Horizons of the Heart

By Melange
Copyright © 2013-2014 Melange
All Rights Reserved.

Synopsis

Due to leave for the golden city of Tier the coming day, the group take the time to wrap up their own affairs. Kellen spends some time with his magician friends, and Mirena get treated to lunch by a certain Albander nobleman.

Flashback: Many children of the mountain spend time learning the ways of other cultures. Jaden's aunt Sabel tries to show her nephew some things he'll need to know before he's leaving for a visit to the elven capital.

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Chapter 21: Before the Storm

JADEN

The room was a mess. Clothes were thrown over the bed and parts of the floor, not to mention the various knickknacks that could come in handy on a trip like this. Books, a training sword and the last tin of Kasman sweets their mother had brought back from her trip to Telasero. The large satchel that sat in the eye of the abandoned hurricane of belongings was already half full.

It’s was a boy’s room, during that awkward age where the innocent curiosity of childhood stepped back to allow the increasing responsibility of adolescence more space. Gone were most of the toys, leaving only a few mementos behind. The small, carved dragon statues had been stored away for another generation, and in their spot were now more books. Titles such as Revelyn’s Basic Arcana, Alatea’s Voyages of the South Sea, Lowland Horticulture, and a well-worn older copy of Esiranca’s Definite Field Guide to Mystical Bonds. This was the room of someone who spent more time reading about other people, than meeting them. The room was empty of its owner, however, but sounds echoing down the corridor outside the half-closed door offered an explanation.

To the side of the kitchen sat the patient-looking cook. He took another sip of his morning tea as he flipped the page of a book of his own. Less highbrowed than its kin from the previous room, it was a humble romance story of a farmer’s son growing up to become a hero of his country and returning to his old village years later to whisk away his childhood love. The cook used to have dreams like that in his youth, but had long since accepted that his place in the world was to provide the heroes of the coming era with a hot meal and the occasional honeycake when the children’s parents weren’t looking. The cup barely made a noise as he replaced it on the table.

“Ow! Garda’s fires!” The young man shook his hand in the air. Grabbing a tray from the oven would burn an unprotected hand.

“What did you think would happen, Jaden?” Next to the youngest Tarasov stood a tall woman in the grey robes of the citadel’s instructors. She had removed her silver amulet, as she was not here in her official capacity, but her voice was still that of a tutor at the moment. She shared the dark hair of the youth, kept to almost half the way down her back, but her ears were rounded.

“You could’ve helped me here, aunt Sabel!” Her nephew sucked on a burnt finger for a little while.

“I’m a teacher, not a protector. Learn by your mistakes, kiddo. Toughen up, or the elves will eat you alive.” Sabel waggled a finger at her brother Garen’s son. She had taken it upon herself to help prepare him for an upcoming trip.

“Why do I have to do this, and not Lil?” Jaden hunched down and peered critically into the oven. Was it too hot?

“I showed her last summer. Surely you haven’t forgotten she’s older than you? Also, she’s smarter.” His aunt took no little pleasure teasing them.

“Hey!” He looked back up with a hurt expression.

“Just telling it how I see it. Now try again, and prove me wrong.” Sabel pointed at the mess of ingredients, the mortar and pestle, and raised an eyebrow.

“This is stupid. Why would the elves of Ral Sona care if I can make these cookies or not?”

“First, they’re not cookies. They’re ser monelleum. They’re for the horses, not for you. If you eat them, you’ll get sick and throw up until you pass out. Then you’ll throw up some more. But the Seren destriers love the stuff. Like fenvir for shellcats. Slip one of them some monell and they’ll never fling you off.”

Jaden eyed the toxic cookies with some apprehension, and wiped his hands on the apron. He made a mental note of not licking his fingers until he could wash them thoroughly.

“Second, those horses have been known to protest when a non-elven rider try to start things with them. I’m not sure if you smell the part enough to avoid a hoof to the face.” Sabel knew her brother’s children looked a little elfish, but looking the part and acting it was two different things.

