woller. Already she had tasked an aide with finding copies of the holy books of The Path and bringing to her all information on the supposed Haven of Light. The books were illegal, but enforcement had been scant and if there were as many believers as it now appeared there were, it would not be difficult to find the books. But it needed to be done quickly as Lydee could already be headed north. Yara would not mention all of this to Oslian, only the sections of her tale that presented her work in a favorable light. She began to formulate her plan, word for word, practicing in her mind the emphasis she would place on certain words and the pauses she would take between revelations.

From where she was seated in the shade of the giant fronds, Yara could not see the sky. Thus, her confusion was even greater than it otherwise would have been when she began to hear the burgeoning uproar from outside the garden walls.

It began as a murmur and grew steadily. Then there were hundreds of voices, shouting, laughing, crying, a range of emotions and outbursts which she could not track. Yara stood and approached the nearest guard. The man did not see her walking towards him as his head was tilted straight up, one hand shading his eyes, his mouth hanging wide open. “Impossible. Impossible,” he kept repeating.

More idiocy from the guards? Or…

Yara stopped less than an arm’s length from the man. She slowly looked up.

No. That cannot be. It simply cannot be.

Far to the east, an intense white streak hung in the sky. It was the brightest object Yara had ever seen, with the sole exception of the sun. And it was enormous. Although much thinner, it was longer across than the moon, and it had been moving, for it carried a tail in its wake, a slightly dimmer version of the main body.

The Hero’s prophecy she had been so quick to dismiss, the signs she had ignored out of contempt and arrogance… she had been wrong. The prophecy was correct. A light in the sky, just as the believers had declared. Yet, how could it be? How could anyone have predicted such an event?

She needed to reach Oslian immediately.

Yara ran to the garden’s entrance. Outside, the common folk were staring above, pointing and gaping. Yara saw others huddled together, crying tears of joy. Still more citizens were shaking each other back into coherence.

“An evil omen. We are forsaken!”

“The Divine King has died and ascended into the sky!”

“Plague! A plague has arrived!”

“The prophecy! The Hero was right!”

Yara rushed past them all, hoping she could make it to the palace before the guards shut down the city and enacted a curfew before true pandemonium could grip the streets. Yara needed to be safely inside the palace walls before the rioting and the clashes between believers, agitators, opportunists, and guards. It had been decades since the last days of mob warfare in the streets of Oslidor. Yara was old enough to remember the panic of those times, days waiting until night fell, and nights spent wondering if she would live to see another day. She had been on the other side of the melee back then, and had inflicted her own share of pain onto the guards and soldiers who had been called in, as well as the common men and women. It had been a time to settle scores, steal, and jockey for position among the lower classes. It had been efficacious practice for the world of politics. Now, she had others to do the work for her. As long as she was behind the thick palace walls, and in command of thousands of armed guards and soldiers, she could watch in curiosity to see if the believers would overextend their hand. She was looking forward to this, despite the unease she felt when she looked at the bright object in the sky.

Come nightfall, it will stand out all the more, presenting itself as whatever sign one wishes it to be. And then, we will have to react sternly. The people will see that the true power still lies in the hands of the Divine Representatives.

The question would be raised all throughout Saltion; “If the prophecy was true, when will The Hero return?”

The answer would come in the form of a mailed fist.

Yet, in her own mind, what did Yara believe? The riots of four decades ago had likewise been because of the proclamation that a prophecy had been fulfilled. It was dismissed as a lie in the aftermath of the carnage, but had it been? Was it possible that two prophecies from the same religion were in fact accurate? What did the holy books truly state? Yara did not know, as she had never read the scriptures. For her though, did it truly matter? Had The Hero declared that she was his Grand Advisor? Had The Hero taken her as a protégé and converted her into one of the most powerful people on the continent? He had not, and therefore, she would side with the man who had. After all, a mailed fist delivers quite the message.

Do not let your thoughts betray you, lest they show on your face. Oslian has no sympathy. It is one of his greatest strengths, his unwillingness to bend out of compassion. He does what is needed to maintain order, as any ruler should. I will stand by him and punish those who do not.

She entered the palace as the guards were forming into lines of five, fully armed with sharp and blunt weapons, shields, and tonics. The faces she saw looked eager to get to work, mirroring her own she knew. She passed them and walked swiftly to the council room where she was ushered in after being informed that the Divine King and the Royal Herbalist awaited within.

The two old friends were looking out a window when Yara entered. Neither shifted their gaze.

“Your Excellency,” Yara said in a neutral tone.

“Come to the window, Yara,” Oslian said, his eyes still fixed on the glass.

Yara swallowed, then approached. Both the Divine King and the Royal Herbalist appeared so frail now, the two of them having to lean against either side of the window frame to stand upright. Yara stopped two paces back from them. “I have news that will prove to be of greater use to you than it would have been but an hour earlier,” she said.

At that, the two sets of eyes met her own. “Yes?” Oslian said.

“I know where Woller was headed, and I know that his former colleague has left to find him. And I know all of this because I located a follower of The Path. A man named Marshaw, who gave Woller information which his friend is now using to find him.”

“Where is he?” Oslian asked, his voice shaky.

“He ran to the far north of Ebanigan to a hideaway known in the holy books of The Path as the Haven of Light.”

“Did this man tell you why he fled?”

For the briefest of moments, Yara was tempted to twist her story in an attempt to learn why Oslian sought his former acquaintance with such gusto. Thinking better of it, she simply shook her head.

“Then you must go after him, and arrive before his friend.”

Yara waited for more. She did not want to leave without hearing Oslian’s thoughts on the object in the sky. Was he intentionally being obtuse? Sensing he would add nothing, she gambled on speaking.

“The man I interrogated to obtain this information, ended his own life while in the dungeons. There was a shaving blade in his hand.”

Oslian looked unable to speak. Esther looked over at him, and then to Yara. “Anyone who had contact with that man must be questioned.”

“Agreed, Royal Herbalist. I must also inform you that he was writing a letter to someone. This conspiracy runs deep. I now believe the professor Lydee is a part of it as well. She sought this man out. Woller as well could be involved.”

“No,” Oslian said. “He would never be involved in such an organization. But he needs to be found. He is more dangerous than any ignorant believer.”

Outside, Yara could hear the first rumblings of clashes between guards and civilians who were not apt to retreat to their homes during this once in a lifetime event. Still, Oslian did not comment on the noises.

“I will need an armed escort,” Yara said. “Will men be available?”

“Yes. This will not last. All contingencies have been planned for after what occurred forty years ago. The streets will be cleared by morning, and you must leave then. It may not be possible later.”

Yara did not understand the comment. If the streets would be cleared, why could she not leave later? Oslian must have correctly interpreted the look on her face, for he elaborated.

“I have heard from the gods, Yara. They are not pleased with the other royal families. This display of light is a sign of the gods’ displeasure. The weakness of the other divine rulers will be their own downfall, not mine. The gods have told me as much.”

Of what is he speaking? What is Oslian planning?

Oslian straightened himself. “I thought of your words, Grand Advisor.”

The breath left Yara’s lungs. It was the first time he had referred to her by her title. It made the position real in a way it had not been before.

“If I am not to live much longer, why should others who have failed continue on? Take Sayel Ebanigan and her family. Their nation is in economic decline. They lost the most prosperous city they owned, and their most capable citizens flee there. Yet, she is hale. It is unjust. I mean to correct this. And what of Xu and its pitiful ruler Octavius the Neurotic? He is a young man with many more years of ineptness ahead of him. I mean to correct this oversight in justice. I will absolve the two nations of their useless rulers, by uniting them with our own.

Of course, they will never accept this. Therefore, I will lead our nation to war. We have the largest and best equipped military. We have the funds. We have the will. Most of all, we have the right. Just as the gods desired that I be the sole holder of my family’s jewelry, they have deigned to fight the infamous Hero by creating a hero of their own- Oslian Vinredor, the only man capable of uniting the three royal nations of Saltion.”

It was a thought that had crossed thousands of minds before, she was sure, but one that had never been spoken aloud. It was a bending of the code of Divine Representation, and an assault of the ties which bound the royal families together. It was ambitious and audacious.

It is just what is needed as a response to this.

“You will not only unite the royal countries,” Yara said. “You will unite our own people, bringing them away from the false path.”

“You understand,” Esther said.

“The war cannot wait long, as I am sure you also comprehend,” Oslian added. “The plan has been in motion; it only needed your sage advice to cross the threshold into reality. I thank you for that. You will have all the soldiers you need, and horses for a swift journey. Return with Woller alive, Grand Advisor.”

“I will, Your Excellency.”

Back outside of the council room, Yara headed to her office. She was pleased to find two of her agents, along with copies of the holy books of The Path. They appeared to be newly printed, a detail that would have concerned her more before her meeting. Now, she was sure Oslian would crush this false religion as he would an insect beneath his boot.

I will find Woller, and I will bring him to the Divine King. The only Divine King. It is happening. I am reshaping the world.

All that stood in her way now was a former academic who was traveling into the wild alone.

Richard

He had let his frustration and disappointment out on Rowland. That was the conclusion Richard had come to after replaying the event in his head over days of deliberation. He told himself that he would apologize, as soon as he saw his old protégé.

That gesture, which he swore to himself he would carry through with, had been delayed. Richard had not seen the young man in nearly a week now. He had made some casual, indirect inquires by mentioning Rowland’s name to other herbalists in the royal laboratory, but no one had any sense of where the young man was. Had he already disappeared with the two goons from the Shark Eye? Richard would have believed so, if not for another detail that he felt was more than a coincidence.

Esther, the royal herbalist, had been absent as well. One day, she had entered the laboratory muttering to herself frantically after a meeting with the Divine King. She had taken some notebooks from a shelf and disappeared. She had not been seen or heard from since. Carlisle insisted she was occupied and could not be bothered. No one else was brave enough to even chance a guess.

It was midday and Richard was performing a test to measure reactions between the seeds of the glorifican flower from the island of Kinorick and a fungus found locally. The fungus was an untested ingredient, but its bright red color hinted at potential. Over the years, the study of herbalism had developed a number of guidelines which had been recorded and which were followed by serious herbalists. One was that plants and fungi with brighter colors were more likely to have properties which could affect the human body. The petals of the glorifican flower were an intense yellow, a color which reminded Richard of the sun at midday. Not that I can view it from within this cell.

That was how he now viewed the royal laboratory. He had nearly forgotten what it felt and looked like to be outside during daylight hours.

He swirled a glass vial containing the two ingredients along with an equal portion of fisilin, all of which had been mashed in a mortar and then placed in boiling water before being combined in the vial. The mix resulted in a slimy brown concoction which clung to the sides of the glass. While there was no visible change in the substance, the true test would come later. This was the initial testing of the two ingredients and the catalyst of the filisin. Glorifican was used with other ingredients in tonics which increased the amount of time one could hold their breath under water. Esther had wished for it to be tested further in these respects.

What was Esther searching for? She had said the laboratory’s development was focused on the military, yet this offshoot of research did not seem related.

She is lying to us. Not exactly a revelation. Oh, how I detest the Crown.

He had not visited the Shark Eye since his last visit with Rowland and Frederick. The latter continued to be a patron each night, but Richard did not want to risk a chance of seeing the two fanatics again, and so had simply gone home at the end of the day. The lack of a numbing agent in his brain had not had a positive effect on his mood. He felt tenser and more agitated as each day passed, keeping to himself when possible, and attempting to lose himself in his work. It had not been a successful strategy thus far.

Steps from behind caused him to pause and look over his shoulder. Rowland stood, or rather held himself up, against a wall as he looked at Richard. The young man looked gaunt and ghastly, his skin had lost color and drooping bags hung under his eyes.

Richard placed the vial he had been holding into a wooden rack and gave his full attention to his former student.

“Rowland?”

“What day is it?”

“The 17^th of autumn.”

“I must sit.”

Richard pulled a stool out from under his work station and helped Rowland onto it. The young man closed his eyes and said nothing.

“Where have you been?” Richard asked.

“I’m not sure,” Rowland said, his voice faint. “I’m sorry, Richard… I’m… exhausted.”

“Lay your head down. I will find a better place for you to rest.”

Rowland’s entrance into the lab had been noted by the other herbalists. As Richard searched for a suitable location for Rowland to lie down, the other workers stood silently, watching his every move, looks of concern and unease on their faces.

The main workshop of the laboratory was not designed for comfort. The only pieces of furniture one could use for rest were the backless stools. Richard noted that Carlisle was absent now as well. He took advantage of this to begin checking other rooms. Although more than two months had passed since he was conscripted, he had only seen a handful of the rooms in the royal laboratory. Carlisle monitored the employees studiously, only allowing them to visit certain rooms, and only at specified times. Richard did not recall seeing any place a person could truly rest, but he also knew Esther spent most of her nights in the lab. Certainly, there was a cot somewhere.

Eyes still on him, Richard looked back and shrugged at his coworkers. Then he opened the door to the large meeting room. Inside, as he knew, there was nothing but a table and chairs. But off to the right and left of the room were other doors. Doors he had never been through and did not know to where they led. When Esther would leave a meeting to visit Oslian, she took the door on the left. Richard went to the right and opened the door.

Like all of the rooms in the facility, there were no windows. Richard found an oil lamp and lit it. The room was smaller than he had expected, and full of notebooks, with but one door straight ahead. Was it truly worth the risk to have Rowland lie down somewhere they both knew was implicitly forbidden? What could the possible punishment be? It did not seem to be an intelligent risk to take. Curiosity had overpowered his better judgement. What else existed in the royal laboratory?

The next room likewise held notebooks, but led in three other directions. He was about to continue forward when his eye caught a reflection in the lamp light. His every move now feeling as though it would be his last before he was detected, he slowly walked over to the door on his right, where he saw the source of the reflection. A small pool of water had formed under the door. When he placed his hand on the wooded door, he felt a slight chill. Pausing to ensure he was not being watched, he took a deep breath and gently pushed the door open.

The air inside was cold enough to make him shiver. Richard held the lamp high and surveyed his surroundings. Blocks of ice covered the walls, the floor layered with melted water. At first glance, there did not appear to be anything other than the ice blocks. There were no other doors than the one he had entered through. A few steps forward showed indentations in the side of the blocks. On both sides of the room, fit snuggly between the ice, Richard saw the reason the room needed to be kept so chill. Glass jars with stoppered cork tops sat on small shelves. Inside each jar was a red liquid. Richard did not need to do further investigating to know what the liquid was.

Rowland’s appearance. It was as if his body had been… drained.

He thought back to what Rowland had told him about Esther and his grandfather. He could not believe his grandfather would have done something like this. The man had spent his life protecting others. As for Esther, the evidence was directly in front of him. He did not believe Rowland’s condition was a coincidence. Despite the cold of the room, Richard felt a heat rise within him. It was the heat of outrage, a fire which one enjoys seeing grow. He turned to leave before looking back at the shelves. Without evidence, the others would have reason to doubt him. Holding a jar of his friend’s blood was not an appetizing prospect, but he knew he did not want to risk returning to this room. Closing his eyes, he lifted a jar, then hurried back to the workshop.

As eyes turned to him as he entered the room, Richard made no effort to conceal what he was holding. Now and again as he would meet the eyes of a fellow herbalist, confirming their fears without words. Their employer was a monster who had broken the unwritten rules of herbalism. It was people like Esther who gave the profession a negative reputation and invited herbalism to be seen as witchcraft by the ignorant. This woman who claimed to have worked with his grandfather; she was a disgrace to his legacy. Richard was tempted to reveal her to the rest of the world as well. He would have, if not for the overreaction he knew would follow. If people saw that one herbalist was delving into the use of human blood, they would quickly lump together all the others, and violence would follow. Restraint was not one of humanity’s strengths.

He found Rowland still sleeping. Though he did not wish to wake the man who had obviously been through much over the past week, he needed answers. He nudged Rowland’s shoulder until the man moved his head and made a whimpering noise.

“What is this?” Richard asked, holding the jar to Rowland’s eyes.

“It’s mine. She gave me no choice; said I would be imprisoned if I didn’t cooperate.”

“Why did she do this to you?”

“I arrived after a night of too much ale. She said she was curious as to the effect alcohol would have on… I don’t remember what. I don’t remember much at all, Richard.”

“What is she planning on doing with this?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me. I need to rest now.”

He believed that. The young man looked awful. It was difficult to make out his words, and as soon as Richard stopped talking Rowland fell back into a deep sleep.

He was disgusted that he had helped this organization and its demonic leader. But what could he do? As soon as he missed a single day of work, someone would begin searching for him. He felt trapped, but also knew he was not thinking clearly enough, so blinded by rage as he was. Then an alternative course of action came to him. If he could not leave, that did not mean he had to aid in the production of immorally developed tonics. Instead, he could sabotage the process.

Everyone else had seen the blood, and Richard was sure they had come to the same conclusion. But who could he trust? Only one person came to mind. He left his station to seek him out.

Frederick was seated at his workstation, his head in his hands. Richard approached from in front of him and saw that the man was staring off at an undetermined point on the room. He did not show any indication of even recognizing Richard’s presence.

“Rowland is not well,” Richard said.

Frederick slowly looked up at him, his head still in his hands. “Who could be after that?”

“Did you know she was doing this? Has she done it before?”

“I had suspicions. But there was never any overt evidence. She’s desperate now. You can see it in the way she speaks. Her words are frantic and she moves from one topic to the next without segues.”

“Where has she gone?”

“Collapsed from exhaustion is my guess. I arrived early the other day, unable to sleep after the Shark Eye closed. She was still here, working. She looked at me when I entered and called me Oslian. She was delusional, Richard. Something is pushing her even more than before, and that is saying quite a lot, as the woman is the hardest working person I’ve ever seen.”

“And Carlisle?”

“Checking on her, I assume. He has no idea how to run this operation. If she falls ill, he will not be promoted, he will be replaced.”

“This place deserves to burn down.”

“Are you making an offer?”

“I would if I could do it without losing my life. I have another idea instead.”

“Sabotage?”

“How did you know?”

“You don’t think I’ve thought of it myself? It’s good that you came to me. One person alone would be flushed out by the data and stand out quickly. But with two people, or three if your friend ever recovers, we can cover each other’s tracks, at least for a while.”

“You’re willing to risk it?”

“I am. I cannot continue this way, Richard. I was drinking to fall asleep so I could forget about my life. That no longer works. I have nothing and nowhere to go. But maybe I can take this bitch down with me. The question is, are you willing to risk your life?”

“You think we can’t pull this off without being discovered?”

“For a time. Or, if Esther were to fall ill… or...”

Neither man spoke for a long moment.

“Put that out of your mind,” Frederick said. “Oslian would see right through it. Do not think he would hesitate for a second to kill us all if she went down.”

The sound of a door slamming open diverted the attention of the two men. Richard saw Carlisle walk through the entrance, his head barely visible over the large crate he was carrying. The man stopped, then, using his knee to hold the crate, he turned to look back at the entrance. Richard heard a methodic tapping. A few seconds later, the royal herbalist appeared. She looked even older than before, frail now, her back hunched over a cane. She did not speak as she gestured for Carlisle to place the crate down before a workstation. He struggled to put it down without dropping it, but finally succeeded. The man then stood up, making great pains to hide how taxing the effort had been. Panting, he leaned down while Esther whispered something to him. As the old woman leaned on her cane for support, Carlisle stepped forward and looked over the laboratory before calling for everyone’s attention, as if they had not all been staring at the two recent arrivals from the moment the door opened.

Richard looked over at Frederick. The man’s expression was unreadable. He simply looked away and walked toward Carlisle. Richard stayed back for a few seconds, wondering what this was all about, and how he could keep Rowland hidden now that the royal herbalist and her lapdog had returned.

Do they even know he is alive? Did he escape from them? How much does Carlisle know? He was unlikely to get answers, but standing where he was, mouth agape, was not an option. Richard followed the others who had formed a small crowd in front of Carlisle and Esther.

The elderly woman’s eyes tracked from one herbalist to the next, across the entire staff. Richard was relieved when her visage did not change when meeting his eyes. She simply moved on to the next person, leaving him feeling secure that she had no idea he had left the main laboratory just minutes earlier.

“I have been unavoidably disposed for the past few days. You will find on the floor a crate containing my latest research notes regarding the efficacy of heretofore untested ingredients. I will return tomorrow morning. In the meantime, it is imperative that you all read my findings and are prepared to continue on the path I have begun.”

Esther swallowed then and licked her dry lips. When she looked out across the staff, Richard saw a dullness in her eyes. They were the eyes of someone who had been stretched beyond her limits.

“There are sections of the notes which are missing. Do not concern yourself with them. Follow the information you see. I will return in the morning.”

With that, she shifted her weight and slowly turned toward the door she had entered through. Carlisle’s eyes did not leave her as he followed in her footsteps, careful to walk at her pace. Richard watched the door close behind them.

The room was silent. No one made to move for the notebooks in the crate. After a few moments, Frederick stepped next to Richard and motioned him away from the group. They went to the far side of the room, behind a wall which blocked them from the sight of the others.

“What do you think?” Frederick asked.

“They won’t be back until the morning. We should get Rowland out of here. He can sleep at my house.”

“And afterwards?”

“I refuse to partake in this any longer,” Richard said. “I will feign illness. Better yet, I will drink enough that it will not be an act. Frederick, we cannot use research based on interactions with human blood.”

“She was working this whole time,” Frederick said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“What has caused her to sink to this level of desperation?”

Frederick looked Richard hard in the eyes. “There is only one thing Esther cares about. This is because of Oslian. I don’t know his reasons, but I know this is for him. He has demanded something and she would willingly die to provide it.”

“This is immoral. The woman has lost her humanity.”

“Richard, take advantage of this time and get the kid out of here. Hide Rowland somewhere. It’s likely they have no idea he returned to the lab.”

“Do you think anyone will give him away?”

Frederick shook his head. “Not now. Not after they saw what you were carrying. I don’t think they can hold up to an interrogation, but they won’t willingly offer up the information either. Now go. If Carlisle comes back, I’ll distract him.”

Richard held out his hand and the two men shook. “Thank you. You’re a good man,” he said.

Frederick did not reply.

It was a challenge to wake Rowland, but eventually Richard was able to get the young man on his feet. He escorted him out of the laboratory, heads turning to face their slow march of defiance. The guards halted them, but Richard invented a story about his friend being dismissed for drunkenness, and the guards were only too happy to accept it.

Spend enough time working under abusive conditions and you begin to delight in the pain and discomfort of others. I need to leave this operation, or the same will happen to me.

It took a considerable amount of time for the two men to arrive in the Jasper district where Richard lived. Too weak to support himself, the burden of Rowland’s weight, along with the heat of the day, forced Richard to pause every few hundred paces. When passerby would look at them askew, Richard would mentally repeat his line about Rowland’s drunkenness, as if saying it in his head would convince the stranger.

At the local well, Richard retrieved some water for Rowland and offered him some flatbread he purchased from a bakery which was about to close for the day. The dry unleavened bread did not have much flavor, which Richard thought would be best under the circumstances. It was clear Rowland had not eaten in some time, and he was only able to get a few bites down before shaking his head and falling asleep where he sat. It took a substantial amount of time to get him up again.

Nearly two hours had passed before Richard saw the roof of his house. Stumbling to hold himself and his friend upright, Richard was only a few dozen paces away before he looked up and saw the front door. From the front window, a face looked out at him. A face of terror and sorrow. His old friend, Lydee.

Lydee

Year 1378 (Present day)

The Haven of Light. It exists, and Woller is there now. Funny, that. The elderly historian had never seemed to be one for religion. He was skeptical to the point where she wondered if he believed anything, or refused to accept what others believed out of pure stubbornness. It was a trait which helped to make him a diligent historian, that was true. But he had never seemed happy, as though his life was lacking a purpose. Perhaps he has one now.

The Haven of Light was described romantically in the holy books as a place where there was soft, glowing light at all hours of the day and night. Over the years, scholars had grown to interpret this as a metaphor, a place which did not physically exist, but that one could reach through prayer. She was pleased that they were wrong. More skeptics whose cynicism gave them an excuse not to believe. That was the way of academics. Faith was out of fashion, seen as foolish, something that belonged to the uneducated commoners. There was some sense to that, but it had extended too far. The evidence given forth in the holy books of The Path could be denied only by one who refused to believe because they had more to gain with skepticism. Ego, the favor of their colleagues, a position teaching wealthy children of powerful people, those were more tangible and profitable in the short-term, and were more likely to be acquired by scholars who dismissed “outrageous” claims.

Lydee knew better, for she had spent her career researching The Path. She knew the tomes were historically accurate, that they could be corroborated by multiple other, unrelated sources. More, she knew the prophecies were true, and that the first one had been fulfilled.

Her parents had told her so, and she had believed them. Nevertheless, she wanted to be sure. Unlike other scholars, she was aware of what she wished to be true. She admitted she wanted to believe in The Hero, to believe he would redeem humanity, that he had been granted powers by the gods. But instead of finding comfort in this belief, she had set to prove it faulty, for only with an eye of true skepticism could she know for sure that The Path should be tread.

The historical records had been difficult to find, as the royal families had worked to expunge them. Any mention of the first prophecy, and how it came to fruition in Oslidor forty years earlier had been sought out and eliminated. But that work had been done by royal officials, soldiers, and thugs. There was much they had missed. Lydee knew, for she had found the documents. First-hand accounts from Vinredorian soldiers who had been brought in to quell the crowds of treaders on The Path. Their diaries told what they saw in plain language, and if they had any bias, it would not have been against the royal families, making those documents ideal sources.

Only now, in that secret chamber within the library, had she come across anything that contradicted the writings of The Path. It had shaken her, but given her strength as well. For now, she had a new avenue to pursue. Ironically, she believed Woller, the man with no faith, would be the one to help strengthen her belief. He had discovered the chamber as well, and what he had read had made a profound enough impact on him that he left his old life behind. She wished to know what he had learned.

She looked over her bedroom as she considered what items would be necessary for her journey. It was out of character for her to leave all of this behind, her books, her carefully chosen furniture, her home. But this would be the ultimate research project, a journey into the supposed myths of The Path. What would the Haven of Light look like to her eyes? How expansive and luminous was it? She felt giddy at the thought of seeing it for the first time, and knowing that yet another aspect of her faith was a reality.

There was one more piece of business to attend to before she began her journey. She needed to inform Richard about what she had learned. He needed to know the fate that had befallen his grandfather. That would be a most sordid revelation. The man idolizes his grandfather. To follow in Enfildio’s footsteps was Richard’s entire reason for becoming an herbalist. No doubt he sees himself as his grandfather’s heir in that realm, the next great practitioner of the science.

Lydee packed her warmest clothes, including a bear fur coat which she had not had reason to use in years. These were the clothes of her youth, back when she lived in northern Vinredor, before she moved to the capital. As she looked at her old coat and boots, she thought of her family, and her sister most of all. She had no doubt the rumors about were fabrications, but she could not fathom why her sister and her companions had been singled out in such a manner. Why were they chosen to take the fall, and who would benefit from murdering hunters and spectators? And am I choosing to pursue my own curiosity over assisting my family? She had posed that question more than once, and kept returning to the same response; there was nothing she could do to help her sister. At least she could help Woller, for she was the only one capable of warning him that he was in danger, and she was the only one who knew where he was.

Through the second-story window, she could see it was not yet light out, the night refusing to give way to the morning for at least a little while longer. She had wasted no time after her meeting with Marshaw, and her nerves would not allow her to sleep even if she had tried. Doubts crept in regarding the practicality of this pursuit, but she quickly dismissed them as fear of the unknown. Moreover, she had no attachments left to Oslidor if she was not at the university, an institution which would likely never recover from being gutted by the royal advisor Yara. If I do not follow the clues I have uncovered, I will never get over this. I have to see it all play out, even if I do not like the outcome. That was the curse of the scholar, to never be able to let go of a mystery. No one would understand that more than Woller.

She had lived modestly enough, and though she had assembled a nice collection of possessions, there was nothing she would miss. She lifted up a floorboard and took out the sack of coins she had hidden there, placing it in her pack as the last item that would fit. Once the morning had arrived, she would go to the money lenders in the Topaz merchant district and exchange her credit paper for coin which she would use to procure a spot on a caravan traveling to Goldcrest. From there, she was unsure of how she would make her way further north, but she would have time to think that over. Most of the caravans were made up of merchants and therefore well defended against brigands. If she could secure her spot for late in the morning, she would have time to contact Richard just before she left the city. Possibly never to return. Certainly not with Woller, should I find him.

It raised the question of what exactly would she do when she found Woller. She planned on explaining the danger he faced, and asking for his assistance in her research into The Path. But in truth, there were many variables, each of which could end up being an impassible obstacle. She did not know if he had remained in the Haven of Light, or if he even ever successfully arrived. Would he have been able to locate it, and brave the elements? He was not the most fit man, and the texts describe the Haven as being in a nearly inhospitable winter wasteland. It could have provided too much of a challenge for someone who had spent his entire life with his nose in a book.

That description aptly fit her as well, and gave her apprehension which was only defeated by pure enthusiasm and an obsessional curiosity. This would be a great adventure, something out of character and full of risks. Something more befitting Veabella.

She lifted the pack to feel its full weight, and was glad that at least the first half of her journey would be spent riding in a carriage. As she turned to look at her reflection in the window, movement out in the street caught her eye. The Jasper district was wealthy enough to have multiple street lamps which were dutifully lit just before dark every evening. A figure passed on the outskirts of one of the pools of light, the motion an anomaly in the otherwise silent night.

Lydee made a cautious step closer to the glass. An eyebrow raised slightly as she focused on the figure before it disappeared back into the darkness. She could not make out much, but something in the figure’s gait suggested to her this was a woman. Is it that abnormal for someone to be out at this hour? Are there not individuals returning from late shifts at work or nights out at the tavern?

Still… she was beginning to trust in her instincts, and something was not right here. She stood unmoving, slowing her breath so the intake and output of air made no sound. Her gaze remained on the street and she listened. Footsteps. Multiple sets.

Her breath halted in her chest, panic breaking through the stillness of the night. They were coming for her. She did not know for certain who, but Yara came to mind. The royal advisor had been tracking Woller’s disappearance for weeks. If she was outside now, Lydee was in grave danger. That woman is a snake. Poisonous and devious.

As quickly and silently as she could, she raced down the stairs until she was on the bottom step. Hidden now from the front and back windows of the first floor, she carefully stuck her head out. Looking both ways, she saw nothing through either window. A decision had to be made, and quickly. She ran through the kitchen and unlocked the backdoor, cursing at the noise she made as she fumbled with the doorknob. No sound beyond the thumping in her chest could reach her as she pushed the door open and stepped onto the track of land separating her house from the back street. The footsteps grew louder, boots hitting against cobblestones. From where she was, a fence and gate blocked her view of the street. The footsteps came closer as she looked around for a way out. She ran to her right, ducking to keep her head below the rise of the fence. She continued running hunched over, her heart feeling as though it was about to punch through her chest and land in front of her. All at once, she heard two loud crashes, as though there were a pair of simultaneous explosions. They’ve broken down the doors!

Lydee looked back, but the track she was on had curved, making it impossible to see further than a few dozen yards behind her. She had to leave the vicinity, and quickly, for they would press on in their search as soon as they realized she was no longer home. As she looked over her options of escape, she remembered the tonics Richard had given her. She reached into the side of her pack where she had stored them and pulled one out. She popped the cork and drank the liquid in one gulp. In less than two heartbeats, she felt a surge of energy course through her body. Her legs now begged her to move, and she acceded unconsciously.

