Richard

Year 1378 (Present Day)

His laboratory was nearly empty. The test subjects and most of the equipment had been transported to the royal herbalism laboratory. Richard himself had been ordered to be there the next day. He was still in a state of semi-denial in regards to the entire situation. That his life had so dramatically shifted, and in such a negative direction, in such a short span of time, and from out of nowhere left him in a mental haze. He knew what was happening, but the feelings that should be associated with his situation were not fully present. He suspected the finality of walking into Esther’s laboratory would bring them forward in a torrent of despair.

His students had also been conscripted. That was the word for it. None of them were given a choice, and all had been too fearful to even ask questions. They simply followed the orders. Richard did not like the implications of that conformity. It made him question whether the university was in fact a failure. If education had not instilled a sense of skepticism and a need to ask questions, then perhaps Yara had been correct that the institution needed to be gutted.

As he looked around at the workshop and dust-covered floors, he saw that nothing that had been considered of value to Esther’s current or future research remained in Richard’s laboratory.

Except me. I think.

He was unclear on what his new role would be because no one had given him any idea of what he would be doing, other than working for Esther. Would he still be in charge of his former students? Would he be able to pursue any of his own ideas? Would he be allowed to continue with his development of tonic effect permanence? He had the feeling that he would not like any of the answers he was going to receive.

Tomorrow he would begin his work under the royal herbalist, a woman who was said to be as close to the Divine King as anyone in the nation.

And what will the Divine King ask of us? I am sure it will be distasteful. Elixirs to boost the deadliness of the military, explosive tonics which burn through flesh. Wouldn’t my grandfather be proud?

He was sitting on a box filled with papers, not wanting to finish clearing the room for fear that emptying the laboratory would help usher in the truth he wished to deny, when a voice called for him.

A man he had never seen before was approaching. He was small in stature, his only remarkable trait the bushy eyebrows that seemed to take up too much of his face. With his newly improved vision, Richard could make out a few gray hairs among the black, and a tiny pimple peeking through the top of the right brow. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I hope I am not interrupting anything.”

“No. Just cleaning up.”

“So I heard. It is unfortunate. I would like you to know though, it is true what royal councilor Yara told you, we are struggling to find funding. I’m sure that does not soften the blow right now, but I want to mention it nonetheless.”

“You’re from the Crown then?”

“Indeed.”

“Are you here to drag me to my new overlord?”

“I am not. That is not my department. My name is Gregorich. I am here on an unrelated matter. I am searching for a missing person. I am sad to say this is how I spend my days, and that those days are quite busy.”

The man had Richard’s attention now. Had one of his students fled the city? He had considered that himself, however briefly. “Who are you looking for? Someone I know I assume.”

“I believe so, yes. A former colleague of yours. Professor Woller Karuvian.”

Woller? Did that girl’s family learn of what happened? Why now?

“I did know him. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“No one has. Thus, my involvement.”

Richard did not know what to say, and if he had, he would have been too scared to say it. His nerves had already endured too much in the past week.

“Could you please tell me what you remember from the last time you saw or spoke with Professor Karuvian?” the man asked in a properly polite tone.

Richard recalled the last time he said seen his friend, and had in fact combed over the encounter in his mind dozens of times, looking for hints. But not just hints as to why Woller disappeared later that week. Also hints as to why Woller had asked him so many questions. Questions about his past. He had been unable to connect Woller’s questions about his past to the man’s fleeing the city. The rumors regarding his friend had never seemed plausible to Richard, but he had done his best to convince himself that they were true. The alternative suggested that he was somehow connected to the man’s flight.

His vision had not been enhanced at the time, but he felt as though he could recall the circumstances of the meeting with preternatural clarity. Questions about my childhood that I could not answer. Asking me what I remembered of my grandfather. Probing about a woman who used to attend to me when I was young. And all out of the blue. He had never asked me such things before. Then, a few days later, I heard he had simply vanished.

That last encounter had never sat well with him. That he was now being asked about it gave him the chills. The question now is whether to tell the truth. Who exactly is this man in front of me? What does he know about Woller that I do not?

He decided to proceed cautiously and speak honestly but not frankly. “The last time I saw Woller was at the Shark Eye. We had some drinks together.”

“Did you notice anything different about the professor?”

Richard gave an exaggerated shrug, then realized the gesture may have appeared too overtly casual. “He looked the same as always.”

“About what did you speak?”

“He asked me about my classes. I asked about his. We talked about work.”

“Anything else?”

“I’m sure we did. That was a couple of years ago though.”

“Whatever you can tell me will help. When someone is missing for such a long period of time, and no one has heard from them, well, we often assume the worst.”

“He didn’t say anything about having trouble with anyone.”

“That’s good. That’s all then?”

“I don’t remember him saying anything that made me think he was in danger.”

Richard could tell his answers were being met with a degree of skepticism. But Gregorich did not push. He wondered how many other individuals had been questioned so far. He would have to ask around, without raising even more suspicion.

Gregorich pull out a tobacco pouch and pipe from his pocket. Richard took note of the pipe’s handle. It was crafted from ebony wood, and thus quite expensive. The trees which provided that dark wood were only found on islands off the north of East Saltion. Gregorich was evidently a well-paid royal employee.

The man began packing the brown leaves without looking up. “You must have been surprised then when he disappeared.”

Careful now. “I was.”

Gregorich’s eyes remained on what he was doing. “Your colleagues as well.”

“Yes.”

A spark appeared as Gregorich struck a flint block with a thin piece of metal and lit his pipe. He finally looked up as he took a puff. “I have to say that I am baffled by this case, Professor. The story I’ve heard does not match with accounts of his personality. Then again, love does strange things to a man.”

Richard simply nodded, his eyes focusing on the smoke.

“Are you sure there is nothing else you would like to tell me?”

“I apologize, but it was a long time ago.”

“It was. I hope we can find your friend. Thank you for your time, Professor.”

Gregorich gave a half smile and exited the laboratory, a trail of smoke following him.

I need to speak with Lydee. No doubt she was questioned before me. She may have a better idea of what is going on here.

He waited before leaving the laboratory, under the admittedly grandiose idea that he may be being monitored. To fill the time, he stacked boxes in a corner and swept the floor, retracing the questions and answers that had just passed between Gregorich and himself. When he felt as though enough time had passed, he left the laboratory. If he did not sense that anyone was following him, he would seek out his friend.

As expected, the campus was deserted. Richard took his time walking the paved paths between the buildings, wondered how long it would be before activities were resumed. What form would the revised university take? Who would the professors be? What would they be forced to teach?

He halted mid-step when looking back, and saw light in a room on the second floor of Lorgan Hall. Other than the man who had just questioned him, and the students who had helped him move the laboratory equipment, he had not seen anyone else on the campus all week. No one else had much in the way of materials to export to another location. The majority of the supplies belonged to the university and were therefore supposed to remain where they were.

He did his best to look around innocuously, trusting his enhanced vision to help him see anyone that may have been in the shadows. The day’s light had faded so that a would-be pursuer likely would have deemed themselves safely hidden near a building. Not seeing anyone, he headed toward the light.

As he entered the building, he realized the light had not come from the history department. No chance in encountering Lydee here then. When he got closer to his destination, and remembered which department laid claim to this wing of the building, he grimaced. Archaeology. He considered turning back, but morbid curiosity was a powerful lure.

Noises now reached his ears. Cursing.

“This is why your society fell off the face of the Earth! Shoddily made materials!”

Richard waited outside the office, looking through the open door, curious to see how long he could remain just outside without being noticed.

Inside, the elderly professor of archaeology, Iniko, stood over a shattered pot. “A student should clean this mess! They’re the ones who placed these artifacts so haphazardly in the first place!”

He kicked a potsherd which slid a few feet before resting before a desk. The little man crossed his arms, as if disappointed that his anger had not caused more chaos. “I’ll have to move to a new office. Good that I have so many more now.”

Richard could not stifle his laugh enough to continue his experiment. Iniko looked back at him, one eyebrow raised. “You’re here to clean up?”

“I am not. Sorry, Iniko.”

Iniko waved a wrinkled hand. “Then I will leave this here until suitable help arrives.”

“I didn’t know anyone else was on campus. They haven’t told you to leave?”

“Oh, they told me. They informed me that I had two days to vacate the premises. That was at least a week ago. Ha! I knew they would not check.”

“Are you clearing your office out now?”

“Hardly. I have work to do.”

“Classes have been cancelled, Iniko. There are no students. Everyone was ordered to leave.”

“No students, good. They were a waste of time.” He approached Richard until he was but a pace away. He narrowed his eyes and looked up. “They were only here for the credits. They did not care about learning or studying the past. They thought I could not tell. Well, they thought that at first, until I berated them. No matter though. I am better off without them.”

“The university is closed.”

“I intend to make good use of the newly liberated space.”

Richard shook his head. “What will you do if they come back?”

Iniko had turned away and was rummaging through a crate of rusted weapons. “I will nod my head and tell them that I accede to their requests. Then, when they leave, I will continue my work.”

“And if they forcefully remove you?”

Iniko paused and looked over at Richard. “You believe they care that much? Ha! They are more apathetic than the students. They just wanted the money. They do not care what happens here as long as they do not have to pay for it.”

He is probably right. Not as crazy as he looks.

“Now, instead of standing there with your mouth open like a fool, come here and help me retrieve these ancient chamber pots from the bottom of this crate.”

Richard bent down to assist the old man. “Pardon me for inquiring, but what are you hoping to learn from these particular artifacts?”

“To learn? Nothing, you dolt. I plan on placing them in the spare offices so that I do not need to pause so often in my studies.”

Never mind. He is just as crazy as he looks.

“Iniko,” Richard said, gingerly pulling a chamber pot out of the crate, “has anyone from the Crown come to speak with you about a missing person?”

“No.”

“I mean Woller. A man named Gregorich questioned me about his disappearance. Isn’t that odd? That someone from the Crown would begin an investigation on Woller two years after he vanished?”

“It might be.”

Richard stopped and crossed his arms. “Are you listening to me?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You don’t know anything about this?”

Iniko sighed. “Your friend Lydee came to ask me about Woller. She wanted to know all about the wisdom I imparted to our former colleague.”

“She asked you about Woller?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Unfortunately.”

Iniko sneered. “There are more chamber pots for you to remove,” he said, gesturing to the bottom of the crate.

“When was this?” Richard asked.

“Perhaps a week ago. I have somewhat lost track of time now that I do not have to give classes. It’s wonderful.”

That gives me an idea of how long this ‘investigation’ has been going on. I need to find Lydee. She must know more about this than I do.

Richard worked quickly to remove everything from the crate. When Iniko yelled at him, he put everything back with the exception of the chamber pots, then practically ran out of the room before he was given more orders.

