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THE SEVEN MARKS

Book One: The Prince of Whispervale

The cavern had been chosen for its silence. No wind reached it. No water dripped. The molten rock that seeped from the walls at either side moved slowly, almost politely, channelling itself into rivers of dim orange light that ran along the cavern floor before disappearing into the ravine at the back. The heat was absolute and had been absolute for so long that the seven creatures assembled here had stopped noticing it. They had other things to attend to. At the centre of the floor, a circle had been cut into the rock. Not scratched — cut, with something that left edges clean as glass, the lines running in nested rings inward to a central point, with seven positions marked at equal intervals around the outermost ring. At each position knelt a figure, bound at the wrists and ankles with cord that gave off a faint grey light. Seven people. Six men and one woman, or close enough — they came from different places and different lives and had arrived here by different roads, but they had one thing in common now. They were very still, and their stillness had the quality of people who have been still for a long time and have decided that stillness is the only thing keeping them alive. They were not wrong, but it had not kept them safe. At the far end of the cavern, on a high outcrop of black rock, something vast was curled in the shadows. It had been there since before the others arrived and it had not moved. In the dim orange light from below, the scales along its back caught the glow and held it — dark iridescent blue, shifting slightly with each slow breath. Its tail was wrapped around the base of the outcrop. Its eyes, when they opened, were the colour of a sky just before a storm breaks. They were open now, watching. They had been watching since the beginning. Below, the one in vermilion robes stood at the edge of the circle. The Lich was not, in itself, impressive to look at — not the way the thing on the outcrop was impressive. It was thin. Its robes hung from angles where flesh should have been. Its face was fine-boned and carried an expression of settled intellectual amusement, as though it had spent several centuries finding the universe mildly diverting and had no expectation that this would change. It held in both withered hands an ancient glass orb, perfectly clear and perfectly dark, and it had been chanting for some time. The chant was not loud. It was precise. Each syllable landed like a small weight placed on a scale, and as the Lich spoke, the glass ball began to change — the darkness inside it moving, shifting, taking on colour that had no name in any living language. The seven figures in the circle flinched each time a new verse began, as though they could feel the words landing on them. On the walls of the cavern, watching from different positions, the others waited. The grey-cracked figure in red robes had its hood drawn up, the tentacles below the hood flexing slowly. It held a book closed against its chest and had not opened it since the chanting began. It was thinking about something else — several things at once, possibly. It always was. In the shadows to the left, barely visible, the Drow Necromancer stood with her arms folded. She was the only one in the cavern who appeared to be cold. She had been watching the seven figures in the circle with the focused attention of someone reading a document for errors. The Arboreal Beholder had positioned itself near the ceiling of the cavern, its central eye half-closed, the vine-like tentacles that ended in smaller eyes drifting in slow currents of hot air. It communicated nothing to the others. It rarely did. The Pit Fiend stood with its great leathery wings partially furled, its tail moving behind it in a slow, restless arc. It had been still for as long as it was capable of being still, which was not very long. Now and then it glanced up at the outcrop above. The thing in the shadows did not acknowledge this. The Pit Fiend looked away again. The Tripasura Warlord stood to the right — vast, golden-armoured, its multiple arms in a posture that was almost meditative. It was the only one whose attention was not on the circle. It was looking at the far wall of the cavern, where the passage led out. It was thinking about what came after. The Lich reached the final verse. The glass ball blazed. Inside it, colours moved and converged — and for a moment, for one long suspended moment, it seemed as though it was working. The cord binding the seven figures at the wrist began to glow, matching the light in the ball. The lines of the circle itself lit from the inside. The seven kneeling figures gasped, one after another, as though a hand had pressed against each of their chests. Then the light in the cords flickered. The Lich stopped chanting. In the silence, a single crack ran across the glass ball — not shattering, just a crack, from one side to the other. The light inside it did not go out but it shifted wrong, spilling from the fracture in a direction that had no physical explanation. The glowing lines of the circle went dark in sections, like lamps failing in sequence. The cord at the wrists of the figure nearest the Lich went grey and still. Then the next. Then all seven. The Lich looked into the ball. What it saw there made its permanent expression of mild amusement disappear for the first time. "The marks," it said, to no one in particular. "They didn’t hold." The bindings fell away.

They did not all make the same choice. That was the thing about people — even at the worst possible moment, in the worst possible place, they remained entirely themselves. The warrior was on his feet before the last binding had finished falling. He had a sword — they had not taken it, perhaps because they hadn’t thought it would matter, and perhaps it wouldn’t, but he had it now and he was already moving. Not for the passage. For the circle. For the glass ball. He understood, in the way that fighters sometimes understand things before they can put words to them, that the ball was the centre of what was happening and that if he could reach it and break it, whatever came next would be less bad than whatever was currently coming. The cleric rose more slowly. Her hands were shaking but her lips were already moving, and the word she was saying had the shape of a prayer. The rogue did not look at anyone. She looked at the walls. She looked at the floor. She looked for the geometry of the place — the cracks, the angles, the narrow dark places — the way she always did in any room, any cave, any city, because that was the knowledge she had always trusted most. She found what she was looking for near the far left wall. A fissure, barely a shoulder’s width, running up through the rock. She moved toward it at a dead run before anyone had noticed she was moving. The ranger had no terrain. He understood this in the first second — no brush, no cover, no elevation, no ground to use. What he had was rock, and fire, and the loose debris at the cavern’s edge. He began to improvise. The scholar stood up carefully, as though he intended to ask a question, and he did — he opened his mouth and began to speak, his voice carrying the measured cadence of a man who had talked his way through difficult rooms before and saw no reason to stop trying now. The barbarian looked at the Warlord. The Warlord looked back at her. She picked up a piece of broken rock from the cavern floor, chose her angle, and ran at him. The seventh — a young man, the youngest of the seven, who had barely spoken since they had arrived here — looked at the chaos unfolding around him and looked at the passage in the far wall, and ran.

The warrior was fast. He crossed half the distance to the ritual circle before any of the creatures moved to intercept him. The Lich was still staring into its fractured ball. The Pit Fiend was watching the rogue. The Warlord’s attention had already shifted to the barbarian bearing down on him. And so the warrior ran — his sword raised, his eyes on the glass ball, his mouth set — and he was close enough to see his own reflection in the cracked glass when something changed in the air behind him. He did not hear it coming. That was the nature of it. The Mind Flayer had not moved from its position near the wall. It had simply extended its attention — and in the instant that the warrior’s focus was entirely on the ball, the tentacles reached across the distance between them in a way that had nothing to do with the physical space and wrapped around the back of his skull. He stopped. He did not fall immediately. He stood, rigid, his sword hand frozen at the top of its arc, and what passed across his face in the following seconds was difficult to watch — recognition, resistance, and then a rapid dissolution of both, as though something essential was being drawn out through the crown of his head. He had not made a sound. When the Mind Flayer finally stepped forward to close the remaining distance, it was almost quiet. The crack that followed was not loud. He fell. The sword fell with him, its light going out as it left his hand. The Mind Flayer stood over him for a moment. Then it turned to where the book was still held against the chest of the grey-cracked figure and communicated something without words. The grey-cracked figure opened the book.

The cleric’s prayer had three words out before it stopped. She felt it go — felt it the way you feel a thread pulled from the end, not snapped but drawn out smoothly, until the connection at the far end went slack. She had prayed in bad places before. She had prayed in grief and in battle and in the dark, and her god had always been there in some form, even faint, even as silence rather than sound. This was different. This was the absence of even the possibility. She looked at her hands. The Lich was already beside her. It had crossed the space between them without appearing to walk — it was simply there, as though it had always been standing next to her and she had only just noticed. "Yes," it said, with the tone of someone confirming a prior hypothesis. "We chose carefully." It was not unkind. It was simply finished. The Lich raised its withered hand, and what it did next was brief and specific and left no confusion about what had happened. It stepped back to the circle, considered the cracked ball, and began making notes in the air with one finger, as though writing on a surface only it could see.

The rogue was through the fissure to the shoulders. Rock pressed in on either side. She could see the passage beyond — dark, cold, the temperature dropping even from here, which meant it led somewhere. She dragged herself forward with her hands, her feet scrabbling against the cavern wall for purchase, her elbows working through the narrow gap. She was almost through. The tail caught her ankle with a laziness that was the worst part of it. She grabbed at the rock as she was pulled back, her fingers finding nothing to hold. The Pit Fiend did not strain. It did not hurry. It simply withdrew its tail with a steady, patient pressure, the way you might close a drawer — not because you were in any rush, but because the drawer had no say in the matter. She came out of the fissure backwards, still fighting, her hands still reaching for the rock. The Pit Fiend looked down at her. The yellow eyes held nothing that resembled curiosity. She met them anyway. She was still fighting when it ended, which was, of all the ways to go, probably the best one available.

The ranger threw burning rock. He had broken pieces of it free from the cavern edge where the molten flow was thin, wrapped his hands against the heat with strips from his cloak, and was hurling them at the Beholder’s many eyes in a fast, systematic pattern — targeting left to right, forcing it to close each eye in sequence, trying to find the angle where more than one closed at once. It was good improvisation. It was the kind of thinking that had saved him before in places without terrain. The Beholder let him finish. When he ran out of rocks and out of ground, he was left standing in the centre of his own impromptu clearing, chest heaving, looking at a creature that had simply rotated the eyes he hadn’t been targeting and watched him the entire time with calm and absolute attention. The eyes he had forced shut were already open again. One of the smaller eyes, at the end of a tentacle-vine, turned toward him. He had just enough time to recognise what was coming before the ray reached him. After that, he had no time at all.

The scholar was still talking. He had not stopped talking since the bindings fell. He had moved steadily away from the violence — not running, walking, keeping his voice measured and his hands visible — and he had directed his words at the Drow Necromancer, who was the one watching him, and he had tried three approaches in fairly quick succession. First, information. He told her what he knew about the ritual — which was considerable, assembled from fragments gathered over two years of careful work. He offered it freely. He told her where the failure had occurred and why, as best he could determine it. He wanted her to understand that he was useful. She listened without expression. Second, negotiation. He offered himself as a willing participant — not a prisoner but a collaborator. He had skills she would not find easily in someone else. He could help them get this right. She tilted her head by a fraction of a degree. Third, he told her something he had not intended to tell anyone. A name. A location. Something that would take years to find without his help and less than a month with it. She looked at him for a moment after he finished. Then she said, quietly and without any particular inflection: "I already know." She stepped toward him. "But I appreciate the precision," she added, which were the last words he heard.

The barbarian hit the Warlord before he had fully turned to face her. She had chosen the angle well — below the reach of the forward arms, inside the arc of the weapons — and she brought the piece of broken rock up hard into the joint of the left shoulder where two of the arms converged. She felt something give. The Warlord made a sound she would have been satisfied by if she had survived to remember it. They fought properly. That was the word for it — not slaughter, not execution, but an actual fight, two people in a small space trying to kill each other with everything they had. She was faster than him and she knew it and she used it, moving in and out of his reach, making him turn, making him commit. He was stronger than her and he knew it and he used it, absorbing what she gave him and returning it with more. She opened a cut across the side of his face with the edge of the rock. He took the rock away from her. She bit him. He killed her with his own hands, finally, which was not how he usually preferred to work. He stood over her for a moment afterward, breathing harder than he had breathed in some time. His left shoulder moved wrongly. The cut on his face was bleeding into his eye. He did not say anything. He had too much dignity for that. He pressed the back of his hand to the cut and looked across the cavern to where the Lich was still writing invisible equations in the air, apparently satisfied with its findings. Then he looked up.

The seventh ran. He was young enough that running was still the first and best answer his body offered him, and he was fast enough that it nearly worked. He crossed the cavern in the chaos of the fighting with his head down, avoiding everything by luck and instinct, his only thought the dark mouth of the passage in the far wall. He could feel cold air from it. He could feel the difference in the darkness — the passage dark because it led somewhere, rather than the cavern dark because it contained things better left unseen. He reached the passage. He went three steps in before he stopped. The dragon was there. It had not been there when they were brought in. He was certain of this — he had memorised the passage on their way through it, the way he memorised every door in every room, because you never knew. There had been nothing in it. There was no way the creature could have come through the cavern without him seeing it. There was no other entrance. It was there anyway. It filled the passage completely, the long neck lowered slightly to fit under the stone ceiling, the vast scaled body blocking every inch of the space beyond. It was very close. This far from the cavern light, its scales caught nothing — it was a shape in the dark more than a visible thing, suggested rather than seen, the way very large things sometimes were. It looked at him. Not at the cavern, not at the general situation. At him, specifically, with an attention that felt like weight. He understood, in a way that had nothing to do with reason, that it had not hurried to reach this position. That it had not gone around him in some desperate scramble to cut off his escape. It had simply known — had known before he ran, had known before the ritual failed, had perhaps known from the beginning — that this was where he would end up, and had moved accordingly, and at its own pace. One clawed foot shifted slightly. That was all. The seventh did not reach the end of the passage.