She continued running along the fence which separated the residences from the street, before realizing that it did not look to be ending any time soon. Full of energy, she jumped onto a crate, then lifted herself over the fence, making sure to keep her hands in between the top level of iron spikes. Jumping down, she raced forward until she came to a fork in the road. No longer having a sense of direction, but still feeling as though she needed to move quickly, she ran to the left and out of the Jasper residential district.

The pack feels weightless on my back. Thank you, Richard, you have saved me. Now, I will repay the debt.

Cupela

Year 1348 (Thirty Years Prior to Present Day)

Ubul returned three days later. When questioned, he was not forthcoming with information. He had not succeeded in his quest to locate their employer, and he did not wish to speak about his failure after he had left with such confidence. Hrent chastised him until it appeared Ubul was ready for a fist fight, and the others kept their disappointment to themselves.

A day after Ubul appeared, Enfildio himself returned. He, too, had little to say. As for the unguent he had supposedly been searching for, there were no signs. “I apologize that I took so long,” was all he said.

They did not hear much from him again for two weeks, his days and nights passed alone in his private rooms. During that time, Cupela did her best to not speculate, and instead reinvested herself in her work, putting the reward of eternal life into the proper focus.

Even without special healing, Piroska began to make a recovery, though only internally. Her skin would likely never heal, and her appearance remained difficult to stomach, the burns covering nearly her entire body, and all of her face, her visage now that of a scaly brown monster.

Over time, they cleaned the workshop so that most of the indications that a nearly fatal explosion had occurred were negated. Cupela and the others, barring Piroska, who remained bed-ridden, had started working again. They determined the cause of the explosion to have been the addition of jovinun seeds from the golden flower which gave the Jovinun island its name. The seeds were known to give off heat, and it was hypothesized that they could lead to a potential warming agent to assist in the extreme cold. Piroska was in no condition to speak about what she had been attempting, and in fact, Cupela did not believe the woman could speak, the burns on her neck suggesting that her vocal cords had been irreversibly damaged. Well, perhaps not irreversibly, if our research proves fruitful.

Cupela stood at a workstation, measuring out fisilin. Ubul sat beside her, looking through a notebook. In the middle of the room, Jezmavalin lounged in a chair, her feet up on a table. Hrent stood off to her side, arms crossed, looking as surly as ever. At the far wall, Sarah was taking notes on the condition of the score of ferins stacked in cages.

“He did not leave for more than five days for no reason,” Ubul said, unprompted. “Clearly he was not interested in helping Piroska. Then what was he doing for all of that time?”

It was the same question he had raised over and over again since Enfildio’s return. Yet instead of growing weary of the repetition, he seemed more enthused than ever to retrace his same argument.

“Would that you had been able to track him down,” Cupela said sighing.

Ubul grunted. “I underestimated how clandestine he could be. I should have set out after him sooner.”

“Perhaps he was out with a lady of the night,” Jezmavalin suggested, perhaps unaware that she had posited the same hypothesis before.

“He doesn’t need that, does he?” Hrent said. The others ignored the comment.

“For two weeks he has been locked away, only emerging to fetch water or dispose of his waste, and even then, he attempts to wait until a time when he believes he will be able to avoid us,” Ubul said. “I believe he left the laboratory to fetch something, and that upon obtaining it, he no longer has need for us. We were necessary only to a certain point, and now that our usefulness has passed, he will continue the work on his own, using whatever it was he set out to acquire.”

Cupela had noticed Enfildio had held one of his arms tight against the side of his cloak when he had returned, a detail upon which she had thought often, despite her best efforts to ignore it.

“We’re not that close,” Jezmavalin said as she studied her nails.

“Thank goodness you’re working so hard,” Hrent remarked.

“And what are you doing?” Ubul asked him.

To that, the short man simply snorted and walked away.

“Have you all thought about what would happen if Enfildio developed the tonic he desired, and kept the information from us before disappearing in the night?”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Cupela said, but she could hear in her voice that even she did not believe her words.

“Achieve immortality, then slink away without having to pay those to whom you owed a debt,” Ubul continued. “He would only have to evade us until we died, then he would live freely, with no one ever knowing what had transpired.”

“He would not trust us to keep our mouths shut,” Jezmavalin said.

Cupela frowned. “Meaning what, exactly?”

The gorgeous woman shrugged her perfect shoulders.

I cannot recall the last time I saw her do anything other than lay around. She appears to have no energy at all, and her eyes are nearly always half shut. Yet she will be paid the same as the rest of us. Assuming, now, that we do end up being paid.

“It comes down to this,” Ubul said. “We need to know what he is doing behind that door. Enfildio is supposed to be leading us. What type of leadership is this? He takes what we have done without thanks or praise, and then isolates himself, never informing us of what, if any, progress he is making. It is not how I would run things, were I given the opportunity.”

I do not doubt you would do things differently, Ubul. Nor do I doubt that you have thought through every action you would take multiple times. “In regards to his progress,” Cupela said “we have never asked, have we? He has never denied us information we have requested. Our nerves are frayed after what happened to Piroska, and we’re not thinking clearly.”

“Then go ask him.”

“Fine. I will.”

She saw that Sarah and Hrent had turned their attention to her from the other side of the room. Jezmavalin sat up straighter in her chair. I’ve spoken with him thousands of times. I need to trust in him, now more than ever before. For my sanity most of all.

She halted at the door, her tongue moving along her teeth as she considered precisely how to phrase her inquiry. The more casual, the better. We are simply interested in hearing what he is working on so that we can assist. We are a team. There is nothing accusatory here.

Two knocks on the door. Silence from beyond, which was not remarkable. Enfildio’s private chambers were vast, nearly the size of the rest of the facility. Cupela waited for a few dozen heartbeats before knocking again with the same rhythm. Again no response. She did not want to look back so see the expressions on her companions’ faces. A third set of knocks. Still no sounds or answer at the door. Cupela turned to the others, the attempt at keeping her facial expression neutral likely failing.

“Could be the old man died,” Hrent called out.

“More likely he’s ignoring us,” Ubul replied.

“Or he’s sleeping, which is what I’m going to do now,” Jezmavalin added as she stood up and stretched her back in an exaggerated motion.

Sarah did not make a reply and instead looked back to her work. Of course she would not criticize him. Though, even she has not seen him since he returned.

“If he will not work with us, then why should we work with him?” Hrent asked.

Ubul nodded. “For once I have to agree with Hrent.”

Cupela could not muster the will to refute them. “I will follow Jezmavalin’s lead and get some rest as well. I am not thinking straight.”

“I believe you are, but you do not like where your thoughts are leading you,” Ubul said. “Never mind though. Get some rest. Perhaps when you wake our leader will have emerged from his self-imposed seclusion.”

She awoke the next day, or perhaps the same day, she had no way of knowing, and emerged from her room to find the laboratory empty. The workstations had been left cluttered with vials laying on their sides, their bottoms lined with residue. Even Sarah’s table was no longer immaculate.

Cupela walked across the room in silence until she spotted Ubul. The man was kneeling down, his ear against the door which led to Enfildio’s rooms. He noticed her as well and motioned for her to approach quietly.

“There has been movement,” he whispered to her as she knelt down beside him. “More, he has been talking to himself. Alas, I could not make out the words.”

“For how long have you been doing this?”

“I’m not sure. A few bells, though.”

Cupela stood up. “This is pathetic. If he is awake, he will answer us.” She knocked hard on the door as Ubul rushed to stand as well.

“We’ll see…” he muttered as he backed away.

She did indeed hear noises from the other side of the door now. But they were faint, and did not sound as though they were getting closer. She waited a moment before knocking again, this time with more force, anger beginning to well up inside her at the injustice of the situation.

Why are you doing this, Enfildio? Do you believe we will sit by idlily as you ignore us? This can all be solved with a simple conversation. Do not push these people any further…

No response came, and she was too dejected to make another attempt. Instead, she took a seat at the large table in the middle of the room, where she put her head down and sobbed.

It had been a long time coming, this expulsion of emotion. She had denied it for too long, and it could no longer be contained. Her body began to heave with each sob, a tremble to her every breath. Tears poured down her cheeks and pooled on the stained wooden surface. The room around her was silent, even Hrent made no comment, not that she would have noticed, as lost in despair as she was.

When the wave of emotion died down, and she had wiped her red eyes dry, she stood up. The others adverted their gazes and gave her space as she headed to her room. Despite having woken less than one bell earlier, she felt sluggish and in need of a respite only granted by the unconsciousness of sleep. It would be a relief from the pain and disappointment, the only way she could briefly escape the feelings she knew would rise up again and again.

Perhaps it will all be better when I awake.

She did not know how much time had passed when she woke up in the darkness of her room. The windowless laboratory forever kept the time of day a secret from those within, as it did with the weather and the mood of the city. Enfildio’s facility was a world of its own, a world with seven residents who were on a course to cross a threshold where they could no longer coexist.

Cupela sat on her bed, her mind taking its time to adjust to reality. If she had dreamed, she did not recall what those dreams were about, and it took a few moments for her to replay the events of her last period of wakefulness. That, I wish had been a dream. It feels as though I am trapped in a living nightmare.

She spent her day attempting to distract herself with work, but failing. Ubul, Hrent, and Jezmavalin passed their time moaning and arguing, while Sarah stayed out of their way, and Piroska remained hidden in her room. As she strained a pot of boiled herbs, she heard a new sound cut through the complaining. The door to Enfildio’s quarters had opened.

The elderly man strode into the shared workspace at a brisk pace. “Greetings,” he said. “Please come to the center table. I wish to speak with you.”

Cupela looked to Ubul. His expression showed confusion, and then cynicism. Jezmavalin remained nearly on her back as she sat. Hrent and Sarah walked slowly to the table and took seats on opposite ends.

“I must apologize,” Enfildio began as Cupela and Ubul sat down next to each other. “I have not been myself lately. The accident with Piroska shook me, and I should not have let it affect me so. I know I have been silent over the past few days, and that I have not been acting in a way befitting to the comradery I wish to promote. For all of that, I need to apologize.”

When no one spoke, he continued. “That reaction is justified. I have not earned much more. I would ask for forgiveness for my impolite behavior, but cannot expect to receive it until I have shown with my actions that I deserve to be forgiven.

“Well,” he said after a long pause, “let us return to work. I will check on Piroska and rejoin you shortly.”

When he had disappeared into her room, Ubul grunted. “Does he take us for fools?”

“He would have to, to expect us to believe that rehearsed speech,” Jezmavalin said.

Cupela was too afraid of being overheard by Enfildio to speak, but she shared their sentiments. Enfildio was a brilliant man, but he did not know how to speak with people, or what it meant to truly relate to someone. For the first time, she wondered if that too played a role in his desire for her to deliver his gifts to his grandson. As though he is afraid of handling the interactions the wrong way, and thus tarnishing Richard’s opinion of him.

“Who could not believe he cares deeply for our poor, charred Piroska,” Hrent added. “It only took him a fortnight to acknowledge she still lives.”

Only Sarah did not speak. Her eyes remained on the table, her head cast down. Cupela wondered how the young woman felt now. It had seemed as though she had been developing a close relationship with Enfildio, but since his return, he had not given her a second thought. Likely he has whatever he needed from her. He was kind and attentive to her until she unlocked a mystery he was working on, and then he discarded her. Only, now he wishes for her forgiveness. Pathetic.

Enfildio returned shortly and spoke in a lowered voice. “Asleep still,” he said, as though the others were unaware of that fact. He seemed to read the mood of the room then, as he took a step back. “Perhaps a gift, as another sign of apology. I have a few bottles of wine in my quarters. I will fetch them for you. We can begin work again tomorrow.”

Pathetic in every sense of the word. This forceful attempt will backfire, Enfildio. How can you not see that?

Until then, she would drink with the others, though she was not looking forward to the direction the conversation would doubtlessly take.

Veabella

Year 1378 (Present day)

It was Meffas’s turn to take point. Though the undisputed leader of the company, he insisted on sharing an equal part of each duty. He rode fifty paces in front of the others, and for that Veabella was thankful. She had some questions about Meffas, but she did not have the courage to ask him directly. Instead, she looked to his oldest friend, Ictorian. The tall man with lean muscles was a few years younger than Meffas, but what hair he had on the sides of his head had turned gray. His advancing age did not take away from his martial prowess or the intimidation he instilled in strangers. Even so, Veabella thought of him as being easier to approach than Meffas. He felt more like a peer and although he rarely initiated conversations, he always gave her questions thoughtful and genuine responses.

Ictorian did not look back as Veabella rode up to him. The man was staring off into the woods on their left, an unreadable look on his face.

“Think we will reach the city today?” Veabella asked.

“Indeed,” he said with a smile that quickly faded back to his usual look of mild sadness.

“Ictorian, how is Meffas? It looks like he is putting the weight of all of this solely on his own back.”

“You’re an astute observer.”

“Is that a jest?”

“No. I apologize. I meant it as a compliment. You are correct. He wants to carry that burden because he finds it comfortable to be concerned, and because he wants to protect us. If he could, Meffas would keep all of us safe from any harm, whether it be physical or emotional. He is the most selfless man I have ever known, and I have traveled with many people.”

“That is why he withdrew us from the tournament, isn’t it? To keep us safe?”

The change in Ictorian’s face was more pronounced than perhaps he would have liked. Veabella saw the sadness writ clear in his eyes. “Yes. He would not have anything happen to us because of what he considered to be an unnecessary risk.”

“Has he always been this cautious?”

“You ask pointed questions, lass. For as long as I have known him, yes. But I do not think he was always that way.”

“Why do you say that?”

Ictorian looked at her then and studied her face. She thought she could see the faintest hint of a tear beginning to well up in his eyes. “Because he has known the loss of people for whom he was responsible.”

Veabella waited to see if the man would continue without further nudging. After some time of riding in silence, he spoke again.

“When I met Meffas, he was no longer a hunter. He had not been one for many years, in fact. But he was known as an expert tracker who had an intimate knowledge of nature. He may have slowed some now, but he was also one of the most skilled wielders of a battle axe I have ever seen. Nevertheless, he was reluctant to return to a life of hunting and leading men and women into danger. He will not speak of it, but when he was much younger, Meffas led a company of a handful of hunters who gained renown in the lands near the Lightless Forest. They became known as one of the best outfits on the continent for their ability to track and kill any beast. And this is during a time when there were no mechanized traps and herbalism poisons were only just being developed, making them rare and extremely costly. Over time, hunters would seek out Meffas from as far away as Hon Rin begging for a chance to join. I believe the company grew to number nearly thirty individuals. That is a large company today and even larger back before the guilds played a role in guiding contracts.

As you are familiar, the lands north and east of the Lightless Forest eventually become mountainous and incredibly difficult to traverse. When gold was found however, settlements began to rise up in areas where men had never lived. The miners expected to encounter beasts and placed many guards, but each time they pushed further out into the wilderness, the animals became more ferocious and more aggressive. Eventually the loss of life was too great and no further expeditions were sent out until the mountains were cleared of the worst of the beasts.

Being famous now in the region, Meffas’s crew was contracted to purge a nest of the most vicious of the creatures which were hunting the miners. I never saw them myself, but the rumors were that they walked on two legs, but were twice the size of a man. Covered in thick gray fur, they were able to camouflage themselves into the rocks of the mountains, and they had no trouble seeing in the dark. They were perfectly crafted for life in the cold of the region.

Meffas’s crew went into the mountains and returned with the heads of six beasts. A few men were lost, and Meffas took that hard, blaming himself. However, he had likely expected a worse outcome. In all, the hunt was wildly successful. One of those creatures alone had been known to kill more than a dozen men during nighttime hunts.

They descended the mountains to deliver the heads and collect their reward. The village had been small just a few years prior, but with the rush of miners to the area, it had grown into a bustling town. I do not recall its name, and it is no matter, as that village is gone now, considered cursed. You see, Meffas’s company had not killed all of the beasts. The animals were more cunning than anyone had realized, and when their pack members died, they followed their scent out of the mountains. Meffas and his company arrived in the late afternoon, and that night, there was slaughter in the town.

Eventually the beasts were felled, but Meffas was the only man from his crew left alive, the only other survivors children and elderly who hid in the basement of a storehouse. The contract had been for the heads of the three creatures who were believed to be in the mountains. Meffas had delivered double the required bounty. Yet when he left the town, he left with nothing, considering it unethical to take money from people who had just been devastated.

It was the last time Meffas went on a hunt for many years, and to this day, he blames himself for everything that transpired. In his lowest moments, he wished he had never walked away from the fight.”

Veabella’s eyes had grown wide during the tale, but now they began to fill with tears. She could imagine the guilt Meffas had been living with for decades. That the man appeared so strong to her made her all the more sympathetic.

“I had never heard the whole story,” a voice said from behind.

Veabella turned to see that Xopher had ridden up to within a few feet of them. The shame he felt at having been bitter over Meffas’s decision was plain on his face.

“He would not want us to hear that story, even though it would make it easier for us to understand the decisions he makes,” Xopher said.

“Correct,” was all Ictorian replied.

I wonder now how and when Meffas returned to hunting. A question for another time though. I have never seen Ictorian speak this much and I do not want to make him uncomfortable. Still, would that I knew.

The sun was beginning its lazy descent when the walls of Goldcrest came into view. After the pathos of earlier in the day, Veabella had moved to ride with Twig and Donnes. The inseparable friends were wagering again. For all their talk, Veabella had never seen actual coin switch hands between the two, but both assured her they knew the balance in their heads.

The number varies greatly depending on who you ask, and I suspect neither number is accurate.

“She’s nearly as old as Meffas, I’m telling you,” Twig said, his voice rising with enthusiasm.

“You don’t even know how old Meffas is,” Donnes snarled.

“Almost as old as you.”

Twig then realized the mistake he had made. He was riding too close to Donnes. The large woman leaned over and smacked him across the back of the head.

“You’re two years younger than me, idiot.”

“Then next time hit someone your own age,” he said, guiding his horse out of smacking range.

“There’s no way she’s more than thirty-five,” Donnes said. “No wrinkles, no bags under her eyes.”

They were arguing over Arwa, a councilwoman in The Ebanigan Hunter’s Guild. Veabella suspected both Twig and Donnes secretly desired the woman. Tall with long, flowing hair and sharp features, she was an attractive woman, although cold and distant.

Though that may be one of her aspects that attracts them.

“She’s seen things though,” Twig retorted. “You can see the years in her eyes. Her memories haunt her.”

Donnes snorted. “What are you a philosopher all of a sudden?”

“Not all of a sudden. I’ve always been one.”

“You’re a scrawny little puke who recites lines he heard from stories. What book did you get that from?”

“The book of life! I made it up myself.”

“I believe that last part; you made that up.”

“You wouldn’t understand, Donnes. You lived a privileged life of luxury while I was out on the streets fighting for survival.”

“You know the majority of what you say is lies? Not just now, but in general. You lie more than you talk the truth.” Donnes looked back at Veabella who, thankful for the diversion, was shaking her head and laughing. “Isn’t that true, Vea?”

Twig spoke up before she could respond. “Don’t let Donnes intimidate you. She’d never hit anyone but me because she knows I’d never hit a lady, even out of defense.”

Veabella giggled and winked at Donnes. “I think you just proved her right with that, Twig.”

The man did not stop complaining about being ganged up on until they reached Goldcrest’s southern gate.

The Ebanigan royal family boasted that their capital was the largest city in the world. A similar claim was made by the royals of Xu and Vinredor. As for the reality of the situation, it was difficult to tell. The last king of Ebanigan, Boryell, had insisted on meticulous record keeping, and had declared the city’s population to be just over one million two hundred thousand. However, that was before the purge. It was possible that the population had recovered since then, but there were no official numbers anymore. Instead, the current queen, Sayell, had simply added on to the number every few years, and insisted that the city currently held one and a half million people. The University of Vinredor had conducted a survey less than a decade ago which determined that Oslidor held nearly two million citizens, making it significantly larger. Of Rubicious, the capital of Xu, there were no numbers given any credence. The city prided itself instead on its enormously tall and thick walls, and the luxurious and decadent display of wealth in its streets, though the tradition of decadence among the wealthy was under assault by their new Divine King, Octavius Xu. As a byproduct of those ostentatious displays of wealth, the city was far too expensive for the common man to live in, and the population was rumored to be less than one hundred thousand. Octavius Xu wished to change that, and had enacted many edicts denouncing unnecessary material goods in his first few years of rule. Whether it was working, Veabella had no idea. Like most people, she had never been to Rubicious.

A mountain fastness, Rubicious was said to be a marvel of architectural design, but the majority of the population of Xu never came within a hundred miles of the city, living instead primarily in fertile valleys and along the country’s coastline. Whatever the truth, Goldcrest was a city large enough to easily get lost in, and thieves and worse criminals took advantage of that at every opportunity.

Still, I am happy to be back here. Being behind those walls will make it easier to sleep at night.

Meffas paid the gate tax and the company filed in behind him through the expansive stone arch. She had not noticed it before, but after having spent time in Oslidor, Goldcrest felt ancient. Though both cities claimed their roots went back to the beginning of recorded time, Goldcrest was stagnant while Oslidor had grown under the rule of Oslian Vinredor. It was thanks in large part to the work of Simon Howswilder and his contract with the Vinredorian Crown. But the purge in Ebanigan had halted the growth of the city and then sent it into a descent from which it had never truly recovered. The violence seen in that time had left a mark on the populous, scaring them and desensitizing them to acts of aggression. That so many everyday people partook in the orgy of blood and victimizing, only to find themselves returned to their regular lives, numbed the city in a profound way. Ictorian had said once that the city was dying, and Veabella thought that she felt that now.

The crew followed Meffas through dirty markets down cobbled streets of granite on their path to the guild district. Home to all the officially recognized guilds of Ebanigan, the Goryell guild district was one of the wealthier areas of the city. Each guild employed armed guards and the vast quantity of coin that passed through the district each day ensured that everyone was watched with a closer eye than in most other parts of the city.

Unlike Oslidor, with the visage of Oslian Vinredor on seemingly every street, there were no signs of Sayell Ebanigan in the city. It was said she had no idea of what went on beyond the walls of the palace, though it was rumored to be more than aloofness that kept her eyes closed to the real world. Rivalries between factions within the palace were fierce, forcing the queen to spend an excessive amount of time to get any order through the bureaucracy. Ebanigan had seen better days, and everyone knew it.

Those thoughts dampened Veabella’s mood, but the sight of the hunter’s guild brightened it again. Seeing the green roof shingles took her back to her induction into the guild two years ago. She had Meffas to thank for that day, and although she had tried, she knew she could never truly make him understand how important it had been to her. The sense of accomplishment she felt when she was given her hunter’s torc had been overwhelming. The guild hall looked identical to that day two years ago, and in this instance, she was thankful for the city’s stagnation.

They hobbled the horses and Meffas called them aside before they entered the building. The sun had fallen, and light poured through the cracks at the door hinges and through the second-floor windows, indicating the establishment was very much alive.

“It is safe to assume they will know at least as much as we do. Even still, we do not want to say anything that could possibly be taken in the wrong manner. Our goal is to ascertain as much information as they have, and to make them see our innocence. I hate to say this, but this one time, please stay silent, all of you. I have dealt with Ehrhard for many years. I believe he is a fair man, but he is cunning as well, and if there is an advantage for the guild in making us appear guilty, he may take it.”

No one said a word. Meffas looked them over and nodded. He then presented them to the guards and they were granted access to the guild hall.

The building’s first floor was a massive room mostly consisting of tables for eating and drinking. Each table could seat ten hunters, and on this night, all of the tables were full. The raucous laughter and boisterous conversations died suddenly as the new company filed into the entrance way.

No doubt now that word traveled quickly.

A relay system of horses at outposts was used to send messages between the three royal nations, which had greatly increased the amount of information which was shared since its inception. The debacle at the tournament would be of interest to Ebanigan, and would have been prioritized among the relay riders.

Veabella looked to Meffas, who continued striding directly to the lengthy dais where the guild council sat. Startled by the unwanted attention, it took Veabella a moment to recover her senses and follow her company leader. She peered over at her crewmates and saw a disparate variety of postures and facial expressions. Arms crossed, Xopher glared out at the other hunters, a look of challenge in his eyes. Ictorian followed Meffas, his eyes straight ahead. Twig and Donnes kept looking back between the tables and each other, looks of amusement and concern shifting with each glance. Eventually the entire crew crossed the room and found themselves before the guild council.

The six members of the council were each seated in high-backed oak chairs with green cushioned backs and seats. Before them was a long table on which was inscribed the guild sigil of crossed arrows, the same image which could be found on the torcs of every guild member. The two middle seats were occupied by Ehrhard, the guild master, and Arwa, his second in command. On their right sat Kovlen, a giant of a man who had lost an arm and an eye during a hunt which forced him into retirement. Next to him was Bitash, the council’s scribe. He was already furiously taking notes, although no one had yet spoken. To the left of Ehrhard sat Purcell, a famed former hunter who had founded the guild but stepped out of the leadership role following a scandal. Finally, on the far left was Goren, the newest member of the council and the Ebanigan Crown’s official representative. All the members except Goren had been present two years ago when Veabella earned her torc. She still looked at them with a sense of awe and hoped now that they could assist her company by at least believing in their innocence.

“Master Ehrhard, council members,” Meffas began. “I would like to request a private audience. My company and I have a rather sensitive issue to discuss.”

The guild master’s face remained neutral. “I can grant that request, but not tonight. As you see, the hall is quite full and I would not interrupt the revelry of so many of our members. Can your request wait until tomorrow?”

“I do not think that would be wise,” Meffas said. “Though I suspect you know of what I am speaking?”

“I do.”

Meffas shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Behind him, Veabella could see the tension in his back. As much as she did not want this conversation to take place in front of hundreds of onlookers, she could not bear the thought of waiting even longer to hear what the guild council knew.

“Very well,” Meffas said. “I suppose I must begin by informing you that we are innocent. We had nothing to do with anything that took place at the tournament. We were in fact not even in the city on the day it took place and knew nothing of what happened until Vinredorian guards attempted to arrest us.”

“You withdrew from the tournament.” This statement from Arwa. The woman had passed the meeting with a poorly hidden smirk which she promptly dropped before speaking.

“I understand now how that looks. But I deemed it an unnecessary risk.”

“That, I believe above all else,” Ehrhard said. “And of your innocence, I have no doubt as well. I have known you for many years, Meffas. You are not a murderer. But of your decision to withdraw from the tournament, despite the fact that you were this guild’s representative, I cannot abide.”

Goren spoke next. “Do you realize the pressure we now face from Vinredor? They want your heads. Do you see the reasoning of their charge? You had access to the other participants and you were the only entrants who survived. I certainly see how they came to the conclusion that you are guilty.”

“If nothing else, you disgraced us,” Kovlen said, his anger palpable.

“We chose your company to represent our guild, and instead you brought us nothing but shame. Even without the poisonings of which you claim innocence,” Purcell said.

Grateful for someone else to bring shame upon the guild, no doubt. No one is happier at other’s misery than a man who believes his own shame will be supplanted.

Only Bitash did not speak. The scribe continued writing as though he intended to capture every word that was spoken. Ehrhard raised a hand for silence, and shook his head. “Vinredor has asked that we turn you over to their authorities. Of course, we will not do any such thing because of the precedence that it sets. However, your membership in the guild, and this is for the entire company, has ended. We cannot be seen to do nothing when our reputation has been so damaged. I know you understand how important reputation is.”

Veabella felt her world falling apart. Too many thoughts passed through her mind at once, making it impossible to think clearly. She looked at Meffas and watched as the man seemed to age before her eyes, his posture slumping before he attempted to straighten himself for a last word.

“I ask that this punishment be given to me alone and that the other hunters in my crew be allowed to stay on as guild members. The decision to withdraw from the tournament was mine alone, and therefore the consequences of that decision are mine alone to suffer.”

For the first time, Veabella heard murmurs from the hunters seated at the tables behind her. She did not know if they had been silent during the entire audience with the council, but she was now more aware of their presence. She hoped they would speak later of Meffas’s honor, even after they disparaged his initial decision.

“Your request is denied, Meffas. The guild needs to be seen extracting this rot from our institution or else our members will be forever barred from taking contracts in Vinredor. I know that sounds harsh, but it is my duty to act in the best interest of the guild, no matter how difficult it may be.”

Meffas paused for such a long time that the scribe Bitash caught up and halted his writing for the first time since Veabella and the others approached the dais. She looked up at the council and saw no sympathy from any of the members. Arwa’s narrowed gaze was focused on Meffas, while Goren whispered into Purcell’s ear, the two men doing nothing to hide their satisfaction. Ehrhard and Kovlen had both crossed their arms and exchanged brief, muted glances before looking out upon the now former hunting company. It was clear they were united on this decision, and she hated to admit that she could see no argument, with the exception of pity, for them to act otherwise. And pity was not a profitable way to run an organization.

When Meffas finally spoke, he sounded exhausted and compliant, as though he was a patient accepting a healer’s declaration that he was terminally ill. “Understood. Thank you for this audience.”

Veabella could not look at him when he turned around, nor did she wish to meet the eyes of anyone else in the room. Her cheeks felt hot and flushed, and she wished for nothing more than a place to cry away from the gazes of onlookers. As Meffas led the company out, she fell in behind Ictorian, hiding behind his massive shoulders until they were out in the street.

“Who set us up?” Xopher asked, his sword hand flexing on the pommel of his blade.

“Not now,” Meffas said. “Our emotions are running too high.” He reached into a pouch in his vest and removed some coins. “Do whatever you need to do to relax and get your mind off of this. We can reconvene tomorrow night once everyone has cooled off.”

No one moved to grab the coins he held out. After a moment, Meffas forcefully placed a small share of the pile into each of their hands, closing their fists to prevent the coins from falling. “Goodnight,” he said after handing out the last of the money and disappearing into the darkness of the night.

“His advice is sound,” Ictorian said. “I will follow it.” The dour man then left in the opposite direction of his old friend. Veabella knew Meffas did not want company, but now that she was away from the eyes of the council and the other hunting parties, she did not want to be alone.

“Someone needs to die for this,” Xopher said.

“We have no idea who though,” Twig responded.

Donnes kept shaking her head. “The guild is supposed to defend their members, yet no one said a word in our favor.”

“They’ve been paid off, I’d wager,” Xopher said. “Think on this- who benefits from all of this? The hunters in Vinredor, and companies in Ebanigan who wish to go there for contracts, and now have much less competition. All of their best companies were taken out with one blow.”

“Can we file an official complaint against the guild?” Veabella asked.

“File with who? The royals? They’re part of the council. The petition would go nowhere.”

“We don’t even know if what you’re saying is accurate,” Twig said. “We have no evidence of anything.”

Xopher snorted. “Fine, Twig. Why don’t you ride back to Vinredor and search for some evidence. We’ll wait here for you.”

“Shut your mouth, Xopher,” Donnes said. “Maybe Meffas is right. We need to cool off. Let’s get some cold drinks.”

“That’s an idea I agree with,” Twig said, attempting a smile which faded as soon as he saw the look on Xopher’s face.

“Please don’t start any fights tonight,” Veabella said to Xopher. “Meffas will figure something out.”

Xopher looked like he was about to give a remark, but instead changed his mind. “Go get drunk then. I’m going to find Ictorian.”

Veabella watched him leave, desperately wishing the older and wiser Ictorian would be able to calm him down.

“Hot head,” Donnes said.

“He could be in the right though,” Twig admitted. “What he said makes sense. Someone benefits from all of this. No one just kills hunters for no reason, except deranged beasts. Though I suppose even they have a reason for killing. Well, you see what I’m saying.”

“No,” Donnes said. “Shut your mouth until there’s a tankard in front of it. Vea, you’re coming with us. No excuses.”