As with many Lacunai families, their bloodline was a stew with a little bit of everything thrown into the mix. Their mother Irissa alone was almost half elfblooded, due to her family’s frequent dealings with the world outside the mountain. Sabel wasn’t all that interested in genealogy, but had heard that family also traced some of their ancestors to Olmar of all places. The Tarasovs, though, were almost pure Lacunai. She didn’t fault her brother for marrying Irissa - she loved her sister-in-law — but sometimes she wondered whether it was wise to dilute their blood like that?

“Yeah, I rather keep my face where it is.” Jaden flinched a little at the thought of a horse stomping his head into the ground.

“Good. Then start from the top again. Don’t burn them this time. Or yourself,” Sabel added as an afterthought. It was a bit of a new tradition, really. She remembered that her father had been among the first generation of mystics who were sent to study at the academy in Ral Sona. Garen and she had also gone there when they were thirteen years old, just like little Jaden would do now. The least she could do for her nephew was to give him some tricks to make it easier.

“Hey, ears!” It was her interchangeable nickname for both Jaden and Lilya.

“What?” The youth stopped measuring up some finely ground herbs to frown at her. He didn’t like that name any more than his sister, which is why Sabel kept using it.

“Tell me about the fall of the second empire.” Her smirk turned into a grin. “In Sorunese.”

That pulled a long-suffering sigh from her nephew, but to his credit he began to haltingly describe the events that led up to the independence of the upper coastlands.

The chef exchanged a small smile with Instructor Tarasov, and flipped to another page in his book. The farmer’s son had challenged the evil king, and soon they would duel in front of their armies.

There was a merry tinkling noise as the glasses clinked together. Around the room was a mixed group of people, brought together by their shared interest in the world and its secrets. It had been so long since most of them had a time to sit down together like this. They were much more likely to be knee-deep in the muck of some forgotten crypt, than comfortably reclined in the parlour of a well-to-do scholar nobleman.

“Thank you for having us in your home, old friend,” Kellen said to the darkly redhaired Albander man sitting down in the big armchair next to him. Jevin was tall enough by anyone’s standards, but still came a head short compared with the large Northerner. Not that they paid much attention to that. Most of the time they had spent in each other’s company, had either been while exploring cramped ruins, or perusing old texts in equally cramped libraries.

“The pleasure is all mine, Kellen. All of you are always welcome to stop by, if you catch me at home.” Jevin’s comment drew genuine smiles and short laughs from his friends.

“If we do, we’ll be sure to remind you that you should be out there working, instead of lazying about the house!” The woman in the low-cut green dress leaned forward to put her glass down on the low Marsander styled table. Her curly hair was either a dark blonde or light brown depending on the light. She called it caramel coloured, to go with her sweet nature. Anevka’s thick accent betrayed her Kasman origin, as did her shamelessly painted lips. Looking at her today, it was hard to see the hardy explorer she would become when the call to adventure pulled her away from her class in Telasero.

Everyone in this room owed the others their lives from one time or another. Delving greedily into the depths of lost civilisations tended to bring people closer together. During the last ten or so years, Kellen had lost count on how often the sudden inspiration of Jevin or the keen eyes of Morkgha had prevented a trap or natural hazard from doing them all in. The Society of Rune Seekers were braver than any of the other traditions, not simply for their adventurous spirit, but for heading back out after every disaster. The world wouldn’t reveal itself, after all.

The half-orc sat to Kellen’s other side, sharing a couch with the last member of their group to arrive. Morkgha looked a little tired, and rubbed a temple. She was Northern enough to have spent the Founding festival in Farcrest in drunken celebration with the locals — not because of any feelings for the empire, but rather for the excuse to drink too much and sing too loud. Northern blood mixed with the Grimstone tribe made for a special relationship with liquor. How she had managed to find the strength to appear for her linguist’s workshop at the convocation every day was a testament to her unwavering passion for her work. Still, even with her dusky complexion, she looked a little pale from several days of burning the candle at both ends.