Silence returned to the cavern. It had taken less time than it should have. That was the thing about moments like this — afterwards, they seemed to have taken no time at all, as though the violence had been a held breath finally released. The circle was dark. The glass ball sat in the Lich’s hands with its single crack catching the orange light from the lava flows. Seven figures lay at various positions across the cavern floor, which was the same as before except for the seven figures. The Mind Flayer turned to the Drow Necromancer and shared something in the way they shared things — without sound, without gesture, a simple transmission of information. The Drow nodded slightly. She was already thinking about something else. The Pit Fiend stretched its wings and furled them again and said: "We try again." Nobody responded to this. The Warlord was pressing cloth to his face. He was looking at the Lich. The Beholder drifted down from the ceiling and settled near the wall, most of its eyes closing. The one that remained open was watching the passage. From the passage, after a moment, the sound of slow and deliberate footsteps. Each one placed carefully, the weight behind it immense and unhurried. The sound of something very large moving in a space that was too small for it, managing this without any suggestion of difficulty. The dragon came back into the cavern. It moved to the centre of the floor — to the circle — and stood in it, its head rising to the ceiling, its tail sweeping slowly across the stone. It looked at the fractured glass ball in the Lich’s hands. It looked at the six of them, each in turn, with the calm and comprehensive attention of a creature that has been watching longer than most of them have been alive. Then it looked at the ball again. "The circle needed the right souls," it said. Its voice in the enclosed space was not loud — it did not need to be. "Not seven souls. Seven specific souls. These were not them." The Lich raised its withered head. "The marks released when the binding failed. They have been cast out. They will find —" "I know what they will find." The dragon’s gaze moved to the cracked glass. "They will find the ones they were always meant for. The ritual knew, even when we did not. That is what a ritual of this nature does — it corrects." The Pit Fiend shifted its weight. "We wait, then." "You will wait," the dragon said, without looking at it, "as long as it takes." Another silence. Then the Lich, carefully, asked: "And if they resist the marks? If they understand what is happening before —" "They won’t understand." The dragon turned toward the passage. "Not in time." It did not say anything else. It moved back toward the outcrop slowly, its tail dragging a long clean line through the dust of the ritual circle — through the ashes of what had just failed, and what would not fail again — and it climbed back to its place in the dark, and it curled there, and its eyes closed. The Lich looked at the cracked glass ball for a long moment. Then it reached into the folds of its robe and produced a cloth, and began, with great care, to polish the fracture.

The Prince of Whispervale

Chapter One: The Tavern at Dunthrane

Rain beat down and the wind howled through the trees. A caged wagon moved slowly along the road, piloted by two mail-clad men. The back of the wagon held a large cage containing a prone figure, and following the cart was a troop of men, all looking thoroughly soaked. Under a small lantern, one of the men in the cart stared at a few parchments, then turned to the driver. "They are in the tavern ahead. Pull up and I will go in with three of the men to get them out." The bartender was busy filling pitchers and tankards from the large barrels, setting them on the great oak bar. The maids would come and go, loading trays and carrying them off to the tables filled with patrons seeking shelter from the storm outside. A small band played jolly music from a tiny stage at one end of the room. The storm normally brought in a good crowd, and tonight was no different. Enjoying the music near the stage sat a dark-skinned man with a bone necklace and strange robes, listening intently. At a nearby table, a large hooded figure nursed a tankard and surveyed the room. When a great cry of laughter would fill the crowd, he would turn his attention to the ranger at the bar. The ranger was deep in a conversation with a few patrons about how he once caught a large fish. "I was down at Lionustown, fishing in the harbour. I tell yee, my hook had no sooner hit the water and a mouth the size of a whale had swallowed my bait whole, had me holdin’ on tae the nearest post. She was a biggun." All while telling this, the ranger was making gestures — throwing his imaginary fishhook, hanging back at an odd angle, tugging against the current. At another table, a well-dressed man was far more focused on a heavy book, doing his level best to ignore the loud ranger. He moved a spoon slowly from a steaming meal to his mouth, chewing without once lifting his eyes from the page. When the crowd around the ranger would shout or laugh, a pained look of disdain would cross his face.

The door burst open. Wind blew wet leaves and rain into the room; the temperature dropped several degrees. All attention turned to the disturbance. Four men in mailed shirts carrying swords and spears entered and closed the door behind them. One referred to a sheet of paper and looked around the room. He pointed to the ranger, the dark-skinned man, the hooded figure, and the man with the book. The guards filtered off to each in turn; their leader walked to the reader. "Can I have your name?" he grunted, placing a wet finger on the pages to drag the book down and see the face behind it. "What business have you here?" Clivic looked up at the guard, anger building at the wet finger on his pages. "I am here to shelter from the storm. Like most of the people in this establishment tonight." "You must come with me. I have questions that need answering at the garrison," the guard demanded, moving round the table to stand behind him. He motioned to the others. "Let’s go. Now!" he barked. The guards levelled their spears at the men they stood near. The patrons of the inn suddenly discovered urgent business elsewhere and began to drift toward their rooms or out into the stormy night. The robed figure stood slowly, pushing his chair back. The scraping of it over the floor was the only sound in the room. His height towered over the small guard. Pulling back his hood, it revealed a face with dark golden-green skin, slight tusks for teeth, and elf-like ears. A snarl curled at the corner of his mouth as he looked down. "You are making a mistake," growled Leon. "I have done no wrong, nor have I made any threats to you. Put your sword away and take your attention elsewhere." The guard, taken aback by the creature looking down at him, turned his head to the sergeant. Clivic slowly closed his book, placed it in his pack, and stood. "I think you may have the wrong people here. We are certainly innocent of whatever crimes you imagine we have committed." "This man speaks the truth," said Kelinos, raising his hands. "I have wronged no one. I have only been enjoying the fine music and the drink." The guard motioned for him to move toward the door. At the bar, the ranger was smiling. "OK, look. The fish may nat have been quite as big as I made out — and I maybe forgot tae pay the harbour master for the permit tae fish in the harbour. So perhaps if I go and see him now tae sort the money, I am sure this will all be settled." Oron began moving toward the door and the guard poked a spear tip into his back. It stopped him in his tracks. "Now, houl on ‘der. I said I was going to pay the harbour master. I wasnae asking you tae poke holes in ma back with that big ole spear." "You keep moving, murderer. This has nothing to do with any harbour master. Drop your weapons on the bar or I’ll run you through." The guard’s voice had a slight tremor in it. The sergeant looked sharply at him. "Do as he says," the sergeant told Clivic. "All of you — arms on the table, peacefully, and this goes more easily for everyone." Clivic turned and looked to Oron, who shrugged helplessly. Kelinos was clearly shaken, fumbling through his clothes trying to determine what qualified as a weapon. Small bones, a bag of rocks, a few pins, various pieces of jewellery — he emptied his pockets methodically. Leon leaned slightly back, picked up his large halberd, and slammed it on the table, startling the small guard holding a spear at him. Oron looked at the angry guard and said with a smile, "I ‘ave no weapons on me." The guard looked pointedly at Oron’s belt. "There. Right there on your belt. You clearly have a sword. You’re a liar and a murderer." The spear was beginning to visibly shake. Oron looked startled. "Excuse me? That’s twice you’ve called me murderer. If ya think fishin’ is murdering, I think ya need tae rethink yer thoughts." He took a step forward. The guard stuttered and shouted, "Do not move! Stay where you are and drop your weapons." Oron took a step back, hands still raised. "I am going tae reach fer ma sword and place it on the table beside me." He lowered his arm slowly toward the sheathed blade. The crackling of the fire sounded enormous in the silence. As Oron’s hand hovered near the hilt, he glanced over to Clivic with a wry smile. Clivic realised what was about to happen, curled his bottom lip, and braced himself. Oron sidestepped sharply, pulling his sword free and batting the spear aside. Then, stepping close, his other hand moved in a blur and connected with the guard’s chin, bowling him into the bar. Clivic flicked his chair with his foot into the sergeant’s legs. Distracted by Oron’s movement, the sergeant was caught by the chair across the knees and groin; he dropped the spear and doubled. Clivic grabbed the back of his head and slammed it onto the table, then watched him fold to the floor. Leon took the opportunity to wrench the spear from the stunned guard beside him. Stepping close, he spoke in a low, deliberate voice. "I have done no wrong. Yet you threaten me. You call me a murderer. You have made a mistake." His pointed teeth were visible when he spoke. The guard bent back over a table, unable to look away. Leon’s fist slammed into his stomach, followed by his other hand coming down hard on the back of the guard’s head. The guard crumpled. Meanwhile, Kelinos let out a small involuntary sound as Oron struck the first guard. The one holding a spear to Kelinos stood dumbfounded. Kelinos turned to him. "I am sorry, friend. I have nothing to do with these people. I have never met them before tonight. I am new to these lands entirely." The guard came to himself, dropped the spear, and drew his sword. Grabbing Kelinos by the shoulder, he spun him round and placed the blade to his throat. "Stop what you’re doing! I’ll kill him if any of you move!" Oron, Clivic, and Leon froze. The sergeant, recovering his composure, adjusted himself carefully and looked at them. "You! And you!" He pointed to Oron and Leon. "Drop your weapons and get on your knees. You —" a snarl at Clivic "— you too. Down." Oron let his sword fall with a clatter. Leon snarled and dropped slowly to his knees. Clivic, holding the sergeant’s gaze with a cold stare, knelt. The guard stepped forward and drove his boot into Clivic’s stomach. The air rushed from him and he collapsed. Oron moved toward where Clivic was heaving on the floor — spears and swords came level with his face, and he went still. The door opened again and more guards filed in. Two moved to Clivic, hooked their arms under his, and dragged him outside into the howling night, dumping him in the cage. He groaned as he hit the floor. Leon and Kelinos followed under guard. Inside the cage, Kelinos immediately moved to see how badly Clivic was hurt. In the tavern, the remaining guards backed away from Oron at the sergeant’s word. "You think you’re clever, do you?" He took off his helmet and mail shirt, revealing a scarred and muscular torso. "Think you can outfight one of the King’s men? Let’s see what you really have." He lunged — a fist moved for Oron’s face, but Oron moved just in time. "Come on, then. Where’s that fighting spirit now?" The sergeant threw another punch, this time toward Oron’s gut, and it connected. Oron staggered, winded. "I am innocent! I ‘ave done nothing!" From the far side of the room, the cloaked figure who had been watching all of this stood, reached under his cloak for a short, thick truncheon, and moved quietly behind one of the guards. The truncheon came down on the back of the guard’s neck. He dropped silently, and the figure caught him and placed him in a chair. He moved behind the sergeant. "Hey. Roderick." The sergeant, confused, turned. A fist shot out from under the cloak and connected hard with the sergeant’s throat. A boot rose and caught him in the groin, dropping him to the floor. A final blow came down over the side of his face, and the sergeant went cold. The remaining guards stood stunned. The figure stepped over the unconscious man and pulled back his hood. A man in his mid-to-late fifties looked at each of them in turn. "You will go and release those innocent men from the tumbrel." The guards, still taking in who had just spoken, gathered themselves and hurried outside. Oron, still holding where the sergeant had hit him, looked at the man. "What in the hell just happened?" "When your friends are brought in, come join me at that table," the man said, gesturing across the room. He went behind the bar, poured five mugs of ale, gathered some sliced meat and bread, and carried it over. Oron mumbled as he walked to the door, "But they ain’t my friends. I dun know any of them."