Grateful for the demand, Veabella nodded quietly.

I do not know what I am going to do with my life now. I have to trust in Meffas. He would never let us down.

Then wiping the tears from her eyes, she walked away from the guild hall with her friends.

Erden

Year 1348 (Thirty Years Prior to Present Day)

He was awakened by a kick to his side. Erden looked up to see Kingsley staring down at him, another manic grin on his face. “Good morning, dear,” he said. “The captain wants to speak with you.”

The sun was beginning to make its ascent and there was much movement in the camp. Erden realized he had slept through the entire offensive, but what did it matter? Once the assault had begun, his job was completed, and he must have done it well enough, for he heard men laughing and saw them slapping each other on the back while giving congratulations.

Sarthak sat atop a horse, a woman in a hooded cape of white cloth at his side, her arms bound by rope, the hood folded back to show a mask of deep blue, highlighted by silver swirls. When Sarthak spotted him, he tossed him a small leather bag. Erden bumbled the catch and bent over to retrieve the bag as Kingsley laughed behind him.

“I would like for you to examine the contents of that bag,” Sarthak told him.

Reaching in, he felt a number of small, vaguely circular objects. He pulled them out and examined them by the torch which Kingsley carried. The objects were shells, beige in color with ridged edges.

“Pardon me for stating the obvious, but they’re shells,” Erden said, unclear if he was being set up for another jest.

“Do you have any sense of whether they are unique in any way? As far as I and anyone else can tell, they are as you say, shells. But this is what The Herald brought back from the Crystal Desert. Take a closer look, Quartermaster.”

Erden did his best to inspect the shells from every angle. He rubbed his fingers and looked for residue. He scratched their surfaces with his fingernails. There was nothing but a small amount of white powder which had no special smell. “I’m afraid I am unable to find anything noteworthy, though I am not an expert in shells…”

“I assumed you were not,” Sarthak said. “I only thought you may have a different perspective, or had seen or heard of them in some book.” He turned then to the woman by his side. “You were captured because of these; you do realize that?”

She did not flinch, her body facing straight ahead. If the woman’s expression changed, it was impossible to tell from behind the mask she wore. “I do not know if you are familiar with us, but we do not torture our prisoners. Unfortunately for you, we have to hand you over to a man who is far less empathetic, and he will do whatever he needs to acquire the information he desires,” Sarthak said. “In all fairness, you will be executed either way, and your body will be tossed into the sea, but in my experience, there are fates far worse than that.”

“They are shells,” the woman said. “That is all I know.”

“What else did you bring back from the desert?”

“Nothing else.”

“Then why did you risk your life for these shells?”

“Because I was told to do so.”

“For what purpose?”

“I do not question my orders.”

Sarthak grunted. “Yes, the superiors ever detest explaining themselves. Who gave you this order?”

“A messenger.”

“Thank you for the enlightening answer. A messenger from whom?”

“The Hero.”

A silence encompassed the area, and for quite some time, no one spoke or moved.

A man blessed by the gods whose believers say will unite the world. A man who they claim has been alive for thousands of years, but who no living person has seen. Certain fiction.

“He should have fetched the shells himself,” Kingsley said, breaking the silence.

The Herald did not respond to that, and though Erden thought her to be gullible, he was impressed by her hardness. The woman had not sounded the least bit afraid. She has written herself into the story of her faith, becoming a principal character. As I wish to do.

“Is there more you can tell us?” Sarthak asked her, “before we bring you to Marshal Jouse?”

She gave no reaction, though whether out of defiance, or due to a lack of additional knowledge, Erden did not know. He had not had to take a life, or even fight in the assault, and he knew he was not ready for the reality of war, now that he saw what it was to see someone in their last moments.

“Very well,” Sarthak said, kicking his horse into a gentle walk, the Herald following at his side. As Erden watched them as they faded into the mess of camp fires and bustling soldiers, he was glad that for once, Kingsley had nothing to say.

Knowing well enough that he would be asked to do so eventually, and that while his mind was too active to sleep, it would be best to finish the work now, Erden began taking inventory of the company’s supplies. No one had been polite enough to carry the ladders back, so he marked the boards as nil, and cursed the fact that he would likely be the one to disassemble them and put the wood back on the wagons. The soldiers took materiel haphazardly, and it took a great amount of effort to identify and count everything, especially in the crowded and dark rear of a wagon. He was attempting to measure the contents of a barrel when shouts exploded from the camp.

The cries of war horns rang out, and everywhere men looked about in confusion. Erden watched as a path began to form, soldiers moving to either side in haste. A line of mounted men galloped through the cleared space, and Erden saw Sarthak among them. A score of riders. All Blades. Why are they riding out of the camp at such great speed?

He went looking for someone who might know what was happening, and came across Kingsley. The lieutenant was calmly delivering orders to a half dozen men. “I don’t care how many men of the 10th are with them, I want two of us with each of the prisoners during transportation.” The men saluted and went off in separate directions.

“What is going on?” Erden asked.

“The Herald has escaped. It appears that Marshal Jouse’s interrogation will have to await her recapture.”

“The captain rode out after her?”

“He did. Which makes me the company’s ranking officer.” Erden could tell the lieutenant was looking for a reaction, and so he did his best to leave him disappointed.

“We’re to secure Desert’s Watch until they return,” Kingsley added after some time. “You are to inventory the supplies we find. I assume you can do that on your own, yes? Let’s get to it, then.”

Erden watched as Kingsley called for a horse, mounted up, and rode out toward the castle. Bemused and hazy from the quick turn of events, Erden’s mind was additionally struggling with a lingering feeling of disquiet regarding the riders who had just left the camp. There was something strange about the group, but he could not figure out what it was.

A few bells later, Erden had completed the task of loading the wagons and walked along with the rear guard toward the fortress. Desert’s Watch was an old castle which had not been formally occupied for hundreds of years. Its appearance spoke to that, the relatively short outer wall crusted with lichen, and the stones of the single high tower crumbled so that less than half of them remained standing. He recalled having read in one of his history lessons that it was one of the oldest fortresses in the world, and it must have been, for there was no reason for it to exist out here in the center of Vinredorian territory. The view from the top of the once proud tower would have been magnificent however, and one would have been able to see for miles into the Crystal Desert, though not far enough to see the fabled crystals for which the land was named.

The last of the soldiers passed through the gate, still leaving the ladders beyond, and Erden watched as men stabled horses and went off in different directions for purposes he could not surmise. The entire force of The Blades, save the score of men who had ridden out to find The Herald, appeared to be occupied, or good at feigning it. Too bashful to ask for assistance, Erden lit a torch and decided to begin his search for leftover supplies by checking if there was storage space in the cellar.

After a brief and fruitless search, he emerged back into the light of the courtyard. It was clear now that the 10th would not be joining The Blades in Desert’s Watch, a realization of which Erden was thankful. The castle was too small for close to seven hundred men, and the tensions were high enough without accusations and blame being thrown about regarding the escape of the most important prisoner. The days of marching, and the multiple bells of time spent hauling gear and foodstuffs had left Erden exhausted. Not seeing Kingsley, he thought for a moment about finding a place to sleep, only to recover his strength, of course. He made his way back to the wagons when he heard Kingsley’s voice calling out to him, the lone unoccupied man.

“All done, Quartermaster?”

With a long sigh, Erden turned to acknowledge the lieutenant. “Not quite, sir.”

“Did the rebels leave supplies in our wagons?”

“I would doubt it highly.”

“Then get your arse headed in the right direction. I want a full report on everything you find before the next bell, which could be soon, as I have no idea of the time.”

Erden could not even manage a nod, much less a salute.

In the end, there was not much of use left in the castle, seeing as how the company was too well supplied to be desperate enough to eat moldy food. When Erden handed his report to Kingsley, the man looked at it blankly. “Well, what does this damn thing say?”

“There are some decrepit chunks of what might have been bread, some frayed rope, a few cloths stained with dried blood. But there are also two bookshelves. It looked like there were some interesting titles.”

“Interesting how?” Kingsley asked.

“I saw a book of maps of East Saltion, and diaries dating back at least two hundred years.”

“Ah,” Kingsley said, nodding. “So, interesting in that you would enjoy reading them. Not interesting in having any practical use for the military in which you are employed.”

Erden thought for a moment and came to the conclusion that any reply he gave would only make the matter worse.

“Very well,” the lieutenant said, tossing the report onto the ground. You are dismissed. But don’t go hiding in the wagons. Yes, I may not be literate, but I’m still smarter than you.”

When Erden was sure Kingsley was too busy playing cards and drinking to look for him, Erden disappeared to the opposite end of the castle. He was greatly looking forward to sleeping in a bed, albeit one without sheets, for the first time in weeks. However, the exhaustion he felt was at war with the nagging disquiet which continued to circulate through his mind. He chose to focus on something outside of his immediate circumstances- Cupela.

Had she won Enfildio’s heart, or did he continue to exploit her idolization of him? Though it was with him at all times, he rarely set his eyes upon the glass vial which had belonged to her. He stared at it now, unsure whether the object was a gift or a curse. He wished to be rid of his affection for her. It had become an unpleasant part of his psyche, one that made him feel almost nauseous.

His mind this day was a co-conspirator, egging his feelings onward. It brought him back now to the days when he and Cupela had spent so much of their time together. How could he not have admitted to himself that he wanted her to be more than a friend. Or, had his attraction only developed once she had made her presence scare? The more he dwelled on it, the more his desire for her grew. It was some time before he was able to concentrate on anything else.

He thought back to the events of earlier in the day, and how something had been amiss when the riders left the camp. He replayed the vision in his mind, looking at the faces of the men as they galloped past him. And then it finally came to him. It simply did not make sense. They left Abraham.

When he woke the next day, he learned that Sarthak and the other riders had still not returned. Meanwhile, the 10th had moved out toward Tides with orders that The Blades follow as soon as The Herald was recaptured.

A number of men were playing Factions on the floor of the dormitory, while Erden laid in bed and listened. “Marshal Jouse is thinking The Herald’s gone for good,” Detvin said. “He’ll be moving on the main force, and this’ll end up exploding into a true war.”

“Sarthak will catch her,” the muscular Roliher said.

“He would if things was fair, but they ain’t. The damn walkers on The Path are all over the 10th, and they snuck her somewhere safe.”

“He’ll sniff them out,” Roliher said in quick response.

“I like your faith, lad, but we’re headed for an all-out war. The rebels ain’t waiting at Tides to take in the fresh air. They’re bringing in more soldiers. You think they’re gonna sail all the way here just to turn around? Marshal Jouse knows it as well as I do. Every day we don’t have that woman, we’re a day closer to the land running red.”

Erden feared that the old veteran was right. Jouse had said the rebellion would be crushed if they captured The Herald, but if she escaped, it only added to her allure. Wanting to escape himself, Erden left the room and went out into the courtyard.

As he walked, he recalled the promise he had made to himself the night before. The clarity of morning made it seem foolish, and now was certainly not the time, with Sarthak gone and the company waiting without knowing what would happen next. Perhaps when life is more settled.

He found the stoic man alone on the north side of the courtyard, hidden from the rest of the area by a partially dilapidated wall. Abraham helped to keep the other soldiers in shape with daily trainings, but those ended by late morning, and Erden did not think the order had even been given that day. Yet here he was, working over different sequences of movements in silence. Erden stood for a time to watch him, hoping to see some of the brilliance he had witnessed that first day he joined the company, but the actions of the man were mostly mundane cuts to either side, followed by shifts in his stance. Confused, Erden changed his vantage point and moved closer. It was then he saw that Abraham’s eyes were closed. He watched for a bit longer, becoming more impressed by the control the man wielded over his blade. Erden had learned how heavy a sword could be, and the two-handed blade Abraham employed was longer and wider than any of weapons used by the other Blades. He continued watching, increasingly mystified, until Abraham, his eyes still closed, spoke.

“Care to join me?”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

Abraham opened his eyes and gave a slight grin. “It helps to work with others,” he said before sheathing his blade on his back and walking over to a weapon rack. He chose a bastard sword without hesitation and passed it over to Erden.

“There are practice swords…” Erden said, barely loud enough to be heard.

“We won’t be dueling. Hold that out and feel its weight.”

Erden did so. He hoped this was not a test of some type, as he knew definitively that he could not hold the blade straight out for more than a few minutes, even with both hands.

While he stood holding the sword, Abraham went back to the weapon rack and retrieved a sword belt. “Hold it as long as you can,” he said. Erden closed his eyes and strained against the weight of the blade, perhaps granting him another twenty heartbeats. Then, arms shaking, he let the blade down. Abraham handed him the sword belt. “It’s best to be accustomed to what you’ll be wearing in an actual battle, especially for something that will feel encumbering at first.”

As Erden attached the sword belt, Abraham looked him over. “It’s a good fit. Let’s practice sheathing and removing the blade.”

The training began that simply, much to Erden’s relief. Abraham gave him short, clear directions and he followed them as best as he could. His actions were never accompanied by criticisms, or praise for that matter, but Abraham worked with him without complaint when he stumbled or did something foolish, which Erden thought was quite often.

He went back the next day as well, now relieved to have something on his mind other than Sarthak’s absence and his own inadequacy. Again, Abraham was alone, but willing to halt his own training to work with the inexperienced quartermaster. They did not share many words, but Erden was grateful for the time and attention the great swordsman gave him.

Abraham was circling him, Erden working to keep the man directly in front of him when a horn blew twice from the top level of the castle, signaling an approaching rider. Erden’s attention was stolen briefly, but Abraham urged him to focus, and so he did, not thinking more of what was happening outside of the training grounds. Until Kingsley sent for him.

“A local man brought this in,” Kingsley said, handing Erden a blood-spattered piece of white cloth. “He says it’s from our captain. What does it say?”

Black words were written sloppily in what appeared to be coal. Erden had to adjust the folds of the cloth and imagine what some of the letters which had gone missing would have been, but he was able to make out the message. Ambushed. Trapped inside a hamlet southeast of you. Sarthak. Erden’s hands began to shake.

Kingsley grabbed him by the collar of his sweaty shirt. “What does it say, dammit?”

“They were ambushed. They’re trapped in a hamlet southeast of here. Sarthak signed it.”

“Could it be a trap?”

“How would I know?”

“Fair enough. Either way, Sarthak is in trouble.”

The men assembled quickly. The remaining horses were mounted, and the riders were complimented by a force of forty men on foot. Erden was left behind with the four soldiers who had been injured in the assault on Desert’s Watch. He watched the fighting men leave the castle, feeling completely impotent.

A desire for excitement had brought him to where he was, yet at that moment, he felt no closer to adventure than he had working among books. What did I expect when I signed on as quartermaster? I suppose I wasn’t thinking clearly. Well, if I’ve left the only home I’ve ever known and traveled hundreds of miles, I should take the last step and dedicate myself to becoming a real soldier. I may be years behind where I should be at my age, but I have an advantage most would kill for. I am able to train with the greatest swordsman the world has ever known.

Feeling invigorated, but without many manners in which he could apply his energy, Erden went up to the top level of the castle, where he had found the small collection of reading material. He leafed through the diaries first. The pages had obvious water damage, making it difficult to read. The parts that he could make out were actually more a list of places and dates than a typical diary. The author seemingly did not have the time or impetus to record his thoughts.

The maps were more to his liking. They were older than he had thought upon his brief inspection early. Their age could be seen in the wear the paper had suffered, as well as in how so many of the names of places had changed over time. The neighboring country to the east was in a near constant state of fluctuation, and Erden made a game of seeing how often a particular tract of land switched hands. He had begun to enjoy himself when the blast of a horn tore him away from his distraction. They’ve returned.

Erden made haste to the courtyard, eager for reassurance that the men he depended on were safe.

Soldiers were already through the gate, some carrying bodies on stretchers made of fallen branches and tarp. There were many wounded, or dead. Erden did not feel like approaching to find out. He looked around until he saw Kingsley. The lieutenant was helping Sarthak down from his horse. The captain’s right thigh was covered in a bloody bandage. Kingsley supported him as he walked past Erden without looking up, a grimace of pain on his face.

As the last soldiers made their way in, Erden spotted Abraham. His long cloth shirt and leather pants were covered in blood, but he himself had suffered no injuries. As he walked, other soldiers approached him and thanked him, patting him on the back or embracing him. Each time, Abraham barely acknowledged their presence, his gaze remaining in front of him, his expression neutral.

Erden wished to speak with him, but decided perhaps it was not the time. Instead, he located one of the younger soldiers and once he made eye contact, walked over to him.

“What happened?” Erden asked before the man could walk away.

“The Herald led them into an ambush of Rebels hiding in a small town. Must have been at least six dozen. Sarthak got a message out to a local man before they got trapped. When we got there, the captain was holding the door alone. Would have been a tough fight for the rest of us, except we had Abraham. He cut right through them when he saw Sarthak had been wounded. Fought like a demon. Must’ve killed twenty of them himself.”

“How many men did we lose?”

The young man looked away. “Those that rode out at first? Only Sarthak’s left now.”

“That’s nearly a fifth of our men.”

“If you say so. Never was good with numbers.”

Wishing to do something, anything to feel of use, Erden began helping with the horses. While he lifted feed and brushed down the animals, he thought on the career path he had chosen. Passing his time around people who could be laughing at one moment, and then gone the next day, without ever having said farewell or made the proper efforts to be prepared, felt like living on the edge of madness. He was ashamed of his own naivety at having been so surprised to witness corpses at such close range. Some of those bodies belonged to people whose names he knew. Even if they were not his friends, he felt a connection to them. Now they were gone and the fact that he never learned about who each of them was as a person increased the guilt which was boiling over in his gut. The reality of war was a weight that threatened to crush him.

The healers told Sarthak he should rest for three to four weeks while his wound healed. He chose to ignore that advice. The very next day, he had the soldiers of The Blades gather in the courtyard, and addressed them from the second level of the castle, leaning heavily against a makeshift wooden crutch.

“We have underestimated the enemy,” he said, his voice weak but able to reach the ears of all the men over the sad silence of the gray morning. “They have more sympathizers than we had believed, and they have more wealth than we had imagined. I know this, for I know who their army was awaiting in Tides. Who, by now, has arrived. The True Brothers.”

Although the silence was unchanged, Erden could sense the impact that revelation made amongst the soldiers of The Blades.

“We will mobilize today, to put an end to this threat. With their newfound force, the rebels will be marching toward Oslidor. They mean to take Sunset unprepared. As before, we will be the tip of the blade which this nation thrusts in defense.”

If they are coming from Tides, they will reach Sunset before we can. The city built above hills rich with gold veins was ever a hotbed of dissent in the nation, the wealthy merchants having seen Withigan’s secession from Ebanigan as a template for their own independence. It was possible the rebels would find sympathetic ears there.

As though Sarthak read Erden’s thoughts, and those of the others, he addressed their concerns. “Sunset is not prepared for an assault, but we are. We have purchased tonics which will allow us to travel at an unprecedented speed. We will reach the rebels before they arrive at the city, and we will take them by surprise. We will save this nation before its citizens are even aware of the grave danger they are in. We move in two bell’s time.”

The Old Man

Gray and Makani walked side by side to Trounen’s house. They found the old man sitting in front of a fire, whittling a stick while whistling softly to himself. If he had been upset at the usurpation of his new role as village leader, he showed no signs of it.

“Do you believe they will demand Gray leave?” Makani asked before even giving a greeting.

Trounen did not look up from his work. “Only fools would demand that. So, to answer your question, I do not know.”

“And what will the Imperial Defenders do if Gray leaves?”

“Same as if we lose the battle; they will tighten their grip on the village. Our home will become a work camp and our liberty will be replaced with slavery.”

“Then Gray is our only hope. We need to make the others see that.”

“You cannot make anyone else see what you see, even if it is the truth. Perhaps especially when it is the truth. If you attempt to persuade them, they will dig their heels in deeper. Their decision is out of our hands. My hope is that they put it to a vote, for the most adamant will be the loudest, but their viciousness and fervor does not count more than the vote of a more rational person.”

“If I had been more aware of the time of day, this could have been avoided,” Gray said before realizing the intention behind the words he voiced. I wish for them to say that is not true. Though will it change my mind? Alas, Trounen is correct in regards to the stubborn nature of humanity.

The elderly man continued whittling. “Believe what you will.”

That was the response Gray knew he deserved. Trounen had a way of seeing the truth of things, which made the villager’s dismissal of him all the more tragic.

Makani was not as callous. “Anyone could have spoken up. They all know the risks of being outside after dusk. You are not solely responsible for the lives of everyone in this village. Do not place that upon your shoulders. You’re carrying enough of a load as it is.”

It was a reasonable request that he knew he could not meet.

Too many years of believing otherwise. Damn Trounen and his clarity of vision.

A sound from outside. A cry. An alarm.

They have come.

Back out in the bitter cold of the night, Gray saw villagers filing out from the light of the tavern. Down the main pathway of the village, a man ran, yelling out a warning. At least twenty Imperial Defenders had been sighted.

Gray trudged through the snow to reach the tavern where he found Jaroslav and Wervich, the former appearing hesitant to look him in the eyes. “Get everyone to their posts. I will go out and meet them.”

Wervich began barking orders. Gray looked at Jaroslav. The young man returned the gaze, looked down, then back to Gray. Finally, he turned and joined his voice to Wervich’s.

There was no time to ponder that reaction, although Gray believed he understood what it signified. Instead, he unslung his sword and walked toward the entrance of the town. But he was not alone on that path. Ahead of him, he saw four villagers carrying torches who were rushing in the same direction he was headed. One stopped, looked back, then turned and ran even quicker to catch up to the others. Gray continued on, his pace unchanging.

Once past the village limits, he witnessed the four villagers halt ten feet before two representatives of the Imperial Defenders. Behind them, the other thugs had fanned out to form a semi-circle. The proof of Olisha’s betrayal was clear in their equipment. Each man carried a shield to defend himself from the barrage of arrows they knew would be greeting them.

Away from the gathering, but close enough to hear their exchange through elevated voices, Gray heard a familiar voice. The man who spoke for the village was the husband of the woman who had just died that night.

“We have come to make a bargain. We do not want further bloodshed this night. We will ask the foreigner to leave the village and never return and there will be no need to fight.”

It was difficult to make out the faces of the Imperial Defenders, but Gray believed that through the torch light he saw the man who made the threats against the village and captured Harold. “The old man is a nuisance that will be dealt with. The greater issue is your defiance and disrespect. The emperor charged us with keeping order, and that is what we shall do.”

The husband spoke again, his voice quavering. “We will have them all put down their arms if you promise not to harm anyone.”

“That you believe yourself to be in a position to negotiate with us shows how far your loyalty to the emperor has fallen. Do you not see that nothing is preventing us from killing all of you and simply replacing you with more loyal subjects who will follow the orders they are given?”

The four villagers looked at each other but exchanged no words. A few moments later, the husband spoke again, and this time Gray could hear the fear in his voice and the tears he knew were running down his face. “Where is Harold?”

“With Olisha. Six feet under the ground,” the man said as he lifted his fist in the air.

One of the villagers made to yell something, but the words never fully escaped her throat as the soldiers closed upon them, cutting them down where they stood. One villager attempted to run and was effortlessly knocked down with a shield before being stabbed. The man took his time removing his blade and was caught by an arrow through his neck. He staggered backwards before falling onto the snow-covered ground. Then more arrows flew past Gray and into the press of Imperial Defenders. All but one more of the men were able to draw their shields in time. The lone man who was unlucky or unskilled enough to react in time looked down to see an arrow shaft pressed deep into his right shoulder.

Gray used the chaos to his advantage and plunged forward into the closest group of Imperial Defenders. The first man was still hiding behind his shield when Gray took him from the side with a single slice from his two-handed sword. He then spun and deflected a blow from an axe, fluidly turning the soldier’s momentum against him and cutting through his forearm. Gray finished him off with a stab through his neck, the dead man falling back onto two of his comrades.

From all directions, a total of five soldiers swarmed Gray. The old man arced his blade upwards to cut through a man on his right, then jumped sideways to clear himself some space. He went on the offensive and battered shields back from two men at once, intentionally appearing to focus his attention on them. A soldier on his left took the bait and lifted his weapon for a strike. Gray disengaged from the two men he was beating back and parried the attacker. The man was not fast enough to lift his shield as Gray’s blade cut across his chest, blood covering the two-handed sword.

He turned just in time to intercept a downward swing from behind him. A heavy stomp down on the man’s boot closed the gap between them before an elbow took him in the throat. The man stumbled and Gray quickly decapitated him. Warm blood steamed in the frigid air while the acrid stench of soiled undergarments hit the old man’s nostrils as he took in a lungful of air.

The three remaining men spread out, attempting a different tactic. They held their shields high as they slowly backed away. But in the chaos, Gray had turned them around and their backs were to the village. The old man jumped backwards as arrows cut through the night and into the backs of two of the soldiers. Gray rushed the third man and crashed a savage blow against his shield, instantly shattering bones. The limp arm dropped as Gray impaled the man on his blade.

Withdrawing his weapon, he saw that only one solider still stood upright. He easily parried a weak blow from a sword and cut through the man’s wrist. The Imperial Defender let out a terrible yelp before Gray cut across his midsection, disemboweling him. He checked the last man and saw that he had died from the arrow wound. Around him now were the corpses of twelve people who had been alive but moments before. Glass vials were set into notches on their belts.

They will be herbalism-enhanced.

The battle fury subsided enough that Gray could now hear cries coming from the village. More than that, what drew his attention were flames and smoke rising into the air from buildings at the far end.

There were more than the ones out front. They anticipated our defense and came from other sides. I hope the villagers are disciplined enough to have gone to their assigned positions.

Without cleaning the blood from his weapon, the old man ran back to the village. At the entrance he was greeted by the corpse of an Imperial Defender who had been shot through with a dozen arrows. But the killing lanes Gray had set up had not been enough to prevent other soldiers from getting into the village. And once that happened, Gray knew the tide would turn in the emperor’s favor.

“Stay where you are!” he yelled to the villagers on the roofs and top floors of the taller houses. The longer they could stay out of the reach of the Imperial Defenders, the better his chances of saving them.

More screams pierced the night air on the other side of the village. As Gray made his way closer to the flames, he could see the bodies of villagers who fell off roofs, their corpses studded with arrows. The Imperial Defenders had taken Olisha’s intelligence and applied it wisely. The question now was, how many are there in truth?

Less than a hundred paces from the edge of the village, Gray began to weave his way between houses. The roofs in this section of the town were empty, but thankfully he only saw two bodies lying on the ground. The others must have snuck back inside when they saw they were under unexpected fire. The plan had been to flee to the houses and barricade the doors. Now it was up to Gray and the others who had trained at hand-to-hand combat.

He had done what he could to prevent this from occurring, though he had always expected it. The Imperial Defenders were thugs, but it was also obvious that someone had gone to great lengths to organize them. If they were able to communicate and coordinate an attack this far away from civilization, someone had taken his time to train them enough to be effective. And that person would not want to see his investment lost or thrown away on undisciplined street toughs. The soldiers, if you could call them that, had military experience. Most likely deserters. Or, perhaps something else. Perhaps such as my past life.

Further evidence of the Imperial Defenders’ efficacy could be seen in the fires. They had been set so as to funnel the villagers into the main street where they could be easily picked off. The final stage of Gray’s plan, which was in truth more of an emergency contingency than a plan, had been for those who were untrained to fall back to the tavern. There Jaroslav and two of the other best swordsmen were stationed. They had with them a horn to blow if they needed help. Gray had not heard it as of yet.

A woman appeared in the main street, holding what Gray assumed to be an infant against her chest, swaddled in blankets against the chill. He waved for her to come to him, but she was panicking and stood frozen in place, her eyes unable to meet his through her frantic cries. “Here!” he yelled as loudly as he dared. It did not matter. An arrow burst through her chest, impaling the bundle she was carrying, pinning it to her. The woman looked down and went mute. Gray raced out and pulled her back into the shadows. More arrows narrowly missed him, firing deep through the snow and into the ground. One look at the woman told Gray she would not make it. He did not care to check to see what she had been carrying. He had seen enough battles to know always to expect the worst.

There is no hiding from the truth that that woman and her babe would still be alive if not for me. And how many more will die this night?

Movement above him caught his attention, a figure that plunged into a shadow. A moment later, the figure reappeared and fired off two successive shots before disappearing again in the black of night. Wervich. The man can hold his own.

The shots had been aimed in the direction of the solider who had killed the woman. Gray took advantage of the covering fire to climb up on the roof of the house in front of him and position himself behind the chimney. The light from the fire showed him possible locations of more imperial archers. The chimneys of each house were the most obvious locations, but he still did not know how many men he was up against. For now, he would have to trust in Wervich to take care of as many as he could as he made his way from house to house. He need only follow the screams.

Back down in the snow, Gray placed himself against the rear of the next house. He dashed around and found the door wide open. Within, two Imperial Defenders were advancing with their swords out while an elderly couple cowered in the corner. Gray surprised the enemy from behind, though they did not live long enough to know it. One swing of his blade and two skulls fell to the ground. He signaled for the elderly couple to follow him.

Now in the light of the fire, he could see they were no older than he. “To the tavern,” he said. “Do not go onto the street.”

The next two houses were occupied only by corpses, a total of five villagers and one Imperial Defender. The soldier had been felled by an arrow shot at close range. Gray hoped it was not an isolated case of reason among the panic.

Outside again, the heat from the fire had completely killed the chill of the northern night. Gray cleared the last house at the end of the village, slaying three more Imperial Defenders and saving half a dozen villagers. But the fire was spreading rapidly. And I have still not found the main force. What do they have planned?

He continued to work his way back through the village, killing each Imperial Defender he came upon. Now at the midpoint of the rows of houses, he again caught a glimpse of movement on the rooftops. This time the figure appeared directly above him.

“No more archers on the roofs,” Wervich said. “But they’re all wise to you. They’re headed to the other end of the town en masse, and moving quickly. They’re using tonics.”

The sound of a horn blowing caught their attention as both men turned toward the tavern. “I’ll cover you from above,” Wervich said.

He ran along the outside of the wall of houses, beginning now to feel the fatigue of trudging through snow nearly up to his knees. He worked to keep his thoughts at bay and to focus his energy on his breathing. There would be time to consider the death toll and the ripples it would cause later. For now, he would willfully slip into the nirvana of battle.

The tavern was the only building with two entrances. The front was supposed to have been barricaded immediately, and Gray trusted Jaroslav with that responsibility. It meant the villagers would be attempting to hold off a large number of Imperial Defenders at the exit where Harold used to dump refuse. The area was to remain nondescript so as not to signal that it was the final point of security for the villagers. But if the Imperial Defenders were tracking footprints, it would be obvious.

Gray halted at the smithy, the next building from the tavern. He slowed his breathing until he could hear the outside world again. The clang of metal against metal reached his ears, fainter than he would have thought. And further away, another sound, the voice of one man giving orders. Behind him, Gray also heard the footfalls of Wervich. The man was positioning himself behind the chimney of the forge. Taking solace in that, Gray moved toward the tavern.

Two villagers were fighting off three Imperial Defenders. From what he could see, the enemy had not made its way into the tavern as of yet. But the horn had been blown. He hoped that meant the remaining villagers were inside.

Gray rushed in from behind and took out one of the men with a single blow. The other two jumped away and held their shields out in front of them before slowly backing away toward the street. Gray cautiously followed until they turned and ran. He then saw why the tavern had not yet been infiltrated. Across the main street of the village, a group of thirteen Imperial Defenders was joined by the newly late arrivals. And in the middle of the men, Makani. Knees in the snow, blood streaming from a head wound, the woman did not look up. Instead, Gray’s eyes found the Imperial Defender who had spoken to the villagers before. He was the same man who had taken Harold two months back.