Worn out from the day’s activities and the additional stimuli from his vision, his head was spinning. He would have preferred not to be able to see the stains on the ancient chamber pots with such clarity.

Despite his exhaustion, he jogged to Lydee’s house, believing time was of the essence. If he did not meet with her this night, he may not have another opportunity for some time. He had no idea what working for Esther would entail, but he had heard that the hours she put in were appalling.

When he came to the row house where Lydee lived, he was relieved to see light in the window. He knocked on the door loudly, beginning to feel impatient and anxious. From behind the door, there were sounds of movement. Then, the light he saw behind the curtain went out. The noise had ceased. Confused, he knocked again. No reply. Roughly a minute later, he heard the sound of a door opening, then closing.

Richard called out, “Lydee?”

There was no answer. Richard considered adding that it was him who was calling, in case Lydee was hiding from someone. Then, a more unsettling thought entered his mind. What if it was not Lydee in the house?

He backed away from the door slowly. Once he was sure he was not being watched, he ran. He ran and did not look back until he had left the house far behind him.

Erden

Year 1348 (Thirty Years Prior to Present Day)

“It all appears to be in order,” Sarthak said as he paced the storage room. “Well done, quartermaster.”

Erden felt relieved until Kingsley, a step behind Sarthak gave him a mad grin, his blue eyes somehow shimmering despite the lack of light.

Sarthak stopped his examination of the supplies of crates filled with foodstuffs, blankets, and first aid materials, and faced Erden. “We will be moving out in two days,” he said. “There is but one final preparation to be made, for which you will accompany Kingsley and myself.”

Not knowing if he needed to respond, Erden simply stood in place and nodded, his right hand clenched around the vial in his pocket. Kingsley continued to stare at him intensely until Erden had to look away. When he looked back, the lieutenant was shaking his head and laughing silently to himself.

Sarthak could not hide his amusement as he explained the situation further. “We will be making a purchase of tonics. This specific concoction grants vigor, while supposedly allowing one to endure pain, to the point where he feels nothing from even a broken bone, for a time. I was skeptical upon hearing the claim, but when I heard the name of its creator, I no longer had any doubts.”

“Enfildio, the master herbalist,” Kingsley said.

The two men must have noticed Erden’s eyes go wide, for they chuckled again. “Indeed,” Sarthak said. “In this company, we rub elbows with persons of legendary reputation. In fact, we have a bit of a history of employing his creations, and they have always given us an edge. As quartermaster, you will be present to assist in determining how much we can afford, both in regards to coin and space. We will be meeting him and his assistant at the fifteenth bell. Until then, get some rest. Your first march is approaching, and it would not do for you to collapse from exhaustion.”

“And there won’t be room on any of the wagons for you if you do,” Kingsley added. “Even if you plan on shorting us on supplies, so don’t even consider it.”

“Not everyone thinks as diabolically as you do,” Sarthak said to his lieutenant, patting him on the back.

“Not everyone’s as handsome either,” Kingsley said, winking.

When the two officers exited, Erden made his way back to the barracks, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the course fabric of his pillow.

No dreams came, and had not since he began his work as quartermaster. He attributed it to a kind of fatigue he had never experienced before, one which left his body too exhausted to do more than stay alive. The scare free time he had ended up being used for sleep. Most nights he was too tired to even eat. Despite that, he was content knowing he was making incremental progress towards a life as a man of great deeds, instead of a bystander.

A soft kick to the back awoke him. He felt his body covered in sweat from the poor ventilation in the room, and his mouth was dry and irritated. A soldier whose name he did not yet know looked down at him. “Captain’s waiting for you outside,” he said, his footsteps trailing away.

It took a moment for him to realize where he was, his mind first considering the idea he was back in his parent’s home. The rank smell of the barracks gradually brought him back into the present. He opened his eyes and rolled onto the floor before pausing again, his mind completely blank. Laughter from a nearby bedroll finally broke him out of his stupor.

Sarthak, Kingsley, and two other Blades were standing just outside the barracks door.

“You have the budget?” Sarthak asked.

“Yes, sir,” Erden said, patting a deer hide wrapped notebook.

“This meeting with Enfildio is not officially sanctioned,” he said. “If the Royal Herbalist knew we were going to a private vendor to acquire tonics, she would not be pleased. And let’s not even mention how the Divine King would see this.”

“If they don’t like it, they should develop some better tonics,” Kingsley growled.

“I forgot to mention that when I was being chewed out for failing to stop this uprising. Now,” Sarthak said, looking to Erden, “this goes down on the record as medical supplies, which it is. No need to describe it any further. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

“And no talking,” Kingsley said, jabbing an elbow into Erden’s side. “Not just for the meeting, but in general.”

Erden tried to nod as he rubbed his ribs.

They traveled out of the royal district and into the Topaz merchant district. Erden hoped that at least one person he knew would pass by now, to see him in his uniform, walking alongside the captain of The Blades. He held his head up high and pushed his chest out, doing his best to play the part. It felt good and right to be in the company of brave men, as though their courage emanated from them in waves which rippled over him. The uniform which had felt constrictive and muggy just bells ago was now a point of pride as Erden looked out over the common citizens in their white cloth tunics.

They came to a narrow building which was situated between a money-lending institution and a house of imports. No signage indicated what purpose the building served, and Erden could not recall ever having noticed its existence before, despite his frequent visits to the district when running errands.

The front door opened two heartbeats after the captain knocked, revealing a corpulent man of middling age. He gave a curt bow and gestured for the men to enter. “Welcome to The Roots. You may call me Finder,” he said. “The other party has already arrived.”

The interior of the building did not match its inconspicuous exterior. The aroma of coffee and vanilla incense filled the air, and landscapes of different regions of the world covered the walls, from the tundra of northern Ebanigan to the rumored oases of the Crystal Desert. The paint shined as the light from nearby torches reflected off its glossy texture, giving the art works a fantastical feel.

They progressed through a long hallway which opened onto several rooms, many more than Erden thought possible, each one adorned with exotic furniture. Their destination was the final room on the left, the only one which remained closed. The man who let them in rapped gently on the door, then opened it cautiously. “The Blades,” he announced to whomever awaited within, before turning to look at the soldiers. “I do want you to be aware that you are here only due to the word of the master herbalist,” he said. “In most cases, the presence of armed men is unheard of and… undesirable. I assume I need not say more.”

“We understand, and are grateful for the exception you have made for us,” Sarthak said.

Although he did not look pleased, Finder gave another bow and stepped aside. As Sarthak, Kingsley and the other two men found seats, Erden entered the room. Seated at the far end of a long, cherrywood table sat an older man in a black top hat and cloak. That must be—

The thought ended abruptly when Erden saw who was seated on the man’s left. Cupela.

She looked at him for a moment, her face puzzled. When recognition struck her, Erden could see her posture stiffen. He was about to greet her before she turned away to face Enfildio.

No doubt she could put the pieces together as to what had happened to lead Erden here. Oddly, he did not feel any anger toward her. He never had. Though he had not put focused thought on it, he could now recognize that he was thankful that he had been dismissed from the library. Cupela might feel guilt and pity him, as though he had no other option but to enlist. For Erden, a fog had been lifted from his life, revealing a sunnier horizon that nearly blinded him with its brilliance.

He was unaware of how much time passed before Kingsley cleared his throat, drawing Erden’s attention. The lieutenant gave him a threatening look, then motioned to the chair next to him. Erden moved to take the seat with an enthusiasm only exercised by one who is nearly delirious from lack of sleep, or inebriated.

“My apologizes for our late arrival, master herbalist” Sarthak began. “I know you are a man faced with many demands.”

“I am,” Enfildio replied. “Let us be on with this.”

It took a few moments for Erden to have enough awareness to recognize that he did not know if the meeting had even begun. Now afraid that he had missed crucial information, he wished only to be ignored for the duration of the negotiation. If he were to be called upon to speak, he did not think he would be able to respond intelligibly.

Sarthak and Enfildio went back and forth, discussing figures and quantities. Ever charming, Sarthak did his best to procure a bargain, but Enfildio knew he held the upper hand, and so the company ended the negotiations with less than they had hoped for, at a higher price.

Cupela did not speak for the entirety of the meeting, and each time Erden ventured a look her way, her eyes were fixed on Enfildio, though the rigidness her posture developed the moment he turned to her told him that she could sense his gaze. He had wished to speak with her, but now he believed her reluctance to acknowledge was not solely due to what had occurred at the library. She does not want Enfildio to know see that she knows me. He could think of two possible explanations for that. One was that Cupela did not want Enfildio to think she had a relationship with Erden. That felt false however. That Cupela idolized the man was easy to see, and although he was much older, he had an air of authority about him which Erden did not doubt any woman would find appealing. Erden was no threat to this man.

Therefore, it would have to be the second possibility- that Cupela feared Enfildio learning that she had a relationship with anyone, even if it was devoid of romance. Yes, that felt true, and it frightened him. He suddenly came to an understanding of why he rarely saw his old friend. She no longer had a life of her own. She was as property to this older man. And she has no issue with that. She would do anything for him. It was a disquieting thought.

“Thank you for your time, master herbalist,” Sarthak said as he stood. “Perhaps one day circumstances will be such that we can meet openly.”

Enfildio forced a harsh laugh as he too left his seat, Cupela following his lead immediately. “That day will never come. You do not know Oslian and Esther as I do,” he said. As he swept his cloak over his shoulder, he called for Finder.

The heavyset man appeared in the doorway, and surveyed the room. “Yes, master herbalist?”

“We are done here. Please have six crates of the tonic delivered to the usual location, and give the address to the quartermaster there,” he said gesturing to Erden.

“Of course. Thank you for your patronage, as always.”

Cupela followed in Enfildio’s wake, her steps in time with his despite how much longer his strides were. As Enfildio stepped out of the room, Cupela looked back. They locked eyes for an instant, and Erden saw her mouth the words, “I’m sorry,” before turning away without breaking stride and disappearing into the hallway.

He did not think he would ever see her again. It was in the moment of despair that he had the realization that he was in love with her.

Lydee

Her reaction to Yara’s announcement that the university would be closing had surprised her. She thought she would be distraught. Instead, it had given her motivation. Her cause was to find Woller, and without her classes to tie her down, she could relentlessly pursue this new obsession. Lydee knew the reality of her dismal situation would hit her hard eventually, but until then, she would focus all of her energy into a cause she believed was increasingly critical.

The difficulty she was having now was in forming any type of connection between what Iniko had told her and a conceivable reason for Woller’s disappearance. It was well within the realm of possibility that there was no link. As unlikely as it seemed to her, there was a chance that the rumor surrounding Woller’s sudden departure was in fact the whole truth. She intended to start there.