The guards released Kelinos, Leon, and Clivic without apology. Leon looked down at one of them. "I told you I was innocent. Next time, believe me when I tell you something of importance." They walked back into the tavern and found Oron waiting in the doorway. "That guy over der — he wants a chat. I’m Oron, by the way." Leon studied Oron, who was still holding himself. Kelinos looked at him. "Are you all right, brother?" "Are we brothers?" Oron looked confused. "But you ain’t the same colour —" he looked at his own hands, then back at Kelinos. Clivic said nothing, collecting his books from the table where he had sat no more than ten minutes ago. The man looked at the guards by the door. "Would you take this fellow back to the garrison," he said, pointing to the sergeant, "and have his commanding officer speak to him about diplomacy." He turned to the four men now settled around the table. "First, I must apologise for any difficulties or injuries they may have caused." Oron groaned and rubbed his ribs. "My name is Hollend. I am the King’s chief advisor. I believe I can offer you an arrangement. You have been caught up in a case of mistaken identity, but if you were to help me, I can clear your names and restore your standing to where it was before tonight’s events." He took a bite of bread and a long pull of ale. "Let me tell you what has happened. I have been chief advisor to the King on the royal council for thirty years — through famine and through war. Then, only a few days ago, while hunting, the King was shot in the neck with an arrow. Some say it was a tragic accident." He paused. "I cannot say it was not. But I have my suspicions. How does a man clad in bright colours on a shining white horse resemble any animal — never mind a stag? There was a man of the cloth in his hunting party who tried to ask his god for the power to heal, but no matter how hard he worked, he could do nothing for the King. This alone should have raised alarm, but they would not hear it." He looked into the bottom of his tankard. "The King is dead. The kingdom has plunged into sorrow." He set the tankard down hard. "There is one in this realm who has shed no tears over the loss of our King. The King’s brother, Lord Edrin. He has wanted the crown for years — almost since Halfred was crowned. Ten years ago he made a bid for it while the King was at war, and only the council held him back. He had no sooner heard of the King’s death than he and his knights strode into the Royal Courts and declared a rightful claim to the throne. He has already made himself Regent of Whispervale." Hollend finished the food and looked steadily at the four men across the table. "This is where we can help each other. There is a man — nay, a boy — who can save us all. King Halfred’s son, Edmund, set off on a pilgrimage to the northern Shrine of Nevron in the Veronian Mountains. Generations have made this pilgrimage. The sages say the sacred water there gives strength and wisdom. I cannot speak to the truth of it, but such a journey wins the hearts of the people. We have prayed Edmund would return soon. But we have reason to believe he is not safe." "The province of Erin, in the north-east of Whispervale, is governed by Aimar, the Duke. He is a self-seeking man. We believe he would turn a blind eye to the Prince’s welfare if it served his purpose — and worse, we have reason to believe he could be in league with Lord Edrin. If that is true, the Prince is in mortal danger. He may have sworn to protect the boy, but his word is worth less than a fool’s. I think assassins could already be in the area, with or without the Duke’s blessing." "We do not know the Prince’s whereabouts. Such is the nature of the pilgrimage. He travelled on foot with only a handful of men in pilgrims’ clothing — he did not want to be conspicuous. We do not know if he has reached the Shrine, or if he has even heard that his father has passed. In any event, he must be found and brought back to Dunthrane." Hollend stared into his empty tankard. "Should the Prince die, this realm will break under Lord Edrin’s iron rule." "If you can find the Prince, and discover any evidence that the King was murdered and who was behind it, I am certain your names will be cleared. There would also be a reward for the Prince’s safe return to the throne, and the court will pay handsomely for any information regarding the Duke’s intentions, or any hand he may have had in the King’s death. I would suggest you try the walled town to the north — Montinelle — or, if that leads nowhere, continue on to the Shrine in the mountains." "I will say this clearly: if you are captured, the Royal Court will deny ever having heard of you — and may well believe you to be the very people who murdered the King. Should you need safety or somewhere to rest, there is an abbey west of here, Fontenmere, where a monk named William Menote can keep you secure. But work fast. Find the Prince." Hollend reached into his bag and set two parchments on the table. "This depicts the Prince." He unrolled the first to reveal a very young boy, barely into his teens. "And this is Menote." The second showed a much older man, possibly in his eighties, with a quiet authority in his face. Clivic reached over and studied each carefully before rolling them and placing them in his pack. Clivic looked at the advisor. "So if I understand this correctly — we find the Prince and return him to Dunthrane, we will be rewarded. And if we fail to find him, we will be hunted for the murder of a king we have never met, in a land we have barely set foot in." Oron looked up. "Well, I’ve been in this land —" Clivic fixed him with a cold, flat stare, and Oron stopped mid-sentence. "You are correct," said Hollend. "And it will do you no good not to help. Find the Prince and you will be rewarded. I will leave you enough horses and a cart to get on your way at speed. I pray to the gods you find him alive and unharmed." He turned and walked out the door. Oron watched him go, then turned to Clivic. "‘Ere — whass all that about? Who is this Prince fella?" A sigh of exasperation escaped Clivic. "Do we know where we must travel?" asked Kelinos, looking round. Leon stirred in his seat. "I think it is best for us to find this Prince and return him to the city." His hand moved unconsciously to a pocket in his jacket. "If we are to go anywhere, we should avoid the main roads," said Clivic, taking a careful drink from his tankard. "The guards here are no longer our concern, but I would be confident in saying there are more out there who would neither listen to what we have to say nor care to. A price on our heads would be all they’d think of. We should make for Montinelle quietly, see what we can find, then decide where to go from there." "When do you think we should leave, friend Clivic?" Kelinos began gathering his possessions. "Now. Storm or not. The sooner my name is cleared, the better. I do not enjoy having my head on the block for someone else’s mistake. Put on your heavy weather gear. It is a very unpleasant night out there." Oron glanced at the bartender, who was paying them no attention and cleaning tankards. He wandered over to the bar. "I was sent up ‘ere by those lads over there. They says I was to order another round of drinks before we left." The bartender looked at him sideways, then went about filling four mugs of ale and setting them on the bar. "That will be twelve silver." Oron took one of the mugs and brought it to his mouth. "Ah — you see that dark fellow over there? The one dressed all funny? Aye, he wants to put this on his bill for everyone. Like, a present for us." He gulped the ale quickly and set the empty mug down. "He did, did he?" said the bartender, unsurprised. "You do know that the dark fellow you’re talking about has already paid his bill in full? And when I offered him an ale earlier, he said he was very sorry and did not want to offend, but that the drink we have here tastes like river water, and he would rather have a small wine instead." The bartender leaned on the bar, his arm resting over the remaining mugs. "Before he left with his wine, he gave me enough for his room, the food he ate, and the wine — saying that after he finished the wine he would be retiring for the evening. So, Ranger Oron from Wyvernhome — yes, I know who you are — I think you might be trying to pull a fast one on that stranger to our lands. Now, I would be expecting twelve silver for the drinks, and perhaps another twelve to forget the last few minutes. What would you be saying?" The last words were delivered in a mocking imitation of Oron’s own accent. Oron paused, sizing up whether the bartender was the type to talk. Then, screwing his face, he scrabbled for his purse and handed over twenty-four silver. The bartender collected his money, removed his arm, and Oron took each mug in turn and emptied them one after another, slamming each down on the bar. Wiping his mouth, he staggered back to the table.

Outside, a small guard approached as the group emerged. "I have a cart and some horses for you. I was told to keep watch until they were safely in your possession." He pointed to three ponies tied at a hitching rail and an old nag hitched to a battered four-wheeled wagon. "They’re yours now." And with that, he turned and walked away toward Dunthrane. Oron walked round the wagon, inspected it with a practised eye, and threw his pack in the back before climbing up to the driver’s seat. "Am not sure this cart will make it too far over rough ground, but I guess we take ‘er as far as she goes. When that time comes, I’ll take Vera and pack ‘er with what she can carry." "Can you ride a horse, Oron?" Leon asked. "Aye — all you have to do is keep your legs either side in the stirrups and point the horse where you want to go. Just don’t be making any loud noises while flicking the reins." Leon looked at the horses, then at the wagon, then at the horses again. "Perhaps we can take turns with the wagon should anyone feel tired." There was a faint note of hope in his voice. "Friend Oron," said Kelinos, "can you talk to animals? How did you know the horse’s name was Vera?" Oron replied with perfect calm, "Sure, I can talk to animals. They don’t usually listen, and they always answer in a different language, but aye — I talk to them all the time."
 

It took Leon several attempts to mount his horse, but eventually he managed it. It was a few minutes before horse and rider reached any kind of understanding. Then Clivic flicked his reins and set off at a walk down the road. Oron followed in the wagon, and Kelinos and Leon cantered up from the rear. Clivic and Oron were already deep in conversation about the journey ahead — techniques for hiding their trail, routes that would keep them off the main roads. Kelinos, riding beside Leon, mentioned idly to the group: "We have similar animals back where I am from. They have a pure white body, and the gods thought that no living creature should be so pure, so they painted black stripes across them." Leon turned in his saddle with a look of deep concentration. "What did they use to paint the animals? Was it a paint? How did they get the animals to stand still? What did they apply it with?" "No, friend Leon — when the gods were making the animals, they did not want a creature of pure white and pure soul, so they painted the black stripes on. The gods wished it, so it was done." "Yes, but what was the paint made from? Berries? Was it applied with a brush? Do the stripes wash off in the rain?" And so the conversation continued into the night, the wind and rain entirely failing to interrupt two men deep in philosophical inquiry.

It was past midnight, with rain coming down in a nearly constant pour, when Clivic motioned for the group to stop. They had been riding for over four hours. He had wanted to put as much distance between them and any settlement as possible before resting. Oron scouted the area thoroughly and declared it good ground — unseen from the road, sheltered enough for a fire. Oron set about laying warning traps and animal snares, then gathered what dry wood he could find from beneath the hedge line. Kelinos tended to the horses, making sure they were fastened and had grazing. Leon helped Clivic with the tents. Oron knelt before his pile of wood with a small silver box from his pack. The others exchanged glances as he whispered something to the kindling and struck his flint. Sparks jumped and caught; smoke rose. Shortly after, small flames erupted within, then the fire was cracking and spitting as the water steamed from the wood. They huddled in their tents, letting the heat dry them out. Watches were set and wounds were dressed.

Morning brought sunshine and unexpected warmth. Oron checked his traps and returned with a single rabbit, disappointed. He skinned and salted it, hung the fur to dry, and added the meat to their rations. Kelinos stretched and studied the landscape, looking for anything that reminded him of home. There were small similarities, but nothing that carried that particular weight. He took a long breath and helped the others pack up. Oron went to the horses to check how they had fared and noticed something he filed away rather than voiced: they seemed spooked. He looked carefully around the camp for anything out of place. Nothing caught his eye. He unhitched them and led them to the wagon. "The heat will help hide our tracks today," Oron mentioned as they set off. "The ground’s drying fast. If we stay clear of the shrubbery, there’ll be little enough behind us to follow." "I don’t want us fully in the open either," said Clivic. "We’d be visible for miles." "We don’t need to be fully open — just far enough that we don’t break any branches. Broken branches are the biggest markers for anyone tracking." "Do you think someone is following us, friend Oron?" said Kelinos, looking back instinctively. This made everyone look behind them. Oron kept his face forward. "No. Not someone. Something. Last night the horses were alarmed. I wasn’t sure what it might have been. I’m still not sure, but I’ll have a better idea when we rest tonight." Clivic looked at a parchment in his hands. "We have another night, perhaps two, before Montinelle. I hope that whatever you think is following us decides we’re not worth the effort for a few more days." Oron brought his horse alongside Clivic and lowered his voice. "We’re going to need a more vigilant watch tonight. I’ll set more traps. Man-sized. Just in case." He trailed off with a shrug. Leon rode in silence, watching the rocks and ridges around them. Occasionally he heard what might have been breathing behind them, or the small sound of loose rock sliding on a slope. He kept his hands loose on the reins.

That evening they made camp again, and Oron set considerably more traps than the night before. Kelinos took first watch. Around him, the sounds of the night — owls, crickets, the distant cry of something else — were ordinary enough. He tended the fire as instructed: smouldering and low, but ready. It was cold. He sat close to the embers. Before his watch ended, something moved in the shrubbery nearby. Then something else moved in a different direction. Kelinos placed his hand on Oron’s shoulder to wake him. Before he could speak, Oron murmured quietly, "I hear them." From behind a bush came a large, snarling wolf, drool dripping from its bared teeth. It had its eyes fixed on Kelinos. Then another appeared on the opposite side of camp. Leon stirred and one of the wolves turned its attention toward him. More moved into the firelight, and it became clear there were roughly twice as many wolves as there were people. Still kneeling, Kelinos reached for his sword; one of the wolves snapped a barking warning. The noise startled Clivic upright and brought Leon’s hand immediately to his halberd. "They’re only here for food," Oron said quietly from where he lay. "They’ve been trailing us the past day or two. If we throw them something to eat, they’ll move on." Kelinos reached carefully for one of the rabbits from the night before. He held it up as an offering, then tossed it gently toward the largest wolf. The wolf stepped back, sniffed the carcass, then stepped over it and kept coming. "Friend Oron," Kelinos said with a more frightened tone, "I do not think the rabbit is the food it wants. I think that we are the rabbits." Leon came to his feet in an instant, halberd extended. A wolf launched itself at Clivic, fangs closing on his arm. Kelinos swung his sword toward one closing on him. Clivic wrestled with the animal awkwardly, getting to his feet. The wolves rushed the rest in a wave. Another set of teeth found Clivic’s leg. A wolf leapt onto Kelinos’s back and drove him face-first to the ground, biting deep into the back of his neck. Leon thrust his halberd at a snarling animal, unaware until teeth closed on the back of his legs and he was dragged down. More wolves piled on. Oron had a dagger in one hand and a sword in the other, swinging at anything that came close. A wolf lunged and he drove his blade into its gut; it yelped — and that seemed to be the signal, because the rest of the pack rushed him while he was occupied. He was quickly overpowered and brought to the ground. Clivic, still on his feet but barely, could see that everyone had been overwhelmed. He began to murmur something in a strange language. A loud, sustained howling sounded as he finished the words — and then he too fell, the wolves on top of him. Kelinos’s vision began to go dark. He felt himself being dragged into the bushes. Then the wolves on his back yelped and scattered. He felt himself turned face-up and helped to his feet. Looking around, he could see no one and put it down to blood in his eyes. He staggered to the clearing and watched wolves trying to drag the others into the darkness. His limbs felt like iron. He moved toward the fire — slowly, impossibly slowly — and heard the rapid thudding of paws behind him. He dropped to his knees. He felt the rush of displaced air, heard a snap just behind his head, and a wolf that had intended to land on his back soared over him instead and fell into the firepit. Flames engulfed it. The screaming of the wolf filled the camp, and every other wolf stopped moving. The fire scattered. Kelinos could see a large branch within reach. Around him, small logs and burning twigs from the scattered firepit lay in the grass. The burning wolf rolled and screamed and ran, still alight, into the darkness. The smell of burnt fur and skin rose through the camp. Kelinos reached up and took the branch. Under his breath he began to pray — "Oh lord of the fire, the king of the flame, give me your energy to set the night alight. Fill me with the heat of your body, the power to fight for you." He pushed himself to his feet, waving the branch. The wolves backed away. Kelinos took hold of Oron’s ankle and dragged him back to the camp. He placed his hand on Oron’s chest and uttered a quiet prayer. The flames on the branch dimmed slightly, and Oron sat bolt upright. "Friend Oron — take a torch and help me bring the others in." Kelinos, already exhausted, pressed the burning branch into Oron’s hands and turned to find Clivic. In the darkness he found the wolf still standing on Clivic’s back, pinning him. Drool dropped from its fangs. Kelinos shouted, waved the branch, and the wolf retreated from the flame. He crouched over Clivic, closed his eyes, and the familiar light glowed from under his palm. The wounds on Clivic’s back began to close, the raw skin smoothing over. With a start, Clivic lurched to his feet and began swinging wildly. "Friend Clivic — you are safe. The wolves have gone. You are healed." Clivic registered the state of Kelinos. "You need to do something about yourself. You look as though you have been a plaything for a large Nalfeshnee." "Friend Clivic, what is a Nefeshe?" Clivic almost smiled. "We will get you back to camp." Back at the fire, Oron was tending to Leon, who had tooth and claw marks across his arms and back. Kelinos placed his hand on Leon’s chest and the glow came again. The wounds sealed. Leon, normally quiet, looked at Kelinos with something close to anxiety. "Kelinos — how can I help you?" "Do not worry, friend. Let me help you first." He did. Then, barely keeping himself upright, he reached for his pack. Leon placed a large hand on his shoulder and guided him back down. "I will get that for you. You were gracious enough to heal me." Kelinos found the small cloth-covered vial at the bottom of the pack. He raised it to Leon with a faint smile. "Friend Leon — this is good for the mind, the soul, and helps the body best of all." He placed it to his lips and drank. Then his hands went to his lap and his head slowly bowed. Leon watched very faintly as Kelinos began to glow — just at the edges. The wounds on his skin began to close. The blood that had been weeping from each one stopped. When Kelinos raised his head, he looked restored. "This is great Juju Juice from home. I brought some in case I might need it. I am glad now I did."