“The girl said this woman was important to you,” he yelled to Gray from across the path. “She’s seen better days, but then again, so have you.”

Gray said nothing. He had dealt with enough thugs in his life to know what the next words would be.

“Lay down your weapon, or she dies. Lay it down and leave.”

Gray heard a shuffle from above and behind him. From the corner of his mouth he whispered, “When you can, take the shot.”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply.

He kept his hands on his sword and he responded. “How do I know I can trust you?” he yelled to the man holding Makani’s wet, bloodstained hair.

In the glow from the torch the man was holding, Gray saw a vicious grin. “You have no choice. This is what happens when you walk into another man’s domain and don’t follow the rules. Who do you think you are?”

“Just an old man,” Gray said.

“That’s the sad truth of it, isn’t it? Go back home, old man. I don’t know what brought you here, but this isn’t the place for you.”

“You’re afraid,” Gray said.

“What? Speak up, old man.”

“You’re afraid.”

The man attempted a laugh. “Put your weapon down.”

“What is your name?” Gray asked.

“Clav.”

“Hold your torch up so I can see your face, Clav. I want to see if you’re afraid.”

Gray could see the man’s reluctance to accede to the request war against his desire to appear tough in front of the other men. Slowly, he lifted the torch. His face shifted back into a forced grin. Then, surprise.

Gray crossed the path and sheathed his blade in a blur as Clav fell backwards, dead from an arrow through his skull before he hit the ground. Before the other soldiers could react, Gray had Makani in his arms. More arrows from Wervich killed another Imperial Defender, but the others reached for their shields in time.

Not five paces from the tavern, Gray stumbled face first into the snow, a burning sensation in his left shoulder. He rolled over, keeping his body in front of Makani as the two villagers who had been guarding the entrance to the tavern ran over to him. “Get her inside,” he growled. More arrows hit the ground, narrowly missing their target. Gray used his right hand to lift himself up against the building, then ran inside.

“Pull it out,” he said, turning so that his back was to the room full of villagers. “Now.”

One of the guards walked up behind him. “Are you sure?”

“Now.”

The pain arced through his entire body, and Gray hunched over, his hand on his knees. Steadying himself, he closed his eyes. A series of deep breaths and the world came back alive as he opened them. Without turning to say a word to anyone, the old man opened the tavern door to go out and deliver death.

The loss of their commander had put the Imperial Defenders in disarray. On the other side of the street, the men were yelling, accusing each other of incompetence and cowardice. Gray darted through the shadows of the tavern’s alcove and behind the smithy. “Are you still up there?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yes, sir” came the reply from the next building over. “They know I’m up here, but they ain’t sure where exactly.”

“Good. Give me covering fire in ten seconds.”

“Seconds?”

“Twenty heartbeats then.”

“Yes, sir.”

The twang of the bow string rang out as Gray launched himself into the street. Across from him, the Imperial Defenders were cowering behind their shields, the fourteen remaining men huddled together in a misshapen mass. Energized by the adrenaline coursing through his body, Gray swung a vicious arc against two of the shields. Both men stumbled backwards. With an arcing upswing which began on his left, he cut a swatch of red. The two men were opened across their midsections, intestines pouring out to steam in the chill of the night. Arrows flew in as Gray continued cutting through the screaming press of terrified men. Most stayed behind their shields until their defenses were penetrated. A few lifted weapons to offer a challenge, but none withstood more than two strikes from Gray’s bloodied two-handed sword. The weapon struck in all different directions as the old man shifted his body from side to side, moving methodically and with an eerie sense of where the next target would be most vulnerable.

As the last man died, Gray knelt down in the snow, his blade falling half-buried in a pool of ice-cold blood. He opened his eyes to see Wervich standing next to him. “I’ve never seen anything like that,” the man said. “It was more than ten to one, and they gave up out of fear. Who are you?”

The pain from the puncture wound was returning in increased intensity. Gray bit down hard on his lip against the pain. “I’m a man who knows nothing but how to kill,” he said.

Yara

Year 1378 (Present day)

This was the way she would get what she desired. She had put too much faith in others to make the correct improvised decisions. It was time for her to take direct control.

The historian, Lydee, knew she was being watched. She spent days in her house, leaving only to visit the library and purchase food. At least according to the agent who had been following her. Yara now had reason to doubt what the man said, considering his failure to track her during her visit to the library. How anyone could lose sight of a woman in a library she did not know. The agent had been suitably punished by Yara herself. It was her first act to show the world that she was taking this investigation into her own hands.

And if I run into this man who calls himself Gregorich, he will be the next to witness the efficacy of my methods.

Yara followed the historian out of the library, her face hidden beneath the loose-fitting sunhat which had become so fashionable among wealthy women over the past decade. She had always viewed the style with disgust, a way for useless people to appear as similar without as they did within, but it served a purpose now. With the style trickling down to the masses, she could hide within a large group of people without fear of being detected. This was what her agents lacked; a penchant for thinking beyond the orders they were given. Follow this woman. That did not mean, “Do nothing other than follow her.” She so disliked having to spell out everything for her underlings. Well, no more. She would do it herself.

Yara had not let the woman leave her sight for more than a minute. She knew which books Lydee had viewed on the second floor, and she would return there to ascertain the historian’s rationale for seeking them out after such a prolonged period of isolation in her residence. It was mystifying how arrogant the university’s old professors were. An entire cadre of overpaid, underperforming academics with no sense of how the world truly functioned. They were in fact opposites and anathema to Yara. Her rise to power had not taken a traditional route. It had come from within her, from a strength that others did not possess. She was simply more intelligent, more cunning, and more ruthless than the rest of the world. It therefore stood to reason that she should be above them. It was the same with Oslian. People who could shape the world were obligated to do so.

Within a crowd of people ahead of her, Lydee paused below one of the city’s many murals of devotion to the Divine King, this one depicting him in his younger years. She slowly looked to her sides, and then turned to look back. Through the haze of the midday sun, there was no way she would make out her pursuer, but Yara was pleased that she evidently believed she could. Yara held the advantage, only needing to see the outline of a target she had been following all day. Lydee had to discriminate between dozens of people and determine which of them she had seen before. That she thought she could do so was further proof that Yara was her superior. Intellectuals always believed that their supposed expertise in one area afforded them an edge in all aspects of life. Well, Lydee would soon learn the error of that assumption.

The woman was not returning home, that was clear. Where she was headed, Yara did not know, but the path she took was intriguing. They walked further into derelict districts of the city, places Yara knew well from her past. There was a real risk now that Lydee would be assaulted and nothing would come from Yara’s hard work. But if the woman had chosen this area of the city, it was for a specific reason. Was this new turn of bravery connected to what Lydee had read in the library? Yara believed so. The woman had spent days considering her next move, and now she walked with purpose. This would be a lucrative day for Yara’s investigation.

Lydee’s steps took her to one of the oldest neighborhoods in Oslidor. To the citizens of Oslidor, it was known mockingly as The Fool. Its true title was Goldbend, but as the residents could not have ever hoped to scrape together a speck of gold, the best they could hope for was fool’s gold. Thus, the more appropriate name.

As she walked past street urchins huddled together in the filth of the streets, Yara smiled under her disguise. The trash from the royal district was said to be swept down into The Fool. She hoped it was so. The people here deserved their fate. That was a truth Yara knew personally. For she had been brought up here, and her wretched family had earned all the dirt and sickness in the world.

Her target stopped in front of an abandoned house, its sole doorway containing nothing but a single broken hinge. The sun had fallen low, providing better visibility for the last hour before darkness arrived. The heat and haze of the day were dwindling, and Yara had to stand further back so as not to arouse suspicion. Lydee was now out of sight, but Yara had seen her disappear into that building. She would wait now. It was the perfect time to switch her clothing into a more appropriate attire to match her surroundings. Not a difficult task as there were plenty of people who would willing trade their rags for her expensive cloth. Afterwards, she would simply take her possessions back, regardless of whether the poor woman wanted to acquiesce to her order or not. Best to get rid of the witness anyway. There was nothing to gain by being reckless, and the world would not miss one destitute woman.

Having changed her attire, Yara walked into another abandoned building three houses down from the one Lydee had entered. The residence was cramped, not more than twelve by fifteen feet. It would have once served as a home for an entire family. The door of the one-room dwelling had been torn off, likely in a riot or gang fight of some sort, and splinters of wood covered the first few feet of the floor. A smirk came to Yara’s face as she looked down on that scene of depravity. The people of The Fool were always settling their disputes with violence. It was a sign of lesser intellect to choose raw strength as a first and only option. She knew that firsthand, for her father had made what little money he earned as muscle for a gang. He enjoyed taking his work home with him, as well. Her older sister took the beatings quietly, and then turned them on Yara twofold, as if the younger sister had been spared from her father’s diligent training.

Where are they all now? Ah, yes, I know the answer to that. Perhaps I shall pay them a visit when I am done with this investigation.

Yara found an empty crate whose stains indicated it once carried cactus fruits, one of the few sweet treats a fool could afford. Yara so loved that demonym. It was as accurate as it was cruel, a fitting moniker for the filthy dimwits who passed their times fighting amongst themselves under the delusion that having rank over other undesirables was a position to be envied.

I would have Oslian burn this whole neighborhood to ashes if I could be sure the flames would not spread to adjacent districts. Though if it occurred by accident…

Yara had plenty of time to play with her thoughts as Lydee did not emerge for over three hours. When she did, she looked around and, frightened by where she found herself after dark, she hurried back the way she had entered the neighborhood. This time Yara did not follow; she knew the woman was returning home. Instead, Yara waited until Lydee was out of sight before strolling toward the building her target had just left. Yara walked without fear of the fools and their knives. As always when she left the palace, she wore chainmail under her clothes and carried with her a tonic for boosting energy and one for increasing strength. Of course, she also carried several knives of her own, each blade coated in deadly poison.

I believe I will have an opportunity to use these blades tonight. That would be lovely. I have worked long hours today and I need some entertainment.

She struck her flint tinder kit and lit a street lamp that had likely not been used in decades. The glass was broken, but there was still some oil in the bottom, enough for a few minutes of light. Upon entering the building, she saw that it was much more expansive than the residence in which she had been waiting. Still a single room, it was easily as large as an entertaining room in a decent house. There were no doors or signs that the room led anywhere. Yara looked down on the floor and followed the footprints outlined in the dust. They led to the back of the room and an uneven floor plank. Hidden. How interesting.

She lifted the plank quietly, then reaching into the space in the floor, put her hands under the neighboring planks and lifted them as well until she had a space she could fit through. The light from her lamp was quickly diminishing, but a last look down showed her she had no more than a three-foot drop. Holding the lamp above her, she jumped down into the hole.

She had to get down on her hands and knees to move. A single opening led off into the darkness. Yara followed it. It became difficult to hold the lamp as she crawled, but she did her best, not knowing how long her journey would be. After having traveled perhaps thirty yards, she saw light ahead of her, and just in time. When her lamp went out, she left it in the sandy dirt as she crawled on.

There was light up ahead now, as well as a faint scratching noise. Yara reached the end of the tunnel to see that the opening led into a small room where a man sat at a desk. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling above him, providing the only light. Now who do we have here? The professor knew he would be in this precise location, a place he took pains to hide. This is why I must be the one who does the important tasks.

The royal councilor crawled out of the tunnel and looked up at the man who had turned to look at her. He was of advanced age, heavy set and bald, with a grey beard and a flushed face which spoke of too many years of late nights in the taverns. Knowing her attire hid her true status, Yara simply stood up and brushed herself off.

“Good evening,” the man said. “And who are you?”

Yara waited a moment before responding, anticipating the delightful fear in the man’s eyes when she gave her answer. It was going to be a night to remember, and she wanted everything to be just perfect.

“I am the Grand Advisor to Oslian Vinredor, the Divine King of Vinredor.”

The old man’s reaction was even more delicious than she had hoped. His eyes widened uncontrollably before he glanced back at the tunnel behind him which led out into the darkness, attempting ineffectively to conceal this action. Looking back at Yara, the man breathed out slowly from his mouth, while his hands moved nervously at his sides. He then looked down at the paper he had been writing on. His eyes then darted back to Yara, his face now blank.

Hoping I did not notice where your eyes wandered. You wish to hide what you were writing, as well as your intense desire to flee. Though I suspect you would already have run if you believed you could get away. It pays to be more fit, old man.

“I followed your friend. She led me here,” Yara said, fishing to see what response the man would give and whether he would reveal information about who he was before she began her interrogation.

The man said nothing. He continued staring at her, though Yara could see his mind was active, scheming. He had been hiding underground, and he did not wish for the information he was writing to be seen. An old man, he had likely been living this life for years. Yara would get nowhere with polite questioning. It would have to be done through… alternative methods.

Excellent.

She put one hand behind her back and withdrew a knife, the blade covered in a protective wax slip. She made a show of removing the slip and examining the tip of the blade.

“Do you know what I have here?”

No response.

“As Grand Advisor, I have access to tools of which most are ignorant. This knife is finely crafted, but I speak instead of the poison which covers it. The Royal Herbalist is extraordinarily skilled and diligent. One of her passions over the years has been tonics which assault the human body. They are quite useful for getting information. I do not recall the name of this one, as there are so many, but I do remember I was enamored with its effects. It causes a temporary paralysis to the limbs. Good for when you need to keep someone from squirming.”

She reached behind her back with her other hand and presented a second knife, unwrapping it in identical fashion to the first weapon. “This tonic, I remember well. The Royal Herbalist refers to it as a fire ant tonic. I’m sure you can guess why, but I enjoy explaining it, which I have done many times. Its name is derived from the burning sensation it causes throughout the body. One has to be careful not to use too much of the tonic, for it can prove fatal. Alas, I am forgetful again on one point. I do not recall how much of the tonic I applied to this blade. I have had reason to apply the tonics so many times that my mind has mixed them all together. It will be interesting to see what happens. Now, are you going to cooperate?”

The man nodded.

“I do not believe you.”

She threw the first knife at the man. It lodged in his shoulder. As he reached to remove it, his arms fell loosely to his sides and his legs went out from under him. Yara walked over to him and looked down. His eyes were filled with terror.

“Remember, this only incapacitates the extremities. You can still speak. And that is critical, for your life may depend on the answers you give, or at least, how forthcoming you are. First question- what is your name?”

The man moved his mouth, as if testing to see if it did indeed function. Then he spoke in a low voice Yara could barely discern.

“You’ll have to speak up. I cannot hear you.”

Again the man spoke too softly for her to hear.

Yara slammed her foot down against the man’s left calf. He squealed out in pain as his eyes welled up with tears.

“That I heard. It’s a wonderful concoction, isn’t it? Paralyses the limbs yet does not dull the sensation of pain. Tell me your name.”

“Marshaw.”

“Full name.”

“Marshaw Alent.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Writing.”

Yara stomped on the man’s other leg.

“Writing a letter to a friend.”

“This is taking too long. I will read it myself.”

Yara lifted the paper up to the oil lamp. It was addressed to someone referred to only as P. The contents of the letter made Yara’s eyebrows raise. As she finished it, she turned around with gusto.

“This is even better than I had hoped! You are a follower of The Path. While I think your belief in the fulfillment of a prophecy in the coming days is quite silly, I am pleased to have access to your little hideaway here. The Divine King will be concerned to learn about your activity, but in the long run, he will be happy I have found you.”

Yara had begun pacing the room for dramatic effect. She was so glad the night had ended with excitement.

“Why did the professor come to you?”

“She is not part of my organization.”

“That was not my question. What did she want from you?”

The man adverted his gaze.

“If you are wondering how long the tonic will affect you, it will be more than long enough for the fire ants.”

The man had closed his eyes. When he opened them, Yara saw the guilt he felt. It was euphoric.

“She asked about an old friend of mine. She wanted to know where he was.”

“Oh? And this man’s name?”

“Woller.”

The night of my dreams.

Yara leaned down until she was less than a finger’s length away from the man’s face. Sweat was running from his forehead in unceasing rivers. Yara tilted her head in consideration. “What did you tell her?”

“I don’t know where he is.”

Honest? Partially.

“Why did she come to you?”

Marshaw Alent would not meet her eyes, blinking in a futile attempt to block the streams of sweat.

Yara pulled the knife out of the man’s shoulder and blood ran out as he yelped. She waited for him to cease his pathetic mewling before she asked again, “Why did she come to you?”

“Woller and I were friends,” Marshaw replied through gritted teeth.

Yara pressed the tip of the knife blade against Marshaw’s cheek. “What did you tell her. Say it precisely as you said it to her. I will know if you are lying.”

The man breathed out deeply. Yara could see he was holding back tears. She slowly pushed the knife tip into his skin as he whimpered.

“Tell me,” she whispered into his ear.

“I told her… he had asked me about The Haven of Light.”

Yara turned the knife without applying more pressure.

“He asked where it was! I told him it was up north, in the Ebanigan tundra.”

“Where exactly?”

“I do not know. I’ve never been there.”

“How will she find it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What advice did you give her?”

The man shook his head, an action Yara took as involuntary. She had uncovered much, but she needed the last drop of information or she would lose sight of her target. Yara pulled her knife back. “If this blade is not doing its job, I will go to my next option.”

Marshaw’s eyes were sealed shut. He cried in quiet, heaving motions punctuated by a hacking cough. Yara stood up. “This is going to be much worse, but you are not cooperating.”

As she reached into her pocket for the second blade, Marshaw screamed out, “I told her there are clues in Vision! That is how the others found The Haven!”

Yara paused with her hand in her pocket. “Vision?”

“The second holy book.”

“I see. What else did you tell her about that book?”

“Nothing! She doesn’t need to be told. And I’ve never been to The Haven, I swear it.”

“Why was Woller running to this place?”

“I don’t know. He did not tell me.”

Honest answers. Only took a little persuading. Good and delightful. I have all I need.

“That is all. I must be taking my leave. The poison will wear off in a few hours.”

As a reply, Marshaw simply wept.

Yara looked down at the pathetic creature. She would ask him more questions about his organization if she had the time. Catching Lydee before she fled the city was her priority however.

“I will do you the favor of keeping the fire ants for another person. Perhaps someone less forthcoming with the truth.”

With that, Yara sheathed her blades and grabbed the oil lamp before ducking back into the tunnel from which she had entered.

Once back on the streets of The Fool, she quickly made her way to the nearest guard post. After informing the guards of where to find the traitor Marshaw Alent, she made haste to Lydee’s residence.

I would have liked to see that old man squirm some more, but I cannot be sure he would survive, and Oslian will want to have him interrogated. Fun for someone else then. I’m in a generous mood.

The fire ants can wait for Lydee. They are better suited for someone who does not tell the truth.

Cupela

Year 1348 (Thirty Years Prior to Present Day)

Two days had passed and still Enfildio had not returned. When the first day came and went, and their employer had not brought the unguent he claimed would help Piroska, Cupela had defended him against the other herbalists’ accusations. He had forgotten. He became distracted. He was looking for a replacement for the burned woman. To all of this speculation, Cupela had insisted Enfildio simply needed more time. Perhaps he had to travel further away than they had anticipated. Now, she was beginning to doubt him herself. She would not say it aloud, however. Too easy for Hrent to mock her, or Ubul to shake his head.

Jezmavalin had shown more compassion than Cupela had believed she was capable of. Perhaps the beautiful young woman felt pity for Piroska. The burned woman had never been attractive, but there was little doubt that she would be scarred for life now. Even if Enfildio could procure something which would aid in her healing, she would never look the same. Was the incident a reminder to Jezmavalin of how lucky she was to have been blessed with physical beauty? Or had Cupela simply misjudged the woman?

Sarah had stayed hidden in her living chamber, at least while the others were awake. No work had been done, save for the dismantling and removal of a few pieces of furniture which were burned beyond repair. Once Cupela had begun to sweep the area, but Ubul had told her to stop and wait for Enfildio. “If he returns without the object he promised, he can clean the mess himself.” After a moment of hesitation, she found herself inclined to agree with the sentiment.

Cupela found Piroska still asleep in her bed, the torch unlit, more out of the herbalists’ fear of seeing the burn damage than any other, more compassionate reason. The scarred woman had not been awake for more than a few bells, and during that time she had done nothing but mutter to herself. Cupela had heard her mention a name over and over again which sounded as though it began with an H, though it was difficult to make out. Gods, I hope she is not having nightmares about that pathetic little man. She has been through enough; let sleep be her haven.

She reapplied bandages and sat next to her for a time, not sure of the appropriate response to the tragedy. Eventually her compassion lost out against the woman’s anguished noises.

“I am through with waiting,” Ubul said as Cupela emerged from Piroska’s room.

“What else can we do?” she said without thinking.

“We can take her to a hospital. We should have done that two days ago. Instead, we waited for the most selfish man in the world to fulfill a promise he likely never intended to keep.”

“He never said how long it would take.”

“Why would that be? Perhaps because we never would have agreed if we knew the answer was one month.”

To that, Cupela nothing to say. She looked over at Jezmavalin, who was leaning against a wall, as usual. I cannot recall ever seeing her stand completely upright, as if it were too much effort, or she expected the world to always support her.

“Yes?” Jezmavalin asked.

“Nothing.”

“Then quit staring at me.”

“I always knew she fancied you,” Hrent said from behind Cupela.

Jezmavalin faked a laugh. “Projecting much, Hrent?”

“Shut up, both of you!” Cupela yelled. “Why must you always try your best to make things worse than they already are?”

“There is only one person to blame for all of this,” Ubul said. “Enfildio. He created these conditions in which we have been forced to work. It is no surprise that we are at each other’s throats when we have been locked up together for so long, and then when we see one of our companions gravely injured, our fearless leader practically abandons her.”

Cupela and the others were silent, contemplating the veracity of Ubul’s claim. She did not want to admit Ubul could be correct. Her defense of her idol was beginning to wear her down, yet she did not want to fall into the depthless pit of doubting all that held her together.

“None of this is helping,” she said. “I do not know what can be done for Piroska at this point, but we need to take her to the hospital.”

“No,” Jezmavalin said. Do that and you risk voiding our contracts. I did not stay cooped up her for the past two years only to miss out on my one chance at immortality.”

“Agreed,” Hrent said.

“Finally, something we are united on,” Ubul added.

Cupela had started to shake with frustration. “Enfildio will understand the necessity of the situation.”

Ubul shook his head. “No, he will not. He is a callous bastard.”

“I cannot get her to a hospital on my own, but I can gather bandages and ointments. We have to do something.”

“You’re the only one who is permitted to leave,” Jezmavalin said. “You might as well.”

“And if you come across Enfildio, I hope he is dead,” Ubul said. “For his sake.”

It was midday, it turned out. When Cupela arrived in the city proper, she saw that the streets were bustling with merchants and shoppers. She walked past them while keeping her eyes open for something which might aid Piroska, as if she could possibly find such a thing among vegetables, grains, and cloths. Her intended destination was a physician’s establishment located in the center of the Topaz district. She had no coin, and had therefore taken sleeping and pain killing tonics with her in the hope that she could exchange them for the materials she needed.

As she walked among people who lived above ground, men and women who lived with their families, developed relationships, had opportunities for adventures, and were able to experience all that made life worth living, she realized how envious of them she had become. Perhaps the others have the right of it. I have always believed Enfildio saved me from a life of poverty, but what were his true intentions? Just how much does he care about me? If it had been me in that fire, what would he have done? Where in the world is he?

She looked up to see she was directly in front of The Roots. She stared at the building, as she always did, pondering the range of machinations which were underway within, and the individuals who were pulling strings in secret. Men such as Finder, who Enfildio said could locate anything, and anyone…

He opened the door, as she knew he would, and looked her over, his face unreadable, his demeanor as enigmatic as ever. “Come in,” he said.

She stepped out of the sun and into the shadows of The Roots. Finder stood a few paces away, patiently waiting for her to explain the purpose of her visit. For the first time, she took a good look at the man. He was of average height, stocky, and nearly bald. His nose was bulbous, his neck padded with fat. In all, an unattractive man. Yet, one felt diminished in his presence, as though one continued to live only because he allowed it, the feeling more than a little unsettling.

“I need your assistance,” she said.

An eyebrow may have raised slightly, though it was hard to discern in the shadows. “You are not here to see one of our many clients?”

“Not today. Today, I am looking for someone.”

“Ah,” he said. “Well then, let us first find a room, and then we will speak on finding this person.”

They passed the room where Marshaw often sat, the man looking up as they walked by. Cupela attempted to look cheerful as she followed Finder, though she doubted her efficacy. They entered a room on the left which she had never entered before, but found that it looked nearly identical to all the others. Finder gestured for her to close the door, and then he sat.

“You know services at The Roots are not cheap, mine most of all.”

“I understand,” she said.

“Who do you wish for me to find?”

She swallowed, and pushed aside the doubt, not wanting to appear weak in front of this man. “Enfildio. He has been gone for two days. He went looking for a healing unguent. That is all I know.”

“There is nothing else you can tell me about this situation?”

“There is not.”

“I will gladly take your money, but in the interest of transparency, something which is important in specific cases, I must tell you I am not certain I will be able to find Enfildio. He is an incredibly private man, as are most of our clients.”

“What is the cost?”

“What are the terms of the deal?”

“I would like you to find him before I do.”

“I see. Then it will be one thousand jewels a day.”

“I do not have that much coin.”

“Then I cannot accept the contract.”

Bargaining would not work, she well knew. Finder said nothing more, and Cupela simply bowed her head and exited the room feeling defeated and useless.

On her way out, she passed by Marshaw’s room again. This time, the man signaled for her to enter. She looked back at Finder, who gave no reaction. “I’ll only be a moment,” she said before walking to Marshaw.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I… am looking for someone.”

“Enfildio gives you all sorts of interesting tasks.”

When she did not speak, it was clear her face had given her away. “He’s missing?” Marshaw asked.

“I only know that he should have returned by now. He is likely fine, and only involved in a matter which requires his attention, but I cannot be too safe. I owe him everything, as you know.”

“If I hear anything, I will send word to-”

“I will come to you. Will you be here?”

“I am most days.”

“I need your help Marshaw, but I have no coin.”

“I know what Enfildio means to you, Cupela. I will use all my resources to find him, at no cost to you.”

“How can I accept this offer?”

“As a friend.”

But I have no friends, she thought. Though perhaps I do in this man who has helped me and my family so.

“Thank you, Marshaw. This means the world to me. I will meet you here again tomorrow, and everyday thereafter until he returns.”

“He will return, Cupela. I am sure of it. He is a most resourceful man. In the meantime, I will be here. I promise.”

She left The Roots wracked by guilt. Her actions would have been in direct defiance of Enfildio’s orders, had he felt the need to give any. He trusted her to follow directions, and never doubted that she would be loyal. Then again, there was a chance he had been injured or worse. The human mind’s ability to justify any action is truly terrifying. No matter what course my mind takes, I have a justification waiting for it. Does that mean I would be able to rationalize a heinous act such as murder? I hope not, but I fear that I would find a way even for that.

The physician was eager to make the exchange, which made Cupela slightly concerned that she had given up far more in value than she received in return. She had underplayed the extent of the burn damage she wished to cure however, not wanting to raise suspicions.

When she arrived back at the laboratory, she found Hrent and Jezmavalin sitting on stools in the main workspace, their backs to each other on opposite ends of the room. “I found some materials to help Piroska,” she said.

Both of the herbalists turned to her, but neither spoke. She could tell from their dispositions that another argument had just finished. It was good that they were silent now, as she was uneager to hear about whatever foolishness they were bickering over this time. “Well, I will see to Piroska then.”

She opened the door to the woman’s room, expecting to see Ubul sitting by the bed. Instead, Piroska was alone, still sleeping. Cupela applied the ointment as best as she could and wrapped Piroska in new bandages. Her skin had become overly dry and hard, a cause for concern and a sign that she had been neglected in Cupela’s absence. She finished her work and went to find Ubul to ask him why no one had looked after their companion.

When she opened the door to his room and found it empty, Cupela felt a sense of dread. “Where is he?” she asked as she closed the door and faced the others.

Jezmavalin gave an exaggerated shrug and leaned back against a table. Hrent snorted derisively. “He would not,” Cupela said.

“He would,” Hrent replied after an extended silence.

“If Enfildio finds out…”

“He won’t,” Hrent said. “Unless someone were to tell him.”

“What does he intend to achieve?”

“He said he would track him down and see what was so important that he left Piroska to melt away to nothing.”

“How will he possibly find him?”

Hrent laughed. “You know Jezmavalin has left before. And with Enfildio. She told him some of the places he frequents.”

To that, Jezmavalin said nothing, her gaze remaining on an indeterminable point.

“If nothing else, Ubul is resourceful,” Hrent continued. “He will find him.”

“And when he does?” Cupela asked, her voice quavering.

“He will learn what the old man is hiding. Don’t even attempt to deny that he has secrets he refuses to share with us.”

She did not. She could not.

My world is unraveling. Where are you, Enfildio?

Lydee

It appeared that she had in her possession a source of information which could alter the world inevitably. She could not conjure up a statement of such hyperbole as to accurately match the possible importance of what she had read. And it terrified her.

Lydee had not slept more than a handful of hours in the past four days. She kept poring over the documents she had taken (and to be returned at some point, she had told herself) from the library’s basement. When she did stop and attempt to find sleep, her mind continued to race with the possibilities and implications of what she had read. Through the multitude of questions without answers though, one continually rose above the rest- are these documents legitimate?

An untrained observer would have quickly dismissed the booklets. They contained information which had never been documented before, and in many cases, contradicted information that had been accepted as truthful. Only a fool would have believed the writings on the parchment were actual primary sources from the dates indicated. Only a fool, or a professional historian. Former professional historian now, I suppose.

The parchment and the ink were as ancient as the dates. Of that, she was certain. The edges of the material in the booklets displayed the same worn appearance as others of similar dates which had been verified over the years, and the ink was likewise as aged as was to be expected. The leather cover which held the parchments was much more recently created however, which meant that either these were forgeries, or someone had compiled them within the last hundred years. It was an added layer to the mystery. If she were to work on the assumption that the documents were legitimate, and in terms of their physical attributes, all evidence pointed that way, she was led to the conclusion that someone had attempted to safeguard them in a hidden location.

What is his or her motivation behind this? Not research. This person took great pains to hide the documents. Yet he or she kept them in the library. Why? Why not hide them somewhere more reclusive? And what was their plan to retrieve them?

Lydee felt as though she was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle. She had more pressing concerns as well. If true, some of what she had read could bring entire nations down. And a religion. For this reason, she could understand why multiple parties would be keen to hide the information. But then why not simply destroy it? Another question with no clear answer.

Each of the booklets had provided its own seemingly isolated revelation, and each was enough to send her head spinning with the implications.

In the first tome she read through, she had come across an entry that had stolen her breath with its casual audacity. Even the act of holding the covers against her fingers and palms had made her feel like a traitor to the nation where she had lived her entire life.

The entry began with a map. From its outline, Lydee could not place it as belonging to any location with which she was familiar. There were names of cities and bodies of water she had never heard of either. The entry was dated as being from the year 4,122. Near the top of the map however, there was a note around a set of lines which she took to indicate mountains. The note read, “Homeland of the royal imposters.”

It makes no sense. It is written as if the royal families came from somewhere other than Saltion. But they have been the leaders of Saltion from time immemorial.

The claim was as outrageous as it was provocative. Why were the royal families called imposters? The answer was not there, as the page had been ripped in half. The next entry was several pages forward, and unrelated. Lydee was sure there was more, and that someone had detached something critical. All of the other pages of the documents she held remained, as though the removal of the rest of that entry was a singular act of destruction.