The student’s name was Fayvin. She had taken two of Lydee’s classes before graduating, the second one after Woller’s exit. Lydee had done her best not to signal to the young woman that she knew about the rumor, remembering how uncomfortable she had been as she looked out over the class, taking pains to look the young woman’s way no more or less often than her other pupils. She doubted that her efforts at subterfuge had succeeded, and more likely than not, they had been sniffed out on the very first day of class. Vea always said even a child of three could read my emotions on my face.

The university records still listed an address for Fayvin, and with any luck, she continued to reside there. Lydee took a long route to the Concord district where Fayvin lived, attempting to delay the intrusive and overly personal interrogating she was about to conduct. She walked down a street crowded with market stalls and vendors hawking local produce. It was late in the afternoon and the swarms of insects were nearly as vexing as the repetitive droning of the salesmen. She swatted at a cloud of gnats and scratched at her neck, unsure of whether anything had actually bitten her, or if the visual stimuli had provoked the feeling of irritation on her skin.

The stalls were mostly empty of product at this late hour, save for overripened breezeberries and cactus fruits which made the swarming insects all the worse. As she turned a corner which led to Fayvin’s neighborhood, she was startled by the abrupt ending of merchants. She stopped and looked around there. On both sides of the street, the walls were covered in papers. Notices, or warnings, depending on one’s perspective. All displaying the same message: His second prophecy, the prophecy of trust, would be fulfilled soon. The sky would alight in a display of his glory and foresight. Whoever had placed these had been bolder than usual, plastering the papers high enough up one wall to cover a mural of the Divine King.

As isolated as she was now, she felt as though she was being watched. A trap? To catch followers of The Path? If the royal families had believed those who walked The Path had been defeated, the magnitude of that ignorance had been revealed since the start of the year. The divine monarchs would not sit idly by and be humiliated, which meant retribution of one sort or another. She hoped the faithful were prepared for that inevitability. She did her best to continue in the direction she had been headed, careful to walk at an unhurried pace.

The jeweled had acted out of fear when the first prophecy was completed, for they knew their stranglehold on the continent’s population would falter if The Path could be proven true. She worried that this year would see more violence, and worse atrocities considering the prophecy would be even more public than the first one, four decades earlier. Revealing the truth comes at a high cost. And doesn’t that prove one of the integral messages of the faith? That humans commit horrendous acts, even against good people. Especially so, even.

Once again unmindful of her surroundings, her thoughts had taken her past Fayvin’s house. When she finally realized where she was, she looked up and blushed at her own aloofness. Still feeling as though she may be being watched, she nervously turned around and casually walked back to the row house whose address matched the one she had acquired from the university. At the door, she paused, sensing that something was amiss. Scanning the exterior of the house, she found the proof of her uneasiness. The door was standing upright, but the hinges had been broken off. She looked down and saw splinters of wood on the ground. Her eyes widened as she took a step back and turned to see if anyone was watching her. What has happened here? What, and when?

Seeing that there was no one in sight, she knocked gently on the door. When, after an excruciatingly long wait, there was no reply, she knocked again, louder. Still no sound from the other side of the door. Again she looked around her and could see no one. Biting her lip, she moved the door to one side, squeezing through the opening. Once inside the house, she shifted the door back to cover the empty space.

There were no signs of a struggle, except on the floor directly in front of the door, with more splinters lining the entrance rug. This is too much of a coincidence. The same day I look for Fayvin, there are signs of a forced entry.

A cursory search of the house showed nothing else of note. She did not know of any way to determine when the break-in had occurred. She knew that Fayvin worked as an accountant; perhaps her employer had seen her that day. Maybe she was still at work, and was unaware of the violation that took place. Lydee wanted to believe that was the case. More than she could articulate, she wanted to believe that this was in fact a coincidence. A coincidence. That is what the royals will say when the prophecy is fulfilled. But who will believe that? Who believes in the innocuity of coincidences? She knew she did not.

A few hours later, Lydee was walking alone across the university campus. Fayvin’s supervisor had informed her that the young woman had missed work that day, a rare occurrence, she assured her. On the grounds of the abandoned campus, Lydee felt vulnerable in a way she had never experienced. She did not know where to go or what to do to rid herself of the sensation, but she did not want to go home yet. She did not want her feeling of being watched to follow her into her private residence. After a half an hour of aimless roaming, she decided to head to her office, where at least she would be in an enclosed space. And, truth be told, she needed to begin clearing it out anyway.

She lit a lantern in the lobby of her department’s building, and went up to the second floor. Looking behind herself as she unlocked the door to her office, she double-checked to make sure she could not see anyone in the gloom.

Inside the office, she was pricked by the now increasingly familiar feeling that something was not right. Her growing sensitivity to that sensation frightened her. She did not see anything that had been moved, and nothing was missing from the shelves. The dim glow from the moonlight, and the brighter light from the lantern were more than sufficient for this personal setting she had memorized long ago. If something was out of place, she would notice it as soon as her eyes passed by its location. Everything was as it should be. Nevertheless, the dull pain of dread remained with her.

After checking the shelves and the chairs, she went to her desk. She carefully slid open the drawer, not wanting the force of the motion to unintentionally shift an object’s position. She had been looking for slight adjustments, an object which had been lifted in a search and then returned so that it sat in a new direction. The condition of the drawer sent her heart racing. Pens, papers, stamps, all scattered haphazardly. What to make of this cavalier display?

The office was searched, and no effort was made to cover that up. Because they rushed out in fear of being caught? Or they found what they were looking for and do not believe they can be tracked? Or, worst of all, they want me to know they have been here.

The last option struck her as the truth. She could come to only one conclusion; Fayvin had been kidnapped and her own office had been searched, all for the same purpose. She also knew who she was up against. The royal councilor, Yara. And she is ahead of me. Woller, I am failing you.

Year 1378 (Present Day)

The chancellor, the professors, even the students were all a sad, yet comical mixture of aloof arrogance and pompous self-importance. They all spoke of lofty ideals, but they could not produce results. That was what happened when you lived on other people’s money, with no stipulations. Yara was glad the university would be gutted. It was a well-deserved fate.

With one victory behind her, it was time to focus on a potentially even greater one. She strode along the campus grounds, delighting in the quiet of the area, on her way to the building which housed the history department. That professor, Lydee, knew more about the missing man, her new target, the former professor, Woller. He had been an acquaintance of the Divine King’s many years ago, but Oslian had never held an audience with him during Yara’s tenure on the council. That itself was worth noting. It was typical for anyone with even the slightest connection to a ruler to ask for favors or attempt to exercise influence. Added to the fact that Oslian was shaken by Woller’s disappearance, Yara believed finding the man, and delivering him to Oslian, would lead to her being given the title of Grand Advisor. The position had been vacant for years, but Oslian had made it known that he was willing to fill it if he believed someone had earned that privilege.

Her agents had done preliminary research regarding the ex-university employee. Multiple sources said he had fled in shame after a romantic relationship with a student had been revealed. The woman had since graduated, and still lived in Oslidor. Yara had not wanted her questioned directly, believing subterfuge the best course for her investigation. Agents were currently watching her, but they had nothing of note to report. She had decided that she needed to take more personal control over the investigation.

As Yara entered Lorgan Hall, the aesthetic value of the university briefly entered her thoughts. Each individual building was an architectural feat, the limestone columns their distinguishing feature, but the way they were insulated from the heat of the city their true genius. The large hallways and high ceilings gave a visitor more relief from the constant sweltering conditions outside than even the palace did. When considered along with the library as a singular artistic work, it was startingly impressive. That it had been wasted so was worthy of punishment.

The professor’s office was closed, and through the window, Yara could see no one was present. That the professor was absent was for the best. Yara knew the woman would not be forthcoming with information, especially given the resentment she surely felt. Yara had intended to see if she could uncover more details without overtly mentioning Woller’s name, but she knew that would have been unlikely to provide much. The history professor could be an important source for Yara though. Her agents had reported that the two professors had been close friends. She took a key ring off her belt and unlocked the door.

The last time she had searched the room, it had been with a different purpose. This time, her first destination was the desk. Its drawers were immaculately organized, quill pens lined up evenly, inkwells securely placed. Yara debated making her presence known by rearranging things, but decided that it was best if the woman did not know a new search was underway.

After a thorough search, Yara concluded that there was nothing of value to her hunt in the office. Woller’s old office was converted into a storage room, so there will likely not be clues there either. His old house had been occupied since he left as well. This roadblock to her ultimate triumph was quite vexing. An intriguing idea formed in her mind. What if she were to make it clear that she was looking for Woller? His old friend may believe he was in danger. All Yara would have to do would be to have the professor followed. She smiled, then went back to the desk.

Freed from having to hide her intentions, she could go a more direct route. The former student, Fayvin, who was rumored to have been involved in a romantic relationship with Woller had made a mistake by staying in the city. She would have to pay her a visit.

The woman was employed as an accountant for a textile manufacturer. A position that could have been acquired without four years studying history and art. Her residence was situated in a middle-income Concord district in the north of the city, a section of the city in which Yara had never spent much time. From poverty to wealth in the blink of an eye. A lesson for others to learn from, though they would choose to ignore it, instead insisting it was luck. And that is why the people from my former life have achieved nothing.

Before striding up to the door of the row house, she quickly glanced back across the street. The three guards who had been tracking the young woman were standing in the shadow of an alcove from a building housing a corner store. She then put her hand in her pocket for a final check that her whistle was still there. She wondered if she would have to sound it, and what the fear in Fayvin’s face would look like when the guards came bounding in, armed and eager to inflict harm. Yara’s mouth showed the hint of a grin as she climbed the steps. Four loud knocks on the door. Sounds of movement from within.

The woman who opened the door was stunningly gorgeous, with unblemished skin and large, bright eyes. Yara immediately hated her. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Indeed. My name is Yara and I am on the royal council. I have come to speak with you.” When the woman simply stood there dumbfounded, Yara reached into one of her pockets and presented a golden sigil of the royal house- a piece of solid gold in the form of the royal jewelry. The actual precious stone that Oslian wore was an amulet of violet and crimson, roughly the size of a large man’s fist, which appeared to shift in color depending on the angle from which one viewed it. The replica that Yara and the other councilmembers carried was only a fourth of that size, but it could not be mistaken for anything else.

Yara chose to sit in the first room on her right, in the largest chair. Fayvin came after her and sat across from her. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

“I will pass,” Yara said. “I can tell that you have been unable to ascertain why a member of the royal council would visit you.” She looked at the beautiful young woman and saw how she wilted under the unrelenting gaze of someone more experienced and powerful. Yara was curious as to the reaction she would get from her next question. She waited a moment to allow herself to savor the anticipation. Then, she struck.

“When was the last time you spoke with Professor Woller Karuvian?”

Fayvin’s eyes widened. She tensed the grip between her hands and shut her eyes. Yara enjoyed her discomfort, especially because she had caused it.

“Two years ago.”

“When did you last receive a communication from him?”