"We need to restock the fire and rest," said Clivic, gathering the scattered burning wood into a central pile. "From now on we travel at night. A moving target is harder to follow." Oron returned from the horses with a dismayed look. "I think our journey may be a little slower now. The wolves took the horses during the fight. The saddles are still in the wagon, but there are no horses left to pull it." Clivic stood and turned slowly, studying the horizon in two directions, then sat down. "What was that about?" said Oron. "It’s dark out there." "I was looking at the horizon. I believe our destination is in that direction," Clivic pointed. "And I was checking whether we were followed — any camp fire or light source." He pointed the other way. "In that direction, total darkness. We’re probably not followed, though I can’t say certainly. The clouds are more visible over there, which suggests light from a settlement. I believe that’s Montinelle." Oron looked. "You are a quick learner. Where did you pick that up?" "Here and there. Some was interesting, some was necessary. If we push from dawn, we can be at Montinelle by the following morning." They nodded. Then slept.

Dawn arrived quickly. They packed and moved out through land that was already beginning to bake, the storm of three nights ago a distant memory. The heat off the rocks was relentless. Springs were scarce and the walk was grinding. They took turns resting, catching brief sleep while the others prepared food and kept watch. On the third morning they saw the walls of Montinelle in the distance. They rose perhaps fifty feet, the towers at the corners of the octagonal compound reaching higher still. The caked mud crunched under four pairs of exhausted feet as the walls loomed over them. The sun was merciless overhead. "Gods above," Kelinos murmured, his voice raspy from dehydration, his heavy-lidded eyes tracing the stone curtain walls. "Back home across the seas of Edcci, our estates have grand gardens. But this — this is a mountain built by men." "A proper stronghold," Leon rumbled, his hand resting on the haft of his halberd. "Blue tunics, gold lion crests on the parapets. Those are soldiers, Oron. Real military." "Aye — real military with real sharp spears," Oron muttered, adjusting his pack. "And real questions about why four men on foot are dragging themselves to the gates without a horse or a copper to their name. Clivic — what’s the play?" Clivic didn’t answer immediately. His features were drawn tight into a mask of rigid calculation. He was watching the heavy stream of merchants, donkeys, and wagons choking the southern entrance. Montinelle was holding a fair. The entrance was thick with people. "We go in separately," Clivic said. "They will be looking for us as a group. Individually we blend easily with this crowd. Stay calm, do not look at the guards as though you expect them to jump you, and do not do anything suspicious." "But they always jump me, and I never look suspicious," replied Oron, hurt. "Then keep your mouth shut, your head down, and walk through those gates like you can see someone you know on the other side." Clivic picked up his pack and joined the crowd without waiting for Oron to respond. Kelinos looked between them, then followed. Leon quietly fell in behind a group of half-orcs hauling a cart of livestock. Oron watched all three of them simply walk away and leave him kneeling in a bush. He stood up, muttered something, and walked back into the small wood outside the walls. In the shade of the trees, he was having a spirited argument with an absent Clivic. "I am never suspicious. I have always looked exactly like who I am. I am friendly. I make people feel welcome." He stopped. At the base of one of the trees he noticed some interesting herbs. He examined them, looked back the way he had come, then at the herbs again — and smiled. He took out a small pack from his bag and began gathering.

Inside, the fair filled the entire yard with colour and noise. Metal-smiths laid out swords and tools; weavers hung cloth from rails; bakers displayed bread and flour; carpenters offered handles and toys and farm implements. Guards in blue and gold moved through the crowds watching for the usual fair-day opportunists. Oron walked through the gates with a large smile on his face, almost bouncing. He spotted Clivic immediately and raised his hand, calling his name. Rage built behind Clivic’s controlled expression as he tried to disappear into the crowd. He gave Oron a sharp headshake. Oron felt stung — then slowly understood. He continued forward and greeted a complete stranger warmly, clapping him on the shoulder. The stranger looked at Oron with complete surprise, then disgust. Oron made his apologies and walked back into the crowd. The four gathered in a quiet corner of the fair. "Try talking to people," said Clivic. "Learn what you can. I want to find a way behind those doors." He nodded toward the citadel at the centre of the yard, where two guards in heavy plate paced with drawn swords. "I have a feeling there’s something of interest inside." "Friend Clivic," said Kelinos, looking at the guards, "how do you propose to get past them?" Clivic watched Oron arrive at a bouncing jog. "There’s my ticket." He nodded toward the ranger. "A’right — what’s the plan, then?" said Oron. "Friend Oron," said Kelinos, "Clivic needs to get into that building." "Ahh, no bother — I’ve just the thing." He held up the waterskin he had been filling in the wood. "Wait ‘ere. I’ll sort this." Oron walked over to the two guards with the easy confidence of a man who has never once questioned his own charm. "Hey lads! How’s the party going? This is a great day for a fair. ‘Ere — have a wee swig of this to celebrate." He lifted the skin to his own mouth and took a gulp considerably larger than he had intended. His face shifted — shock, then a rapid recovery to feigned approval. He handed it to the first guard, who shrugged and took a cautious draw. "Very nice. Has a good nettle and dandelion smell." "Wouldna want a wee swally yerself?" Oron pressed the skin on the second guard. "I’m on duty. I only drink on special occasions." "Sure ta’day is a fine day tae be drinking — is it not a special day?" The first guard gave his partner a small nudge. The second took the skin, tasted it, smiled faintly, then took a considerably larger pull. "Now — have a great day, lads!" Oron turned and walked away, raising the skin to his lips for a pretend drink. A small child running through the crowd cannoned into him. The skin went to his mouth and another very large gulp went down before he could stop it. The guards, watching, cheered. "Don’t be drowning yourself! We might want more of that later!" Oron wiped his mouth and found Kelinos and Leon. "Well — I think we can probably get through those doors in a few minu —" his face changed mid-sentence. The colour drained. He clutched his stomach. "Excuse me, lads, I think I need to —" He found a hedge near the wall and walked toward it with his thighs pressed tightly together.

Over the following minutes, the guards’ confident pacing grew gradually less confident. One doubled over, clutching his stomach. The other rushed to help — then doubled over himself. Both shuffled urgently away from the door. Clivic moved immediately. He crossed the yard, took hold of the handle, twisted — click — and slipped through the door, pulling it closed behind him just as a replacement guard came round the corner. Inside he found corridors lined with tapestries and portraits, then a great chamber with a carved oak trestle table, wine-red leather chairs, a limestone fireplace running the length of the south wall, and gold everywhere. Clivic found it gaudy but noted its worth. He moved through to a door behind the throne chair, found a stairwell, ascended. A landing split into two corridors; he chose one. The first door: locked. The second gave with a soft thud. He stepped into the solar of Duke Andevar. A mahogany four-poster dominated the northwest corner. A large ironwood desk sat beside it. Against the south wall stood a bulky cabinet flanked by heavy iron-bound chests. Every inch of wall space was occupied by weapons or shields. Clivic moved to the desk and found a diary belonging to Sir Bracken, the Duke’s champion-at-arms. The last entry contained only a single word: Kirkroy. The top drawer slid open to reveal a ring of keys and a heavy pouch of gold coins. Both went into his pockets. The estate ledger told him Andevar was far more prosperous than he looked. A closer reading revealed something more interesting: a substantial parcel of land north of Fontenmere Abbey had been transferred from ducal authority to the control of William Menote, patriarch of Fontenmere — ordered by King Halfred to provide for the maintenance of the abbey, accomplished entirely against the Duke’s will and under bitter protest. The room also contained four-score handwritten books on the history of Dunador, including one written by William Menote himself and dedicated to Good King Halfred. Clivic moved to the chest on the left. Inside, fine silks — and beneath them, a small secondary chest full of gold and silver coin. He performed one last scan of the room, satisfied, and left.

A stairwell led him down to the kitchens. Almost the entire north wall was taken up by a combination iron stove and oven. Every other surface was covered in shelving — sausages, cheeses, drying herbs and vegetables hanging from the rafters. An aged, bald cook in a greasy white smock stood at a breadboard, fussing with dough. The cook turned and saw him. "If you’re here for breakfast, you missed it. Lunch won’t be for a few hours." "Surely there’s a little something to take me over? I was foolish enough to think those guards would be a pushover at a drinking competition." The cook’s expression shifted from suspicion to grudging amusement. "Aye. Take a sausage from over there. But it’ll cost you." Clivic crossed to the sausages, produced a silver coin, and set it beside the man. He leaned against the door, eating the sausage with the air of a man entirely comfortable in rooms he had broken into. "You didn’t happen to see the Prince coming through here, did you?" "The Prince and his companions left Montinelle a ten-day past. We weren’t supposed to know who they were, but it was plain enough." Clivic produced a second coin. "When exactly was that?" "About a week gone, we got word of the King’s death. That was when the Duke rode out, leaving orders for a patrol to go after the Prince and tell him about his father. Caught up with him by now, I’d imagine." "The Duke is not in residence? I was supposed to meet with him this afternoon." "His lordship hasn’t been home a week. Gone north, they say. And Kirkroy’s gone too. The Duke’s strong right arm, chief hiresword and champion-at-arms — but he’s not in the castle. Left right after the Prince did." Clivic handed over two more coins, thanked the man, and prepared to leave. He pulled a canvas sack from a shelf, stuffed the loot and coin chest inside, and used an iron hook to hoist the sack into the rafters, out of sight between a wheel of cheese and a braid of dried garlic. Then he turned to the cart sitting by the scullery door, put both hands on it, and shoved hard. It careened down the stone drainage slope and crashed spectacularly into a rack of copper pots and tin pans. "Me pans! You clumsy idiot!" The door burst open. Three guards rushed in. In the pandemonium of the shouting cook and scrambling guards, Clivic stepped into the shadow of the back scullery, lifted his sack from the low rafter hook as he passed, and walked calmly out into the courtyard looking completely at ease.

He found Oron near the baker’s stall with a large loaf under one arm and a second already half-eaten. He leaned close. "What do you think you are doing?" Oron gave a startled squeak and a subsequent noise that Clivic was almost certain was not from his mouth. Oron pressed his knees together and waited a moment, then turned round. "Do nat creep up on people. You’d give them a heart attack." "More’s the pity," Clivic murmured. Then louder: "Where are the others and why are you eating?" "I’m hungry. Also I am watching for any trouble that might cause you problems inside, as you asked." Clivic looked at him steadily. "And how exactly were you going to contact me if trouble arose?" Oron stopped chewing. The realisation settled slowly over his face. "...Ah. Right." "Put down the bread. This is not a time to be eating."

While Clivic had been inside, Oron had found his way through the lower quarter of the fair to the cluster of wattle-and-thatch huts near the eastern wall. An ancient, crippled beggar in a chair called out to him. Eventually Oron walked over. The old man — Lemus — had once been a royal guard himself before an arrow took his leg in the service of King Halfred. He said he would have taken another arrow for the young Prince Edmund without hesitation. At the sound of the Prince’s name, Oron checked for listeners before sharing something of his own situation. Lemus gave him everything he knew. "‘Twas more’n a week gone. I seen the young Prince and his companions. Dressed as pilgrims, they was, but pilgrims don’t wear gold rings and bright neck-pieces hiding under grey cloaks. Knew ‘em right off. I spoke to one — not the Prince himself, but another. He gave me gold before he left. I pray they fared well. But I’m not sure I believe it. They was nervous-like, and I heard one telling young Edmund they was being followed and had better get on to Nevron. That seemed to set ‘em to moving. They slipped out the next day, quiet." Oron produced silver coins, thanked the old man, and was three steps away when Lemus called after him. "There be one more thing. ‘Twas a day before yesterday. A monk came in wearing the habit of Fontenmere. Rode straight to the tower, lathered horse, arrow sticking out of his monkish back. And nobody’s seen or heard what happened to him since. Which is strange, because it ain’t that often someone rides in with an arrow in their back, if you follow me. I’d sure wonder about that, if I were a curious man. Which I ain’t." Oron’s eyes went wide. He ran.