The date was another mystery which left her bemused and fatigued. A year from the future, on parchment from the past. It did not add together. There was also no more elaboration, as if the map and caption were sufficient. While she could not formulate a theory for how this all came to be, it did help her with another mystery she had been pursuing—that of Woller. His research would have taken him to the basement and the very shelf which occluded the small room beyond. What if he had entered that room by carving a hole in the wall? What would he have thought when he found these documents? Would he have feared for his life? Enough that he would have fled the nation of Vinredor without a trace? She could empathize with that. What she held now was a threat to Oslian Vinredor and his entire line.

And now I am in possession of this. Should I too fear for my life? Did I not have cause for sufficient concern even before finding this? For all her trepidation, she could not drag herself away from the other booklets. Afterall, the secrets within were staggering.

In the following volumes, the dates had reverted to the past, beginning with a series of entries listed as Year 9. With each booklet she opened, the dates moved forward in time. The parchment did as well. When she found an entry from only sixty years prior, it was on modern paper, upon which was scrawled modern ink.

Most of the entries were notes of places and events the author had witnessed. One entry was different however. Dated 1348, it spoke of Enfildio the foremost herbalist of his time. He was generally credited as having invented the discipline and had grown both famous and wealthy because of that. He was also Richard’s grandfather, and what she read here would be of great interest to him, though it would likely force him into a rage.

It seemed as though two of her friends and former colleagues were intertwined with the implications of what she had found, an insidious thought. It was, however, the third and final booklet she had borrowed which contained an entry which had struck her own sense of self such a vicious blow that she had quite literally fallen to the floor of her home, sending her into a churning vortex of doubt. All objectivity had been lost and replaced with a desperate grasping for holes in the legitimacy of the documents she possessed.

The entry which sent her reeling was from the year 433. As with the other pages, the parchment and ink matched the date. What was beginning to unbalance her though was the script in which the entries were made. Though she was not an expert in calligraphy, it appeared to her eyes as though each entry had been made by the same hand. Her first inclination was that someone had found ancient writing materials, and then added information on them in the present. That would explain how the same hand could have written an entry in the modern day, and from thousands of years in the past. The issue with this hypothesis was that Lydee could not arrive at any motivation for carrying this out. If someone were to forge documents, they would certainly not hide them away so that no one could find them. Additionally, the vast majority of the entries contained information that likely held no value. While a few of the entries listed historical information of note, such as battles and territorial changes in nations, most took a more personal slant. There were lists of purchases, meetings with people who had never acquired fame, maps of places that did not exist in the atlases, notes for the author to recall certain events or places he or she had been, and when, and generally mundane information. And the room hidden behind the wall had been covered in shelves filled with these booklets. It would have taken thousands of hours to write it all. Who would have done such a thing? It did not matter after she read the entry from 433. After that, she needed to believe the documents were forgeries.

“The Rin fought a war against the Fui and the Lin over control of the Hanz So River. The Rin were routed,” was all the entry read. No map, no other details. The following entry was from the next year, an unrelated list of purchases assumedly made by the document’s author. For most people on Saltion, such an entry would have been meaningless. An ancient war on East Saltion for ownership of a river was not remarkable. Unless you were, as Lydee was, a follower of The Path.

In Justice, the third holy book of The Path, a full third of the chapters center around the wars of conquest of King Denish Rin, the progenitor of the modern Hon Rinese dynasty, during the fifth century. The continent of East Saltion was even more fractioned hundreds of years ago than in its current state of nearly forty different nations. In the year 433, when the wars of conquest began, there were an innumerable quantity of nations, from tiny tribes who claimed proprietorship of lake islands, to intransient peoples who swore fealty to no one. According to the writings in Justice, Denish Rin was granted a vision directly from The Hero. The King was told to unite the lands around his paltry kingdom under the followings of The Path. The Hero told him he would win all of his battles until his kingdom stretched from The Hanz So River to the eastern coast of the continent. And so it happened. The final battle was fought in 451, and saw more than fifty groups of people united under the common banner of the Rin. The unification lasted for more than five hundred years and after a period of adjustments in which the majority of the territory became the domain of the dual dynasties of the Hon and the Rin, the nation settled to near its current state, with various fluctuations of minor note.

The unprecedented string of victories, many of which were achieved against unfavorable odds, gave credence to Denish Rin’s claim that he had been blessed by The Hero, that lone human who was chosen by the gods to guide humanity. The writings in Justice were corroborated by other historical documents, granting validity to the claims in the holy book. It was in fact taken as truth that the wars occurred as they were written in Justice. Lydee had never heard of an alternative description of the wars of conquest. Therefore, what she read had struck her a deep blow. For the author of the entry had said the Rin had lost the battle. Denish Rin, in every historical account, never lost so much as a skirmish, for he was blessed and chosen by The Hero to win. The infallibility of The Hero and Denish Rin’s command showed the veracity of the religion. If this entry was true, it would turn one of The Path’s greatest triumphs into a lie.

It could not be. Lydee would not accept it. Her life had been shaken enough in the past month. To accept that the religion she followed, a faith which put her in danger of persecution and even imprisonment, was erroneous, was a truth much too bitter to swallow.

It was days before she could face the light of the world. After much contemplation, she had determined a course of action. She would prove that the accounts of the war of conquest in Justice were true. She would show herself that the documents she found were falsifications written by a madman. But first, she would find her old friend. For she believed Woller had found these documents as well, and he was the only one she could speak to regarding their existence.

Yara had goons all over the city searching for the former historian. Was it related to what he had found in the library’s basement? If so, then Lydee was at risk as well. She needed to reach her friend before the councilor did. It was a matter then of how to find a man who did not wish to be discovered.

Her only idea had been to return to the library. Though the thought of returning there made her sick, she saw no other options. Yara had been ahead of her during this pursuit, but Yara did not think like a historian. It was there that Lydee would find her edge.

Woller had worked in the history department for decades. He had worked with many people, many of whose names had been forgotten and were not to be found on the last staff roster. To find the names of those people, one had to look into Woller’s research, a place where a council member such as Yara would not have divined to search.

Entering the library flushed her face and made her heart race. It was as if she were returning to the scene of a vicious murder she had committed, taunting the authorities who were attempting to capture her. At least she did not need to return to the basement.

Before heading to her destination, she took some time to walk around the first floor, pausing every so often to check if she was being watched. It was midday and the coolness of the expansive space of the library brought in many more people than were truly interested in finding books. After nearly an hour of her façade, she felt secure enough to walk up one of the grand marble staircases to the second floor.

Woller’s published works focused on the social consequences of royal policies. While he was cautious enough not to write on Vinredor, he cunningly chose policies in Ebanigan and Xu that mirrored those enacted by Oslian Vinredor. He was perhaps overly cautious, as it recently came to light that no one in the Crown was monitoring the works of the university staff and students. Though he is being hunted now. He may have been right to hide his intentions.

His two books had been dead ends, though fascinating in how well he had criticized Vinredor without ever even mentioning the nation. The third publication delivered what she had been looking for however. For the first time in weeks, she felt a burst of hope break through the dark clouds of her mood. In the dedication, there was a singular name. Lydee knew the name, and who he was. More than that, she knew what he was. He was a follower of The Path.

He may have answers to more than one of my questions. I need to believe he can assist me in finding Woller, and in dissipating the torment of doubts which plague my thoughts. He must.

The challenge was that the man lived underground. She had met him but once, many years ago, when she was first hired at the university. Although a brief meeting, it stuck in her memory, for he had made a vague comment that would have snuck by unnoticed by most. Within that comment, he had embedded a line from one of the prophecies. “Bring clarity to the clouded eyes of the blind.” He had said it while looking directly at her, and when her eyes lit up, he had given the slightest of nods. She had taken it as his way of saying, “I see you are a follower of The Path. I am here if you ever need me.”

And now she did.

Year 1378 (Present day)

Gray held out his hand. A portly middle-aged woman reached up from the snow and grabbed it. With a quick jerk, he lifted her to her feet. It was a common occurrence during training, and the excuses of the cold and the ice had worn on his temper. Training men in the primes of their lives who wished to be soldiers was sufficiently difficult. It took time regardless of how disciplined the cadets were, as truly shaping people for battle so that they would not cower or die instantly was a long process. Attempting to convert a motley crew of vastly differing abilities, age, and form into a fighting force was appearing to be an effort in futility. Morale had been questionable to begin, and the bruises, cuts, scrapes, and gashes, all endured in the bitter cold, were taking a toll on the villagers.

“You can’t overextend your arms. You’re losing your balance,” Gray told her.

“The snow’s too deep here,” she said between labored breaths.

“These are the conditions we will be fighting in,” he said. “Don’t hold your weapon point down. The ground is frozen solid.”

Gray scanned the group in front of him. Nine other pairs were dueling, but the exertion of the day’s work had left their arms limp, barely able to hold their weapons upright. He was cycling through these villagers for individual training while Jaroslav and another man were supervising archery practice.

The other man was one of the villagers who claimed he had military service, but was the lone one Gray had come to believe. His name was Wervich and he looked to be in his early forties. Of his past, Gray knew nothing other than that he had served as a professional soldier and had come to the village three years ago, making him one of the newest arrivals. Privacy was well-respected in the village, for which Gray was thankful.

Wervich was an excellent marksman and had become an invaluable asset. Beside his skill, he had a patience that made him a great teacher. The villagers who had some experience with bows had gotten better, and the ones with little to no experience were now passably good. That would be critical, as Gray’s plan increasingly depended on missile fire with every passing day of hand-to-hand combat training.

“One last round,” Gray said to the woman. “Remember, your goal is to deflect my attacks. Even if I give you an opening, consider it a feint.”

The less skilled a fighter, the more likely they were to go for blood. Gray had been attempting to instill defensive-minded tactics into the villagers, especially those who were less physically capable. The idea was to stall for time until the attackers could be torn apart by arrows. Or until I reach them.

With the knowledge that the Imperial Defenders now possessed regarding the village’s defense, Gray assumed they would arrive well armored and equipped with shields. He had therefore kept his two-handed sword on his back and was wielding a bastard sword with a wooden shield, that being the only type available. Chorel the blacksmith had asked after shields, but Gray had insisted that spears were more novice-friendly.

Gray did not hold back in practice. In matters of life and death, concerns over appearing arrogant or flashy were unimportant, not that he had ever worried about those in the past. He simply fought in the style he thought the Imperial Defenders were most likely to employ based on his experience against them and the knowledge they now possessed.

He held his shield up and circled around the woman, looking for an opening. She matched him at every step. Believing that the Imperial Defenders would, quite correctly, believe they were vastly superior in skill to the majority of the villagers, he did not wait long until he made a move. He made a thrust with his sword which the woman attempted to deflect. At the last moment, he lifted his blade above her spear, knocked it aside with his shield, and stepped to within inches of her. In a real battle, she would be dead and she knew it as much as he did.

Another one for archery.

He had had some hope for the woman as she had muscular arms, but her reflexes and her feet were simply too slow. Not wanting to insult her and further her demoralization, he would have her called for archery practice tomorrow and this would be the last time she trained with him. It had been nearly four weeks since Harold had been taken. Gray did not believe they had much more time. He had been whittling the list of melee fighters down to only those who could stay alive long enough to be useful. Everyone else was to be equipped with a bow and placed near a window or on a roof when the time came.

Gray motioned toward the others, and the woman slowly walked over to tell them it was time to eat and rest for the night.

He trudged through the field of knee-high snow toward the archery butts and the four dozen or so people arrayed in front of them. The sun had gone down more rapidly than he had realized and there was very little light left. While it might be wise to get some practice firing in the dark, the temperature dropped even quicker than the sun and risks of injury increased without light.

The wind was howling and the top layer of snow cut into his face with every gust. He did not want to be here, but what ate away inside of him was not his own physical discomfort, it was the fraying of the ties that bound the village. After the simple-minded girl Olisha ran away, suspicions were being cast from neighbor upon neighbor. Makani and Trounen had attempted to keep the peace, but Makani had lost the trust of most of the villagers, and Trounen’s adamant defense of her had had the opposite of its intended effect. Tensions were high and people were worn out.

None of this would have happened if it weren’t for me. That was what gnawed his gut so badly that he had lost his appetite. And behind it all, lived another even more painful reality that no one else knew about; the possibility that this delay would prove deadly for the only person in his life that he would even dare to consider family.

It took Gray some time in the diminished light to find Jaroslav and Wervich. He had considered giving them some sort of identifier so that the others could find them in the heat of battle, but decided it gave more potential benefit to the enemy than to the villagers. Everyone wore a mismatch of different fur coats, thick padded boots, and whatever trousers they had made or scrounged up. They all wore hats as well, and these were even more varied in appearance, but in the darkness, it was difficult to discern color from more than a few feet away. If the Imperial Defenders attacked at night without their uniforms on, the chance of confusion was great.

His two unofficial officers huddled near him, a few steps aside from the others, all of whom had ceased their training and waited for the order to halt for the night.

“That’s all for today,” Gray told them. “We’ll meet at the tavern and go over adjustments to positions and roles. We need to finalize that this night.”

He did not need to say why. Jaroslav and Wervich nodded and began to holler the order. Jaroslav had attempted to salute Gray the first few days of training, but when the old man never acknowledged the effort, he had eventually received the message. Now Gray was wondering if it had been a mistake not to make the operation more formal. As it was, respect and subordination were given as a choice and not as an obligation. Would that have made a difference in terms of efficacy? He was too tired to give it much thought.

The villagers slinked across the field with Jaroslav and Wervich in the lead. He stood for a moment to see if some semblance of a line took form, but it did not. He had not tried to turn them into soldiers. He only wanted to prepare them to repel an attack. But there was a part of him that kept looking for more order, out of a sense that it would give him and the others a greater feeling of security. He was not a leader and that was abundantly clear to all now.

A scream of terror from up ahead. Then more screams. The villagers at the end of the line stood frozen in place. Gray threw down the bastard sword and shield he was holding, unslung his two-handed blade, and rushed forward. The new boots that Makani had made for him provided him with better footing than what the other villagers possessed and he ran past them swiftly, bounding forward with great strides. Near the middle of the procession, villagers began to flee in all directions, screaming. Most had thrown down their weapons in their panic.

The fleeing men and women had cleared a space around a dead body, and on both sides of it, Gray saw two giant white felines. Frostfangs, each one tall enough for its head to be eye-to-eye with Gray. They were not looking his way, however. Both of the animals were focused on another individual holding a two-handed sword.

Jaroslav.

Without stopping his forward momentum, Gray closed the gap between him and the frostfang closest to Jaroslav. The beast turned before he could reach it, but Gray’s blade was already in the air, arcing down and cutting straight through an outreached leg. The animal retreated a step, but Gray did not relent. He stepped to the side of its mangled leg and slashed sideways across its rib cage. Falling back into the snow, the animal could not defend itself as Gray thrust his sword into its neck.

The other frostfang leaped at him and Gray had to roll to the side, behind the corpse of the first feline. He came up quickly and held his blade straight out from his midsection, as the still living beast began to circle him. Jaroslav stood in place across from him, his sword limp in his arms. Gray put out one hand to signal the boy to stay where he was.

The giant feline continued its path, Gray keeping it directly in front of him, but moving his body as little as possible. The animal easily weighed seven times more than he did, and even with his new boots, had an advantage in footing, balance, and speed. But it had no experience facing off against a trained soldier with a two-handed sword that was nearly five feet in length.

Gray stared at the animal while he began to feign a weakness in his right leg. With every step he took, he dragged the leg slightly, hoping the animal would pick up on the evident disability. The circling continued until Gray felt confident his ruse had been swallowed. He began slowly moving backwards, still dragging his right foot until the beast leaped at him, left paw in the lead toward his right side. Gray jumped to his left and sliced his blade down through the animal’s right leg. It turned and lashed out with its mouth, but Gray was quicker with his blade, moving it back up until it lodged into the frostfang’s jaw. He pulled his sword out and chopped down into the animal’s skull, killing it instantly.

He steadied his breathing and looked passed the three corpses at his feet to Jaroslav. Night had fallen now and Gray was unable to make out the expression on the lad’s face. The boy he had made his second in command simply stood where he was, looking over at him.

He wiped his sword across the fur of one of the beasts, sheathed the blade and walked over to Jaroslav. Other villagers were returning to the scene, some mumbling quietly, but most silent.

“I should not have kept us out past sundown,” Gray said.

Jaroslav looked away without giving a reply.

A man walked slowly into Gray’s line of sight, his back straight and rigid. Gray recognized him as the husband who had been attempting to save his wife from the defense force the other night in the tavern. He stood close enough that Gray could see tears running down his face. “My wife is dead. Her blood is on your hands, old man.” With that, he threw down the spear he had been holding.

Gray did not question where the man had been when his wife was attacked. It did not matter. The woman’s death was his fault and that man would not be the only one to see the truth of that. The defense of the village had already cost one life. Gray’s failures were mounting.

He went straight to his room when he arrived at the inn. Alone in the darkness, he sat on his bed without removing his coat or boots. A new plan was forming in his mind. He would defend the village alone. This was his battle after all. In reality, the people of this village had more freedom than most people in the world. Perhaps if he fell, they could make a bargain with the Imperial Defenders. For a brief moment, he even considered giving himself to them, but there was someone who needed him to continue on his journey. The question did hang over him though- was the world better off without him? It was not the first time he had chewed on that doubt.

A knock at the door. Gray wondered what firestorm he would face now. Would the villagers simply tell him to leave and peacefully face whatever consequences the Imperial Defenders forced upon them?

“Gray. It’s Makani,” a voice said from behind the door.

He opened the door and saw she was alone. He moved aside so that she could enter, then closed the door and locked it again.

“I heard what happened to Vina,” she said.

“We were out too late.”

“You blame yourself.”

“I do.”

“But you killed the two frostfangs. You saved many other lives.”

“You know how I will respond to that,” he said, sitting down on the bed again.

He felt ancient. The sword on his back was as an anvil, weighing down his old frame. He did not much feel like fighting to stay upright.

“They’re meeting now, without me or Trounen. Gray, they have not listened to a word I’ve said since Olisha ran away. People are talking about leaving and finding a new home.”

“Is that so bad?”

“Perhaps not,” she admitted. “I certainly no longer wish to stay. When I moved here, I thought I had found a refuge away from the evils of civilization. But there is no running from that. Wherever people are gathered, fingers will be pointed and animosity will take hold. It is only a matter of time.”

He could not argue with that, even if he had cared to.

“The lesson is that you cannot run from your problems,” Gray said.

“Then you will stay? No matter what?”

“If they ask me to leave, I will.”

“You will run from your problems?”

“My problems are my own. The trouble is that I have brought down pain and sorrow unto others. Innocent people who were fine before I arrived.”

“The village was not fine before you arrived, Gray. Each year, the emperor demands more taxes from us. The Imperial Defenders take whatever they want when they visit. Whoever they want.”

He looked up at her now and saw that she was crying. His hatred of himself washed away then and he stood up to embrace her. For the briefest of instants, he thought she would flinch and move away. Instead, he found her in his arms, holding on tight and weeping openly. He now had another person he needed to protect. But he did not mind. It was an obligation he welcomed.

Erden

Year 1348 (Thirty Years Prior to Present Day)

He knew not where they were headed. Crucial as his role of quartermaster was, the destination of the company was information of which he was not privy. More unfortunate was that his position had not earned him a horse, and so he marched on foot along with the majority of the company. With each step he took, he flipped the vial in his hand end over end, in an unceasing cycle.

The first few days had been the hardest, with the intense heat and sun of the region beating down on him, and making it clear that he was the least fit out of the nearly two hundred men, the only one who needed to stop every quarter bell to put his hands on his knees and breathe deep from the scorched air. This occurred so frequently that the embarrassment he felt during the first few incidents quickly evaporated, the judgmental glances and chortling of his companions no longer bothering him.

They were traveling east, that much he knew. By the fourth day, the landscape had shifted slightly, and the hilly terrain made way for vast expanses which made him feel as though he were lost in a sea of brown grass, yet the ground was habitable, and villages had begun to appear again along the roadside now that they were nearing one hundred miles from the capital.

Ever since he was young boy, Erden had been fond of maps, and when they neared a water source he believed to be Crackle River, the map in his head suggested they were close to Agaveton. A rest in the city would be welcome, but that hope was crushed as they left the main road and headed further east.

At night, when he had completed his work of distributing supplies and checking inventory, if he did not fall asleep immediately, he sat at different campfires and listened to the soldiers share stories, laugh about old times, and most of all, speculate on the future.

Erden was on his haunches, a few paces back from the others, deliberating whether he should move closer to the fire, or if that would deter the men from speaking openly. He was the newest member of the company, and unlike the others, had not been through training. The uniform he wore identified him as a military man, but it was the only aspect of him which spoke to that role, and he well knew the other soldiers did not see him as one of the group. And so he sat as a true outsider, and contemplated the discussions without adding a word.

“A five-thousand-man army,” a scarred veteran named Detvin said, leaning back after tending to the fire.

“Horseshit,” a spindly scout named Parlough, replied. “We just killed a thousand of them. How’s it that they have more than before?”

“Could be coming in from East Saltion. True believers looking for a cause to die for,” the man on Detvin’s right said.

Detvin nodded vigorously. “Could be. Or maybe mercenaries from Kinorick. Wanting revenge.”

“Or your sources don’t know nothin’, which is more likely,” Parlough scoffed.

“I hear things from Sour, and he’s been close to Sarthak since forever,” Detvin said, as if the comment would end the conversation.

“Sour’s always making it out to be worse than it is. Been saying for years that he’s dying of a bad heart that only acts up when he eats too fast.”

“Five thousand… it can’t be,” another man said, shaking his head.

“What if they’ve become reinvigorated by the losses?” Erden said, unable to keep the comment in his mind. “I read Vision when I was a boy, before it was outlawed. The Path spread because its followers were persecuted, not in spite of it.”

All the men around the fire were staring at him. Parlough looked as though he wanted to dismiss what Erden had said, but was holding back out of curiosity.

“I don’t want to say this war is futile, but it could be having the opposite of its intended effect. How many people who walk The Path are there in Vinredor? Seems like more than I remember before the religion was banned. We certainly hear about it more now, even though it’s illegal to practice.”

“You’re saying we’re helping the enemy?” Detvin said.

“Not intentionally. But it makes some sense, doesn’t it?”

Parlough stood up then. “You should go back to your books,” he said, reaching for a knife on his belt. “We lost a lot of friends fighting this war. Men with a lot more courage than you.”

“I didn’t mean offense,” Erden said as he stood up and began to step backwards.

“He’s not worth it, Parlough,” Detvin said. “Spent too much time with books, and not enough in the real world. Don’t risk your own head doing something stupid.”

The scout sheathed the blade, but kept his eyes on Erden. “Watch your back in the heat of battle. Oh, but you’ll be back by the wagons, won’t you? Then watch your back as you sleep. Accidents have been known to happen.”

Erden laid on top of a row of water barrels in one of the covered wagons that night, unable to fall sleep out of fear that Parlough was not simply posturing. It was nearly unfathomable how poorly his first attempt at ingratiating himself into the company had gone. Yet he was determined to try again. There were no heroes of epic tales who were social outcasts. They were beacons of hope for others. If he could find an in with even one soldier, he knew he could win over the others in time.

They marched through a deluge the next day, making little progress as wagon wheels became buried in mud. Officers organized the men into teams to push and pull the transports onto solid ground, the efforts leaving the men covered in grime and the wagons still stuck in place. Men groaned that there were plenty of vigor tonics in the wagons, and the injustice of the situation, but Sarthak had refused to use them. Knowing how expensive the tonics were, Erden saw the sense of that, though he did not see how they would be able to get the wagons unstuck without their unnatural aide.

He was leaning against a rope, his hands raw and bleeding, resorting to covering them with his shirt, and feigning effort, as water beat down on his already soaked head of hair. His mind lost in the mists, dulled by the physical demands which had pushed him past where he believed possible, he slowly became aware of a chant breaking out around him. It took a moment for him to focus his mind enough to make out the words, but when a wagon rolled past him, moving faster than he could believe, he began to hear it clear. “Ab-ra-HAM, Ab-ra-HAM, Ab-ra-HAM.”

He wiped the rain from his face to clear his view long enough to see the lean swordsman in the middle of a pack of soldiers, pulling the wagon onward, his eyes showing a determination which made Erden shake. By no means the biggest or the strongest man in the company, Abraham nevertheless led the procession, a step ahead of the other men. All around, soldiers and officers now, too, carried on the chant. Erden watched as Kingsley bellowed out the words, louder than anyone else, and Sarthak watched in silent awe.

That man, Erden thought as he looked back at Abraham’s wake, it is as though he stepped out of a story and into reality. I must learn from him.

The company moved slowly the next day as well, with supplies having to be shifted and wagon wheels and axels needing repair. Once they were back on the march, Erden went looking for Abraham.

It was the first time he had moved from his usual position near the wagons at the back of the column, just in front of the rear guard. The line of soldiers, wagons, and extra horses stretched for half a mile, and Erden had to walk most of it to find the man he was looking for.

Abraham walked alone, the other men giving him a wide berth. As he approached the swordsman, Erden felt eyes on his back, making him consider waiting for another time. But passing by Abraham seemed impossible, even sacrilegious, and falling back in line behind him was even more uncomfortable, so Erden continued on until he was but two paces back.

The sun above felt as though it was but a few feet from his head. From behind him, he believed he could hear snickers, and he had no trouble imagining the soldiers shaking their heads at their pathetic new member. The man in front of him had not adjusted his stride, or given any indication that he was aware of his presence, but Erden’s footfalls were loud enough to give him away. The two men continued on without words for some time, until, feeling exhausted by the heat, Erden nearly tripped over his own feet, falling to one knee.

Cursing, he stood up to see Abraham looking back at him. “Are you alright, Quartermaster?”

“I’m fine,” Erden said, wiping dust from his trousers.

“A drink?” Abraham asked, holding out a waterskin.

“I have some, thank you.”

The swordsman nodded and went back to marching.

“Abraham,” Erden said, the word coming out louder than he had planned.

A raised eyebrow. “Yes?”

“May I… speak with you?”

“You may.”

Erden ran forward so that the two men were walking in step. Now less than a foot away from Abraham, Erden could sense the man’s strength. Though not overtly muscular, and only slightly taller than him, Erden felt small in his presence.

“The sun is intense today,” Erden said.

When no reply came forth, he attempted a shift in the conversation. “You aren’t with the other officers.”

“I am not an officer,” Abraham said.

“My apologies… I didn’t know.”

“No reason to apologize.”

“I just assumed, as you’re the greatest swordfighter... It’s what I hear, I mean to say.”

“I can take lives. That does not mean I can lead men.”

This is not going well.

“They say Sarthak has great skill with a blade as well.”

“He does.”

“Is it innate? Skill with a blade, I mean. Or, do you believe any man can become proficient?”

For the first time, Abraham’s pace slowed. “I have taught men to fight with swords,” he said. “But they were eager to learn. Were it otherwise, I am not sure I would have found success. Though I suspect it is likewise with any endeavor.”

“Motivation can be a powerful tool,” Erden said.

“That’s the way of it.”

A horn blew twice from the front of the column, dragging Erden back to the present. He looked around as men began halting. Confused, and becoming frightened, he looked to Abraham. “We’ve met up with them,” the swordsman said.

“With whom?”

“The 10th Battalion.”

Sarthak called for him that night, after he had taken the evening’s inventory. When he reached the officers, he considered his earlier conversation with Abraham. It occurred to him now that the swordsman had not been present during the negotiations with Enfildio, either. That the world’s greatest living warrior was not part of every company decision baffled him, but then again, what did Erden know of the ways of the military? Ironically, the company’s most inept fighter was here now, amongst the officers of the 10th.

Sarthak silently acknowledged him as Erden came within listening distance of the conversation which was already underway.

“The Herald is within,” Marshal Jouse said. “Our spies have confirmed that. We caught them in transit, but due to your late arrival, they were able to commandeer Desert’s Watch.”

“Were your earlier estimates accurate?” Sarthak asked, giving no response to the slight.

“They were. Only fifty armed men, including her bodyguard. The main force is on its way to Tides. The city guard has been ordered to stand down, so that it does not appear to be an invasion. They are expecting reinforcements, though we are not sure from where or how many. What we do know is that the leaders of their army believe the men which are set to arrive in Tides will give them enough of an advantage to defeat us. What they did not anticipate was that we had tracked The Herald here with this smaller force. The Divine King believes that once The Herald is captured, the movement will fall apart due to infighting. I agree with his assessment, and so we look to end this farce today.”

“What is she doing out here so far from the city?” Kingsley asked. It was a question Erden had been pondering as well.

“She went into the desert, for what reason, we do not know. Even our spies have heard nothing. We do know they separated so that they did not have to support such a large contingent of men through a land with no water. At one point, The Herald broke off from her bodyguards for two days, then returned to the others. As far as we know, she has not spoken of what she did during the time she was alone.”

“It strikes me now that we know very little of this religion, despite its growing popularity and its long history in East Saltion,” Sarthak said.

Marshal Jouse gave him a look of contempt. “The beliefs of heretics are irrelevant. The Herald’s misguided adventure was a tactical error for which she will end up paying for with her life.”

As Jouse spoke, Sarthak nodded politely. Kingsley stood with his arms crossed, while the other officers of the 10th Battalion were grouped behind the marshal, watching the officers of The Blades’ every mannerism.

“We will make our assault at the 21^st bell. The 10th will surround the fortress to prevent any escape and provide missile fire while the 26^th scales the walls under the cover of night. I wish for this to be done with before the morrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Sarthak said with a salute. Erden watched as Marshal Jouse and the other officers of the 10th Battalion returned to their camp. When they were out of earshot, Kingsley spoke.

“Five hundred of the bastards, and they stand back while we risk our hides.”

“Well, someone needs to have the glory of capturing The Herald when she attempts to flee,” Sarthak said.

“Why do we not have the full army here and crush the rebellion outright?” Erden asked.

“Because the Divine King does not wish to legitimize them, nor does he wish to panic the citizenry. He wants to avoid an open war. Marshal Jouse is indeed a bastard, but he is a clever one, and this is the perfect opportunity to end this uprising so that it can be cast aside and forgotten.

Now, Quartermaster, as you heard, we are to climb up the walls of that old fortress, which means we will have the need for ladders, and we do not have the time to fell trees. We have spare wood, correct?”

“Yes, sir. We have half a wagon bed lined with boards.”

“Kingsley doubted me when I granted you this position, but I see my faith was well-placed.”

“You told me yourself to prepare for a possible siege.”

“And you listened. Not everyone is capable of doing that, though we removed those people from this company. I believe they’re in the 10th now. Regardless, it is time to get to work, Quartermaster. Our lives are in your hands.”

Why did he have to say that?

Richard

“It’s a disorganized mess,” Richard said to his fellow herbalists. He was sitting with Rowland, his former student, and Frederick, a man who had been working in the royal herbalism laboratory for more than a decade.

The two men sat across from him at a table in the Shark Eye, a tavern by the docks. It was a stuffy and foul-smelling establishment. However, it was the last place Esther would look for them, and she had the habit of sending out lackeys to gather her herbalists outside of their supposed working hours. Frederick had suggested it, having had need for the escape over the course of his employment. Richard had been there on a few occasions with Woller. The older man had frequented the seedy establishment, which was strange considering the type of clientele on hand. But evidently, Woller had been full of mysteries. Perhaps his affinity for this establishment was yet another.