More hesitation. Then, “Before he left.”

“Left?”

The former university student looked up, confused. “He left the university two years ago.”

“And never attempted to contact you?”

“No. Not that I am aware of.”

“Even though you were lovers? He left you to manage the scandal alone?”

The woman said nothing.

“One aspect of my role as a member of the royal council that I particularly enjoy is having the legal right to arrest anyone I deem suspicious. I have exercised that privilege before.”

Tears were now streaming down her Fayvin’s reddened face.

“He told you never to mention your illicit relationship. What do you think of the implication there? That you accept the consequences of what happened, while he escapes?”

“It… it is not what you think.”

“What do I think?”

“I can’t…”

“If not here, then in a dungeon. I assure you though, you will tell me everything I want to know.”

Yara reached into her pocket and removed the whistle. “Do you know what will happen when I blow this whistle? Three armed guards will break down your door and seize you. Then they will blindfold you and take you to a prison cell. I would prefer not to sound the alarm. Not for your sake, but because I want the information right now.”

Yara put the whistle in her mouth.

“There was no relationship!” Fayvin yelled. She sobbed in jerking spasms and wiped her runny nose, while Yara leaned back and took in the display.

Unexpected. But, I believe, the truth. Just as Oslian suspected. Which means, the man was hiding something even more damning. The question is, what does this woman know? Now that the lock has broken, we will see what it was concealing.

“A respected professor lied about having a relationship with a student, then disappeared without telling anyone. That sounds preposterous.”

Fayvin dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, but the tears did not slow down. “It’s the truth. He asked me to spread a rumor. He said he needed me to do it.”

Yara leaned back in her chair. “Of course, that sounds so plausible.”

“I swear it! Please, I don’t want to be put in a cell! I promise I’m telling the truth!”

“Why would he want a lie to be spread about him?”

“All I know is that he said he needed to leave and that he did not want anyone to find him. He said it was necessary that he have a reason for running away.”

There is a certain genius to that. I am beginning to understand why Oslian fears this man. Though there is much more to this than his intelligence. Unfortunately, investigating Oslian’s history with the professor was not an option. The divine king would not tolerate anyone digging into his past.

“Why did you do this for him?”

“He was a good man. And…”

“He paid you?”

Fayvin nodded.

“Now, think carefully. What else did he tell you? I must know everything. You would not like keeping secrets from me.”

“That’s it! I swear it!”

“Very well.”

The whistle sounded.

Fayvin looked up, pure terror on her face. “What? But I told you everything!”

“Yes. I know. And I can’t have you doing the same for anyone else.”

Cupela

Year 1348 (Thirty Years Prior to Present Day)

She sat on one side of the long wooden table, Enfildio on her right, a stack of papers, an inkwell, and a quill pen between them. On the other side of the table sat the three candidates. The one who had taken the lead the night before sat in the middle. He was named Henry, and he had a confident smile which may have been endearing if it was not so omnipresent and forced. On his left sat the other young man, Visin, who followed Henry’s every move, as though he did not have a mind of his own. On Henry’s other side was the young woman, Sarah, who had only looked Cuplea in the eyes once, and had immediately withdrawn her gaze, almost as though the intimacy of eye contact had burned her.

“I thank you all again for travelling such a great distance for this opportunity,” Enfildio began. “Even here, over five thousand miles away, the reputation of the Scholar’s Guild of Hon Rin is unparalleled. Nevertheless, I would like to present to you a series of questions, so that I am sure I have the best person for the role.”

The body language of all three graduates shifted with Enfildio’s final sentence. The information they had been given had been written carefully to state that the master herbalist wished to work with the finest of the Scholar’s Guild. It had not stated that he only ever intended on giving a contract to one of the three scholars. Henry’s smile had faded, his jaw now clenched. Visin looked as though he had been told he had but one week left to live, while Sarah had taken her hands off of her lap so that they hung to her sides, her body looking lifeless.

Enfildio continued on, either indifferent to their reactions, or truly incapable of reading the room. “Cupela will be asking a series of questions ranging in subject. I would hear from each of you.” He turned an expressionless face to her then. “First question, please.”

Cupela took the top sheet of paper from the stack and flexed her hand before coating the tip of the pen with ink. She had read over the questions beforehand, practicing the inflection she would need to deliver the lines without hinting at her personal perspective. She breathed out silently, then read the first question. “How does one protect oneself from interpreting results in a way that is favorable to one’s ego?”

She looked at Visin first and nodded. Sitting up straighter, he replied, “I can think of two possible safeguards. One would be recording data solely with numbers, for numbers are less emotional than words. The other is having more than one person keeping records, which would help to temper any single set of results.”

Cupela wrote his response as quickly as she could. When she had finished, she looked to Henry. He did not hesitate. “If it is possible, the person recording the data could be separate from the rest of the study, or ignorant of what the result signified. In that case, the data would be much more likely to be free from the taint of bias.”

After writing the second answer, Cupela raised her head and waited for Sarah to speak. The young woman sat motionless in her chair, except for her mouth, her lips closed but sliding back and forth as she stared at the table. “Eventually, the person conducting the experiment will see the results, and will take from them whatever he or she is able to justify,” she said. “The trouble isn’t the numbers, or the data, it is the conclusion which is drawn. Only once the results have been implemented in a practical manner will the truth be revealed.”

The woman spoke in a monotone voice, as though she were reading, though Cupela was sure she had not truly been reciting a verse. When she finished recording Sarah’s response, she looked to Enfildio, who did not look back at her as he said, “Next question. For Henry first, this time.”

When she looked down at the second question, she paused, for it had not been one that she had reviewed. Reading quickly, she deducted that Enfildio must have written it that morning, while she was still asleep. She nearly grimaced when she imagined the expressions that would greet the question. This all passed through her mind in the span of a few heartbeats, not long enough for the room to become even more uncomfortable than it already was.

“There are many myths surrounding an army which fought with indestructible weapons and armor,” she began, knowing full well that her unease was coming through on some level. “The origin of the material varies based on the account. One states it came from within a mysterious lake, another that it was born from volcanic activity. What all accounts agree upon however, are the physical aspects of the material. It did not burn, it did not crack under pressure, it did not so much as dent or get cut by sharp objects. It was also light enough to be useful. Thus, it was employed in the crafting of weapons and armor. The soldiers who took advantage of this equipment became undefeatable and would have conquered the known world if they had not befallen a tragic fate, the details of which depend on the version of the tale you read.”

She looked up from the paper for a moment, looking over the candidates, as though she half expected they would stand up and leave as she was speaking. Confirming they remained, she finished the question. “Do you believe that such a material could exist?”

An amused look on his face, Henry sat back in his chair. “We have that story in Hon Rin as well. It is presented as a tale for children. I believe it is a lesson on hubris, more than something which should be taken literally.”

When no one spoke, he added, “It is a valuable lesson, of course. When one thinks they are invincible, that is the moment they have lost their sense of reality and are most vulnerable.”

Sarah responded more promptly this time. “There is no law that prevents the creation of an indestructible material.” Cupela waited for more, but Sarah did not feel obliged to add to her statement.

Visin, squirming in his seat, cleared his throat twice before speaking. “Pardon,” he finally got out. “I believe it is best to be skeptical of all claims until there is evidence to warrant a belief, and the more outrageous the claim, the more solid the evidence needs to be. Though, I suppose I am open to the existence of many possibilities, granted there is sufficient evidence.”

Enfildio had not said a word during all of this, and Cupela now believed he did not intend to speak until the interview was completed. A quick glance his way revealed that he was staring off into an indeterminate point. A brief sigh, and then she looked down to read the next question.

The whole ordeal lasted four bells, and left Cupela feeling drained. Enfildio had indeed remained silent for the duration of the process, which she knew had begun to agitate Henry and worry Visin. She was unable to read Sarah, and the woman’s dry responses never changed in inflection or directness. When the answers to the final question had been spoken, Cupela simply said, “That is all,” and waited for Enfildio to retake the reigns.

Without making any sort of gesture, he began speaking to the group. “Visin and Henry, I thank you for your time. I apologize for having brought you such a great distance only to send you back, but I need to be sure of certain characteristics of the people I employ. I will, of course, pay for your journey back to Hon Rin. You may wish to remain in Oslidor, however. It is a growing city, and there are many opportunities for both of you here.”

He stood up then and made a show of dusting off his top hat, which he had placed on the table at the start of the interview. “Sarah, we will speak of the terms of the employment when we are in transit. Follow me,” he said, sweeping his long, black cloak up behind him.

Cupela gathered materials as quickly as she could, and exited the room with Sarah, leaving the two young men alone at the table, dumbfounded.

She sat beside Sarah as the carriage rolled along the rough streets on its way out of the city. The woman beside her had not asked any questions, though Cupela did not know if it was due to fear or respect. She wished to put Sarah’s mind at ease, but knew in what was to come, it would be Enfildio who would need to do the speaking. The herbalist scribbled on a piece of paper and held it out for Sarah, who took it and read it without a word.

“That is the salary I offer, per year of employment.”

The young woman was shaking, and this time, Cupela knew why. She had never seen such a vast sum before. Even for a graduate of the world’s most prestigious institute of learning, to be offered such a tremendous quantity of coin, without having ever toiled a day outside of a closed environment, was startling. There would be a price to pay, however, and it was perhaps more overwhelming than the salary.

“I have no experience with herbalism,” Sarah whispered.

“I am aware,” Enfildio said. “I can teach you all that you need to know. What I require is a flexible mind of great ability. There are other requirements as well, but those will have to wait until we reach my workshop. Until then, I want you to think on what you need to live a comfortable life.”

She cannot know how literally he means that.

The carriage left them just south of the city. Beyond the city walls, there was nothing in sight except for cacti, rocks, sand, and a series of hills stretching out like knuckles upon the horizon. They walked in silence, each one carrying a pack. Although she was wearing the loose-fitting, white tunic which was common in the region, the heat made Cupela wipe sweat out of her eyes every fifty paces. Sarah began to lag behind, her clothing ill-suited for the climate. Ahead of them, Enfildio strode onward in his black cloak, in defiance of the elements.

After they had been traveling on foot for a third of a bell, they came within a few paces of one of the nondescript hills, roughly the size of a two-story building. At this distance, a fissure in the rock of the hill could be seen. The cut looked natural enough, and to one passing by, it would not attract undue attention. Enfildio halted to study the hill, and then the surrounding area, before placing his pack on the ground, and turned to face the two women.

“Understand that this conversation could only be held away from prying ears. Sarah, the salary which we agreed upon earlier is not accurate. You will be receiving three times that amount, annually. Why would I hide that from you? Because what I require from you is extreme. And, as you will soon see, on a scale that has never been attempted before.”