The four gathered near the jousting field as their two hours came to an end. Oron arrived and told them everything in one long breath — the Prince’s departure, the pilgrim disguise, the fear of pursuit, and the monk of Fontenmere who had ridden in with an arrow in his back and never come out again. "An arrow in his back," said Kelinos, his deep voice darkening. "A man of peace from Fontenmere, shot. Hollend told us that abbey was a place of safety. If the monks are being attacked and locked away in secret, the danger is spreading faster than we knew." Clivic’s eyes narrowed. "The ledger in the Duke’s solar explains part of it. King Halfred stripped a large parcel of northern land from Andevar and gave it to William Menote to maintain Fontenmere Abbey — against the Duke’s will and under bitter protest. Andevar has a deep, financial grievance against that abbey. And Sir Bracken’s diary shows his champion-at-arms, Kirkroy, left the castle immediately after the Prince." "An ambush," Leon said quietly. "They are going to murder the boy in the mountains." "But what about the monk?" Oron pressed. "We can’t just leave a shot holy man in there." "I searched those upper levels thoroughly," said Clivic. "He’s not in the citadel rooms. There must be a lower level — a hidden passage or a subterranean cell. And if there is a way out below, what does it connect to? What is Andevar hiding beneath this yard?" Leon studied the barracks at the edge of the yard. "They could have him in there. But there would be twenty guards inside." Clivic looked at the building, calculating quickly. "We don’t go in weapon-first. We let them empty it for us. Leon — you and Oron stage a roaring argument near the jousting rails. Loud. Proud. Kelinos — watch the gates and give a sign if guards return." Leon and Oron stepped into the open yard. Within moments their staged argument had become genuinely spectacular — Oron’s arms swinging, Leon’s deep roar cutting through the crowd. The barracks door opened and a stream of blue-and-gold guards poured out to see what was happening. Clivic counted twenty before the last of them crossed the threshold. He moved immediately. Through the door, across the quiet floor, pacing the boards until he found the heavy wooden hatch. He lifted it and dropped down. The jailor’s office was small and damp, lit by a single torch. Against the wall, a man slept on a filthy cot. Clivic produced a small vial of dark charcoal liquid and sprinkled it over his shoes. The sound in the room vanished. He walked the rest of the stairs in silence. He crossed to the sleeping man. He did not hesitate. When the life had gone from the jailor’s eyes, Clivic took the key ring, unlocked the iron door, and stepped through. Sound returned. From somewhere in the dark came ragged, wet breathing. Slumped against the far wall, chained securely, was a holy man in a soiled and blood-soaked habit. Theran, a monk of Fontenmere. Clivic tried the keys on the chains. The monk weakly raised a blood-stained hand to stop him. "No. The locks are keyed to the Duke’s personal seal. If you open them, they will know someone was here." He breathed with difficulty, the arrow wound in his back festering. "Listen to me. I am Theran of Fontenmere. Brigands attacked the abbey — men in the Duke’s livery hidden under rags. They put our library to the torch. I rode to Montinelle for help and Sir Bracken had me thrown down here." He swallowed. "You must ride to Fontenmere first. Do not go to the capital yet. Find the patriarch. Find William Menote. If he still lives, he holds the only proof of the Duke’s true treason. Only when you know his fate can you report to Dunthrane. Promise me. Look for Menote." The monk’s hand went limp. His body settled against the cold wall. Clivic stood, relocked the door, climbed the ladder, and stepped back out into the yard.

Armed with Sir Bracken’s master keys, they moved to the garrison stables under a final distraction by Leon. Inside they found the magnificent, high-bred royal mounts left behind by the Prince’s party when they had adopted their pilgrim disguises. They saddled the warhorses, threw open the timber doors, and rode hard into the blinding midday sun, past the startled sentries and out through the northern gate. \\ 

After ten miles of hard pursuit, the guards peeled off. The royal breeding of the companions’ mounts showed its worth; the garrison horses simply could not match the pace. Realising the futility of it, the four outriders turned their lathered horses back toward Montinelle. Five miles further on, the party slowed. They gathered themselves and turned cautiously southwest toward Fontenmere Abbey. While they were still well east, it was clear that all was not well. A thick, oppressive wreath of smoke hung over the low valley, caking the horizon in an unnatural grey haze. They approached slowly, hands on their weapons. They tied the horses in the trees and moved in on foot, quiet as shadows through the brush. Details emerged as they drew closer. The wisps of smoke floated from the burned-out ruin of a small wood-and-stone structure to the north of the main building — the abbey’s prized library, completely put to the torch. The great doors in the south wall of the abbey proper had been knocked off their hinges. Two dead men in white monks’ robes were sprawled on the front steps. Their bodies had been savaged by something, deep gouges scoring the flesh. All visible windows had been smashed, leaving jagged teeth of coloured glass winking in the frames. Through the open doorway they could see smashed pews and debris scattered across the nave floorboards. At the far end, against the north wall, a long semicircular stone altar stood remarkably intact. A blue and gold altar cloth covered it, and a large silver cross topped it. A small marble font stood to one side. Oron drew his sword — the ring of the metal sharp against the oppressive silence — and walked gingerly through the main doors, his eyes moving from the broken rafters to the overturned pews. Leon followed close behind, then Kelinos, then Clivic, who kept a hand near his newly acquired coin purses. To their right: the devastated scriptorium, writing desks splintered, manuscripts scattered in the blood-streaked dirt. Oron moved on to the next room — a dormitory now reduced to broken beds and strewn stuffing. At the far side of the room, something moved in the darkness. Not enough to identify. Could be someone waiting to ambush him. Could be a survivor. Oron leaned low over the wrecked bedding to look into the dark. A large spider — watching him approach with its many gleaming black eyes, fangs fully extended — lunged. Oron had been expecting a human. His body and his mind had been prepared for a human. The weight and speed of the thing bowled him off his feet and he hit the stone flags hard. Leon, equally surprised, leaped back into a defensive stance and stood in stunned silence as the spider’s hairy legs wrapped behind Oron’s shoulders, pulling his head toward a drool-dripping mouth. Thick green venom pooled at the tips of its fangs. Meanwhile, on the other side of the abbey, Kelinos and Clivic had gone left. The first room on the left was an administrative chamber — six tall writing desks toppled over, quill pens and shattered inkwells scattered across the floor. Against the south wall, slumped, was the lifeless body of a monk, his white robes soaked completely crimson. Kelinos went immediately to check for a pulse. After a moment he shook his head at Clivic, who acknowledged it with a grim nod and moved past to check the next room. Kneeling over the body, Kelinos saw that the monk had been hacked to death with heavy swords — not savaged like the ones on the steps. Beside the body, traced in a desperate mixture of spilled ink and pooling blood, was a single word. Capel. Kelinos leaned in and looked at it carefully. He did not know what it meant. He filed it away. In the secondary dormitory, Clivic found four smashed bedsteads and splintered footlockers. A dozen torn habits lay strewn across the stone flags. A careful look under the debris in the southwest corner revealed a flat wooden case. Inside it, a beautifully crafted magical crossbow — finely balanced, enchanted runes along the stock. Clivic turned it over in his hands and lifted it to aim, then took it with him. Kelinos had seen him pick it up from the dead monk’s room. He said nothing. He was finding that with Clivic, it was often easier not to ask.

The sounds of the fight came crashing down the hall from the eastern wing. They emerged into the nave just as Leon appeared in the opposite doorway, desperately fighting to pull the spider off Oron. The ranger was flat on his back with the thing on top of him, pushing back the dripping fangs with his sword, his arms trembling against the creature’s strength. The thing smelled of something old and wrong — wet earth and rot — and its weight on his chest was enormous, far more than its size suggested. Leon threw himself at the spider’s legs, trying to get purchase, but the limbs kept moving. Clivic rounded the corner, levelled the crossbow, and pulled the lever. The bolt flew and embedded itself in the floor, narrowly missing Oron’s head. "Watch where you’re aiming that bloody thing!" Oron roared. Kelinos let out a short shriek at the sight of the creature, then dove in beside Leon to wrestle with the legs. Clivic hauled the cord back into position, notched another bolt. Leon and Kelinos, now working together, pulled the creature’s body upward away from Oron’s face. Clivic levelled the weapon again and fired. The bolt buried itself into the spider’s back. Through its pain, the fangs released Oron’s blade long enough for him to drive the sword full-length into the creature’s body. Movement in the far corner of the room. Two more large legs slowly emerging from under the wrecked furniture. They backed out of the room, grabbed broken pews, and stacked them against the doorway.

They gave the abbey a careful once-over from the nave. Clivic moved toward the altar while Kelinos followed. "Don’t go getting into more trouble," Clivic said over his shoulder. Oron, visibly stung: "I didnae ask tae be a spider’s lunch!" He strode off down the side of the abbey with Leon in tow, still muttering. At the altar, Clivic noted the gaps — candles but no candelabra, a mount with nothing mounted, drapery pulled lopsided. He edged the crossbow around the side. Nothing but a small pool of blood and a trail leading to a side door. He caught Kelinos’s eye and nodded toward it. Kelinos swallowed. Clivic pointed again, more emphatically. They moved.

Oron, still rehearsing his grievances about the spider, wandered into an alcove. A small table with an ornate cloth, a donation dish overturned, a wine jug on its side, its contents dripping through the cloth. "Someone has nay taste for the wine, it seems," Oron muttered, setting it upright. He gave it a quick sniff, turned his nose up, and looked around. Leon, behind him, spotted the broken lock on the trapdoor beside the small table on the far side of the alcove. He lifted the door. Oron peered down into the dark. "Is der anyone doon der?" he called out. Silence. The darkness began just at the foot of the stairs. Oron regripped his sword and went down. \\ 

Kelinos stood at the side door with his hand trembling over the iron ring handle. Clivic stood directly behind him, the crossbow aimed steadily at the doorway. Kelinos took a long breath, twisted the handle, pushed the door open, and stepped quickly to one side to clear the line of fire. Clivic took one confident step into the threshold and stopped. Kelinos watched from behind, entirely confused. The scholar had simply stopped — not entered, not fired, not spoken. Then, slowly, Clivic lowered the crossbow. His cold expression softened, just slightly, into something that looked like grim recognition. He moved inside without a word. Kelinos peered around the doorframe. Unable to see past Clivic’s shoulders, he stepped fully into the room. Though his complexion was normally a deep, rich midnight tone, the colour drained from Kelinos’s face entirely. Clivic stepped forward to stand over a body on the stone flags. The man was old, white-haired, robed in white, his face locked in a petrified expression of agony. Dried blood had pooled thickly around his waist. Clivic had seen his likeness in Hollend’s briefing enough times to know, without being told, that they were too late. It was the patriarch. William Menote. Clivic knelt beside the body and gently placed his hand over the old man’s face, drawing his eyelids closed.

To Kelinos, however, a completely different scene was unfolding. Clivic was kneeling over the body — but standing beside him was a glowing, semi-translucent figure, the exact likeness of the man lying dead on the floor. The spirit stood in quiet stillness, and in its face was the particular exhaustion of a man who has spent his life carrying things alone. Kelinos’s fingers found his holy idol. He clutched it until his knuckles turned grey. The spectral form of William Menote turned to face him. A warm, gentle smile crossed the translucent face. As the spirit began to walk toward him, Kelinos started repeating a prayer faster and faster in his native language, backing up until his shoulders hit the wooden doorframe. "I am William Menote, once patriarch of Fontenmere," the spirit spoke, his voice echoing like wind through an empty hall. "I cannot rest." He paused. "They have taken the royal seal and the sceptre. Without them, there can be no coronation. No king." His translucent gaze moved briefly to Clivic — who was still looking only at the floor — then returned to Kelinos. "And without a king, there will be no peace. Not for the living in Whispervale. Not for the dead at Fontenmere." Kelinos instantly stopped praying. Confused, he glanced over his shoulder into the empty nave behind him to see if there was perhaps someone else standing there that this ghost was actually talking to. There was only empty air. He turned slowly back. "Return the sceptre!" the spirit’s face contorted as it moved with sudden, terrible speed directly toward Kelinos. "Return the Royal Seal!" Kelinos let out a sharp scream and threw his hands over his face, cowering into the corner. The spectral form reached him — and dissolved. Shimmering wisps of pale light faded out into nothingness. Silence. Clivic stared at Kelinos. He held the crossbow slightly lower now. His expression was a mixture of cold disbelief and calculating curiosity as he watched the cleric lower his hands from his pale face. "Right," Clivic said slowly, stepping away from Menote’s body. "I take it you weren’t pointing at a draft. What did it say to you?" "The — the Royal Seal," Kelinos managed, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. "And the sceptre. He said forces of darkness stole them. Without them, the Prince cannot be crowned. There will be no peace." Before Clivic could press further, a heavy thud echoed up from the alcove across the nave, followed by the muffled sound of Oron shouting from somewhere in the dark below. \\ 

"What has he brought on himself now? An oversized, blood-sucking fish?" Clivic muttered in exasperation as he turned on his heel and made his way out of the patriarch’s chamber toward the shouting in the nave. Kelinos, still deeply rattled by the spectral apparition he had just witnessed, gave the room one last, anxious glance. His eyes caught a half-opened drawer in a heavy wooden dresser against the wall. Moving cautiously, he slid it open. Inside, resting right beside the holy book Menote would have used in life, lay a small bronze ring. Kelinos picked it up, feeling the strange, unexpected weight of it — it was far heavier than it looked. Looking down at the still form on the floor, Kelinos asked softly, "Friend, would it be ok if I were to take this pretty ring?" The corpse lay motionless in the heavy silence. Then, slowly, the patriarch’s arm slid off his waist, his hand coming to rest on the stone flags with his palm open in a clear gesture of giving. Kelinos’s eyes went wide. Shaken by a fresh spike of panic, he quickly blessed himself, whispered his frantic thanks to the dead body, and scurried out of the room as fast as his legs would carry him, casting terrified glances over his shoulder the entire way.