“I was afraid I’d miss you, Samaki. I had planned on leaving tomorrow,” Kellen said to the final member of their little group.

“You almost did. So many things just went wrong. Our ship to Tier was delayed. Unusual activity in the reefs again,” the thin Gionese woman blamed the weather. Her dark hair, almost black if not for the lighter, nearly blonde tips. Her hawklike nose gave her face a lot of character, making her impressive despite her slim size. “It’s a pity Samech couldn’t come this year. His wife decided this was a good time to present him with their third child.”

“Congratulations are in order! At least one of us ended up as an honest family person,” the Northman laughed. In their line of work it was a rare thing indeed. Settling down was something he hoped was in his future as well, but not for many years yet. There was still so much to see, so much to know.

“Here, here!” Jevin raised his glass in another toast. “I’ll have to bring out the good cask if good news like these keeps coming!”

“Well, you’d better send your manservant to the cellar, because I can top that!” Anevka looked especially pleased with herself. “Guess who substantiated her theory about the seasonal shallowings from Living Arcadia with solid proof? I’ve found at least two spots where the barrier all but falls every summer, possibly a third!”

Jevin stood up with a feigned serious expression, and gestured at his man to fetch better drinks. While not everyone shared the Kasman rune seeker’s interest in the fey realms, they all knew what it felt like to validate a pet project. This could mean a lot of good things for Anevka in the future.

“This calls for celebration!” Jevin exclaimed. The secret to a happy life was to simply embrace the good times and accept the bad, according to him.

“No, not more celebrations,” groaned the half-orc with a half-hearted miserable look at their host. Her last three days had been spent holding a tankard of some sort of another.

“Don’t begrudge Annie her moment, Morks,” Samaki quietly chided her colleague.

“Does that mean they’ll offer you the seat in the Telasero academy now?” Morkgha perked up a little as she turned the conversation back at the Kasman rune seeker. Anevka had been passed over for the position as lecturer in planar alignment two times now, in favour of some Talram exchange tutor. Those mountain-people, what did they know about other worlds?

“They’ll have to! Otherwise, I’ll take that mystic bitch out myself!” Anevka did a poor job of punching the air. “If they pick an outsider like her over me again, I’ll give up and become a priestess of Semat instead.”

This was not the first time the Kasman woman had threatened to give her life to the temple, despite how it doesn’t work like that. The Five Temples were open to all who sought their teachings, but only young and untrained people were accepted as initiates into the priesthood. Magicians were gently reminded that they had chosen another path in life, which was at odds with devotion required to serve the temple.

“You may want to be careful with that, though. It can be dangerous to underestimate mystics,” Kellen mentioned. Despite his first-hand experience with a particular mystic, he kept hearing stories about how powerful they could be once they decided to show their real forms. While he had never seen Jaden’s manifested form in person, Kellen had collected circumstantial evidence for over a year now. Fire magic, knowledge of Nethertongue, surprising resilience. He was reasonably sure what his friend had been hiding, especially in the light of recent revelations.

“Pshaw. The only thing I estimated with that one is her name. ‘Essime Hetagon of the Dreaming Star.’ How pretentious is that?” Anevka laughed out loud at the idea. The Kasmani weren’t that modest to begin with, but even they had their limits on what counted as in good taste.

“Hetagon? I know that name,” the blonde Northerner mused, then snapped his fingers. “The Talraman envoy! His name was Hetagon too. According to a friend of mine, that Hetagon was the general of the Lacunai army.”

“Huh. Well, that’s unfortunate,” said the caramel Kasman with a sour face. She hated when people had better political connections than her.