Cupela had known this speech would come. It had to, or else Sarah would not be allowed to enter the laboratory. “Sarah,” he said looking down upon her, “you do have one last chance to take another path. I can promise that you will not be physically harmed, or touched in any way during your employment. However, I will tell you, the demands placed on my employees are monumental. Most people would not accept working under these specifications. I know that, and I am content with it as well. I cannot tell you everything you need to know until you consent to work for me, no matter what I demand. What say you?”

He is not as aloof as he appears. Mentioning that she will not be touched is proof of that. He has empathy, he just chooses to be direct and efficient regardless of the circumstances.

“I consent,” Sarah said, looking up at Enfildio.

“I expected as much. You are more like me than perhaps you are aware. The contract is as such: you will receive three times the amount that I told you earlier, for each year of service that you provide. The years of service are solely dependent on the success of this endeavor, and my approval of your work. The first stipulation is that you are unable to leave the laboratory, for any reason, without my consent. Additionally, when you do leave my employment, you will not speak a word of what occurred during the time you worked for me.

It is likely that you will not exit the laboratory until the project is complete. Other than Cupela, who is my personal assistant, none of your compatriots have left the laboratory since they entered. For some, that has been more than two years.”

If Sarah was astonished by Enfildio’s words, she showed no sign of it. She had nodded twice, but otherwise had not moved.

“Know that there are spacious living quarters. You will have a private room in which you have a bed. There are shared spaces for cooking and eating, but the majority of the space is the actual laboratory where you will be working, seven days a week, sixteen bells a day, unless I say otherwise.

That is what I meant by ‘extreme.’ This level of secrecy is necessary due to the goal we are pursuing.” Enfildio paused and scanned the horizon. He slowly made a circle where he stood, peering off in every direction. Upon completion of this safeguard, he resumed speaking.

“The purpose of this laboratory is simple. We are working to develop a tonic that grants immortality.”

The words hung in the air, filling the space between the three herbalists. Cupela was relieved to have the secret revealed to Sarah. It meant she could speak to the woman more openly, without fear of hinting at something that would lead her toward information that Enfildio wanted to remain within a closed circle of people.

She remembered when the idea was first presented to her. She had already been working for Enfildio for a number of years, and had worked with him to develop herbalism tonics that enhanced human capabilities such as hearing and smell. Enfildio also had her run mundane errands for him, and when needed, care for his family who he would often forget to attend to. Herbalism was a new field, but during those first few years, it was almost mythical. People had almost no understanding of what it was, and rumors ran wild about the effects of the tonics, and the herbalists who created them. During those early days, and even now, she was enthralled to be working with someone who many considered to be the ultimate master and pioneer in the field.

The discussion of something greater than mere enhancement had been delivered by Enfildio to Cupela away from his other employees. Her first thought was that they would fail miserably. The idea of immortality seemed at best childish, and at worst delusional. But Enfildio sold her on it with his enthusiasm, his insistence on immortality being the pinnacle of human achievement, and his assurance that she was a critical piece of the puzzle.

He then informed her that he would begin seeking out other individuals who, like her, had the intellect, discipline, and dedication that the project would need. That the most ambitious of endeavors would require more than two people, was unsurprising to Cupela. She knew the amount of time that it would take to find ingredients, check variables, analyze results, and make adjustments was astronomically high. Enfildio scoured the world until he had not just one, but five capable assistants. Together, they had made remarkable progress.

“Word of this cannot reach the outside world,” Enfildio said. “If another herbalist learned what we were working on, he or she would stop at nothing to obtain our research. I mean that literally. An herbalist who believed we were closing in on immortality would not hesitate to eliminate us to acquire what we know.

After we have achieved our goal, our silence will continue. The ramifications of our success would have impacts that we cannot foresee. And on a more mundane level, we would be sought out. Hunted, in reality. I will not allow that to happen.”

Sarah’s gaze had remained steadily on the master herbalist over the course of his speech. She had stared at him, nodding and taking in his words as he explained his thinking. It was clear to Cupela that the young woman fully understood that Enfildio was not exaggerating. Their task was the most ambitious undertaking in human history.

Enfildio moved aside and gestured to the hill. “With that out of the way, welcome to your new home.”

Cupela assisted him in moving the rock. They put their hands in the fissure, then pushed to the left. The rock jerked slowly until a dark opening, roughly as large as a carriage door was revealed. Cupela stepped into the space and reached up onto the rock wall. She pulled out a torch which Enfildio lit with a flint kit that had been hidden in a recess of the wall.

The light revealed a staircase that headed underground. Once they were all behind the false door, Cupela closed it behind them and Enfilido led them down the steps. The smell of the laboratory struck Cupela harshly. A sensation of stress overtook her, the feelings overtaking her to the point where she needed to stop and place both of her hands on the handrail for a moment before continuing on. She did not believe Sarah noticed it, as Cupela was bringing up the rear. That was best, for her reaction was evidence of the monumental struggle the young woman had just entered.

The walls were solid, gray rock until they reached the ground floor. On level ground of paved stone, the walls had been fortified with wood which had been painted white to give the effect of additional light. The entirety of the laboratory and the living quarters was filled with lanterns which burned at all times of the day. The expense of the oil alone was staggering. The monetary totality of the project they were working on was more than most villages saw over the course of a century.

Doors separated the various rooms of the facility, and did an excellent job of keeping sounds from drifting from one quarter to the next. The room they were in was empty, but broke off to the left, right, and straight ahead. Enfildio lit another lantern that had gone out, a sign that either his assistants were preoccupied with their work, or had been careless in his absence.

Or, they have actually killed each other finally. Cupela thought on that. She was not sure she did not wish for it.

They passed through the doorway directly ahead of the staircase. As they walked, Enfildio began speaking again. “I will introduce you to your new family. Assuming they are all awake. I already have my suspicions regarding their work ethic while free from supervision.”

They entered the main room of the laboratory. More than double in area to most houses in the city, it also had two smaller rooms that were accessible through doors. The laboratory was well lit, with more than thirty lanterns on the walls and hanging from the ceilings. Mirrors also worked to reflect light. Although they were underground, it was as bright as noon on a sunny day. The light was quite different than sunlight however. Cupela knew it took some time to adjust to the surroundings and for one’s body to make sense of the situation it found itself in.

The floor of the room was perhaps the least cluttered area. On the tables, glass beakers were laying on their sides, some with liquid that had pooled out onto the tabletops. Papers and quill pens were scattered across every surface, some in large stacks that leaned precariously against walls or containers. The acrid stench of the room nearly made Cupela’s eyes water. The precise organization she recalled when she had pictured the room in her mind’s eye was a mocking contrast to what she now saw.

Worse, the room was void of humanity with the exception of the three individuals who had just entered, and a lone man hunched over on a stool, asleep with his face on a pile of papers.

Enfildio silently walked over to the man. He reached into his trousers’ pocket and withdrew a leather shaving strap. After a brief examination of the item, he stretched it to its limits. Then he lifted it above his head and swung it against the back of the seated man’s neck.

“Ahh!” the man screamed, reaching back to cover his neck. “Who in the Depthless Sea did that?”

He looked up and met Enfildio’s eyes.

“Enfildio!” the word was said as though it were a prayer yelled during a temple service. “You have returned.” The man looked about the room, then stood up. “Thank goodness for that.”

Cupela’s eyes narrowed. Hrent. The man was the most disingenuous person she had ever met. He would attempt to squirm his way out of this. Later, he would tell the story of this encounter in a way that would present himself in a much different light.

“Where are the others?” Enfildio asked.

“In their rooms,” Hrent answered.

“This is what you have been doing since I left?”

“No. No, of course not. We had a momentary set back. Ask the others. They will… enlighten you.”

Enfildio ran his hand down from his mouth to his chin. “Gather them,” he growled.

“This is not typical,” Cupela said, looking over at her new companion. “That was Hrent. He is not always easy to get along with, but he does work diligently. He said something happened, and I believe him. You have to understand, when brilliant, ambitious people have spent years together in isolation, it can wear on them and create tension. Enfildio keeps us all in line, but with him gone… well, we will see, but I do not expect it will be good news.”

Sarah’s eyes had widened. Cupela quickly added, “I promise you, this is an aberration. I have never seen the laboratory like this before.”

Cupela wanted to reach out and touch Sarah to help put her at ease, but she knew that gesture would have the opposite effect. Accordingly, she began tidying up while she waited for the others to return.

The procession began arriving through the door. First Ubul. Cupela considered him to be her closest thing to a friend she had among colleagues. In reality, in her whole life, seeing as though she did not have many opportunities to meet or interact with other people. Ubul was taller than the Hrent, who was well below average height, but not as tall as Enfildio, who was a few inches over six feet in stature. Both Ubul and Hrent were in their late thirties, but Ubul appeared older. His eyes were sunken in his face, but he smiled when he saw Cupela.

After Ubul, a woman who seemed to create a physical pull on the attention of the others walked through the doorway. Beautiful to the point of being unjust, Jezmavalin was a force to be reckoned with. Her slim frame was accentuated by luscious curves. Her long dark hair maintained its luster despite the conditions of the laboratory. When she sauntered past Sarah, the discrepancy in their appearance struck Cupela as viciously cruel. The recent graduate, whose gaze had been seemingly frozen to the floor, looked up at her new colleague. Cupela saw Sarah’s jaw drop ever so slightly before she quickly shifted her view back to the cold, grey stone of the laboratory.

“Enfildio,” the gorgeous woman said. “Finally you have returned. We have had need of you.”

The elderly man fought back a smile which he turned into a grimace. “I look forward to hearing about your progress.”

The next person through the door was Hrent. His arms were crossed, his expression perturbed. “She says she will be with us momentarily.”

He was, Cupela knew, speaking of Piroska. Cupela had worked in close proximity with that woman for more than two years, but she had never had a true conversation with her. Piroska spoke mostly by making demands of others, and then speaking the rest of the time to herself. Cupela had never felt even remotely comfortable around her, but she could not deny her brilliance. Enfildio had chosen his assistants based on their intellect, and in that respect, he had chosen well. Cupela was constantly struggling to stay with their thinking and not fall behind in their rapid analyzation of data and the repercussions of what they had discovered. This was, she believed, the greatest collection of minds in the world. The issues came from, well everything else about the people Enfildio had collected.

Ubul approached Cupela and put his arm on her shoulder. “It is good that you are back. Enfildio as well, sadly. The last two days have been rough. We have not made much progress. Hrent and Piroska have been at each other’s throats, and Jezmavalin has done nothing but lounge in her room. It has been trying, to say the least.”

At least a sixth of a bell passed before Piroska entered the room. That time had been spent in near total silence. Cupela had continued to clean. Ubul and Sarah had pitched in, but they had not spoken. Jazmavalin strode closer to Enfildio and had whispered in his ear. Hrent had stood motionless, arms crossed.