“You know,” Richard said to the other men, “I inquired as to the sudden change of direction of the program. She gave me some nonsense about it being the same goal, that the health of the soldiers was paramount. I’m not buying that for a minute. She’s hiding something.”

“Whatever she does, she does it for Oslian. That is the key to Esther,” Frederick said. “She would clean his chamber pot if he asked her to. Frankly, I would not be surprised if she already had.”

The man was not smiling. His dislike for the Royal Herbalist was shared by the other employees with the sole exception of Carlisle, who was never present when derogatory comments were made.

Richard just shook his head and looked over at Rowland who was waving a server over for another round. They had come here every night that week, it being their only escape, and ale amplified that sense of disassociation for which they longed.

Sighing, Richard looked around the tavern. It was past midnight and most of the tables were occupied. A young man and woman, the only two individuals in the establishment who looked more out of place than the herbalists, sat a few tables away from them. They wore identical green vests and brown trousers. A patch of some sort was stitched onto the breast of their vests. Richard hadn’t been paying them much mind other than a passing awareness of their obviously foreign garments and an amusement at the level of their intoxication, but a word that was spoken caught his attention just then. Herbalism.

Rowland and Frederick appeared inclined to continue drinking in silence, so Richard closed his eyes and concentrated on what was being said.

“It is a perversion of nature,” the woman said. “The manipulation of the human body shows how far how society has degraded.”

“And this is where it is worse. Here and now more than ever,” a man added.

Doing his best to hide his interest, Richard scratched at his forehead while looking over at the strangers. Sober enough to use his heightened vision, he focused and was able to make out the patch on their vests. It was a dark brown pentagon with a green seedling in the middle.

How curious.

“To permanently deform one’s anatomy… that level of depravity is unfathomable,” the woman snarled. “I do not even want to believe it.”

“Can you be surprised? This is where this was always headed. To sever man’s link to nature, and to use nature’s bounty as the means to that end. It is what our founder feared, all those years ago. Were that she was with us now.”

“To witness this?” The woman spat on the dirt floor. “To see that we have failed?”

“It is not over yet,” the man mumbled into his tankard as he lifted it to his lips.

Suddenly feeling unsafe, Richard excused himself to urinate, not that his companions cared whether he remained or left. As he walked through the room and went outside, he did his best to clear his head from the influence of alcohol.

They’re speaking of me. If they know of my tonic, what would prevent them from knowing my name, what I look like, or where I live?

Steadying himself against the outer wall as he relieved himself, Richard realized he may be in real danger. Those two foreigners were a deadly combination of intoxicated and fanatical. He had never considered the potential downside of receiving credit for his work. He had only looked at the positives, which he believed would be recognition among his peers and perhaps a bit of awe in the minds of the public. Those were the rewards his grandfather had earned and it seemed fitting that his discovery, which was only slightly less impactful, would deliver unto him a similar status. Instead, he had been forced to work beneath a woman he did not respect and the only people outside of the world of herbalism that knew of him were filled with animosity for his life’s work.

He retied his trousers and came to the decision that he could not stay in such close proximity to people who could very well wish to harm him.

Let Rowland and Frederick pick up the tab. They’ll likely drink so much they won’t remember I skipped out on them.

It was incredible what fear could do to sober a man. Richard advanced briskly down side streets until he felt he was far enough away from the Shark Eye to use the main roads with their passageways lit yellow by oil lamps. His life was becoming more complicated and more hazardous by the day. Would those two strangers come looking for him? Were there more of them in the city? They had spoken as if they belonged to an organization that was much larger than just two individuals. That patch with the seedling, what did it signify? He had too many questions racing through his head to reach any conclusions.

As he neared his house, he made certain he was not being followed, walking past his house and doubling back again, his eyes scanning the area for any movement. While he did not see a single person, there was something else that did catch his eye.

More of those signs.

These read, “Look to the sky for the proof of His divinity. The light will show you the way to The Path.”

They seemed to be found on every street now. And as quickly as they were torn down by city guards, even more took their place. Yet, what had come of it? As Richard knew, the prophecy declared that this would be the year a great light would cross the sky.

The Hero is running out of time. The year will end soon. I wonder what the devout will say when his precise prophecy turns out to be rubbish. They’ll conjure up some explanation of how they misinterpreted the writings, no doubt. Failure does not stop fanatics.

It was a strange time to be alive. A strange and now dangerous time for Richard.

The next day he arrived at work to find that he was the first person at the laboratory save the Royal Herbalist herself. “You’re not late, are you?” she asked him.

“No. I believe I’m early.”

“The sun is not up yet?”

“I suppose we could have a debate regarding that.”

“Come over here and help me with this,” she said, looking back down at what she had been doing when he arrived.

Feeling emboldened by the danger of the past night, Richard remained where he was standing. If his life was to be at risk due to his discovery, he should at least be respected by those who were benefitting from his work.

“Esther,” he began. “Your current project is based entirely upon the tonic which I created, yet you do not ask for my advice nor have you questioned the process I followed. I can come to no other conclusion than you are acting out of envy and that your ego was injured when you learned that someone created something you could not have invented yourself.”

Esther paused and looked over at Richard. “You are responsible for the permanent vision enhancing tonic?”

“Yes, of course I am!”

“You mean your department at the university created it.”

“No, I mean I created it. Other than manual labor, such as what you had me doing when I first arrived, no one else had any input in the development of the tonic. Don’t act as though you are ignorant of that.”

“I was told the tonic was developed by the university’s herbalism department. That is why we have you and the graduate students here. The other two professors were uncooperative and have… left the profession.”

The ambiguity of that statement is frightening.

“Ask anyone from the department and they will tell you it was my project.”

“It is that important to you that you receive credit for this?”

“Well, yes. How could it not be?”

“What matter are the results, not who was responsible. Herbalism is an ongoing process. Everyone adds on to what the last person created, and he or she did the same.”

“That may be…” Richard admitted.

“You are so like him,” Esther said, again looking back down at the materials on the table.

“Like who?”

“Enfildio.”

“Did you know him personally?”

“Ah, now it is my turn to be insulted. I did know him. That he never told you of me only proves my point. But that is enough about that. You have made advancements, and I will learn from you. At this moment however, I need your assistance.”

She knew my grandfather? Did she work for him? I know he had many assistants.

Richard acquiesced to Esther’s request and saw that she was deseeding a genizid flower. The seeds of the plant had been used in traditional healing for centuries, though Richard was unaware of any herbalism tonics which utilized them. Seeing Esther at the laboratory alone, doing such a menial task, made him consider what she had said earlier. Perhaps he had lost his temper.

They worked together in silence, deseeding more than twenty of the flowers. The old woman’s liver-spotted hands moved deftly, though she would pause every so often to stretch her fingers, then resume without comment.

Carlisle was the first to arrive, and Esther enlisted his services as well. By the time the task was complete, the rest of the staff had arrived and Richard was dismissed so that he could continue his originally scheduled work. His job for the week had been to collaborate with Frederick in collecting data on the acidity of different existing healing tonics. Frederick was slowly gathering materials when Richard approached him.

“Good morning,” he said, curious whether the man had any recollection of the night before.

“Morning, Richard. Another day in paradise, no?”

“How’s your head?” Richard asked.

“Hurts like usual. It’ll wear off by midday. It always does.”

“Thanks for picking up the tab for me,” Richard said. “I owe you.”

“Made the boy pay for it, so don’t mention it.”

Richard looked around the room then and lowered his voice. “Frederick, do you remember two people at the tavern last night who were wearing green vests with patches on the breast?”

“Is this the beginning of some sort of jest?” Frederick asked, looking up. “Did Rowland put you up to this? Finally realized he’s been paying for my drinks for the past week?”

“What about a loud conversation two people were having about herbalism? Do you recall hearing people denouncing the practice?”

“Ah. Now that I do remember. Of their attire, I have no idea, but I do remember hearing them go on and on about how herbalism is an abomination of nature.”

“Did they mention my name?”

Frederick raised an eyebrow. “Why? Do you know them?”

“No, nothing like that. But you’re sure they did not say my name?”

“I don’t want to say I’m sure, but I didn’t hear them say it.”

Oh, of course not. No one knows it was me. Perhaps Yara did me a favor. I’ll have to thank her the next time she comes to interrogate me.

“That is a relief.”

Frederick grunted. “The boy was interested in what they had to say though. Kept looking over at them. At least until I left the tavern and he had to pay for our drinks.”

“I should speak with him.”

“And leave me with all this work? You can speak to him on your break, assuming we get one today.”

“Fine. I’ll wait until then.”

“Can’t pull one over on me. I invented that game.”

At midday, Esther was called away to speak with the Divine King, giving Richard an opportunity to speak with Rowland while Carlisle was occupied picking up some of her work. They went behind a large shelf used to store knives and beakers, leaving them completely out of the line of sight of any other workers.

“What do you remember of the two people who were speaking about herbalism at the tavern last night?” Richard asked.

Rowland broke eye contact momentarily, then swallowed. “Why are you asking?”

“Did you hear what they were saying?”

“I heard their concerns regarding the practice of herbalism. I spoke to them when you and Frederick left. Richard, they made some good arguments. For instance, what are the long-term effects of what you’ve done to yourself? We have no way of knowing.”

“You weren’t concerned that they would assault you if they found out you worked on that project?”

“I’ll admit that I was. But I was also curious about what they had to say. Anyway, I didn’t tell them who I was. I mostly asked questions.”

“Who are they exactly?”

“They’re members of an organization that promotes traditional healing over tonics.”

“I’ve never heard of such an organization,” Richard said, partially to himself.

“They’re from East Saltion, though they say their organization began here in Oslidor. They had many claims about their founding that seemed questionable to me, but they were adamant about their history.”

“Another insane group of fanatics,” Richard groaned. “Evidently the city is full of them now.”

“Richard,” Rowland said, lowering his voice even further, “they told me about Esther and what she did in the past. They also told me about your grandfather.”

“What do you mean they told you about my grandfather? What does he have to do with this?”

“They said he and Esther… that they experimented with human parts and fluids.”

“Because they’re fanatics! They’re liars, Rowland!”

Richard had not realized how loud he had yelled. His voice cause Rowland to cower, while behind them, he could hear the typical sounds of working halt. Biting his lip, Richard attempted to calm himself.

“This is what those types of people do,” he whispered. “They go around and invent stories about their enemies so as to make their own cause seem righteous. It’s what we get for passing our time away in a slum like the Shark Eye. We’re drinking too much and our thoughts are becoming clouded. I don’t want to hear any more about them or their claims.”

“Fine,” Rowland said as Richard turned away. “But you’re not in charge of me anymore. You’re just another worker here, you know.”

Richard’s entire body tensed, but he gave no response. Instead, he walked back to his work station where he spent the rest of the day avoiding speaking at all.

Lydee

Year 1378 (Present day)

An unofficial extension of the university, the Fostrilya Royal Library remained in operation. Lydee was thankful for that, as she stepped out of the heat of late morning Oslidor and into the comparatively cool and grandiose space. The lobby was quiet, as usual. Above her, along the second and third floors, Lydee could see nothing more than a handful of individuals scanning the stacks or walking past rows of books. Besides the relief from the heat, she was thankful as well for the lack of people. Today she wished not to be seen. At all if possible.

After her ‘meeting’ with Gregorich, what she wished most of all was to speak with Richard. She had been left feeling uneasy in a most peculiar way after her brief interaction with that man with the bushy eyebrows. Conversing and exchanging information with Richard could help jostle free the knot which had tied itself within her mind. She knew there was something amiss, but she could not free it from where it was hidden. The feeling was similar to when one sets out for the day and knows she forgot something, but not what it was.

For now, she would have to pursue the only option available to her. This, unfortunately, made her reliant on information obtained from Iniko. The man would not have intentionally misled her, but she did not trust his memory. Or his mind, whatever is left of it.

Iniko had told her that Woller was interested in prices of luxury goods during the early days of the Xu dynasty. Having dwelt on that detail for some time, Lydee had begun to construct a possible intention behind Woller’s research. A young Divine King had recently come into power in Xu. Octavius Xu had declared that he would cleanse his nation of vice and the worship of material goods. At first, this had led to a ban on any item he had deemed ‘unnecessary.’ When that went disastrously wrong, he replaced the ban with high taxes. If Woller was studying the prices of the same goods, centuries ago, perhaps he was hoping to forecast the economic impact these new regulations would create. The nation was famed for its expansive dye and tobacco plantations, and those goods were now severely restricted due to the exorbitantly high taxes which had been put in place.

Knowing the type of items Woller was interested in was helpful, but there were other questions regarding the particulars. She wished now that she had pressed Iniko more on the exact timeframe. Not that he would have remembered. And not that it would not have taken more patience than she could muster.

The concept of a period of time being the ‘early days’ was itself an issue. The royal nations agreed that they had each been founded during a singular event which took place during what was referred to as Year 0. The veracity of that claim had been doubted by scholars for time immemorial, of course only on East Saltion. To question that on Saltion, save for in Withigan, would be reckless at best. To complicate matters further, the very oldest records were accounts from the holy books of The Path. As those were outlawed in the royal nations, she would have to find the earliest documents she could.

The royal library contained tens of thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands, of books, papers, scrolls, and parchments. Of this multitude, the majority of the sources were from within Vinredor. Finding information that was thousands of years old, and told of Xu, would be a challenge.

The building was expansive enough to contain areas where she had never visited, even after years of research. The below ground level in particular was quite foreign to her. Among other subject matters which could be described as esoteric, or mundane, depending on who was asked, she knew the basement was where shipping manifests were kept. The library was unlikely to contain records of prices in Xu, but by looking at the prices of items entering Vinredor from Xu, it made sense that one could determine the prices in the country of origin.

She headed toward the spiral staircase which led there, eyes darting side to side without adjusting her head so as not to make it obvious that she was watching to see if she was being observed. Not detecting any eyes upon her, she took the first step down.

If she had waited for only ten seconds before beginning her descent, she might have heard one of the double doors at the entrance to the library open. If she had then looked back, she would have seen a nondescript man in a plain white scholar’s robe enter the lobby. He would have done his best not to indicate that he was looking for someone, so she might not have suspected anything was amiss. As it was, she missed the man entirely. Not knowing the layout of the library, or where Lydee was heading, the man simply began wandering the stacks, making sure to appear as innocuous as possible.

With each step down, the air became cooler. The oil lantern at the top of the steps was lit, but Lydee had to set further lanterns ablaze, a sign of the infrequency in which this level of the library was used. So deep into the earth was the basement that Lydee began to feel chill when she reached the bottom. Upon illuminating the space in front of her, the first object she saw was a table upon which someone had left a partially unrolled scroll. A thick layer of dust covered the scroll as well as the table.

And with the university closing its doors and the professors needing to find new employment, this space will see even fewer visitors than usual. Perhaps if I run out of funds, I can live down here. The scurrying of a rat, inches from her feet quickly dispelled the idea of residence from her mind.

As she searched the stacks, a memory of Woller came to her. When she had first joined the university, he had told her an anecdote of one of his many disagreements with the old librarian, Paitrov. The man possessed a knowledge of history which put the professors at the university to shame. He was an invaluable reference when conducting research, but Woller, believing himself to be the foremost authority on all things historical, had challenged the librarian’s claim that the East Saltion nation of Hon Rin was once a minor territory belonging to its current neighbor, Silth Ju. Woller had set out to prove himself correct, stating that he would conduct a lengthy period of research until he could definitively show that he was in the right. Instead, Paitrov had told the professor to wait in the library’s lobby. He had gone down into the basement for five minutes before returning with no less than three documents which Woller had no choice but to admit proved the librarian correct. Woller told it as a joke, but also as a piece of advice. If one ever needed assistance while at the library, he only had to speak with Paitrov. Unfortunately, the man no longer worked there.

Would that Paitrov was here to assist me now. At least that story has directed me here. If information of the ancient history of East Saltion is down here, it makes sense documents pertaining to ancient Xu would be as well.

The basement was larger than the ground floor, spreading out in all directions past the boundaries of the floor above it. Even though she lit every lamp she came across, Lydee had difficulty seeing where she was going. Reading the words on the sides of the shelves was an even greater challenge. The room expanded out into narrower and narrower passages, making it take quite some time to find a shelf with ship manifests from the first century. When she finally found what she was seeking, she looked at her surroundings and realized she had no sense of where she was, or how to get back to the staircase. She hoped that she would find what she was looking for here because she was not enthusiastic about prolonging her time underground, the musky air giving each inhalation the slight taste of mold. Was there truly mold down here, feeding on irreplaceable historical items? Had it always been this way, or was it just another sign of the decay the library had suffered after Paitrov’s departure?

Someone had given serious effort to assembling the collection she was viewing. The manifests were all written on parchment, of which Lydee could discern multiple types. The documents had been stacked together by year, some in crates and others covered in hide or leather and bound by string or gut. A thick layer of dust lay across the covers, but the documents on the interior remained in good condition. While the ink had faded, as Lydee knew it would, they were still legible once she took held them directly below a lantern.

Removing a set of manifests gave her a strange sensation, as though she were disturbing the slumber of something which did not wish to be awakened. As isolated as she was, she could not help but look over her shoulder every now and then for fear of something just on the cusp of her imagination. There were no sounds now in the basement, not even the scampering of a rat.

On the bottom shelf now, Lydee attempted to withdraw a booklet when a crate fell, spilling parchments out onto the floor. Rigid documents scattered in different directions, some lost in the darkness behind the shelf. She reached under the last wooded level and began to feel for the papers. On her knees, arm extended, her hand bumped up against something cool. Unlike the shelf itself, which was made of hardwood and gritty to the touch, the surface she felt now was perfectly smooth. It was, she realized after a moment, metallic.

Strange. There is nothing else metallic here that I have seen.

Lydee gathered the papers within her reach and placed them back in the crate. Knowing there were a few she had missed, but being unable to find them with such a paltry amount of light, she took the nearest lantern from the wall and placed it on the floor.

Was it dedication to the preservation of historical items, or a more innate curiosity which pushed her to lay down on the floor with her face brushing up against the stonework? Either way, with the lantern now illuminating the area, she looked under the shelf. One piece of parchment was just out of reach. Try as she might, she could not extend her arm far enough to reach it. She chose to remove more booklets from the shelf to create a space to reach through. That was when she saw what she had felt earlier.

The wall behind the bookshelf was made of ironwood, just as the other walls she had passed in the basement had been. Ironwood was a logical choice being common in the dry climate of Oslidor and the surrounding areas. The center of the wall however, a circular space of nearly a man-height in circumference, was dark grey metal. Lydee stared at the anomaly in front of her, unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of her chest. She pulled more booklets off the shelf, then began crawling through the space she had created. The lantern’s glow reflected off the metal, casting the area in an eerie light. Cautiously, Lydee reached out to touch the surface. While it felt as smooth as a pearl, there were odd swirls and abstractions along the surface which gave it the look of having been folded upon itself. She moved her hand along the metal as she stood, curious as to what could have caused its strange appearance. At a higher plane, the lantern revealed odd shapes on the floor to her side. She shuffled in the narrow space, one hand touching the wall until it simply vanished.

She lifted the lantern above her head to shine down on the floor, the light showing that the wooden wall had been cut, fractured pieces of wood scattered on the ground. The cleared space was large enough for her to fit when she turned her body to the side. Not knowing precisely why, she shifted the lantern into her other hand and entered the space.

Through the gap in the wall, she found herself in a room with three sides covered in bookshelves. Lydee walked to one and picked up a leatherbound booklet. The cover appeared modern, but the pages of parchment inside were ancient. The first page seemed to be notes taken regarding events in someone’s life, their travels. There were dates as well, but they made no sense. The first entry was dated as being from the year 4,122, a date which had not yet come to pass. The parchment and ink were clearly ancient, in decent condition but fading and torn along the edges. Further pages followed the same pattern.

Lydee took another booklet off the shelf and inspected it. This one was dated beginning in the year 9, making it, if true, the oldest document she had even seen, or ever heard of. Even Redemption, the first holy book of The Path, was considered to be from the second decade of the first century.

None of this can be. These dates are impossible… aren’t they? But if so, why are these items hidden behind a wall? And why and when was it broken into?

Lydee’s heartbeat had increased without her realizing it. She scanned the room in disbelief, shaking her head and wondering if this was in fact reality, or but a fevered dream. Then, in the distance, a sound.

Someone is descending the staircase.

Panic.

Lydee filled the interior pockets of her robe with booklets, then turned to the gap in the wall from which she had emerged. She squeezed through and crawled to the bookshelf which contained the manifests. She paused then for a moment and was barely able to hear footsteps above her own heartbeat. They did not sound as though they were getting closer.

Whoever it is may be as lost as I am.

Still, she did not want to be found in a space that was clearly designed to be hidden. Through the space she had cleared in the shelf, she rushed to return the manifests, unmindful of their original order. Standing up and dusting herself off, she could tell that the footsteps were now indisputably louder, and increasing in volume with each passing moment. She scanned the area and realized she was at a dead end, the lantern which she held providing the only available light.

A difficult decision to make now. Return the lantern and attempt to hide in the darkness, or find the exit while hoping to avoid whoever else was in the basement? A glance at the floor forced her hand. Her path could easily be tracked by the footprints she had left in the dust which had accumulated due to disuse. It was this dust that made her feel so certain she was now being hunted. That two individuals would seek the basement on the same day, when it had so clearly been neglected for such a long time felt too unlikely to be a mere coincidence.

Lydee did her best to move away from the footfalls. She stepped carefully, making sure not to make a sound and followed her own footsteps until she came to a hallway that branched in multiple directions. There she took a new path. The path spread out again and again, the floor now free of footprints. Behind her, or truly in which direction she did not know, the footsteps continued, muted but audible.

She did not know how long she walked, or how many turns she made, but she eventually found herself at the staircase again. At the base of the stairs were a second set of footprints. Where they led out, the footsteps began to flow seamlessly into her own.

There is no doubt. Someone is searching for me. Or, at the very least, someone is searching for the person they know is down here.

A last look back, then Lydee placed her lantern on the ground and quickly, but silently, ascended out of the underground and back to the familiar confines of the Royal Library, sure, in the way that one can only be in times of terror or dismay, that her life had become inalterably changed.

Cupela

Year 1348 (Thirty Years Prior to Present Day)

A breakthrough had occurred. Diseases, illnesses, afflictions- they were to be a thing of the past. At least that was what the latest development hinted at. Cupela had been amazed by the progress, and then unsettled by the aftermath.

The road to immortality was lengthy, with many twists. Afterall, to become immortal, one would have to be free not only from aging, but from sickness as well. It was a deadly fever which had sparked Enfildio’s intense desire to end the blight of death. Now, it appeared as though the dream of a world without illness was more than just a fantasy. The eradication of disease was still theoretical, but that did not diminish the accomplishment of Enfildio and his team. All of us were critical to this success, Cupela reminded herself for the hundredth time.

For years, Enfildio had sworn by the use of ferins for conducting research on humans. It was irresponsible and immoral to use human test subjects, he had declared. Yet ferins, as different as they appeared from humans, had a remarkably similar anatomy. The furry brown creatures were the size of rats, but with much larger ears and eyes. What made them most beneficial was not their appearance however, but their incredibly short life span. A ferin went from infant to adult in ten days, and the average ferin lived less than two months. With these creatures, one did not need to wait years to see results, but only weeks.

As ferins and humans shared an internal body structure, the animals were also capable of contracting human diseases. This had made them a scourge in the real world, and a blessing in the laboratory. Enfildio and his assistants had learned much about how to fight illnesses over the past years of diligent work. The true breakthrough though had come just one day past.

A set of ferins which had been treated for scarlet fever had survived the ordeal. The tonic given to them had not only helped them survive, but had eradicated any symptoms of the affliction. It was the first time a deadly disease had been cured, not just in their workshop, but as far as they knew, in history.

The cure was based off of close to two years of work in which the team of herbalists had slowly diminished the effects of illnesses. They had tonics now to fight the common cold, sore throats, and to help with mundane fevers. Now they could fight truly deadly illnesses. It was a cause for celebration. Or, it would have been, had the players involved been other than they were wont to be.

Ubul had discovered the condition of the ferins, being the first awake that day. He in turn had awoken Cupela, who had confirmed his findings. The others followed and the workshop had been a bustle of excitement. Then Cupela went for Enfildio. He had been awake, but evidently impervious to the effect of the noises from the larger work room. When he joined the others, he congratulated them on their work and told them to take the remainder of the day off. Everyone had been more than willing to comply with that directive, and they spent the next few chimes of the bell drinking and laughing before going off to their rooms to sleep off the effects of the day, or in the case of Sarah and Piroska, who had not imbibed, or laughed, to find isolation after being forced to interact in such an uncomfortable way with their peers.

The next day, all of the research notes on the progress of the victorious set of ferins was missing, and Enfildio had closed himself off to the world, refusing to answer the knocks at his door. The message was clear to Ubul. “He has taken our work and will attempt to advance with it alone. We are here to do labor for him, not with him.”

“He paid us for our time. Handsomely, I might add,” Cupela said. “If he wishes to work alone for some time, that is his prerogative.”

“You haven’t grown sick of defending the old man,” Hrent said, “even when he confides in the mule girl more than you?”

Cupela was surprised by how much the little man’s words had stung. “Stop acting like a petulant child, Hrent.”

To their side, Jezmavalin laughed as she leaned against a workstation, drinking still from the previous day, and looking as though she had never stopped.

“Where is she? Ubul asked. Sarah.”

“She’s still asleep,” Cupela said, turning to look at the door to Sarah’s quarters. Except, instead of seeing a closed door, she saw the young woman. Tears were beginning to run from her eyes. She turned and ran awkwardly back into her room, slamming the door behind her.

“Asshole!” Cupela yelled at Hrent.

“I don’t see why you defend her when she’s taking your place as the old man’s favorite helper. Or, should I say his errand girl. You think he cares about you at all? He abuses your naivete. You go out and run errands for him, while he spends his nights with Jezmavalin, when he wishes to, or when she’s not passed out.”

Cupela felt her cheeks flush. She looked over at Jezmavalin, but the gorgeous woman just shrugged before standing upright and heading to her room.

Glaring at Hrent, Cupela said, “You can’t handle a single criticism without lashing out. You’re no better than an infantile bully.”

“The truth hurts,” Hrent snarled.

“Is that why you’re steaming?” Ubul asked.

“Sure, defend her. She’s the only woman in here who gives you the time of day. Jez may be drunk, but at least she has the sense to leave,” Hrent said before making a show of casually stretching and walking to his room.

Cupela wanted to scream. Hrent had no way of interacting with others if he wasn’t demeaning them, yet his words had still broken through her defenses.

Why? Because they’re true? No. Enfildio is simply teaching Sarah. She knew nothing of herbalism before she came here. Enfildio has trusted me with stories he would never tell anyone else. Hrent is envious that no one spends any time with him. That’s all it is.

Ubul stepped closer to Cupela and put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s not let Hrent divide us against each other. He’s miserable and the only relief he can find is in making others feel the same.”

Cupela nodded but did not speak. She was doing her best to limit the damage done by Hrent’s comments, but she had also noticed how close Sarah was becoming to Enfildio. Was it preposterous to believe the newcomer could replace her? Do not let that little man make you doubt your own past. That is what he wants; to sow distrust and misery. Do not allow him to win.

Ubul remained by her side. After a few minutes of silence, he spoke up softly. “Still… I can’t help but feel as though Enfildio is using us. All of us. When do you see him conducting experiments? Everything he does is done behind his closed door. It is as if he is hiding something.”

“Don’t start, Ubul. Please.”

“I’m solely thinking aloud.”

Cupela snorted.

Ubul is my only friend here, and even he fails at consolation.

“I will not get any work done today,” she finally said. “Perhaps I will rest and then read some.”

“Not a bad idea,” Ubul said. “I will do the same.”

Cupela barely turned to acknowledge him. She was suddenly extremely fatigued, as though speaking of sleep made her realize how much she needed the break from thinking. Looking around the empty workshop, she felt more alone than she could ever remember.

She did not know how long it took her to fall asleep, or if she ever did. Either way, she jolted out of bed when she heard the explosion.

The world outside of her room was a haze of ochre smoke. Cupela felt the heat of flames reach up to claw at her face. She attempted to clear a space in front of her by waving her hands, but the effort was futile, the effort only hastening the acrid smoke’s climb into her lungs, forcing her to cough until her hands were on her knees. Through the haze she could hear yelling, though it was unclear from which direction.

She had spent enough time in the workshop to find her way along the walls, the heat growing with each step, until she bumped into something. It turned out that something was someone. The hiss of the flames was clear now, the heat making her recoil, yet she knew she could not turn away from whoever had been involved in the blast. Cupela kneeled down and put her hand against the form. She pulled her hand away from the heat of the contact, but what was more disturbing was the texture of the skin she had touched. It felt similar to melted wax, and the image that conjured in her head began to make her sick.

From her side, another person came into focus through the smoke. It was Enfildio. The elderly man was coughing and waving his hands across his face. “Cupela? Are you alright?”

“I am fine. But someone is here, and not in good condition. I can’t see who it is. We need to put out the flames! Do you have your cape? Throw it down.”

Enfildio did so, and Cupela padded the black cloth around the figure on the ground. Flames danced on the nearby table as well, the heat radiating outward and burning her face. She pulled the cape off of the body and went to work using it to douse the remainder of the fire.

There were more voices now as other figures approached. Ubul. Hrent, Jezmavalin. They broke through the smoke, coughing and cursing.

“What happened?” Ubul asked.

“I’m not sure,” Cupela said. “But someone is hurt, and badly.”

“Where is Sarah?” Enfildio asked. “Is that her?”

“We need to get her out of here,” Jezmavalin said. “Outside.”

No one spoke for a moment, as they waited for the response from Enfildio. “Fine,” he finally said after longer than Cupela wished he had taken. “Delicately.”

They began gently lifting the body. Cupela had to hold her breath to prevent herself from retching. The smell was atrocious and the feel of blood and melted skin on her hands was too much to consider lucidly. They slowly made their way to the staircase, no sounds now except for coughing and heavy panting.

The smoke was thinner at the staircase. Cupela held onto one leg as they moved the body up the steps. Halfway along their ascent, it became clear who they were holding. It was not Sara. It was Piroska.

The already frail woman had been burned nearly beyond recognition were it not for the spectacles which she wore, the frames of which were now wedged into her cheeks. Cupela could not look at her without flinching away, yet she returned her gaze time and time again, hoping for a change, as if she were in a nightmare and was about to wake up to find her companion hale again.

“Put her down,” Enfildio said from behind the group. “The smoke has cleared.”

Cupela and the others obeyed, and did their best to let the burned woman down so her body was laying horizontal along a single step. Cupela looked over at the others. Jezmavalin looked dazed, possibly still inebriated. Ubul was shaking his head in disbelief, while Hrent stood motionless, looking down at Piroska, his thoughts unreadable.

“She needs medical attention,” Cupela said, stating the obvious, but being the only one willing to speak. “We need to take her to a hospital.”

“No,” came Enfildio’s voice from behind her. “The hospitals have nothing that can help her. But I know of an unguent. I will gather it and bring it back here. In the meantime, let her rest and give her pain tonics every half bell. Give her enough so that she does not wake up until I return.”

Glances were shared between the assistants, but no one challenged the master herbalist.

As Piroska rested, the others, including Sarah who had finally emerged from her room, began the process of cleaning the workshop. The flames had not expanded out past the single workstation, but the smoke had clung to multiple surfaces. Cupela had opened the door to allow air flow, but the atmosphere still made their breathing labored. They worked in silence until Cupela spoke to break the discomfort.

“She has a daughter, you know.”

“Someone—never mind,” Hrent mumbled.