Meanwhile, across the nave, Oron was making his cautious descent down the stone cellar stairs, with Leon watching carefully from above. "Now, if ders any bad spirits doon ‘ere, yah best be gettin’ gone. I dunny wanna be killin’ yah again," Oron announced in a remarkably shaky tone, his eyes darting frantically into the gloom. "Do you see anything, Oron?" Leon shouted down from the trapdoor. Having completely forgotten Leon was right behind him, Oron started violently at the booming voice, missing the last stone step entirely and nearly sprawling flat on his face. Angry and thoroughly embarrassed, he snapped back up at the opening, "No! But yah don’t be scaring the shite out of me like that!" At the foot of the stairs, the ambient light from the chapel above ground to a halt. Oron squinted into the pitch-black basement to try and see better. It was at that exact moment he noticed a massive wooden barrel toppling straight toward him. Confused at first, Oron realised the danger a split-second before the heavy barrel smashed down on top of him. He hurled himself to the side, dodging the timber, and whipped his head up in the direction the barrel had come from. Through the shadows, he caught the silhouette of a dark figure charging fast through the gloom. "Begone, yah evil spirit! I am not dying to see you today!" Oron bellowed, swinging his steel sword in a wild arc toward the shadow. Much to Oron’s surprise, his blade struck metal with a loud CLANG! Small sparks erupted in the darkness, briefly illuminating a desperate human figure lunging forward with a sword of their own. The intruder bundled directly into Oron, knocking the ranger off his feet to the stone floor, and bolted straight up the stairs toward the trapdoor. Unfortunately for the fleeing intruder, he reached the top of the cellar stairs only to be met by the massive, green fist of Leon. The heavy blow caught the thief square in the jaw, abruptly stopping him dead in his tracks and sending him tumbling backward all the way down the stone steps again in a bruised heap. Oron picked himself up from the floor, dusted off his trousers, and casually scooped up the intruder’s dropped sword. "Alright, ghosty," Oron growled, "time to have a wee chat!" Leon and Oron hauled the groaning intruder back up the stairs into the nave, arriving at the exact moment Clivic and Kelinos walked around the chapel corner. "Who might this guy be?" Clivic asked, pointing a sharp finger at the captive. "He isn’t one of the monks, that is for sure!" "He’s a wannabe ghost that tried to make me a ghost too!" Oron retorted. Oron shoved the intruder over to one of the few undestroyed pews left standing in the chapel, aggressively indicating for the man to take a seat.

The thief sat on the pew with the particular stillness of a man taking rapid stock of his situation. He was perhaps thirty, lean in the way that came from necessity rather than discipline, with a sharp face that was already recovering from Leon’s fist faster than faces normally recovered from Leon’s fist. A cut above his left eye was bleeding in a businesslike fashion. He looked at the four people arranged before him and said nothing, which was, all things considered, probably his best available option. Clivic pulled a pew to a position directly opposite and sat. He placed the crossbow across his knees and folded his hands over it. "Your name," he said. The thief looked at him. "Your name," Clivic said again, in exactly the same tone, as though he were simply replaying the first attempt in case it had not been heard. "Menlow," said the thief. "Menlow what?" A pause that contained a calculation. "Just Menlow." "Just Menlow." Clivic’s expression did not change. "Very well, Just Menlow. What were you doing in the cellar of this abbey?" "Hiding." "From?" Menlow’s eyes moved briefly across the four of them. "From whatever did all of this." A slight movement of his head indicated the ruined nave — the smashed pews, the broken glass, the dark stains on the stone steps outside. "I arrived this morning. The place was already gone. I went to the cellar to wait it out in case whoever attacked came back." He glanced at Oron. "No offence." "Offence taken," Oron said immediately. "I am nat a whoever." "You were here when we arrived," Clivic said. This was not a question. "I heard you coming. Decided to stay quiet." "And the barrel?" Menlow had the grace to look briefly sheepish. "Precaution." "It nearly took my head off!" Oron announced. "It was dark. I wasn’t aiming at your head specifically." Oron opened his mouth. Clivic raised one finger without looking at him, and Oron closed it again, visibly aggrieved. Clivic leaned forward slightly. "You decided to stay quiet when four armed people entered a building that had been, as you say, already gone. A reasonable person might have called out. Made themselves known. Asked for help." Menlow said nothing. "Unless," Clivic continued, at the same measured pace, "a reasonable person had something in the cellar they didn’t want found." Another silence. Menlow’s eyes were sharp and entirely still. "Stand up," Clivic said. "I’m comfortable." Oron leaned over with a cheerful expression and took hold of Menlow’s collar and lifted him off the pew with a single arm. "He said stand up." Menlow stood. He managed this with some dignity, given the circumstances. Clivic rose and began to go through his pockets with the efficient, impersonal thoroughness of someone cataloguing a library. Menlow submitted with the tight jaw of a man who had been through it before. A short knife went to the floor. A second, from the boot, followed it. A set of tools in a rolled cloth case — Clivic unrolled it, examined each piece, and set it aside without comment. Then Clivic moved to the pack. He unbuckled it and went through it methodically, setting each item on the pew as he drew it out. Two bottles of good wine, sealed with wax. Two altar cloths, white linen, embroidered in blue and gold — Clivic smoothed one flat and looked at the needlework with a specific, focused attention. Two gold goblets, set carefully inside a wrapped cloth. And finally, lifted free with both hands, a large golden cross — ornate, heavy, bearing on its face the insignia of Fontenmere Abbey. Clivic set the cross on the pew beside the goblets and the altar cloths and looked at the arrangement for a moment. Then he looked at Menlow. Menlow looked back at him with the expression of a man who had prepared several things to say about this and was now deciding which of them was least catastrophically wrong. "Those are evidence," he said. "Of what?" Clivic asked pleasantly. "Of the attack. I’m cataloguing what was taken. What was left behind." He paused. "I’m an investigator." "An investigator," Clivic repeated, with the tone of a man writing the word down in an invisible ledger. "That’s right." "And who sent you to investigate?" "I work privately. Several clients." "Their names." "Are private." Clivic studied him for a moment. "A private investigator arrives at a recently ransacked abbey. He finds sacred objects scattered across the floor. His response is to place them carefully in his personal pack, along with two bottles of wine that I very much doubt belong to him." "I told you. Evidence." "The wine." "...Could have been used in the attack." Oron, who had been following this exchange with his arms folded and his head moving between the two of them like a man watching a game he did not entirely understand, leaned toward Kelinos. "Is he lying?" he murmured. Kelinos, who had spent the last several minutes hovering at the edge of the conversation with the anxious manner of a man who had recently fled a room and was not entirely confident he had left it far enough behind, considered the question with genuine care. "I think," he said quietly, "that he is telling the truth in the way a person tells the truth when they are trying very hard not to tell the truth." "Like what you do." Kelinos looked wounded. "I do not do that." Oron looked at him. "Very rarely," Kelinos amended. Clivic had continued searching the outside of Menlow’s leather coat while this exchange took place — running his hands along the seams, the lining, the inner panels — with the unhurried attention of someone who has learned that people hide things in the places they think other people won’t check. His hands paused at the inner chest. He found the seam of the hidden panel. He looked at Menlow, whose expression had gone very carefully neutral, and drew out the leather pouch. He opened it. Inside was a single folded parchment. Clivic unfolded it and read. He read it a second time. Then he folded it again and held it between two fingers and looked at Menlow with an expression that had changed in a way that was difficult to name but unmistakable — the way a man’s expression changes when a piece of information arrives that quietly rearranges everything else he already knew. "Where did you get this?" Clivic said. Menlow said nothing. "Menlow." Still nothing. "This letter," Clivic said, with measured patience, "is addressed to Hollend at Dunthrane. It is written in the hand of William Menote, the patriarch of this abbey, whose body is currently in the room at the end of this nave. It was not in his possession when he died. Which means either he sent it before his death — in which case Hollend has already received it and it has no bearing on your being here — or it was taken from someone who was carrying it for him." Clivic paused. "A monk, perhaps. One about to ride to Dunthrane. One who did not make it." The silence stretched. "The monk in the scriptorium," Kelinos said softly from behind Clivic. He had gone very still. "He was dressed to travel. His riding cloak was still on him." Clivic did not look away from Menlow. "Yes," he said. "I rather thought so." Menlow’s jaw had tightened almost imperceptibly. He was calculating — they could all see it — running through his available positions and finding each of them worse than the last. "I found it on the floor," he said finally. "You found a hidden letter in a hidden pouch inside a dead monk’s travelling cloak," Clivic said, "on the floor." "People drop things." "They do," Clivic agreed, with the serenity of a man who has already won the argument and is simply watching the other side reach the same conclusion. He looked down at the letter again. "Tell me about Capel Tower." Menlow blinked. Just once, and quickly — but it was there. "Never heard of it," he said. "It is mentioned in this letter, which you have been carrying on your person." Clivic glanced up. "And your reaction just now suggests you have heard of it very recently." "I don’t know what you’re —" "It’s north of here," Oron said helpfully from behind Clivic’s right shoulder. "We’re heading that way because the Prince went north and if someone’s set up there ahead of him then —" "Oron," said Clivic. The word landed with extraordinary precision. Oron stopped. The specific quality of the silence that followed was the silence of a man realising, for the second time in twenty minutes, that he had said the wrong thing — and that this time was considerably worse than the last. Menlow was looking at Oron with an expression he had very swiftly arranged into blankness, but not quite swiftly enough. Clivic stood. He folded the letter once more and placed it in his own coat. He looked at Menlow for a long moment, with the focused, unhurried attention of a man updating a calculation. "Right," he said quietly. "We are going to do this differently." He put the goblets back in Menlow’s pack. The altar cloths followed. The cross. He left the wine on the pew. He buckled the pack closed and held it out. Menlow took it, warily. "The letter stays with me," Clivic said. "As does one of your knives." He picked up the shorter blade from the floor and pocketed it. "The rest of your tools you may keep. They suggest a man of professional habits, and professional habits are something I find useful in companions." Kelinos, who had been watching all of this with the wide-eyed attention of a man observing a chess game whose rules he has only recently grasped, quietly produced a cup of water and held it toward Menlow. Menlow looked at it, then at Kelinos, then took it. Something shifted slightly in his face. "Thank you," he said. Quietly enough that it seemed genuine. Kelinos smiled, then immediately and involuntarily glanced over his shoulder toward the patriarch’s chamber. The smile faded. "We are heading north," Clivic said, returning to his seat with the air of a man concluding a business transaction to his satisfaction. "You know this territory better than we do. You will help us navigate it." Menlow looked at him. "And if I say no?" From behind the barricaded door across the nave came a slow, deliberate sound of movement. Something large, shifting its weight, testing the resistance of broken pew-wood. Menlow looked at the door. "I’ll be honest with you," Oron said, with genuine and slightly apologetic goodwill, "the thing on the other side of that is a very big spider and it has already tried to eat me once today and I would be more comfortable not being in this building when it remembers where we are." Menlow looked at the door for another moment. Then he looked at Clivic. "Do I get the letter back?" he asked. "No." "My other knife?" "Also no." A short exhale. "The wine, at least." Clivic considered this. "One bottle." Menlow looked around the group — at Clivic, with his crossbow and his cold arithmetic; at Oron, who was already looking toward the door with the expression of a man ready to leave regardless of what was decided; at Kelinos, who was quietly and earnestly offering to refill the cup; at Leon, who had not moved from the far pillar and had not spoken since the single question that had sat in the room like a stone dropped in deep water. "North it is," Menlow said. Oron clapped him on the shoulder with the hearty goodwill of a man who had entirely forgotten trying to brain him with a sword twenty minutes earlier. "Grand! We’ve got horses, the one bottle of wine, at least two giant spiders somewhere in this building, and a dead patriarch who still has opinions. Cracking adventure!" Menlow looked at Kelinos. "Is he always like this?" Kelinos considered the question with genuine thoughtfulness. "I have only known him a short time," he said. "But I believe yes."

As the group gathered their things and moved toward the abbey’s south door, Clivic fell into step beside Menlow at the rear. He did not look at him. He spoke in a tone that would not carry to the others. "The letter tells us that Lord Edrin’s men have made their base at Capel Tower." A pause. "You were already going to Capel Tower." Menlow kept walking. His face gave nothing. "Not to investigate," Clivic said. "To report." Another pause. The south door was ahead. Beyond it, the horses waited, and the road, and the long grey line of the Veronian foothills rising in the north. "I don’t know what you think you know," Menlow said quietly. "I know a great deal," Clivic said, with perfect pleasantness. "And I am still letting you walk out of this abbey with us. You might want to consider what that means." He stepped past Menlow and through the door into the thin afternoon light, the crossbow loose in his hand, his expression entirely composed. Menlow stood in the doorway for a moment. Then he followed.