Piroska was a mess, as usual. Her hair shot out in multiple directions, and she was barefoot. Upon crossing the threshold of the doorway, she looked over at Hrent, then to Enfildio. “Enfildio,” she said. “You should cut your losses and kill Hrent. Our progress would double without him.”

Enfildio straightened and moved to the center of the room. “Quiet, Piroska. I will give the orders around here.

Hrent had opened his mouth before Enfildio spoke, but wisely chose to keep his comment to himself.

The master herbalist surveyed the group before him. “I do not care at all about your petty feuds. I do not care who was to blame or whose feelings were damaged. This ends now, and it will not continue. The condition of this laboratory is a disgrace. It will be back to the way it was by this time tomorrow. Also at that time, I will have a full, written report of your progress since I left.

“Your new colleague is from The Scholar’s Guild in Hon Rin. Her name is Sarah. While the laboratory is being repaired, and the report is being constructed, I will introduce her to our equipment and supplies. Do not speak to me until both of your tasks are done. Cupela,” Enfildio said, shifting toward her.

“Yes, Enfildio?”

“You will acquire a book for me, and then you will assist your companions.”

Cupela assented with a quick nod.

“The rest of you, to work, immediately. You have lost time to recover, and you will recover it quickly. Sarah, come with me.”

The new assistant followed Enfildio to a door on the right of the room. Cupela looked over the remaining people in the room. She could tell their minds were racing. Hrent’s eyes were narrowed on Piroska, who returned the look with a crazed glee in her eyes. Ubul snorted, then went over to a cabinet where various tonics were kept. He pulled out a vial of dark orange liquid, a vigor tonic. He downed the liquid in one gulp before tossing the glass vial into a basket of similarly discarded objects. “Back to business.”

Jezmavalin pushed herself up from the wall she had been leaning against. “That could have been worse,” she said, yawning.

Home at last.

Erden

Year 1348 (Thirty Years Prior to Present Day)

He had expected to be dismissed from his position. What he had not anticipated was the lengthy interrogation that proceeded his removal from the library staff.

The Lady had asked him so many questions that he could not remember even half of them. They had all been accusatory in tone, most focused on who Cupela was, and why she needed to access the basement. What startled him most however, were the multitude of questions Udesip had asked him about his own life. With whom did he associate? Was he being paid to collect information? Had he stolen documents from the library? Was he a spy?

When she gave him leave to speak, he told her exactly what happened. Cupela had not explained her actions to him, and he was ignorant as to her reasons for acting with such urgency. Voice cracking, hands wiping sweat from his forehead, he knew he appeared more culpable than he truly was. As for whether he was believed, he could only guess. The Lady gave him nothing, her face hidden from his appraisal.

As the interrogation continued, he became increasingly fearful that he would be passed along to a greater authority, perhaps for criminal charges. Instead, The Lady ordered him to never speak of the incident. He was told to leave the library, and never to return. And though she did not threaten him, he knew that he would not dare defy her again.

When he arrived home early from work, he found his mother on the patio behind their rowhouse, hanging clothes to dry. Having been forbidden to mention the circumstances behind his dismissal had proven to be a blessing in disguise, as he was able to invent a story about quitting his position without feeling guilty for lying to his mother. When she questioned what he would do with his life now that he was out of work, Erden said he had a plan, but that he wanted to keep it to himself until it was on steady footing. Of course he had no plan, but the thought of suffering through another interrogation, this time from his parents, gave him no other choice than to weave a somewhat plausible tale.

Over the next few days, he left the house each morning before his parents awoke, passing the day roaming the city streets, racking his mind in an effort to conceive an actual plan. On this day he had paused by the docks of the Quartz District, hoping an ocean view would inspire him.

The breeze quickly wiped the sweat away from his forehead as he passed dock workers unloading shipping vessels and fishermen bringing in the day’s catch. In his right hand, he flipped a small object end over end in mindless habit. Since he had found the glass vial, he had not been separated from it for a moment. It brought him a bit of comfort, though he was not conscious of its effect. Whenever he did catch himself playing with it, he would put it back in a leather pouch for safe keeping. Moments later, it would find itself back into his hand, and the motion would start again.

He reached an isolated section of the dock and sat down, legs dangling over the water. Looking out onto the horizon, what came to mind was not a possible employment opportunity, but tales he had read of explorers who sailed into uncharted territory. Though he had never been more than a mile from the shore, he could summon the images of sailors working the decks, a lookout spying land in the distance, his call sending the others rushing to the sides of the ship to see if they could catch a glimpse of a new world. It was a scene full of excitement and possibilities.

As his one journey out to sea had seen him getting sick and having to ask the captain of the tiny boat to turn back around before the docks were even out of sight, he did not think a naval life was for him. It did however instill upon him a desire for adventure. Instead of reading of heroes and great deeds, I should be living the role.

Of all the stories he knew inside and out, the tales of soldiers were his favorites. Incredible swordsmen who never shied away from danger, their lives took them to exotic foreign lands where they encountered wonders of which the commoners could never dream. Each day brought the potential for something new, whether it be a challenge to overcome, or a prize to be won. And never did those heroes cower in the face of danger. Meanwhile I flinch at the mere thought of Udesip. Well, no longer.

It was decided. He would become a soldier.

Less than a bell later, Erden walked through the Royal District, his hands clenched in fists, until he arrived at the barracks of the Royal Protectors. The two men on duty at the entrance gave no sign of acknowledgement as he approached and then halted but a few feet away.

“I am looking for the recruitment office,” he said with more bass in his voice than usual.

“I’m looking for the end of my shift,” one of the guards replied.

“Yes… well, could you please point me in the right direction?”

The man lazily lifted one arm and pointed behind Erden, who looked back, then at the two men again. “Do you have the address?”

“No.”

“How does a man typically go about doing this?”

“Use that line with the ladies, do you?”

Blushing and stammering, Erden felt the intense urge to flee. But he did not want to waste the burst of adrenaline he felt, and so he pushed further. “May I speak with a ranking officer, please?”

“Sure,” the second man said. “Oi, Sergeant,” he howled back through the door of the barracks. “Come out here.” He smiled as an enormous man wearing naught but a pair of brown pants opened the door and looked out.

“Demon’s balls,” the man said. “What do you want?”

“Boy here wants to join the ranks.”

“Great. Send him to the recruitment office in the Topaz District. Maybe they’ll turn him into someone who can do a damn thing on his own without calling me.” With that, he slammed the door.

The two guards looked at each other and laughed.

“Thank you,” Erden said.

“Our pleasure,” the first man replied. “Hurry up, and might be they’ll make you a sergeant.”

Erden made to move when he noticed the two men’s backs straighten and their eyes go wide. He looked back to see three soldiers approach. Sticking out from each of their backs, just to the right of their faces, were sword pommels. Erden’s breath caught in his lungs as the men drew closer. “Lieutenant Kingsley, sir,” both guards said, giving firm salutes in unison.

“As you were,” the middle of the three newcomers said. Erden could see that he was at least twenty years older than the other two, though still an imposing figure, his trimmed beard covering a formidable jawline, his shoulders broad and strong. He and the other two Blades passed Erden without a second thought, until, drawing deep on his diminutive reserve of courage, Erden cleared his throat.

“Lieutenant Kingsley,” he said, drawing the attention of all five of the men. “It is an honor to meet you. I would like to offer my services to The Blades.”

The two guards laughed until Kingsley looked back at them gravely. Then, turning to Erden, he spoke. “It’s rather bold to request entrance into the most elite military company in the world. Though, that may be in your favor. Most men would never dare to suggest such a thing, and daring men may be who we’re looking for.”

A glance passed between the two soldiers on the lieutenant’s sides, but went unnoticed by Erden, his eyes fastened on the man who he had addressed. “There is, of course, a trial for initiation. One that most do not pass.”

“I’m eager for the challenge, sir,” Erden said.

“It’s not a matter of wanting it,” Kingsley continued, a gleam in his eyes. “It’s a matter of skill.”

A mile outside of the city walls, a gust of warm wind blew the sandy soil into Erden’s face where he held his hands up to shield his vision from the glaring sun. He felt as though he had not had a drop of water in years, his throat was so parched from the heat and his nerves. It had been two days since he had spoken with the lieutenant, and Erden was unsure the man would truly show himself. Then, just as the sun hit its apex, three figures made the descent over the final hill, the rustling of their steps the only sound other than the howling of the wind.

Each man carried upon his back a two-handed sword, yet only one of them was wearing any protective gear—a mail jerkin and leather gloves. Erden recognized the lieutenant, while the other two men were strangers. One was a tall, muscular man who began chatting with Kingsley. The other was a much younger man, but also sufficiently physically imposing, at least in comparison to Erden. A few paces away, the men halted. The lieutenant inclined his head slightly toward the man with whom he had been speaking. “Here he is.”

“Greetings,” the man said. “Kinsley tells me you are looking to join our operation.”

Erden kept his face as stern as possible. “I am,” he said.

“Excellent. My name is Sarthak. I am the captain of The Blades. I assume that Kinsley informed you as to our induction process.”

“He did.”

“Wonderful,” Sarthak said with a smile. He lightly elbowed the lieutenant, Kinsley, in the side. “I knew promoting you was a good idea.” He turned back to Erden. “Well then, let’s be on with it. We are in the middle of a war after all.”

The third man shifted into a fighting stance. Sarthak gestured to him. “This is our newest recruit, Roliher. He is young, but a strong swordsman. No doubt you spent countless days working on your swordsmanship before requesting entrance into our ranks.”

“No, sir.”

Sarthak shrugged. “More of a natural talent, then.” He looked back to Roliher. “Whenever you’re ready. As always, the first man who yields or falls to a knee loses.”

Oh, shit.

The young swordsman jolted forward and swung his weapon before Erden could fully lift his sword to block. The blunted blade slapped him hard across the chest. He crumbled to his knees, the wind escaping his lungs. Dropping his sword, he wrapped his arms around his body and rolled onto his side.

Sarthak walked forward and looked down on him. He held his hand out, but Erden was in too much pain to move his arms.

“Hmm…” Sarthak started. “Roliher, your place within the company is secured. You may return to the city. Kingsley, please assist our friend here.”

Roliher marched off without a word. The other two Blades lifted Erden up to a standing position. Sarthak righted him to halt his wobbling. “Your ambition caught my attention, I have to admit. And when Kingsley told me you took the bait and truly believed the story he invented, well, I was even more curious. So, I asked around about you. It turns out you worked at the library shelving books.”

Erden nodded.

“Then what made you think you could become a Blade?”

Erden grimaced and bit down on his lip. He swallowed, the action causing a not insignificant amount of pain. “I wish to become more than I am, to convert myself into a man of strength and honor. I want to belong to a brotherhood, and to see the world I know so little of.”

“A noble intention. You have never fought with a sword before, have you?”