“She abandoned her daughter to come here?” This from Ubul.

Cupela shrugged. “I do not know her story, only that she has a young daughter. Maybe this was her only method of gaining coin. She keeps her personal life to herself.”

“We all do,” Jezmavalin remarked. Cupela looked over at the beautiful woman, her long dark hair somehow unblemished by the smoke. What reaction are you hoping for?

“Especially Enfildio,” Ubul said, looking at Cupela.

Cupela stared at him blankly. “He doesn’t owe us anything. He pays us to do a job, and we do it. We all knew the terms of the agreement before we took it. That is enough.”

“For you,” Hrent added.

“It’s time to give Piroska more pain killer,” Cupela said, excusing herself.

I hope Enfildio returns soon. Not just for Piroska, but for my sanity as well.

Yara

Her rage had not subsided when the palace servant brought her the Divine King’s summoning. The young man left in even more of a hurry than he had arrived when he saw the whip in her hand. It may also have been the young woman on her hands and knees, staring down at the floor and whimpering that added to the servant’s haste.

The scabs on the adolescent’s back had reopened, which made the scene look worse than it was, Yara reflected. Her own clothes were free from blood save for the black gloves she was wearing. She removed them carefully and tossed them to the servant girl, along with the whip.

“Have those cleaned before I return. Then go back to whatever task you were pretending to do before.”

It would be unwise to be in such a foul mood during an audience with the Divine King. Her back to the door, she took a series of deep breaths before heading to the royal living quarters.

She had been to the Divine King’s private chambers on occasion, but never to his bedroom. In fact, she never heard of anyone being summoned to that intimate location before. A number of possibilities jostled for position in her mind. None of them were particularly pleasing, but then again, her thoughts had been darker than usual. Because of this man, Gregorich. Who is he? Why is he inquiring after Woller while posing as one of my agents? Does Oslian not trust me?

The thought that Richard had fabricated the man’s existence seemed highly unlikely. She did not believe him to be diabolical enough to present an invented story in such an innocent way. She had dozens of questions regarding Richard’s interaction with the man he knew as Gregorich, but she did not have the flexibility to ask them. She could not allow him to know Gregorich did not work for her. Unless of course, she disposed of him afterwards. But he was Esther’s now, and the Royal Herbalist was possessive of her people.

Her next suspicion was a rival on the council. Ilgor was ancient enough to have known Woller back when he was an acquaintance of Oslian’s, but she did not believe Oslian would have spoken to him about the matter. As for Rovellia, she was too dim-witted to hatch any kind of plan. Therefore, her only true suspect on the council was Martin. Oslian asked him for advice on a wide variety of issues, and she would not be surprised if Martin was able to pry information loose which Oslian did not want him to have. She could envision him intending to outdo her and gain favor with the Divine King.

Nevertheless, she was not sure Martin was behind this, or whether she actually preferred that he was. He was dangerously competent, but at least she knew who he was. The idea of someone she did not even know manipulating her was a terrifying possibility, and Yara did not appreciate being made to be fearful.

We will see who else may have been invited to the royal bedchambers. That will be quite telling.

Yara was granted permission to enter the Divine King’s living chambers on the top floor of the palace by the half dozen royal life defenders who guarded the passage at all hours. The foyer within displayed a decadence which would make the common man weep. Precious gemstones lined the framework of each piece of furniture, all of which sat upon a carpet of blood-red velvet. The mirrors were made of glass with solid gold trim, a purple sapphire the size of a fist inset at the top of the twin set on either side of the room. It was here that she had spoken with Oslian once before, when he had been ill and had been advised not to leave his bed. He had stubbornly refused, which came as no surprise to anyone. If he truly did not leave his bed for this summoning, it was not a large leap to assume the worst.

She came to the door which she believed led to the bedchamber. Even before touching her hand to its surface, she could tell how incredibly thick the painted wood and iron door was. She paused to take another set of deep breaths, then rapped upon the door.

“Enter.” Oslian’s voice. Strong enough to carry through the door. A good sign.

The first thing Yara saw inside the bedchamber was the Divine King’s bed, unoccupied. The white sheets with violet trim looked as though they had not been used that day. Instead, Oslian sat on an expansive couch. To his side stood Esther. There was no one else in the room.

“Sit down, Yara,” Oslian said.

Thankful for the direction, Yara bowed and took a seat at the far end of the couch.

Oslian attempted to clear his throat, then broke into a coughing fit. Yara wisely chose to look away until the Divine King had composed himself. “There are two purposes for your summoning,” he said. “The first is that I require an update regarding the information you have gathered on Woller.”

And the second?

“I have uncovered the fact that the reason he was purported to have disappeared is facetious. A relationship between Woller and a student never occurred. She told me this herself, multiple times, under… a myriad of circumstances.”

Oslian looked up to Esther. Yara was not sure what passed between the two of them, but when he looked back at her, he said, “That is not a surprise. Woller was always too blunt and rigid to seduce a woman. My suspicion that he created a lie to cover his tracks was correct. This means he is hiding something and must be found immediately.”

“I agree, Your Excellency,” Yara said cautiously. “I have agents following former friends and colleagues of Woller’s.” She wished to add more, but that was all she had. She was unprepared to deliver a report on the investigation’s progress. Saying the meager actions she had taken out loud made it all the worse. And she had left out the complications regarding the man who called himself Gregorich. In fact, she wished to glean something from Oslian or Esther which could help her determine who the man was, or for whom he was employed. But admitting there was an element to the investigation that was beyond her control was out of the question.

“Very good,” said Oslian. “I know you will find him. You have never let me down, Yara. That is why I requested your presence here.”

And yet, you do not grant me the title of Grand Advisor. A carrot for me to continue to chase, no doubt.

Oslian gave no hint as to his feelings. Speaking tonelessly, he stated, “Esther will explain the second purpose of this meeting.”

The Royal Herbalist had listened without comment thus far, as she always did. She would never deign to interrupt the Divine King, despite the fact, or perhaps because of the fact, that they had known each other for many years. Yara did not know the origin of their friendship, but she did know they had been close for decades and in the years before Oslian became the sole ruler of Vinredor. She was closer to him than anyone, by a large margin. Even when the Divine King had been known to have taken lovers, there were times when he would meet alone with Esther. The true nature of their relationship remained a mystery, even to Yara. She wished to know more, but Oslian never volunteered information regarding his relationships or his past. Caution was also always wise when dealing with the Divine King.

The Royal Herbalist clasped her hands in front of herself. “A recent examination of the royal personage was conducted. During this examination, a tumor was found within a vital organ.”

She paused then. He is dying?

No doubt Oslian had had the same thought. He would not, of course, speak it aloud, at least not in front of her. Esther as well would have known the blasphemous implications of this diagnosis. Yet nothing would be spoken. Nothing could ever be said to anyone about Oslian’s condition.

Yara could not look at Oslian. He sat on the periphery of her vision, but she refused to analyze his image. She had not prepared herself sufficiently to receive this news. Her mentor, the man who had lifted her out of poverty, was dying. She knew that with a certainty she did not want to admit. Oslian was old, and increasingly frail. He had shown signs of illness for the past few months, but Yara had chosen to ignore them. She needed Oslian to stay alive. As long as he lived, her position and status were beyond reproach. Without him… well, she could only fear the worst.

The fragility of her role as royal councilor was becoming increasingly clear. The matter of succession was never mentioned around Oslian, and he had never spoken of it as far as she knew. The common belief was that he had sired multiple bastards, but that those children, likely now adults, were being kept unaware of their royal blood until a time which the Divine King deemed appropriate, or rather, safe. Oslian also had distant relatives, who he likewise kept far away. Vinredor had not always been this way, but that was the last topic to ever address in front of the Divine King.

If, when, Oslian died, Yara now knew she would need a plan.

This day has grown unfathomably dark.

Eyes on the floor, Esther continued. “It is difficult to say how much time the Divine King has until the tumor,” here she swallowed, then tightened the grip of her grasp. “Until the tumor deactivates vital functioning.”

“Unless,” Oslian added.

Esther looked up. Yara met her eyes, then looked to Oslian whose gaze was focused on the Royal Herbalist.

“Unless we can find a cure,” Esther said.

Oslian stood then. He looked to consider reaching for support from an arm rest, then defiantly chose otherwise. “I will defeat this, as I have defeated all other obstacles in my many years. Yara, thanks to your efforts at shutting off the wastefulness of the university, the royal herbalism laboratory has obtained a tonic which grants permanent effects to its user. Esther and I are in agreement on the possibilities which this opens. It is not delusional now to say that a body could be kept healthy indefinitely. This is what I seek. This is what I shall have.”

“Our efforts have increased with our newly acquired staff,” Esther said. “The Divine King’s health is in danger, but he has time, and hope. Our priorities are shifting so that we dedicate one hundred percent of our time to curing the person most responsible for the safety and well-being of the public.”

“Yes,’ Oslian said. “The injustice of this news has not sat well with me.”

Yara and Esther both nodded. Whether from a sense of duty, due to agreement, or simply out of habit was difficult to discern.

“I have done more for this realm than any man before me. This was a nation of poverty and ignorance before I came to power. Under my guidance, schools, hospitals, factories, laboratories, and more have come into existence. The average man and woman in Vinredor has seen their wealth more than double under my rule. I have been in control of the most powerful nation in the world for the longest period of time in recorded history. Now I am to die? While others, people who have accomplished nothing in their lives, people who have wasted the very opportunities I have given them will continue to live. This is what I have earned? No. There must be a solution to this dilemma. It is only right that I live. I have earned that and more.”

He sat back down then, shaking his head. Esther went to put her hand on his shoulder, then pulled back at the last moment.

The truth of Oslian’s words is not lost on me. He is being punished while others continue to live in large part due to the improvements he has given this world. He does not deserve this, but there are many people who do.

Yara unclenched her fists. “Your words ring true, Your Excellency. And I would add, not just this nation owes you, but the world. Have not others benefitted from knowledge and developments which originated here, under your rule? The people of the world are in your debt, yet most of them are either ignorant of that fact, or resentful of it. For much of the world does not recognize you as a divine representative. When so many willfully deny the truth, there is nothing more unjust than that.”

Oslian shot up again, showing a strength that he had not displayed in months. “This is the truth of it! Yes, Yara, you have it right. Not only the people of Vinredor, but the people of the world, they owe me a great debt. Esther,” he said looking to the Royal Herbalist, “there is no time to spare. Go now and begin work on this project of utmost importance. I must hear of every step up the ladder of progress. You are dismissed, my friend.”

Esther bowed, then hurried out of the room, leaving Yara alone with the Divine King.

“Before you leave, Yara, I want you to know that your words have inspired me. When we speak again, I want you to remember them. I have been at a crucial fork in the road, and the clarity of your thoughts has pushed me in the direction I knew was correct. Thank you, Yara, my friend. My grand advisor.”

Grand Advisor. I am honored. And he has trusted me with the most secretive of information. I will not let him down.

“I am pleased I could be of service, Your Excellency. I will continue my investigation with vigor.”

“You will. I know you will.” Oslian coughed then, the horrible retching sound difficult to endure. “You are dismissed,” he said, wiping his mouth before concealing his sleeve behind a cushion.

Lydee

The psychological damage had been too much for her to withstand. For the third consecutive day, Lydee had remained in bed, only leaving the false comfort of the sheets to relieve herself and take a bit of water. She had no appetite. Her negative thoughts fueled her brain activity in a cruel cycle.

She no longer felt safe in her own home, but there was nowhere else she felt secure either. Her office had been broken into, and when she had returned home that night to see that her house had been similarly violated, she had collapsed on the floor and wept. She was still able to go through the motions of living for the next two days. Then she heard about her sister. That blow was one too many.

There were an infinite number of ways she was able to make herself feel guilty. She had not given Veabella a proper goodbye. She did not show her that she cared about her enough, not just in the last meeting, but maybe never in her life. It was undeniable now that she had never supported Veabella’s decisions, and had always acted as though she knew what was best for her younger sister.

Then again, if Veabella had listened to her, she would not be an outlaw. In which case, Lydee had no trouble blaming herself for not pushing hard enough. Perhaps she could have presented her reasoning differently. She could have tricked her into doing what she wanted. But that would be diabolical and condescending. Though Veabella would be safe now.

She should have taught classes on self-pity and how to hate yourself. There were better historians than she, but who could maneuver so deftly through any argument to find inescapable guilt?

Veabella was not the only one she was failing. Woller may already be dead. That was her fault as well. She did not reach him in time. If he was still alive, then he would not be for long. Instead of helping her friend, she lay in bed all day.

That sinister miasma of thoughts paralyzed Lydee until the fourth day of self-imprisonment, when a knock at the door brought her out of her trance.

She approached the door with a lack of caution that spoke to her extreme self-hatred, and opened it to see Richard standing before her. He had puffy bags under his eyes that made him look older and heavier. Behind him, the sun was just rising.

“You’re alive. I was worried,” Richard said softly.

“Why were you worried about me?” Lydee asked, genuinely confused.

“Last week I came to speak with you. Someone was in your house, but he or she left when I called your name. Over the past few days, I’ve come to talk to you about that, but regardless of the hour, you’ve not answered the door. Have you been out?”

“Not in a physical sense.”

“There was someone in your house, wasn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why were you looking for me?”

Richard looked back to the street. “Woller,” he whispered.

“That is why they were here, I believe.”

“Do you think it was Gregorich?”

“Who?”

“The man from the royals who is investigating Woller’s disappearance.”

I need to think. I need to sit down.

“Come in, Richard. Let’s discuss this away from the street.”

Lydee nearly fell onto her sofa. She felt as though her legs could no longer support her weight, even diminished as it was after days without eating. Richard elected to sit in a chair across from her, his eyes constantly darting around the room, then seeming to fix on arbitrary locations. Head spinning from having been upright for so long, she breathed out and closed her eyes for just a moment.

She awoke to find Richard nudging her. “Are you okay?” he asked, his gaze penetratingly intense.

“How long was I out?”

“Not even a minute. Are you ill?”

“No,” Lydee said, readjusting herself into a sitting position. “I have just… not been myself.”

“I heard about your sister. I’m sorry. I’m sure she and her company are innocent.”

“So I am. I only wonder if that will matter.”

Richard hesitated a moment, then went back to his seat. “I do not mean to rush you, but I do not have much time. You see, I have been conscripted, as it were, by the royal herbalist, Esther. I will be tardy already as it is. I hope to avoid too severe of a castigation.”

Lydee felt tears welling up in her eyes, a sensation that now felt as integral to her life as breathing. “What has happened to us, Richard?”

“Our lives have been taken from us. By Yara.”

“Who is under orders from Oslian. The one who dictates everything. Why is Esther so demanding of you? Because of Oslian Vinredor, the Divine King of Vinredor.”

“The most powerful man in the world has us under his velvet slipper.”

“The most powerful man in the world…?” Lydee said under her breath. No doubt he believes he is. But The Hero lives. The truth of that will shake the world.

“You do not look well,” Richard said. “Promise me that when I leave, you will get some fluids in you.”

He waited until she nodded, then he continued. “You have not been visited by Gregorich?”

“No. You said he was investigating Woller’s disappearance?”

“That was what he told me. Do you find it strange that someone is interested in Woller all of the sudden?”

“Only partly,” Lydee admitted.

Richard leaned forward, eyes intensely focusing on her again.

“Woller came up while I was being questioned by Yara before she closed the university,” she said. “She showed interest in his disappearance, though I do not know why. Gregorich must be working for her, looking for hints as to where Woller may have gone.”

“If the Crown is looking for Woller, we need to find him first. He was not just a colleague to me. He was a friend of my grandfather’s as well. He is a good man, Lydee. The rumors about him… they never fit together for me.”

“I feel the same. Woller is in trouble and I’m going to help him. Their intimidation tactics have worked to perfection though, haven’t they? They wanted to scare me, and they did. I apologize, Richard.”

“Your response was reasonable, Lydee. I’m sure I would have done the same. We’re not used to being the subject of intimidation and threats.”

Richard had begun to move in his seat, switching the leg he had crossed and rubbing his thighs. “I have a lead I will follow today,” she told him. “I will get in contact with you when I know more. You should go now. We don’t want to raise even more suspicion.”

“Thank you, Lydee,” Richard said, standing.

“For now, just try to stay alive,” Lydee said, only half joking.

“You as well. In fact,” he said, reaching into a pocket in his robes, “I want you to have these.” He held out three glass vials containing a greenish liquid. “Just in case you find yourself in an unfavorable circumstance.”

“One of your recipes?”

“No. One of my grandfather’s.”

“Even better,” she said under her breath.

When Richard left, Lydee forced herself to start a fire and put on a kettle of water for tea. Her body demanded that she go back to bed, but she did not give in to the allure of sleep.

Sipping the tea, she ran through what she knew and what she could possibly do to get ahead of Yara, and evidently that man Gregorich as well. Though she still did not see the relevance of what Iniko had told her of Woller’s research, it nagged at her that she had done nothing with the information. The library would be her next destination.

Another knock on the door. Dread swept through her body. She knew without any semblance of a doubt that this later caller was unwelcome. I do not want to answer that. But what will happen if I don’t?

A second knock, this one louder than the first. Lydee looked over the room for an object she could use to defend herself. A fire poker leaning against the fireplace seemed the best option, but when the image of her fighting off a sword-wielding guard with a fire poker came to her mind, she decided she would be better off unarmed and therefore unassuming.

She opened the door after the third knock to find a short man with large, dark eyebrows standing in front of her. He did not look armed nor particularly dangerous.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Good morning, professor. My name is-”

“Gregorich. You work for Royal Councilor Yara.”

The man straightened slightly. Had she been in a better physical and mental condition, Lydee may have noticed a nearly imperceptible tremor in the man’s face. “Yes,” he said. “Then, I assume you know why I have come today?”

“I do. Let me ask you, Gregorich, is this your first time at my residence?”

“It is.”

“I see. What does Yara want to know exactly?”

A brief moment, then Gregorich replied. “I am hoping to find some detail which may assist in locating your friend. As of right now, there is still not but rumors, and you know how those are. I would like to ask you some questions regarding what Woller was working on just before he disappeared. What do you know of his research? Is it possible that his studies required a visit to another region?”

“I do not know.”

“That is too bad. You see, I do not want to assume the worst for your friend. He could be traveling, and that would make my job as an investigator somewhat silly, would it not?”

“You believe he is traveling?”

“I wish I did. I apologize, but as of this moment, I do not know much about the man. It does appear as though he vanished magically.”

Silence passed between them. Lydee maintained eye contact with Gregorich, the man giving a forlorn smile.

“Do you recall the last conversation you had with him?”

“I do not.”

“Could it have been regarding his research?”

“It could have. I do not remember.”

“I am only attempting to help.”

“Of course.”

“He was a distinguished professor. I have spoken to many people during my investigation, as I do my best to be thorough. Not one person I have spoken to has had a negative word to say about him. Do you think someone could be hiding something? Is it possible the professor had an enemy?”

“You would know better than I.”

“Well,” the man said, taking a step back. “I know these conversations can be uncomfortable. Perhaps we will speak again. Oftentimes, a chance encounter or event will cause a memory to loosen and a case gets some much-needed assistance. If you remember anything at all, it could be useful to the investigation, even if it appears unrelated. Until then, thank you for your time, professor.”

Lydee watched the man walk away until he was out of sight. Still weak, she returned to her sofa and sat down, a nagging feeling growing in the back of her mind. Closing her eyes, she attempted to focus on the source of that sensation. It was not long until it came to the forefront of her thoughts. He did not give me any manner of making contact with him.

Richard

The first rain in weeks was flooding the streets, converting the city of Oslidor into a muddy swamp. Silting water rushed downhill blocking Richard’s path to the royal herbalism laboratories as he attempted to begin his conscription. His enhanced vision was not helping as water poured over his eyes incessantly, turning his world into a damp nightmare. The storm had come without warning, and without a rain cloak, Richard was so thoroughly soaked that he did not believe he would ever be dry again.

What stung most was that this was his second trip to the lab that day. The first attempt to enter his new work station had been thwarted by guards demanding identification documents. Richard had not been forewarned that he would need to provide any documentation to enter the facilities. After a few terse words, he had thrown his arms up and returned home. When the rain began, he had folded his notarized tax identification paper and tucked it into the pocket of his cloth trousers. He wondered now if the ink on the paper had run to the point of illegibility.

Deciding that it was impossible to become wetter than he currently was, Richard sighed and strode into the newly formed river. He splashed his way across the nearly knee-high, foaming water and came to the gated entrance of the laboratories. Having reached his destination, the rain mockingly began to lighten to where he could see more than five feet in front of himself. Richard called out his arrival to the guards who he could now see sitting down under the roof of the guard post. One of the four guards on duty looked up at him across from the gate, stared for a few heartbeats, then went back to playing cards with his friends.

Richard bit down hard on his lower lip as he watched the bone-dry men laughing beneath the entrance’s roof. “I have the document you requested!” he yelled through the rain.

The guard who had looked at him before stared out again. Richard was sure he could see him and was being intentionally opaque. “Is there someone there?” the man called into the rain.

“Believe it or not, there is. The person who works here who you sent away has returned. Funny that, no?” Richard called back.

The guard put a hand to his ear, then said something to his companions which made them laugh. “If there’s someone out there, show yourself. Can’t see a damn thing through this blasted rain.”

Already close enough that his nose was a fingernail’s length from touching the gate, Richard did not know what the man expected of him. He looked for a bell or chime, but found nothing. Taking a deep breath, Richard crossed his arms and yelled as loudly as he could. “I’m in front of the gods damn gate!”

The lead guard pointed across the table. The man across from him slowly stood up, took his time putting on a rain cloak, and then walked over to the gate. “There’s someone here!” he yelled over his shoulder when he saw Richard. Smiling in the smug satisfaction only achievable by the dim witted, he opened the gate for Richard to pass.

Under the roof, Richard held out his paper. The lead guard spit out some tobacco juice and took the identification document. When he unfolded it, he made a scene of flipping the paper this way and that, turning it over and upside down. “What in the Depthless Sea is this?”

“A notarized tax identification paper.”

“Don’t look like it.”

Shaking now, Richard yanked the paper out of the man’s hands. The ink had smudged beyond recognition, but the wax seal remained in decent enough condition. Richard pointed to it as he held the paper up. “This seal is from the tax ministry. You’ve had your fun, now let me in.”

The guard looked back at his friends, all of who were back sitting at the table, watching enthusiastically. “Security’s tight here. I may have to run this by a few more people.”

“If you can’t recognize the seal because you’re too idiotic, that’s not my fault. I work here now and you had better let me in as I make much more money than you and I will not hesitate to demand your dismissal.”

“I could kill you right here and now and there’s not a damn thing you can do about that.”

The gate having been locked behind him, Richard realized the man was probably correct. And at the very least, he wanted to live long enough to have him fired. That being so, Richard apologized and waited until a fancily dressed bureaucrat came out to check his document. The woman gave the seal a brief look, nodded, and walked back inside.

“Right this way,” the guard said to Richard, making a sweeping gesture with his arms which delighted his friends.

There was no indication of which direction he should head after he went through the large double doors that opened into a nondescript lobby. The woman from before sat at a desk in the middle of the room, scribbling with a quill pen.

Puddles of water trailing him, Richard approached the desk. The woman did not look up even as Richard announced, “My name is Professor Richard Dosple. I am looking for the Royal Herbalist.”

The shortest pause in writing to point to a door on her left was the only response Richard received. This has so gravely surpassed my fearful expectations that I cannot believe this is anything but a nightmare.

Through the indicated door, Richard walked into a long hallway. There were four doors on each side that he could see. He turned to look back at where he had come from, then visualized the one-way conversation he would have with the woman at the desk and opened the first door on his right. There was no light in the room, but Richard could make out stacks of crates piled up to the ceiling. Upon closer inspection, the crates nearest the door were filled with green leaves. Fisilin. A necessary ingredient for any herbalism tonic. Each crate he inspected contained the same. Richard had never seen so much of the plant before. This would last me decades. Perhaps this job will be more interesting than I had anticipated.

The new door on the right led to another room full of identical crates. The additional rooms on that side of the hall were likewise packed with herbalist ingredients, but these of a variety of types. It was not until the last room on the left that Richard finally arrived at the laboratory proper.

The room was much larger than his laboratory at the university. It was well lit with oil lanterns hanging from the ceiling and in nearly every other conceivable location, making metal and glass equipment shine in the light. Richard tried his hardest to find a single blemish on the surface of the equipment, but had no success. The only people he found were two custodians who were wringing out mops. Where is everyone else? I know I’m at least an hour and a half late.

Richard cleared his throat to get the attention of the custodians. They both looked down at the water Richard had brought into the lab, shook their heads and cursed under their breath. When Richard asked where the Royal Herbalist was, the female custodian grunted and pointed to a door at the back of the room. As Richard came closer to the door, he could hear voices on the other side.

Inside, a collection of a dozen or so individuals sat around an oval-shaped table. Three of his former students, including his unofficial protégé, Rowland, were amongst the strangers. They had all been looking over at a short, stocky elderly woman who was standing by a chalk board upon which a schedule was written.

“Are you intentionally late?” the woman asked as she placed her hands on her hips.

“I had to return home for my identification documents,” Richard replied.

“What on Earth for?”

I have made an enemy today.

“The guards insisted I show identification to enter.”

“Ah,” the woman said tapping a piece of chalk in the palm of her opposite hand. “I informed Kowleitzer that the professor would be joining us today. He must not like professors. Or, he was in a bad mood. Or he is drunk. I will fix that, whatever the issue is. You are quite wet,” she added.

“It was raining harshly during my second trip through the city.”

“Now the custodians will be upset and I will have to fix that as well. I do not have time to fix everything here. That is one reason I requested you. Not to fix things, but to give me more time. I need time. I do not have enough time.”

Richard selected not to respond and instead sat in the lone unoccupied chair which was between two woman he did not know. They feigned at not being perturbed when water splashed as he sat.

“I do not have time to call you Professor Dosple. You will be Richard. Your name is on the schedule,” the woman said. “You may call me Esther. You missed the meeting, but the schedule is self-explanatory. I have to meet with the Divine King now. Please get to work. We are low on time. It is crucial that you begin working immediately.”

With that, Esther, the Royal Herbalist, shuffled across the room and disappeared through a side door.

The communication in this facility is sorely lacking.

Everyone who was sitting had already stood up by the time Esther had left the room. They passed by Richard without comment, except for Rowland, who gave a curt hello and a lifeless attempt at a grin. A moment later, only one man remained in the room with Richard.

“Esther will want me to bring you up to date with our experiments,” the man said. “My name is Carlisle.”

Carlisle, a moderately-sized man Richard judged to be in his fifties, led the former professor to the chalkboard. “Your schedule is as you see here.”

Dawn to dusk was written at the top and underlined twice. Grimacing, Richard found his name on the left, and then followed it across the board. He was listed at being in the laboratory ‘under Carlisle’s supervision’ for the entirety of his day, with a twenty-minute break to eat. He would also be attending a meeting once a week.

“Truly illuminating,” Richard remarked.

“According to the schedule, you are to follow my instructions,” Carlisle told him. “The royal herbalist has proclaimed that our top priority is to sort out the active elements and reactions in a newly acquired tonic that provides permanence so that we may apply this effect to other, more suitable existing tonics.”

“You are speaking of the tonic which I developed in the university.”

“The royal herbalist did not elaborate on the tonic’s origins.”

“I’m telling you that I created it. If you do not want to believe me, ask her directly.”

Carlisle looked to consider the offer. He made brief eye contact with Richard, then pursed his lips. “She is simply too busy for that. Follow me, please.”

His supervisor led Richard back into what he assumed was the main lab. People were sitting at desks, looking through papers, writing notes, measuring out ingredients, and adding coal to the largest furnace Richard had ever seen. The two men continued walking until they reached a counter that protruded from the wall, its surface covered with an assortment of scales, knives, and glass oil lamps.

“As I said, our top priority is extending permanence to existing tonics. Our work has already begun on analyzing the first permanence solution so that we may transfer the active reaction to our strength tonic.”

“I can simply tell you what the reaction in my solution is.”

“The royal herbalist was clear on this.”

It took all of Richard’s strength not to throw an oil lamp at the man. He wanted to barge in on whatever council meeting or planning session Esther was attending with the Divine King, and inform them that he was taking back all of the samples of his permanent vision-enhancing tonic, destroying them, and never sharing a single piece of information on their creation. If they would not give him credit for the work he did, they could go through the efforts of doing it all again themselves.

“Your task,” Carlisle continued, ignoring the lack of response from Richard, “is to measure out fisilin in increments of quarter grams.”

This time, Richard interrupted before Carlisle could finish his statement. “I am the one who developed the tonic we are analyzing; I will not be made to do mindless grunt work. I should be leading this project.”

“The project is first and foremost about developing a permanent strength enhancement. The royal herbalist developed the strength enhancement many years ago, and is therefore most qualified to lead. Furthermore, as royal herbalist, what she dictates goes without complaint, especially from newly hired workers.”

“Hired! That’s a laugh. I was not given a choice. And why is our first task focused on a strength enhancement? There are more pressing needs. There are people who have serious medical conditions which we could relieve.”

The side of Carlisle’s mouth twitched. “This is the royal herbalism laboratory. We serve the Divine King and it is of the utmost importance that he has a strong military, a force which can defeat any enemy.”

“This nation has not been at war for decades. This is a waste of time. Time which Esther claimed was lacking.”

“You are to refer to her as the royal herbalist, and her time is lacking, yours is not. And, most importantly, it is not for you to decide. Now, we need the fisilin in the said increments up to one hundred grams by the end of your shift. I have other people who need my assistance.”

Carlisle was already walking away when Richard yelled back at him, “Where do I find a change of clothes?”

“At your home, one would assume,” Carlisle said without breaking his stride.

I need to speak with Esther. I can make her see reason if I can get her alone.

That would have to wait, unfortunately. Seeing no other options at the moment, Richard began chopping fisilin leaf, a task he would have assigned to a student as a punishment for poor marks on an exam. The injustice was duly noted and would not be forgotten.

His clothes were still drenched four hours later when he felt a presence behind him. Richard turned around, the clinging of his wet shirt making the gesture awkward and uncomfortable, to find the royal councilor, Yara standing before him.

“These are not the conditions I expected to find you in,” she said.

“Yes. This work is more suitable for an intern.”

“I meant your clothing. You are wet and malodourous.”

“Oh.” He could not think of a good response for that, though he knew one was laying in wait to surface and demand his attention once he was in bed that night.

“Despite your appearance and odor, I need to speak with you. In private.”

Richard looked at his surroundings. The room was so large, with sections blocked off by walls, that he had no idea how many people were there. He could see three right now, each roughly twenty yards away from him. He had glanced back at them periodically while he was working, but they had never attempted to look his way, at least that he had noticed. All in all, it seemed he and Yara were already isolated enough for a private conversation. “I have a lot of work to do by the end of the day, so get out with it,” he said.

“It is not for you to give me orders. Follow me, but keep your distance. I was not merely joking when I said that you have a foul odor.”

She led him back into the meeting room with the chalkboard. He had, evidently, missed his meal break. He doubted he would be allowed to take it at another time even though he had worked through it.

“Sit. Over there,” Yara said, pointing across the table to the chair furthest away from her. Richard did as he was instructed, his wet stockings irritating him with every step he took.

“What do you know of the sudden disappearance of professor Woller Doclin,” she asked once he was seated.

Again? “He was my friend and colleague. But you already know that.”

“I do.”

“Why are you asking me about him again?”

Yara’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you mean, ‘again’?”