Clivic knew. Menlow understood that with the cold clarity of a man whose professional life depended on reading rooms accurately. The scholar had the letter, had the facts, and had drawn the correct conclusion — and had chosen to say nothing to the others and take Menlow north anyway. Which meant either Clivic was extraordinarily confident in his ability to manage a hostile agent in his own travelling party. Or he had a use for one. Menlow settled his pack on his shoulders, picked up his pace to match the group, and decided that for the time being he would be exactly as useful as was required of him. He would assess the rest later. \\ 

They rode north from Fontenmere in the thin afternoon light, the smoke of the abbey still faintly visible in the sky behind them when Oron looked back, which he did twice before deciding that looking back was not serving him and stopping. Menlow rode at the edge of the group — not trailing, not pushing forward, just present. He had the knack of occupying exactly the social position least likely to generate attention. Oron, who had the opposite knack entirely, fell into conversation with him within the first mile. "So — the Drake and Castle. Is that far, then?" "Day’s ride past Capel, maybe a little more. Good road once you’re through the lower foothills." Menlow adjusted his reins with the ease of a man on a familiar route. "My cousin Graf keeps a decent table. Nothing fancy, but hot food and a dry roof, which is more than most." "Graf." Oron repeated the name with satisfaction, as though filing it. "Good man, is he?" "When he hasn’t been at his own ale." A brief smile. "He and I grew up in the same village, before I moved south for work. I try to get up that way a few times a year. Keep the connection." "What kind of work?" Oron asked. "Oh, this and that." A comfortable shrug. "Legal documents, mostly. Notarising contracts, witnessing transfers. Dull stuff. Pays well enough." He glanced at Clivic, who was riding slightly ahead and appeared absorbed in the middle distance. "Your friend — the scholar. Similar trade?" "Clivic? Aye, something like. He’s a barrister. Very serious about it." Oron leaned slightly toward Menlow with a conspiratorial air. "Don’t tell him I said serious. He’ll take it as an insult." Menlow smiled. Genuine enough. He was beginning to feel the shape of the group more clearly — the ranger who talked, the dark-skinned cleric who fed people, the half-orc who observed, and the scholar who was pleasant in a way that Menlow’s professional instincts found slightly more interesting than pleasant people usually were. He filed this without dwelling on it. The ranger was the one to work. "You’re heading north too, then?" Menlow said. "Aye. Business." Oron’s tone became vague in the way that people’s tones became vague when they were remembering they weren’t supposed to say something. "Looking into something for a friend." "Mounts like these —" Menlow gestured toward the horses, royal warhorses whose breeding was not remotely concealed by the ordinary saddles now on their backs "— that’s not ordinary business." "They were a gift," Oron said immediately. "From your friend." "From our friend, aye." Oron’s expression had taken on the resolute quality of a man who has decided the best way out of a hole is to stop digging and stand very still. "Anyway. Tell me more about this Graf. What’s his ale like?" Menlow told him about the ale. He told him about the inn’s situation on the road, about the signage, about the rooms on the upper floor and the fire in the lower common room that burned through winter without ever fully going out. He told him enough that it sounded like memory rather than description. Most of it was true. The rest sounded true enough that the difference didn’t matter. At the front of the small column, Clivic rode and said nothing and listened to everything.

They made camp where the road bent west around a low hillside and the trees gave enough cover to conceal a fire without trapping the smoke. Oron set the perimeter with the focused quiet he always brought to campcraft — traps and markers and small arrangements of sticks and stone that only made sense to him. Kelinos unpacked the food with the methodical care of a man who had learned on the road that a hot meal at the end of a hard day was not a luxury but a form of medicine. Leon chose his position at the edge of the firelight and settled into it with his halberd across his knees and his eyes on the darkness beyond. Menlow helped with the horses without being asked. He was good with them — quick and quiet and efficient. He noted the watch arrangements as they were discussed: Oron first, Leon second, Kelinos third. He noted that Clivic removed himself from the rotation with a mild apology about needing sleep to function, which the others accepted without comment. He noted the order of the bedrolls and where each one lay relative to the treeline. He ate the food Kelinos gave him and said it was very good, which it was. "Do you know this road well?" Kelinos asked him, with the open curiosity of a man who was genuinely interested in the answer. "Well enough." Menlow pulled his coat a little tighter against the evening air. "Travelled it a few times over the years." He paused, as though something had just occurred to him — a natural pause, the pause of a man retrieving a piece of information he had not thought about in a while. "Actually — if you’re heading north, there’s something worth knowing. The east road out of Montinelle, the main one — I’d avoid it." Oron looked up from his bowl. "Why’s that?" "Brigands." Menlow’s tone was matter-of-fact, a man passing on practical intelligence. "It’s been bad that stretch all season, from what I hear. Anyone moving goods through there has been taking losses. I’d take the covered route instead — through the Lusian Forest. More sheltered, more direct, and you won’t run into trouble." Oron nodded slowly. "Lusian Forest. Right. And that’s easy enough to find?" "Main track north of Montinelle, take the west fork at the old stone marker. Can’t miss it." "That’s very helpful," Kelinos said warmly. "Thank you, friend Menlow." "Happy to help." Menlow leaned back and found the wine, unstoppered it, and drank. He offered it around. Oron took it. Kelinos declined politely. Leon did not appear to acknowledge it. Clivic accepted the bottle with a small nod of thanks and drank and handed it back. "Useful to know," he said pleasantly. Then, after a beat, in exactly the same tone: "You said you came from the west." Menlow looked at him. "The Lusian Forest. The east roads out of Montinelle. You seem to know them well for a man who’s been travelling the western roads." The fire crackled. Somewhere in the dark beyond the perimeter, something small moved through dry leaves and was still. "Oh —" Menlow adjusted his position slightly, a small physical recalibration, "— I came through Montinelle on my way out. Heard it from a fellow there. At the market." He took the bottle back. "Just passing it on." "Of course," Clivic said, with a warmth so perfectly measured it was indistinguishable from the real thing. "No — it’s good to know. Thank you." He opened his book and read, and did not look up again, and did not say another word about it. Menlow drank his wine and let the conversation move elsewhere. After a while he began to feel the tension that had arrived with Clivic’s question gradually easing. It was a small thing. It was recoverable. The scholar had let it go. He was a careful man — perhaps too careful, the kind of careful that came from professional habit rather than actual suspicion. Menlow had met plenty of them. They questioned everything and concluded nothing. He watched the fire burn lower and waited for the watches to turn.

Oron’s watch passed without incident. He stamped in small circles around the perimeter, checked his traps twice, watched a fox investigate the camp from a safe distance, and eventually subsided to a sitting position near the fire with the resigned expression of a man who finds watchkeeping less interesting than everything else he could be doing. Leon replaced him without a word. He did not sit. He stood in the position he had chosen and remained in it for the duration of his watch with the particular stillness of a man for whom stillness was not an absence of action but a form of it. His eyes moved steadily and continuously through the dark. He did not check on the sleeping figures behind him. He did not need to. He would have known if any of them moved. Menlow lay in his bedroll and controlled his breathing and did not move and waited. When Kelinos took the third watch, he did so with a quiet that was its own kind of presence — the soft movements of a man who takes care not to wake the others, who feeds the fire gently rather than throwing wood at it, who sits close to the warmth with his hands in his lap. After a while his right hand moved, as it had moved several times that evening, to the ring on his finger. He turned it slowly, not looking at it, frowning very slightly, as though trying to remember something he had not quite finished hearing. Menlow watched him through half-closed eyes for twenty minutes. Then he began to move. He did it the way it was supposed to be done — slowly, with no sudden shifts of weight, the bedroll pushed back by increments small enough that the sound of it merged with his breathing. He sat up. He remained sitting for a moment. He stood. He lifted his pack from beside the bedroll and settled it onto his shoulder in one smooth motion, and he walked away from the firelight at the angle most naturally hidden from Kelinos’s position. He did not look back. He was twenty yards into the darkness before the trees fully enclosed him, and by the time Kelinos thought to glance in his direction there was nothing to see but the shapes of bedrolls and the dying fire and the ordinary dark of a night that had offered nothing unusual. Menlow walked at a steady pace, angling north and east, filing away everything he needed: four people, heading north, working for Hollend, looking for Prince Edmund. A scholar with a crossbow who thought more carefully than he spoke. A ranger who spoke more than he thought. A cleric with a ring he didn’t understand. A half-orc who said very little and meant all of it. He had three days to Barbarian’s Bridge. He lengthened his stride.

Kelinos’s voice, pitched carefully to wake without startling: "Friends. Friends, I am sorry — Menlow is gone." Oron was upright with his sword out before the sentence finished. He looked around the camp rapidly, then at the treeline, then back at Kelinos. "How long?" "I — I do not know. I was watching the fire and when I looked —" Kelinos gestured helplessly. "Which direction?" Leon said, already at the edge of the firelight with his halberd in his hand, reading the ground. "I don’t —" "Leave it," said Clivic. He was sitting up in his bedroll. He had been sitting up before Kelinos had spoken — had been sitting precisely as he had been lying, with the same stillness, and it was evident to anyone watching carefully that he had not been asleep. He looked at each of them in turn. "Let him go," he said. Oron stared at him. "He’s gone to —" "I know where he’s gone." Clivic set his hands on his knees. "He’s going to Kirkroy. At Barbarian’s Bridge, north of Capel Tower. He has three days to get there and he will make it comfortably." The silence that followed was the silence of three people processing the fact that Clivic had known this and had not said so. "You knew," Oron said. "I suspected, from the abbey. I was certain from the moment he told us to take the Lusian Forest road — which anyone with any knowledge of this area calls the Darkwood, and which no one familiar with it would willingly enter." Clivic reached for his water and drank. "He came from the west, and he knew the east roads in detail. He was already going to Capel Tower when we found him. The letter in his tunic was taken from a monk Bracken’s men killed on their way out. He was here to assess the damage and report." Kelinos sat down heavily on the edge of a log. "And you let him stay. You gave him the one bottle of wine and let him walk with us and —" "Yes." "Why?" Leon said. Clivic set the water down. "Because Menlow has now delivered to Kirkroy a full account of who we are, how many we are, which direction we’re travelling, and that we are working for Hollend." He paused. "Kirkroy was already in the north, already ahead of us, already going to reach the Prince before we do. The only thing we had in our favour was that he didn’t know we were coming. Now he does." Oron was looking at him with the expression of a man who has followed an argument carefully and arrived at a conclusion he doesn’t like. "That sounds like the opposite of a plan." "Kirkroy now believes he has the advantage. He knows our number and our purpose. He will feel no urgency to move quickly, because he thinks he has time." Clivic looked at the dying fire. "He does not have time. Because we are not going to Capel Tower by the north road — which is precisely the route Menlow will tell him to expect us to take." He looked up. "We’re going another way." Another silence. "What other way?" Kelinos said carefully. Clivic reached into his coat and produced the folded letter from Menote to Hollend. He held it up, then folded it again and put it back. "The patriarch was thorough. He included enough about the geography of the land transfers to know there is a secondary track through the eastern approach to the Veronian foothills — used historically for moving abbey supplies, not marked on any common road map." He paused. "Kirkroy’s men will be watching the north road. They will not be watching a supply track that has not been regularly used in thirty years." He lay back down and pulled the bedroll up. "We should sleep," he said. "We move before dawn." Oron looked at Leon. Leon looked at Oron. Kelinos was turning the heavy ring slowly on his finger, his brow furrowed, looking at Clivic’s perfectly composed profile with the expression of a man trying to decide whether to be reassured or deeply unsettled. He settled on both, which was, he was finding, the most honest response to most things involving Clivic. \\ 