“When I was a boy. Though it was made of wood.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Sarthak said, holding back a smile. “You are not a typical recruit, as I am sure you have recently ascertained. However, that is to your advantage, and ours. Erden, we have plenty of soldiers. We are likely, man to man, the strongest fighting force on this continent. We do not need you to fight for us.”

Oh. I should have put more thought into this.

“However,” Sarthak continued. “We could, nevertheless, make use of you. Our company’s quartermaster has wished to retire for many years, but I have needed him to stay on. However, now that we are back in the capital, where his family resides, I feel it would crush him to have to leave them again. If you work with books, the position of quartermaster, one of letters and numbers, should suit you well, yes?”

Erden beamed. “It would suit me quite well.”

Sarthak let his full smile out from its hiding and stuck out his hand. “Your boldness and honesty have won me over. Welcome aboard.”

Erden shook the captain’s hand, then Kingsley’s.
“And by the way,” Sarthak said. “Dueling a new recruit is not our induction policy. Kingsley simply wanted to have a laugh at your expense.”

Not the heroic start I hoped for.

He put a muscular arm around Erden, perhaps unintentionally driving home the point that the young man was out of his element. The captain’s voice seemed genuine however, and his presence was working to put Erden somewhat at ease. “Kingsley is always good for a distraction, but we have duties to attend to. You included, Erden.”

At the barracks, Sarthak led Erden into a room packed with at least two dozen wooded crates filled with miscellaneous pieces of armor and variously sized swords. The captain lit two lanterns that hung from poles and crossed his arms, surveying the mess.

The items that Erden could see were filthy. Mud and other substances were stained on nearly everything. Even to his untrained eyes, it was clear many of the objects were broken. Blades were badly nicked, hinges were bent.

“The most immediate need we have is to sort through the equipment we have taken during this campaign,” Sarthak said. “I’m afraid it will be tedious, but what it lacks in glamour it more than makes up for in dullness,” he laughed. “Don’t worry. Most of your duties will consist of paper work, but now and again there will be some heavy lifting. When you are done with this, find me and I will introduce you to our blacksmiths. They will appreciate not having to deal with me so directly, so you should not have any issues getting quickly acquainted. Paper and ink are on the table. There’s food in the room on your left. Do you have any questions?”

“Sort the equipment so that helmets are in one group, vambraces in another? That sort of categorization?”

“Precisely. Use your own judgement if there are any ambiguities. I have other tasks to attend to, but I won’t be difficult to find,” Sarthak said, turning to leave. He stopped and looked back at Erden. “Oh, and your salary will be equal to that of the regular infantrymen. You will of course be in charge of payments, so no worries regarding obtaining the money. I apologize for leaving you with this as your introduction to the company, but I have some business to attend to with the 10th battalion. It unfortunately requires my undivided attention. Farewell.”

“Farewell.”

Not wishing to reflect on the decisions that led him to a room full of junk, Erden got to work.

He had no way to mark the passage of time, but the sky was pitch black by the time he was done. He took only one short break to eat and use the latrine, and had worked with his usual focused dedication. In truth, it felt good to be working, as though it made his position in the company more real, and his goals that much closer. The task had been simple enough and as long as he was not in charge of cleaning the materials, he considered it a positive experience. It would be useful to become more familiar with martial equipment after all.

The barracks were empty with the exception of a few guards. Believing he would not get a straight answer from them, and not wanting to look lost on his first assignment, Erden did not ask where all the other soldiers had gone. When he stepped outside, he began to hear noises. Cheering. He headed towards the sound.

The noise led him around the back of the building and onto a cleared area which he took to be a training ground. At least two hundred soldiers formed a massive circle in the center of the open space. Along the fringe of the group, he saw the standard featuring the crossed swords of crimson on the indigo background which represented The Blades raised high in the air, and on the opposite side, another flag of indigo with a mailed fist of crimson, a sigil with which he was unfamiliar.

Erden pressed into the crowd and sidled through. Cheers continued on all sides, sometimes followed by laughs or preceded by gasps. In between the cheering were calls for wagers, words of encouragement, and some rather inventive cursing as well. Closer to the center of the circle, Erden could hear the clang of steel. He stood on the tips of his toes to peer over the final few rows of soldiers. The crowd stood back from a clearing roughly thirty yards in diameter. In that cleared space were eight armed men. Seven of them wore plate armor. Of those, five held short swords and shields. The other two were equipped with two-handed axes. Across from that group stood another soldier. He held a two-handed sword and wore cloth shirt and leather trousers.

The group of seven men were all breathing heavily. They spoke amongst themselves, but Erden could not make out the words. Suddenly, they spread out to encircle the lone soldier on the other side of the clearing. The man watched them with an almost apathetic lack of regard. When they had fully surrounded him, they rushed forward.

What Erden witnessed next took his breath away. Not so for the majority of the other spectators who were hollering and jumping up and down. The man in the middle slid under and between two of the attackers. He popped up behind them and swung his sword against their helmets, knocking them out cold. Two more men charged him. He parried their attacks effortlessly. He then dodged a blow from a shield and kicked that man to the ground. He grabbed hold of the sword arm of the other attacker and twisted it. The man screamed loudly enough to be heard over the crowd, and went to his knees, gripping his arm.

The man who had been kicked to the ground recovered and joined the other three attackers. They slowly approached the lone swordsman. This time, he surprised them by jolting forward. He chopped at one of the axe wielders on the outside, then spun around him. From behind, he hit the man in the head with the pommel of his sword. That man staggered into one of his companions. The swordsman swung hard against the second man’s left arm, which bent horribly backwards.

The crowd, which had sounded mostly in favor of the lone swordsman had shifted completely to his side. They cheered uproariously with his every move. He dashed to the remaining two men. With swings to quick that Erden could not track them, he disarmed both men of their weapons. With an upthrust, he knocked the shield out of one of the men’s hands. Weaponless, the two men went to their knees and begged for mercy. The swordsman obliged.

The noise from the crowd had begun to hurt Erden’s ears. A few men ran into the circle and lifted the swordsmen onto their shoulders. They paraded him around while the rest of the crowd cheered. The swordsman had a slight smile on his face, but appeared to be mostly indifferent to the hoopla.

As the spectators dispersed in various directions, Erden was able to find Kingsley. He took a long drink from a clay jug and laughed to himself. “What was all that?” Erden asked.

“That was Abraham.”

“The one man against the seven?”

“Yes. A minor workout for our champion,” Kingsley said before taking another drink.

“Who was he fighting? And why?”

Kingsley looked at Erden and gave him a wild grin. “The commanders of the 10th had some impolite words for our captain. Abraham didn’t care for their words or their tone. They set some of their guards on him. You would think they would have learned by now, seeing as how he’s saved their asses so many times, but officers aren’t always the smartest people. After he took down their guards, a few of their best soldiers challenged him to a fight. That was them you saw getting embarrassed in front of all these people.”

“I’ve heard of him. I heard he defeated a dozen men at once. I didn’t know if it was fact or fiction.”

Kingsley wiped his mouth. “You do now.”

“I do.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Do you know where the captain is?”

“No, but I can guess he’s trying to smooth things over with the 10th. They may be idiots, but we do have to work with them. Follow me. I should be checking on him anyway, being as how I’m an officer and all.”

They stopped in front a building which was identical to the barracks in which The Blades were housed. Four guards blocked the entrance and did not seem inclined to let them pass.

“Lieutenant Kingsley of The Blades,” Kingsley told them.

“No one is allowed in. Orders from the marshal,” one of the guards replied gruffly.

“Then send a message to Captain Sarthak. Tell him I’m waiting outside.”

“In a few minutes,” the guard said. “Right now we’re busy.”

“Busy being assholes,” Kingsley said loudly enough for whoever was inside of the tent to hear.

The guards all put their hands on their weapons. In response, Kingsley crossed his arms and snorted. Before tensions could grow further, the flap of the tent was pushed open to reveal Sarthak. “Get in here before you get yourself killed,” he said to Kingsley before closing the flap again.

“See,” Kingsley said. “I’m an invited guest.”

The lead guard sighed. “Place your weapons on the ground. All of them.”

Kingsley unstrapped his sword belt and let it fall onto the grass. He then pulled out a staggering number of knives from hidden compartments under his shirt, inside his trousers, and even in his boots. “If you take even one, I’ll sick Abraham on you,” he said with a feral grin.

They found their way to the Marshal’s war room. The officers of the 10th were seated behind glasses of wine at an enormous wooden table. Sarthak stood on the right of the table. Next to him was the lone swordsman who Erden had seen before. Abraham.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” Kingsley said, saluting the seated men.

“I do not recall inviting you to this gathering,” the man seated in the middle of the table said. He looked over at Sarthak. “Who are these men?”

“That is my lieutenant, Kingsley and our quartermaster, Erden.”

“And what are they doing here?”

“I asked them to retrieve me if I was taking too much of your time. I have a bad habit of dragging things out. Thank you for following orders,” he said looking to Erden and Kingsley. “Quartermaster, this is Marshal Jouse, the commanding officer of our campaign against the rebels.”

Marshal Jouse’s gaze swung to Abraham. “I did not believe I would have to inform anyone of who was in charge, or how they are to treat their superiors.”

Abraham did not speak or show any reaction to the comment. His eyes had been on the marshal since the man began speaking.

The marshal waved a servant over to refill his glass. “This will not happen again. Your point was made, whatever it was. If there is another incident of gross disrespect, there will be serious problems. Is that clear?”

“It is,” Sarthak said.

“No,” Marshal Jouse snapped. “I want to hear from Abraham.”

All eyes shifted to the swordsman, who, Erden realized, was still wearing his two-handed sword on his back.

“Understood, Marshal,” Abraham said.

Back outside of 10th barracks, Kingsley collected his weapons and the four Blades headed toward their camp.

“He is correct that a military operation can only have one leader. We will continue to follow his orders and show him respect, as it is our duty. He knows he cannot win without us, and that no other company is capable of replacing us in the field. If he did not believe so, he would have doled out a punishment, or at the very least given a true ultimatum. When the war is over, that is a different matter entirely. Once this partnership has ended… well, we will see.”

The Blades continued their walk, Erden mulling over the captain’s last words, and wondering why they made him so uneasy.

The Old Man

Blankets thrown off the bed in a fluid motion. A sword slicing through neck and vertebrae. Screams. More slicing. More blood. More dying. It was over in less than forty heartbeats. Three bodies laid on the floor. Blood covered the old man’s sword. Now there were only the sounds of his breathing.

The attackers in the bedroom had failed, but he suspected they had not come alone. He slowed his breathing until it was no longer audible. He did not hear a sound. That could mean any number of things, but one was certain- something had happened to Harold. There was no way the man could have slept through the carnage that just occurred.