“Your investigator, Gregorich questioned me a few days ago. Did he not report back to you? I know the communication here is less than ideal.”

Silence. The only motion from the royal councilor was the blinking of her eyes.

“Describe this man.”

“You do not even know what Woller looked like after all of this time?”

“No! Describe this man, Gregorich.”

Richard had to think about what his response should be. Something here was not right and he did not want to get even more involved in this than he already was. Is this a test of some sort? Or have I begun to unravel another layer of mystery regarding Woller?

“He was slightly shorter than me, perhaps a few years older as well.”

“What else?” Yara snapped.

“I don’t know… I believe he wore a brown shirt. I’m not sure what else to say.”

“Describe his face.”

“I do not remember it too well. He was serious looking, I suppose. Again, I believe a few years older than me.”

Intuition, and his hatred for the woman, told him not to give the detail he knew would be the most important. Let her struggle with this. She has put me in a much worse situation.

“Have you spoken of your meeting with him to anyone else?”

“No. Why are you asking?”

“He… Gregorich… over-stepped his boundaries. If he already received your information, I will speak with him and not waste your time. But do not speak of this to anyone else. If you do, I will know, and that will be a significant problem for you. Trust me on that. Go back to work now.”

Richard got up and left without comment. He believed her when she said she would not hesitate to do him harm. What he did not believe was that she would obtain any information from Gregorich. She had been knocked too much off balance for the man to simply have over-stepped his boundaries. There was more to this than that. Yara was unsettled and confused. For that, Richard was glad. It was the only positive of his entire day.

The Old Man

Year 1378 (Present day)

The elderly man with the long, white beard and hairless pate who had spoken at the village gathering was named Trounen. While closer in age to eighty than seventy, he worked still as a fisherman and butcher. The Old Man, who was making an effort to think of himself now as Gray, had learned much from Trounen regarding the history of the village and how it had grown over the years.

Trounen was one of the village’s founders, along with Harold, who came to the land nearly two decades ago. As with his talks with Harold, Gray did not learn much regarding the motivations of the settlers, only that they wanted to be far away from civilization. That the village had grown so large, now with more than seventy inhabitants, had been unexpected, and Gray suspected, undesired by the first wave of migrants.

Gray had asked only one question regarding Makani, and had asked only after her business. The store, which doubled as her house, was solely her possession now, as her husband had died five or six years ago. Trounen had started to say something else about the woman’s past, then had carefully directed the conversation back to her work as a cobbler, which everyone agreed was excellent. Gray asked after the lad, Jaroslav as well, partially out of legitimate interest, and partially to cover his question about Makani. Trounen said the boy’s father had died two years past, killed by the frostfangs which stalked the tundra. The man had been out with three other adult males, and had been the only one to perish. Trounen did not need to add that Jaroslav had been shamed by that, but he did, saying that the entire village had tired of the young lad’s preening.

He would like me to humble the adolescent, but that would at best last until I have left, only to add fuel to his fire in my absence, Gray had thought during Trounen’s indictment of the boy.

Gray had decided on an altogether different approach for dealing with Jaroslav. He had effectively made the boy his second in command in the development of the village’s defense. Whenever there was a complaint, grievance, or insignificant question, Gray directed the villagers to Jaroslav. He balanced this by training with the boy twice a day instead of the once daily regiment for the other villagers of fighting age, a metric which was in a constant state of fluctuation.

It was one of the greatest challenges Gray faced. No one knew how many Imperial Defenders would be arriving, or for that matter, when they would come. But the village could field at most fifty-four fighters, and at times that number had gone down to forty-six. All agreed that children under twelve years of age would not fight and would need to be kept inside when the attack began. There were only eight children of that age however. The borderline cases were villagers of advanced age or, in the case of two men, those with severe physical limitations.

There were other challenges as well. Only a handful of the men had ever fought before, and that experience was questionable at best. One man had insisted he had fought for the True Brothers, a mercenary company with a long history and lofty reputation. But Gray believed otherwise after seeing the way he held a sword. Then there was the problem of arming all of those adults. Chorel, the village blacksmith, was capable enough, but he could only forge so many weapons in a day. The existing arsenal consisted of a few swords, mostly rusted from disuse, a larger number of farming implements, a good supply of spears which were used for hunting and protecting the village from beasts, and a great quantity of bows and arrows, used for the same purposes as the spears.

Gray had anticipated these issues. The village consisted of people who wanted to live away from civilization. They were not fighters or leaders. What he had not anticipated was the tedious task of managing personalities and factions within the village.

I’ve never been accused of having a silver tongue. Tried my best to put myself in positions where others did the talking. At least I have Makani and Trounen.

He had relied on those two to take Harold’s place as the unofficial leaders of the village. Makani could smooth things over and make people feel as though her ideas had been their own. Trounen simply took command when needed and ended conversations with declarations that others were afraid to criticize. They held meetings and asked for supplies while Gray and Jaroslav oversaw the military operations which consisted of constructing trenches and fortifications as well as designing plans and procedures for various circumstances which Gray believed could arise depending on the training and experience of the Imperial Defenders.

The sun had just gone down after an arduous day of work which saw two villagers collapse from exhaustion. The people were a hearty lot, but Gray knew he had to continually push them to their limits. He had already pictured the ensuing battle in his mind, and each time he saw himself left standing against a score of Imperial Defenders. He was not sure whether he could manage that anymore. Once upon a time though, he would have eagerly accepted the proposal.

Gray walked with Jaroslav from the improvised training ground back to the village proper. The boy was strong and willing to learn. Although he had started as a complete novice, he had already far surpassed the others. While they practiced out of necessity, Jaroslav trained because he wished to be a great swordsman. The difference was crucial to rapid advancement.

“Do you know how to fight with a spear as well?” the boy asked.

“I do,” Gray responded without looking over.

“May we work some with spears tomorrow?”

“No. The spears will be used by those who are not strong enough to swing swords for an extended period of time. A spear is a more defensive weapon. We will leave them to others.”

He did not have to look over to ascertain the reaction of the lad.

“My mother had been training with a spear. She is afraid of using it however.”

“There’s no shame in feeling afraid. Only in acting afraid.”

They had been sparring a hundred yards from the village and were now crossing the snowy ground toward the tavern. Gray’s meals were free now, as were Jaroslav’s, a request Gray made for the impression it would make on the youth more than for any economical reason. Jaroslav had been beaming with pride during the week that Gray had been in the village, and that enthusiasm could play a defining role in the battle to come. He wondered if the boy would be insufferable after he departed and finally continued on his intended path. He was trying his best to prevent that.

So far, the boy has picked up on every subtlety I have thrown his way. I may have initially misjudged him. His pride over his father’s failing has not made him overly aggressive. It has only left in him a desire to correct what he sees as an imbalance on the scales of his life.

In fact, Gray was beginning to like the boy. He did as he was told and always, without exception, gave his utmost effort.

“Do you think my mother will fight, when the time comes?”

“I do.”

“I hope she will.”

“If enough Imperial Defenders arrive, she will have no choice.”

The comment was not meant to frighten the youth. That it did gave Gray a chill.

These people were better off before I crossed their path. True, they were living under oppression, but where is that not true in this world? Perhaps Withigan, but then that city-state is half-mad. That is what they say, at least.

How many of innocent people will die because of me? Though, what alternative did I have? To lay down and die?

The world was a simple place until people entered the picture. That was a truth Gray had learned long ago. Yet it seemed as though he could never apply the knowledge he had gained. He had lived the second half of his life as a loner, and even then, he was still finding himself entrapped by either honor or guilt, he was not sure which. When other people crossed his path, situations were muddied by emotions from which he had done his best to free himself. It also meant that others could suffer from his failures. He had already crossed half the world for someone he felt obligated to assist, and now he had an entire village depending on him.

More than seventy lives in the hands of an old man. An old man who never learned how to communicate or connect with others. Is it arrogant to view one’s own life as tragic?

Jaroslav rushed ahead to open the door to the tavern. Gray thanked his companion and stepped into the relative warmth of the building. Business had picked up since his arrival. The unnamed tavern had always been popular with the two dozen or so men and women who found comfort in ale, but now finding oneself in the tavern at the right time was seen by some as an opportunity to exert some control over the perilous situation in which the village found itself. Gray was aware of this, which was another reason he always brought Jaroslav along with him.

The cook, Lorina, had taken Harold’s place as host of the tavern until his return. All agreed that he would be back, but the shape that the man would be in when they next saw him was another question altogether. People were never more capable of evil then when their pride had been damaged, and thugs such as the Imperial Defenders were not accustomed to showing restraint. Gray hoped the man was still able to walk and feed himself, but he did not hold out much hope for that.

Lorina had saved a table for Gray and Jaroslav. She poured them both tankards of ale as soon as they sat down. “Fish stew with potatoes this evening,” she said.

“Thank you. That sounds excellent,” Gray replied.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Jaroslav added.

“I’ll add some more logs to the fire as well,” Lorina said, hustling off.

Gray could tell Jaroslav enjoyed the benefits of being at his side. Now came his time to earn his payment.

Two women, a mother and daughter, stood up from the table they had been sitting at in the back, one with a clear view of the entrance. The petitioners always waited a few moments before descending upon Gray. Long enough not to seem pushy, but not too long so as to lose the opportunity to be first in line.

“Good evening, Gray,” said the mother. “Apologies for bothering you, but my daughter and I would like to request a small change to the placements of the ditches that are being dug. You see, the holes, they end right before our home. When the fighting begins, the first place people will run to…”

“I hate to be rude, but I need a moment,” Gray said, standing up.

Jaroslav took the hint. “The placement of the trenches was chosen so as to force the enemy into attacking through predetermined, narrow avenues,” he said as Gray walked away.

Back outside in the cold, Gray headed toward the tavern’s outhouse.

After finishing his business, he took his time walking back to the tavern. He knew he was being manipulative, but still considered it his best option. And it would cut down on the complaints and petitions in the end. People would get tired of taking directions from a youth and would eventually give up on holding audience with Gray. Or Makani and Trounen would become busier. But that was a positive outcome. If Harold returned incapable of leading the village, those two would have to take on the role permanently. Best get them used to it now.

The human mind’s ability to justify its own inadequacies is incredible. And there is no lack of inadequacies here. No wonder I am so adept at this.

When he entered the tavern again, the women had left and been replaced with a husband and wife, both in their late twenties. They were two of a handful of second-generation villagers who had known no other way of life than living out here in the wilderness of North Saltion. Gray wondered what their concept of the world could possibly be. Had they any idea of the enormity of the earth?

Do I? I have spent time on three continents and a score of different islands, but what else is out there? A question perhaps for when I am back in isolation.

“He will be an orphan,” the man said to Jaroslav.

“That is more likely if both of you do not fight to defend him,” Jaroslav countered.

This was the most frequent petition- people who were scared of fighting. Gray did not blame them for being frightened. He hoped they would not have to fight and if the Imperial Defenders could not muster more than a few men, it would not come to that. But if it did, they had to be ready. The unspoken question in the air was always, what happens if we win?

Would the emperor truly concede? If not, how long until the next attack? The only positive outcome Gray could imagine was that the emperor would deem the village too costly to fight over and simply found a new settlement with access to the lake. But that would mean biting down on his pride, and based on Gray’s past experience with men and women in power, that did not seem likely.

“We understand that,” the woman said. “We were just hoping…”

“My wife and I watched him against the Imperial Defenders,” the husband said as his wife buried her face in his shoulder. “He has a skill we don’t possess. I know it’s hard for you to understand; you’re a natural warrior. I wish I had half your ability, but I don’t. And my wife is even less of a fighter. I don’t think adding her to the village’s defense will make much of a difference.”

The villagers were growing more savvy each day. Flattery and manipulation were gradually pushing sympathy aside. It was a real test for Jaroslav.

“Gray trusts me to make decisions that will protect the village. We have bows and arrows for those who struggle with hand-to-hand combat. But we need everyone.”

“Mention it to Gray, please,” the husband said after a moment of deliberation. “Enjoy your meal. And thank you.”

The couple walked past Gray who made no effort to hide that he had heard the conversation. Instead, he gave them a formal greeting and headed to his table before a conversation could begin.

“You handled them well,” Gray said, sitting down.

“Thank you.”

As if she had been waiting for his arrival, Lorina bounded across the room with two plates of food. “Let me know if you need more,” she said with a genuine smile.

Gray did not have time to give his thanks for Makani burst through the front door. “Gray! Jaroslav! Come quickly!”

Outside, she spoke frantically as she commanded them to follow her.

“It’s Olisha, she’s gone.”

“She disappeared? Has that happened before?” Gray called out, running to keep up.

“Not since she was young,” was the only reply Makani gave.

She led them across the town to Trounen’s home. The elderly man was kneeling down by the fireplace, stuffing kindling into a fire that had just come to life.

“Olisha is gone,” Makani told him.

“Who was watching her?” Trounen growled, throwing down the sticks and climbing to his feet.

“No one.”

“Dammit, Makani! It’s dark out. You know she needs to stay inside.”

“She doesn’t just wander off.”

The implication of that response froze the group.

“When did you last see her?” Trounen asked.

“Not since morning. Oh, no,” Makani said softly. She reached out to steady herself against Gray. “She said she would be going out with Lorina to hunt birds. But Lorina is in the tavern, isn’t she?”

“She is,” Jaroslav said.

“Makani, do you remember if Olisha left the village at any time since Gray arrived?”

“They’re using her,” Makani cried.

“When did she go out?” Trounen said sternly.

“She said she was hunting birds. The day before Harold was taken.”

Gray rubbed Makani’s back out of instinct, then pulled his hand away, doubting his intentions. “How much information could she reasonably tell them?” he asked.

Trounen answered, as Makani’s sobbing grew louder and more desperate. “The girl is simpleminded, but if you ask her a direct question, she can answer it accurately.”

“They’ll want to know what our physical defenses look like and what kinds of weapons we have. Even if she doesn’t know the full scope of what we’re planning, they will realize we plan to draw them toward choke points and batter them with arrows.”

“It’s not her fault, I know it isn’t,” Makani said, her voice muted through Gray’s coat.

“I don’t doubt that,” Trounen said. “She’s not capable of hatching a plan like this. They likely promised her something in return for her report. I wonder how long this has been going on.”

“What will they do with her now?”

Trounen shook his head. “They can’t send her back. They’ll know we would interrogate her to learn what questions they asked.”

“Even if they know what our general plan is, that doesn’t mean they have an option other than stepping into it,” Gray said.

Makani pounded a fist into Gray’s shoulder. “But what about Olisha?”

“We will have to hope for the best,” Trounen said. “I don’t want to seem callous, but we have other, more pertinent concerns now. The others will be increasingly distrustful. And they will question your allegiance, Makani. People are frightened, and you have looked after the girl since her parents died. They will suspect you.”

Makani’s sobbing continued as though she had not heard Trounen’s commentary.

Gray put his arm around Makani and stood up straighter. “Then they can come to me with their suspicions. Makani’s duties stay as they are.” He turned to Jaroslav. “If anyone raises doubts about Makani, you send them to me.”

“I will, sir.”

“Thank you, Gray,” was all that Trounen said. But Gray read much more into that statement. Gray knew what Trounen was thinking, and he was right.

This is all my fault.

Cupela

Year 1348 (Thirty Years Prior to Present Day)

A few days in the laboratory had been long enough. The tension in that underground facility had been stifling. Cupela had speculated at the hatred between Hrent and Piroska and how it had broken the team so thoroughly that everyone had stopped working. Then, after further examination, the real shock was that it had not occurred earlier. Without Enfildio’s presence in the lab, the long stretches of work in close proximity were too much. Even if the five herbalists had been compassionate and empathetic, which would be a generous description, they would have cracked eventually.

Her task this day was to deliver a gift to the master herbalist’s grandson, a simple but enjoyable excursion. It was always invigorating to step out into the city, even with the horrid heat of the late afternoon, and Cupela would have liked to extend her time outside as long as she could. She was aware however, that Enfildio knew the exact amount of time it took to get to his grandson’s house, and that he was more than capable of monitoring her time away from the lab while managing half a dozen other tasks. Even among geniuses, Enfildio stood out as exceptional.

His grandson lived in the wealthy neighborhood of Peridot. Each time Cupela passed through the rows of houses, each with an elaborate marble fountain to display the wealth of their owners, she pictured herself living there when her work on the immortality tonic was complete. She enjoyed fantasizing about living alone in a large house, with thousands of square feet all to herself. She did not know if she would ever be able to live with others again after the experience of being in such close quarters with five, now six, others. And she was the lucky one of Enfildio’s assistants who was allowed to leave the facility occasionally. She felt sympathy for the others, though she never mentioned it aloud. Likely they would only take her concern as gloating. No doubt they all wished to exchange roles with her and be the one who got to experience something resembling a real life, at least from time to time. Thinking on it now, she was somewhat surprised at the lack of resentment she felt from the others. Most likely this was due to their more overt issues with each other. She had no doubt that Hrent did not like her, but his hatred for Piroska provided him with an even better target for his anger, and vice versa. Ubul would never say anything in front of her, even though she believed he was thinking it. As for Jezmavalin, Cupela wondered if she actually followed the rules. If she did not, Enfildio certainly would know. Then the question became, did he choose to punish her?

Best not to think on that. A beautiful woman lives on a different plane than the rest of us. I may not like that, but it is no different anywhere else in the world. My list of issues with Jezmavalin is long enough without adding envy to the dossier.

She thought then about that awkward man who had accosted her in the library, and had then appeared with the captain of The Blades at The Roots, a bizarre coincidence which she had hardly believed. He had looked at her in a way no one had ever done before; the way all men gazed at Jezmavalin. She should have been flattered, but instead, she had felt unease. Was that what Jezmavalin experienced when all eyes were on her? The thought was laughable. That woman always appeared to relish and encourage the attention, even while feigning indifference. As for me, well, perhaps there is only one person’s admiration which I desire.

She reached her destination and strode up the pathway to the house’s entrance. The grounds were immaculately kept, as always. Enfildio paid landscapers and servants to look after the upkeep of the residence, as the boy’s parents were both deceased.

That is his reason for this project. Enfildio does not want to see another loved one die. I wonder where I would be, and what I would be doing, if his daughter and her husband still lived? It is fascinating how one event can change the trajectory of so many lives.

Enfildio had told her the story in bits and pieces. It was obvious that recalling the details and speaking them out loud was painful for the man, and so he had shared with her what he could endure during late nights when he needed companionship more than anything else.

Cupela was not sure on the exact timeframe, but based on the age of the boy, his parents could not have died more than a decade ago. Her understanding was that Enfildio’s daughter had fallen ill and her husband had blamed himself. She was unclear on whether the man had actually done something wrong, or whether his guilt was irrational. But the woman’s illness became severe enough that Enfildio had stopped working on other projects for some time in an attempt to find a cure. He failed, of course, and she died. The unknown illness took her before her thirtieth birthday. Then, it took another life. Her husband, drowning in guilt, poisoned himself.

Enfildio contacted the boy’s great aunt and brought her to the city to raise him. He would have done it himself, but he had a more important task that only he could complete. In confidence, he had told Cupela that he would never allow his grandson to die. That promise was the origin of the hidden laboratory and all the clandestine operations which now fully encompassed the lives of seven people. She hoped it would be worth it in the end, though she was not as optimistic as Enfildio.

She knocked on the door and a boy answered.

“Hello, Richard,” Cupela said as cheerfully as she could.

The boy looked up at her, and as their eyes locked, his innocent smile began to turn to a grimace. Erden was right, then. I look as poorly as I feel.

Recalling his manners, the body looked down for a moment before collecting himself and returning her smile. As usual, he was dressed in the finest new clothes, and all in black, just like his grandfather. That had been Richard’s choice. The boy idolized Enfildio, a characteristic that he shared with Cupela, she had to admit.

“Is my grandfather coming to see me today?” Richard asked.

“I’m afraid not. He just returned home and has much to attend all at once. But he did not forget you.”

Reaching into the satchel at her side, she removed a thin, rectangular box, and passed it to Richard. The boy cocked his head slightly to the side when his eyes met the yellow bow Cupela had tied to the gift. He took the box enthusiastically and held it inches away from his face.

“I think it’s a book,” he declared.

Untying the bow and removing the top confirmed his prediction. Cupela was curious as to whether the boy knew how expensive the item was. The technology involved in printing and binding paper to a hard cover was not only new, but rare and costly. Another marvel from Enfildio’s old friend, Clarimonda. The woman is a wonder, assuming she actually created everything he claims she has.

“It’s a book on herbalism,” Richard said, flipping through the pages. The grin on his face forced Cupela to suppress a laugh. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a famous herbalist, just like my grandfather. We will work together and invent all sorts of amazing tonics. Maybe I can work with you, too,” he said looking up at her.

Divine Ones save me from remaining in the laboratory when this boy is a grown man.

“Perhaps,” she said. “What do you know of herbalism?”

The boy scrunched his face into a puzzled look. “It involves balancing the quantities of different ingredients which are mixed in intense heat.”

“Oh. I think this book will suit you quite well,” Cupela said. “Your grandfather also wants to know how your schooling is progressing.”

“It’s wonderful. My teacher, Ms. Ulfle is very nice and she knows many things. She is from northern Ebanigan though, so she complains about how hot it is here. But I like her and she allows me to play with her cats.”

Funny how children’s expertise can be so rigidly partitioned.

“Are you learning a lot? And you have been receiving high marks?”

“Yes!”

The boy looked eager for more information regarding his grandfather, but Cupela was unsure what she could say, as Enfildio had given her no order other than to deliver the package. “I have to be going now,” she said. “I’m glad you like the gift. You know your grandfather chose it especially for you.”

“I know. I’m going to read the whole thing today. Ms. Ulfle gives me one day off a week.”

That’s more than I receive from your grandfather. Though, I’m sure I make quite a bit more than Ms. Ulfle.

“That sounds like a wonderful way to pass your free time. I have something else for you which will make your reading all the more enjoyable.”

“The candies!”

Cupela laughed as she withdrew a wrapped sphere of canvas which she had kept in her satchel and handed it the boy. “From my hometown of Terizon. The sweetest treats in the world. For a sweet boy.”

“Thank you so much! This is a wonderful day!” Richard said as he looked for a way to untie the package.

“It was lovely to see you, Richard. Until next time.”

“Thank you so much for the gifts. Tell my grandfather ‘Hello’ and that I want to see him very soon.”

“I will.”

She enjoyed these visits. They reminded her of Enfildio’s softer side. Richard was a nice boy and he seemed happy, especially considering the tragedy that had befallen his parents. Whenever she would leave his residence, after dropping off a gift, giving money to his aunt (which was always done out of the boy’s sight), delivering a letter, or just checking on his well-being, Cupela wondered at the boy’s future. If Enfildio succeeded with his ambitions, the boy would have, quite literally, all the time in the world to spend with his grandfather. But if Enfildio, Cupela, and the others failed, the boy would end up passing to adulthood without having spent much time with the man he so admired, for Enfildio was always busy. If he was not in the laboratory, he was gathering ingredients, making business deals, or conducting research. He spent a small fortune on the boy, and cared for him deeply, but Cupela knew that what Richard wanted most was to be around his grandfather. She did not think Enfildio had picked up on that, and she thought it outside of her boundaries as an employee to mention it to him. Well then, just another reason we must succeed.

The errands Enfildio had her run gave Cupela the only opportunities she had to maintain her actual life, as miniscule as it was. The salary she earned was immense, and as she had no current use for the money, she sent it home to Terizon, where her seven younger siblings lived. At twenty-six years of age, Cupela was the eldest by five years, the youngest of the family but ten. Their parents had died from an influenza which had ravaged the town three years earlier. It was during that outbreak that Enfildio had discovered her.

He had tracked the illness from the port city of Tides, through Agaveton and to Terizon. He had been developing a tonic which could prevent the sickness, but the influenza spread quicker than he could create the formula, and thousands of people continued to die. He believed he had beaten the outbreak to Terizon, but he had been tragically incorrect.

Curious and highly intelligent, Cupela had taught herself to read, becoming one of the only citizens of Terizon who could do so. She had learned from copies of the town’s records when she followed her mother on her trips to clean the town hall. Her parents had been proud of her, though they did not see any practical application for her skills. Enfildio saw things differently.

Cupela had had no time to mourn, for she needed to feed her siblings. The sickness had attacked Terizon indiscriminately, taking the lives of three of the town’s councilors. Cupela stepped in to assist the remaining two councilors settle legal matters and send letters to Oslidor requesting aide. When Enfildio arrived, he was impressed that the young woman whose parents had been impoverished had taught herself to read. Over time, Cupela had grown to believe the master herbalist had also been motivated by a feeling of failure for having arrived too late to help her parents, and had seen in her the same loss he had suffered when his daughter and son-in-law had died a few years earlier. That he had taken her away from a life of poverty had forever indebted her to him. Her employment meant she could support her brothers and sisters, and so she sent them every last tenth-jewel.

The Topaz merchant district was buzzing with life at this time of day as she entered its well-worn but well-maintained streets. Cupela knew she should not be away from the workshop for long, and so she sidled past pedestrians and around carriages in a rush to her destination. Now just outside of the building, she looked up, half expecting it to have disappeared, as if she had only dreamed its existence, as she always did when she went to The Roots.

Finder answered the door, unsurprisingly, as he was the only person she had ever seen do so, regardless of the time of day or night. He gave her a short bow, and allowed her to enter. “He is at his usual table,” the man said.

She found Marshaw in the second room on the right, deep in conversation with a woman wearing a mask of dark gray with yellow adorning the edges. The two of them sat beside each other, a stack of papers, an inkwell, and a glass of brandy between them. “If I have heard nothing, then there is nothing to be concerned over. There are no records, nor any reason for suspicion.” Marshaw said to the masked woman. “You worry too much, my friend.”

He looked up and smiled at Cupela. The woman beside him may have done the same, but her face was unreadable behind the mask. She faced Marshaw again, who lightly touched her shoulder. “I do appreciate how cautious you are. But they do not allow just anyone to enter. That is a dear friend of mine. Now, is there anything else weighing on your mind?”

“Not for the moment,” the woman said as she stood. “Thank you. I will try to find comfort in my faith.”

“That is the way of it. His foresight protects us all as long as we do not waver.”

The masked woman left without another word, sliding past Cupela and through the doorway.

“I apologize if I interrupted you,” Cupela said.

“I’m rather glad for the interruption. It saved me from the same conversation I’ve been having for years. Need me for a delivery?”

“I do.”

“The same as usual?”

“Yes,” Cupela said, opening her satchel and removing a pouch of coins. “How are they doing?” she asked.

“I could tell you, or I could have them speak for themselves,” he said, leaning over. He rummaged through a bag on the floor before sitting back up and passing her a scroll.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Who wrote this?”

“Your sister,” Marshaw said, his pride written plain on his face. “Do you know how much coin you have sent them over the years? More than enough for the youngest to pay for lessons. She wants to be like you, Cupela—a woman of letters.”

Tears began to well up in her eyes as she untied the parchment. Although she had always believed in this man who Finder had vouched for (high praise according to Enfildio) she had never known for certain whether he had delivered the money she earned. She had never wished to consider the possibility that he had been cheating her. Now she held proof of his fidelity.

She had to wipe her eyes every few sentences, and many of the words were spelled incorrectly, but she made it through the message. Her family was flourishing due to her work with Enfildio, and her sister had promised she would teach the other siblings to become literate as well. It makes the long days and nights worth it. Even if we never reach our goal, I have done this.

Marshaw waited until Cupela had retied to scroll to speak again. “My agent who makes the deliveries said your family lives in a new house now, one of the largest in the town. I hope that you are able to see it soon.”

“As do I. Alas, I am too occupied with my work to even leave the city.”

“A situation with which I am familiar. Do you wish to send a message as well?”

“I will write one,” she said, her face beaming.

She left The Roots in the best spirits she could recall, her family, and her youngest sister most of all, on her mind. Now to deal with my other family, she thought as she opened the hidden entrance to the workshop.

The gloom of the descent into the laboratory was enough to make Cupela wish she had been given more errands to run. Hrent being the first person she encountered upon entering the lab amplified that longing.

“Cupela,” he said, checking the room to see if anyone else was nearby. “What is wrong with the new girl you brought here? She hasn’t looked me in the eye once.”

“She’s incredibly shy. But she’s smart. She was the top student at The Scholar’s Guild, and the next two people she beat out were not slouches.”

“The Scholar’s Guild does not impress me,” Hrent snarled. “Perhaps a century ago it was something to preen over. The papers I have read that originated there in the recent past have been self-congratulatory drivel.”

“I may have to agree with you on that. Nevertheless, I assure you Sarah’s intellect is world class. And, I should add, if she passes Enfildio’s standards, that should be enough for you.”

The short man’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, while making his posture as straight as possible. “Still, I thought Piroska was ugly. This new girl looks like a hybrid of a mule and an ostrich.”

“Marginalizing her before she out-performs you?”

A flash of anger across Hrent’s face. “You wouldn’t say that if you truly believed it,” he said, swiftly walking away.

Where are the others? No surprise that they wanted to be away from Hrent, but I do not see signs of anyone at all.

A cursory look around the lab found it empty, a rare occurrence. Enfildio had a separate chamber where he would work alone, but the others shared the expansive main space. Now more than ever, Enfildio’s assistants attempted to work in as isolated conditions as possible, meaning there was always someone in his or her room while others worked. It seemed unlikely that they were all in their rooms now though, especially Sarah who had just arrived and had so much to learn simply to catch up with the others.

When Cupela heard Hrent slam the door to his room, she began the second phase of her search. Starting with Jezmavalin’s room, she put her ear against the doors of each room and listened for any sign of conversation. Nothing at all. Until she reached the door to Enfildio’s living quarters.

Unlike the other herbalists, Enfildio’s private space consisted of three rooms. He had his own privy while the others shared, a personal workroom, and a bedroom. Cupela could hear voices on the other side of the door. It had been more than a year since the last time any of the assistants other than her had been in Enfildio’s private space. At least that she knew of. There was a perpetual shared skepticism regarding Jezmavalin’s comings and goings and it was not difficult for Cupela to imagine a man welcoming that woman into his personal living quarters when no one else was looking. Other than that, Enfildio had used the space sparingly to give demonstrations to the others, and even that had declined over time. It was in fact an unspoken rule of the facility that no one knock on Enfildio’s door unless there was a matter of the utmost importance. The circumstances here were strange enough that Cupela felt comfortable knocking. Or, perhaps her curiosity was such that normal constraints were not sufficient to prevent her from acting.

Laughter behind the door now. Cupela knocked a second time, louder. Enfildio opened the door and looked at her quizzically. “Yes?”

“I delivered the gift to Richard,” Cupela said, trying not to make it obvious that she was attempting to look past her employer to discover with whom he had been speaking.

“Thank you,” Enfildido said.

“Would you like me to help Sarah learn the equipment?”

Enfildio moved to the side slightly. Sarah was behind him, seated in a stool at a large desk. On the desk were tools of measurement, vials for holding liquids, a metal clamp used to extract liquid from plants, and other instruments and equipment which Cuplea had just alluded to.

“I see,” was all Cupela said in response to the revelation.

“Thank you for offering, but I think it is best if I do this myself. Here.”

“Where are the others?”

“Sleeping, I assume. Perhaps pouting, in some cases. The exertion of a full day’s work may have exhausted them, seeing as how it was the only activity in which they partook, other than arguing, for some time now.”

“I see. Well, I will continue with my research then. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Not at all. Good day.”

With that, he closed the door. Cupela stood in place until she heard the talking on the other side of the door resume. Laughter again. For no reason, Cupela rubbed at her eye.