They woke at the first faint grey of dawn, the morning air crisp and biting as they gathered their camping gear and packed the horses. Kelinos moved about the camp with a quiet, troubled demeanour, lingering under the guilt of letting Menlow escape on his watch. Oron clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Ach, don’t be beating yerself up, Kelinos," Oron offered. "He’s a thief. Slippin’ away in the dark — that’s just what those bastards do." Neither Leon nor Clivic offered any words on the matter. Leon stood stoic and silent, checking the girths on the royal warhorses, while Clivic methodically tightened his pack straps, his mind already miles ahead on the road. Oron disarmed his perimeter traps, and the four companions turned their backs on the main northern road, seeking out the overgrown eastern supply track detailed in Patriarch Menote’s letter. For two relentless days, they pushed north toward the Veronian Mountains. The merciful chill of the early mornings swiftly gave way to a punishing, unrelenting heat as the sun beat down on the open country. The landscape dried out, shifting from rolling greenery to cracked earth and sun-bleached stone. Dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves coated their throats, and their waterskins grew lighter with every passing hour. Parched and sun-baked, they rode in mostly quiet endurance. By the afternoon of the second day, the flat horizon finally gave way. Looming directly ahead of them, jutting into the hazy blue sky like a wall of jagged iron, stood the ancient, imposing roots of the Veronian Mountains. They had reached the foot of the peaks — hard, high ground where the overgrown supply track began its winding, steep ascent into the shadowed passes above. The jagged roots of the mountains loomed above them, a wall of grey stone rising sharply into the heavens. Behind them, the trapped heat of the valley baked their backs; before them, the biting mountain wind blew cold and sharp against their faces. "This will be where we need to leave the horses. They won’t make it up there," Clivic said, dismounting and inspecting the steep, rocky incline. "Take what you need — your most essential items only." Oron, long accustomed to travelling light and relying on his own two feet, had already pared his gear down to the barest essentials. Leon’s needs were equally simple; his pack contained little beyond spare oil, whetstones, and a heavy stash of dry rations. It was Kelinos who found the order agonising. Being new to this continent, the cleric had spent his journey quietly accumulating a dizzying array of trinkets and souvenirs. Unwilling to part with any of his treasures, Kelinos devised a practical, if absurd, solution: rather than stuffing his bangles and silver rings into his pack, he simply slid them onto every available finger and wrist. Small leather pouches filled with sacred bones, holy relics, and odd stones were jammed methodically into every pocket his robes possessed until he clicked and rattled with every step. Once their essential packs were secured, they set the royal warhorses free, letting the fine beasts turn back toward the lower pastures. Beginning their ascent on foot, they soon struck an ancient, neglected trail — a narrow, hard-packed earthen path where the mountain grass parted, barely wide enough for a single person to walk at a time. The way up was brutal, and nobody suffered through it quite like Kelinos. He was entirely unaccustomed to long mountain treks, his knees aching as his heavy pockets clinked together. Clivic was similarly unused to gruelling physical labour, but where Kelinos whimpered, the scholar masked his exhaustion behind a shield of grim, unyielding determination. Oron, on the other hand, thought it was a marvellous walk. The sweeping vistas over the lowlands and the fresh, cool breeze against his face made for a grand day out. Bringing up the rear was Leon, ever the vigilant guard. The half-orc paused periodically to look back down the slopes, scanning the open terrain for any signs of pursuit. From their high vantage point, the open bowl of the earth below offered no cover for anyone trying to shadow them. By the time the sun reached its zenith, they called a halt for lunch — much to Kelinos’s overwhelming relief. Sweat rolled from the cleric’s dark forehead in heavy streams, looking as though he had just emerged from a swim. Clivic was in little better shape, though he refused to give the fatigue a voice. Oron merely looked around with a tinge of disappointment, lamenting that there were no mountain streams nearby to do a spot of fishing. Leon ate his meal as if he were mid-march on a military campaign. They ate in quiet endurance until Leon broke the silence, his deep voice carrying over the wind. "How long before you think we get to our destination?" For a few minutes, no one answered. They finished their bread and dried meat in thought, wiping their brows and gathering their gear once more. Clivic buckled the last strap on his pack and looked toward the ranger. "I am not sure. I am not familiar with these mountains myself. What about you, Oron? Do you have any idea where the Shrine might actually be?" Oron stepped to the edge of the path, looking out over the vast, sun-baked bowl of Whispervale. Far in the distance, he could make out four tiny specks throwing up small trails of dust — the royal horses making their slow way back toward Montinelle, which sat like a speck of dust on the remote horizon. Turning back to Clivic, Oron looked up the sheer incline, gauging their elevation against the peaks above. "I think the Shrine might be at the top of this mountain, or perhaps the next," Oron said, adjusting his cloak. "I am nae familiar with this range myself, but we must be going the right way — I haven’t seen a single other path branching off this ridge." Taking one last look across the vast valley, Oron turned and led the way further up the narrow pass. Clivic cast his own brief glance over the distant lowlands, looked up at the looming crags above, and fell into line behind the ranger. Leon reached down to help a thoroughly reluctant Kelinos to his feet, extending a massive, muscle-bound arm and gesturing toward the trail ahead. "Thank you, friend Leon," Kelinos offered with a touch of despair, settling his heavy pack over his shoulders and trudging up the path after Clivic. Leon looked back over the valley one last time, checked the trail below, and followed, using the heavy shaft of his halberd as a walking staff. As they climbed higher, small herds of wild mountain goats and high-altitude wildlife kept their distance, perched on high rocky outcrops, watching the intruding party’s slow progress with wary eyes. Clivic watched them in return, occasionally calling up to Oron to ask if the ranger might bring one down with an arrow for their evening meal. Oron shook his head, reminding the scholar that while a roast goat would make a fine feast, the scent of fresh blood and a heavy kill up here would bring every apex predator in the mountains down on their heads — bears, mountain lions, cougars, and wolves. Clivic paused, considered the grim math of fighting off mountain beasts on a narrow ledge, and nodded in quiet agreement.

Kelinos stopped to catch his breath on a wide flat rock, his bangles and pouches clinking as he bent double with his hands on his knees. Below him, the valley floor shimmered in the midday heat, a vast pale bowl with no movement in it that he could see. He found himself looking anyway — for a figure moving north on the road, for the small urgent shape of a man with a deadline. He straightened up and followed Clivic, and said nothing, and tried to think about something else.

Dusk was settling over the peaks when they finally decided to make camp in a shallow, sheltered notch on the mountainside. As they kindled a small, low-burning campfire to ward off the biting high-altitude chill, Kelinos — still burdened by guilt over Menlow’s escape — offered to take the first watch. Clivic and Oron nodded in acceptance, while Leon suggested that he and Oron share the second watch together, leaving Clivic to take the final shift before dawn. The fire crackled quietly against the cold mountain night, and the valley of Whispervale lay dark and vast below them, its lights too distant to see. \\ 

Kelinos sat nervously near the crackling fire, a small, carefully arranged pile of dry fuel resting beside him. His dark eyes flicked continuously over his sleeping companions and out into the suffocating mountain darkness. Up here, the night sounds felt magnified — every creak of stone, every whistle of the wind through the crags sounded impossibly loud, and time seemed to fly past in an anxious blur. Suddenly, a heavy hand rested gently on Kelinos’s shoulder. The cleric let out a sharp, embarrassing little squeak, jumping in his seat. "It is time for my watch," Leon said in a voice as soft as a whisper, taking care not to wake the others. "Go rest. You have completed a good watch." Kelinos relaxed, letting out a long breath and offering the half-orc a quiet word of thanks. Casting one final, wary look around the dark perimeter, he laid back down on his bedroll, fluffed his travel pack into a makeshift pillow, and before Leon had even fully settled into his position, the cleric was out cold, snoring lightly into the cold night air. Leon stood tall, pacing the perimeter of the camp right at the edge of the firelight. He had taken this middle shift because he was the only member of the party capable of seeing past the fire’s glare into the pitch-black night — not by much, but a good fifteen feet of darkvision was better than none. He patrolled steadily, occasionally checking on his sleeping companions to ensure their safety and comfort, and making sure the fire stayed fed. When his shift reached its end, Leon walked over and laid a large hand on Oron’s shoulder. "It is your time to take over," Leon rumbled softly. "The night has been peaceful and you should have a quiet watch." Oron groaned bitterly, wrestling his way out of his rough camp bed. Once the ranger was fully upright and rubbing his eyes, Leon lay down in his own bedroll and promptly drifted off. Oron stoked the embers, then walked his circuit to check his animal snares. He listened closely to the awakening mountain; dawn was only a few hours away, and the high-country wildlife was beginning to stir. Stripping a small catch from the traps, he salted and prepped the meat for their next meal. True to Leon’s word, the watch ended peacefully, and Oron roused Clivic for the final shift. Clivic rubbed his eyes, nodded grimly, and prepared himself. He set a small tin pot of water on the restocked fire, boiling a brew of herbal coffee. While it steeped, he lifted his magical crossbow and gave the weapon a thorough, academic inspection. A sudden spark of inspiration struck the scholar. Pulling a small etching tool from his coat, Clivic began carefully carving a glowing arcane symbol directly into the riser of the crossbow stock. He murmured a series of precise, whispered incantations just above a mumble. The carved symbol flared to life with a soft, steady hum. Clivic picked up the weapon and locked the stock against his shoulder. A focused beam of bright, magical light erupted from the front of the crossbow, casting a brilliant illumination in whatever direction the weapon was pointed — a built-in tactical torch. A smug, deeply satisfied smile crossed Clivic’s face as he admired his own brilliant invention. Testing the light, Clivic swept the crossbow barrel slowly across the dark tree line. Suddenly, the beam locked onto a pair of brightly reflective discs hovering in the gloom. Clivic’s breath hitched. In quick succession, tactical scenarios flashed through his mind. His calculations ceased the moment the two reflective discs stepped fully into the magical light, revealing the curious, twitching head of a wild mountain deer. Slowly, methodically, Clivic reached for a bolt and slid it into the groove. The deer, intrigued by the strange light, took a few tentative steps forward, sniffing the cool morning air. Clivic brought the stock firmly into his shoulder, aligning the iron sights directly over the animal’s vital area. He took a deep breath, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. It would be such an easy kill — quick, clean, and painless. Fresh meat for the trail. Then, in the back of his mind, Oron’s gruff voice from yesterday echoed loudly: "...the kill itself would bring other hunters in the area. Bears, mountain lions, cougars, and wolves." Clivic let out a long, defeated sigh. As much as he craved real venison, the mathematical risk of attracting apex predators to a tiny ledge far outweighed the luxury. Clivic lowered the crossbow. The deer sniffed the air one last time, turned, and bounded silently off down the mountainside. The scholar returned to the fire, restocked the logs, filled his mug with dark herbal coffee, and sat back to watch the sunrise. As the sun broke over the horizon, spilling golden light across the high camp, the rest of the party began to stir. Within minutes, everyone was awake and packing their gear. "I take it that it was a quiet night?" Oron asked, rolling up his bedroll. Leon nodded. Kelinos agreed. Clivic, taking a final sip of his coffee, simply looked at Oron and gave a crisp nod, quietly withholding any mention of the inquisitive deer. They broke camp and resumed their steep trek up the peak. They had been pushing up the narrow path for roughly two hours when Oron suddenly halted and pointed to a sheltered nook in the rock face — a hidden campsite. Clivic moved in to inspect the ash pit and cleared ground. "Someone camped here within the last few weeks," the scholar noted, examining the crushed grass and cold charcoal. "This must have been the Prince and his entourage. They made exceptional progress to reach this elevation before making camp." Reassured that they were indeed hot on Prince Edmund’s trail, the companions felt a fresh surge of energy, pressing harder up the incline. Shortly after passing the abandoned campsite, the narrow track opened up into a vast, flat shelf of stone jutting out from the mountainside. Directly before them stood a massive natural cavern entrance — roughly nineteen feet high and twenty feet wide. At the centre of the threshold sat a broad, flat stone slab, carved deep with the sacred Cross of Whispervale. "Dis’ has to be the shrine," Oron said, stepping up to the perimeter. Clivic approached the threshold and looked around, analysing the stone. Leon and Kelinos held back in the open clearing. Oron walked up beside Clivic. "Are you sure this is nae a bear cave or a cougar hideout?" Clivic asked, eyeing several faint imprints in the dirt. "Nah, dis has the signs of bein’ persons," Oron replied, kneeling down to point out the distinct heel-marks of boots alongside smaller animal tracks. "Dis wouldn’t be a wild beast’s lair — we’re nae that far from the last camp, and coogars and bears would stay well away from a place like dis." Clivic nodded, satisfied with the ranger’s logic, and took a firm step forward to cross the threshold into the cavern. The instant his boot touched the interior stone, a violent, overwhelming wave of nausea slammed into Clivic like a physical fist. He reeled backward, stumbling out of the cave entrance, dropping to his knees, and violently throwing up onto the dirt just a few feet outside. Kelinos rushed forward, his hands raised in concern. "Friend Clivic, are you ok?" Clivic raised a trembling hand, holding it up to indicate he was fine, though his face was ghost-pale. Oron looked at Clivic, then cocked his ear toward the dark interior of the cave, catching the faint, delicate sound of rushing water. "‘Ere, der might be some water in ‘there that might help refresh yah," Oron said, stepping past the threshold and venturing into the cavern. Kelinos helped Clivic sit on a large boulder nearby. Looking nervously back at the gaping cave mouth, Kelinos said, "I will make sure friend Oron is ok," and hurried inside after the ranger. He stepped over the threshold and stopped for a moment — not from nausea, but from something else entirely. A warmth that had no physical source. He looked down at his feet on the interior stone, then back at Clivic sitting pale on his boulder outside, and said nothing, and followed the ranger deeper in. Leon stepped over to stand vigil beside Clivic. "Must have been that brew I had this morning," Clivic lied, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. But in his heart, the scholar knew the truth: something ancient inside that mountain actively rejected him. That sudden nausea was no illness — it was a magical gut-punch warning him to stay out.

Inside the cavern, Oron tracked the sound of running water into the cool darkness. The initial passage ran about thirty feet deep, with soaring fifteen-foot ceilings. Near the far northern wall, a strange, vibrant light source began to glow — a deep, iridescent blue. Curious, Oron moved deeper into the chamber, with Kelinos quickening his pace to catch up. Rounding a natural stone corner, both men stopped dead in their tracks. Before them lay a breathtaking subterranean grotto. Water cascaded down through shimmering crystal formations, collecting in a waist-high stone catchpool. The entire chamber was carpeted in luminous fungi, velvety moss, and glowing crystals that emitted a radiant blue light. As the falling water splashed over the crystals, the blue light danced, flickered, and sparkled across the wet cavern walls like starlight. Directly at the front of the catchpool sat a square, hand-carved altar stone, featuring two deep depressions worn into the rock by generations of kneeling pilgrims. "This is a true shrine, friend Oron," Kelinos whispered in reverent awe, looking around at the glowing flora. "I feel the gods may truly be with us." Oron stepped up to the stone pool, eyeing the glowing moss. He glanced back as Kelinos stepped into the light, then dipped his cupped hands into the crystal-clear water. It was icy cold. He brought his hands to his nose and took a sniff — it carried a faint, impossibly sweet aroma. Without hesitation, Oron brought his hands to his lips and slurped the water down noisily. The instant the water swallowed down his throat, the entire cavern transformed. The blue glow of the crystals violently shifted, blazing into a brilliant, blinding golden-yellow. From the cavern ceiling above, a solid pillar of pure, radiant golden light crashed down, enveloping Oron in an ethereal embrace. The voice did not come from the light or from the water or from the stone. It came from somewhere behind all of those things, as though the mountain itself had decided to speak through them. "The heir walks in shadow and does not know it. The hand raised to protect him is the one to fear." A pause, long enough that Oron thought it was finished. "Where the bird meets the lion, the water runs south. You will know the place." Then silence. The golden light faded. The blue returned. Oron stood frozen beside the catchpool, his mouth hanging wide open in utter disbelief. He turned slowly to face Kelinos, his eyes huge. "I have been called on!" Oron stammered, his voice trembling with awe, his eyes enormous in the blue light. "Were you called by a God?! A god just spoke to me!" Kelinos looked at him for a long moment. Then he looked at the catchpool, at the altar stone, at the worn depressions in the rock where ten thousand pilgrims had knelt before them. "Yes," Kelinos said quietly. "I rather think one did."

— End of Part One —