The old man stepped silently into the main room of the house. There were two windows on the far side of the room, but curtains had been drawn over them, making it too dark to see more than a hand’s length in front of him. He had stayed in this residence for three nights now, and therefore had a mental map of the layout. Moving to where he knew Harold’s room was, he pushed the door open. A single window provided enough light for the old man to see. No one was inside. Blankets lay on the floor. Harold’s boots were there, but so were wet footprints. They led into the room, formed a puddle by the bed, and then led back out.

He considered the windows in the main room, but caution bred from experience told him not to step into their view. The old man had never feared sword fights, but he had different feelings as to projectiles. It was going to be a long, cold night. He sighed and returned to his room to get dressed.

Properly protected from the deathly cold, he ventured outside. In the moonlight, he saw two men standing behind a crumpled form lying in the snow. Both of the standing men were armed. One with a two-handed sword, and the other with a spear, the tip of which looked dark with liquid.

The man with the two-handed sword spoke. “I was told you were a great swordsman. I was also told you were quite old. I weighed these two seemingly contradictory pieces of information in my mind, and chose to have more than one plan. Now that I see you, I am surprised that it appears as though both of the statements I was given were accurate.”

The old man said nothing.

The man who had spoken, an Imperial Defender, the old man inferred, pointed with his weapon to the form on the ground. “Harold here views himself as this village’s representative and protector. The other villagers act as though he is both of those. I think you would agree with me that his current situation suggests the latter of those titles is not fitting.”

Again, the old man remained silent. He did nothing other than blink.

“You killed three men, all of whom had once made their living as assassins. Harold assured us that you were asleep. This suggests the description of your martial prowess was not exaggerated. I am curious to see it myself. I will, but not tonight. Tonight, I will be taking Harold with me. He will get another chance to witness your skill as well, when we return.”

The man had been speaking with a voice louder than necessary given the distance between him and the old man. It now became clear why, as villagers appeared outside their houses. Their eyes were all on the scene in front of them.

“When we return, we will come in force. Crimes against Imperial Defenders must go answered, and the vengeance will be tenfold. You have made bad choices, old man. Your selfishness has doomed these people to a lifetime of hardship.” He then turned in a full circle, spreading his arms out as he spoke. “Do not attempt to flee. If you do, you will be pursued and killed. There will be no more freedom in your future. You may thank this old man for your sentence.”

He then grabbed Harold by the collar of his shirt. The man was alive, but unconscious. His face had been badly battered, and blood stained his shirt where the fabric was cut. The Imperial Defender looked at the old man. “One step my way and he dies.”

The old man considered that. Across the street, in the doorway of a small house which he knew doubled as a workshop, a woman watched him. And in her eyes, the message was clear: “Do not let Harold die.”

The old man looked back at the Imperial Defenders, nodded, and sheathed his sword. The man with the spear dragged Harold by his arms and set him down harshly on a sled which was attached to a short, stocky horse with thick brown fur. Then he pulled two blankets out of a pack and tossed them onto the unconscious man. All the while, the other Imperial Defender had been walking parallel to Harold, eyes on the old man. When they were more than fifty yards away, the two men swung up onto the saddles of two more of the sturdy horses, and rode out of sight, the sled pulled along in their wake.

The old man stood motionless as Makani approached him. On all sides, villagers murmured and squirmed, pulling their coats or blankets tighter to themselves to fight the gelid wind that defined the nights this far north. Makani looked older than she had before. Beautiful though. More so now that she seemed so vulnerable. The implication of that thought did not sit well with the old man. Nor did the thought that he was being swayed into changing his plans out of feelings and circumstances he had no control over.

Now what choice do I have? None, if I want to be able to sleep at night. This is an untenable position. I have time, do I not? The doctors all said she had years. Yet I will feel guilt. I know the truth of this, and it is that I will not be able to rest no matter what I choose. He wondered then, not for the first time, whether the world would have been better without him. He concluded in the affirmative. But that is not one of my options. So, time for yet another battle. To deliver more death. The only thing I have ever been good at. So be it. If I bring suffering whether I act or not, I shall act. It is what I do.

“What will you do?” Makani asked.

“Will my boots be complete by the end of this day?”

Her entire body appeared to droop as she looked down. “They will.”

“Good,” he said. “I will need them. We have work to do to be prepared for their return.”

Makani looked up, tears in her eyes. “You will help us?”

He wanted to reach out and embrace her. Instead, the old man simply shrugged. “I will fight. It is what I do.”

The intimacy of the exchange had narrowed his world so that he did not notice the approach of another villager. The young man who had first spotted his arrival. The muscular youth halted a good distance from the two older individuals.

“I do not blame you,” he said. “You only did what the rest of us have been afraid of doing.”

The old man and Makani looked at the youth. Neither spoke.

“My name is Jaroslav,” the young man said unprompted. “I have a strong sword. It was my father’s. I would use it as you use yours. To defend the village.”

The old man did his best to maintain a body posture that would not reveal his sadness. “In the morning then,” was all he said.

The old man then went back to the room he had been given free of rent. He was sure the complexity and tragedy of the situation he was in would have prevented him from sleeping. But the certainty of having made a decision won out, and he slept through the rest of the night.

The sun was only beginning its ascent, ochre light casting its warmth onto the snow, when the old man had looked out the window to see Jaroslav swinging his father’s sword, a look of grim determination on his face. The old man had sighed and gone to the door, slowly opening it before revealing himself so as to give the youth time to strike the pose he knew he would want to give as his first impression.

Jaroslav did not disappoint. He managed to sheath the sword onto his back and have his arms crossed when the old man finally appeared in the doorway. “I am ready for my training,” he said, putting more bass into his voice than had been there before.

The old man kept a neutral expression on his face. “First we need to gather everyone in the village. There are many decisions to be made and I am not the one to make them.”

“They’ll listen to you and take orders. Everyone is scared. They’re looking for a leader.”

“They’re going to be disappointed. I’m a fighter and I can train others to fight. I know how to build defensible positions and traps. But I am not a leader.”

Jaroslav looked puzzled. Obviously the idea of someone not desiring power and control had never entered his head. The old man could understand that. The lad lived in a world where the strong did as they wanted. The most powerful man Jaroslav could imagine was likely the self-proclaimed emperor of North Saltion, and he would have been the richest man as well. Who would not desire that? It was not the first time in the old man’s life that someone had given him a confused look due to his denial of command. On this hill, I stand strong. And here I will have my way, as they have no alternatives.

An hour later, the entire village was gathered in the tavern. It was the largest building, and it had the added benefit of being filled with a certain substance that gave those who did not want to speak something to do.

The old man had sat waiting as all of the adults, and children as well, filed in. Each person who entered looked at him. A few gave him angry looks, but the majority of the expressions that faced him were like the one that Makani had given him that night. Looks of pleading desperation.

When the tavern was full, drinks began to be poured. Men and women drank in near silence, the only voices those of the children who were not old enough to sense the feel of the room. Villagers would steal glances at the old man, but no one approached him. He was curious to see if anyone would take Harold’s place. That no one attempted to spoke volumes. He was also searching the crowd for another reason. And in that endeavor, he made no progress. After an uncomfortable and lengthy period, the old man gave in and stood up.

“Those Imperial Defenders were well-informed. That is a concern. And until it is addressed, and then resolved, we have no other business.”

Now there was chatter. I cannot solve every problem myself. Harold, it is a wonder that you did not look even older.

Not wishing to speak again, the old man sat back down and waited for someone else to take the floor. Eventually, a clanging sound from the bar slowly drew the crowd’s attention. The talking petered out until the only sound came from a hammer hitting a skillet. All eyes were now on Makani.

“Who left the town after Gray arrived?”

No response. Then, a hand was raised. A woman ten paces from the old man. “I went to gather wood.”

Another hand in the back of the room. “As did I.”

More hands. More people who had acquired firewood, fish, or meat.

Then a voice arose in the middle of the crowd. A white bearded villager who looked to have seen a decade more than the old man. He had removed his hood to reveal a hairless pate. He had been seated, but was now standing. “Lots of suspects, it appears,” he said. “If we attempt to find out who tipped off the Imperial Defenders, we will tear this community apart. I see only one course of action. From this day forward, no one can be outside the village for long enough to deliver another message and no one leaves alone. At least until we are rid of the Imperial Defenders.”

The old man had anticipated pushback to that plan, but none came. Perhaps that mystery will still reveal itself, depending on how our preparations go. If the guilty party believes we can win this fight, they may never let the truth of what they have done come to light.

The old man was pleased with the start of this gathering though. Two potential leaders here. With that beginning to take form, the old man could assume his role. He would initiate the defense of the village.

Veabella

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright, lass?”

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

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

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

Xopher halted. “For how long?”

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

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

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

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

No one moved to discover whether Twig was correct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What? How?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Richard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps Chancellor Cuvond did not extend the invitation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lydee

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

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

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

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

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

“I only just arrived,” Lydee said.

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

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

“If you return it afterwards, yes.”

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

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

“Who?”

“Woller.”

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

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

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

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

“He disappeared?”

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

“I assumed he had died.”

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

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

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

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

“For him or for you?”

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

“Please.”

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

“Do you know specifically what he was researching?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Old Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She gave him a playful grin. “Impatient?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That is not your name in truth?”

“It is not.”

“I see. You were a soldier?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m happy to be of service.”

He nodded again, then left.

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

Veabella

Year 1378 (Present Day)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Most people do.”

“Not us.”

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

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

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

“Why is that?”

“Meffas says it’s an unnecessary risk.”

Lydee only nodded at that.

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

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

“Thank you, Lydee.”

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

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

Another long pause.

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

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

“What will it be, exactly?”

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

“And once the second prophecy is fulfilled?”

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

“It does,” Veabella said.

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

“I’m happy for you.”

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

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

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

“It’s this year, isn’t it?”

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

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

“And I will be thinking of you, Vea.”

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

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

“Thank you. I will.”

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

“Goodbye, Lydee. I will.”

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

Cupela

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why is that?” Enfildio asked.

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

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

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

“Never mind,” she heard Enfildio mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Erden

1348 (Thirty years prior to present day)

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

“Oh. What is it?” Erden asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Erden.”

Oh no.

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

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

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

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

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

“For the moment.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not sure.”

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

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

“I must get down there,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why such urgency for children’s stories?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what purpose did you defy my order?”

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

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

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

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

“Why were you so eager for these documents?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Old Man

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“You will continue straight through?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t believe so,” Harold said.

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

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

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

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

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

“I suppose so,” the old man said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Years of experience,” the old man sighed.

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

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

Yara

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A triumph.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What precisely have I stumbled upon here?

Lydee

Year 1378 (Present day)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yet he is.”

“He did not… officially resign.”

“You terminated him?”

“He… left.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lydee was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Erden

1348 (Thirty years prior to present day)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cupela.”

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

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

“It’s been some time,” he decided on.

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

“Have you been traveling?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Old Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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