“Not as unfortunate as that orchestra the illume of Imesh had brought to last year’s convocation,” Jevin tactfully changed the subject to something more amusing, as his manservant brought them a couple of bottles of the good stuff. “He had them travel all the way across the steppes with their instruments, too cheap to spring for a skyship. No wonder nothing worked!”

“Oh, that was just dreadful,” the present half of the Gionese twins groaned. The birth of Samaki and Samech was a rare thing indeed. While twins were more common in their country for some reason, twins were almost never born with the spark of magic. Some theorised that the talent was split between each child, so that neither would grow up to become a magician. If that was true, then the world was probably better off with them like this. It was daunting to imagine if one of them had instead been twice as powerful.

“You should have been there, Kellen. It was one of those things you would have absolutely hated!” Anevka eagerly grabbed a fresh glass of the fine vintage offered.

“I’m sorry, my friends. I was completely tied up in Etrana last summer; otherwise I would have joined you in Telasero. I try not to miss any chance to attend a convocation.” Kellen regretted missing the opportunity, but the situation with the skinwalker had been much too important to leave for a trip across the eastern continent. “Kasmantur is very beautiful during that season, but the first city even more so.”

“She is at her best during bloom, a flower resplendent and lush; a maid a-dance with her groom, surrendering and a-blush.” Anevka burst out in a poetic depiction of her city, whether out of genuine love or one glass of wine too far.

“Delightful. Were you talking about Telasero, or yourself?” Morkgha teased her friend dryly.

“I’m no maid, and I’ve never been married!” She responded with a laugh. Anevka was proud of herself, and wore her choices without shame. “But if Kellen asked me, who knows what I’d say?”

“Oh, no. I’m not going there.” The large northerner waved his hands in front of himself. “My dear mother would freeze solid if I brought home a painted Kasman girl to knit our quilts together.”

Nothing was said with any real seriousness in mind, of course. They were just old friends, joking and having fun together. The conversation continued with what else had transpired at last year’s convocation in the first city of Kasmantur, Telasero. Just as with Olmar and Alband, Kasmantur had been a part of the second empire, but like them had also seceded after the war of independence during the decline. Though, while the two countries further up the coast had maintained a strained relationship with Etria, the seat of the empire, Kasmantur had instead adopted an attitude of gentle provocation. This always become more apparent during grand events, when the Kasman cities tried to outshine Etrana. Since the convocation and the Founding festival tended to coincide every year, there had been some spectacular fireworks and parades last year. One of the great houses of Telasero had spent a small fortune bringing in a group of sorcerers to create a breath-taking and inimitable lightshow that would forever — or, at least until next year — cement Telasero’s lead over Etrana in audaciousness. The ironic thing was, Kasmantur didn’t even really take the Founding festival that seriously. They were a separated nation, after all. They only did these things out of a national obsession with one-upping their neighbouring state and old sovereign.

Eventually, the wine and the liquor had run low. It was time for farewells, and exchanging promises that they would get together again next year in Radent. The convocation was never held in the same capital two years in a row, since that would show undue favour from a supposedly politically neutral society.

Kellen gave the women and Jevin one last hug or handshake, and then made his way back to Potter’s Square and the Old Hog inn.

Since walking around with their arms full of food the entire day would both be heavy as well as undermining their efforts to appear professional, Stann and Oleander had briefly gone back to the Old Hog to drop off their purchases. While out and looking for good deals on dried fare the redheaded Olman had also picked up on some interesting rumours surrounding Devel and Orist’s trading company, a business they knew was somehow connected with the smuggling operation out of Sorun. It appeared as if the two merchants had somehow appeared on the scene a good number of years ago, but never really carved out their own niche until recently. While nobody was sure whether Delven and Orist had some backers in higher places, it seemed unlikely that they would have been able to afford the expanded business they ran today out of their previous doubtful success. It begged a number of questions.

One storeowner on woodworker’s way, a road that ran the border between the market and the craftsmen’s district, was quite eager to offer them her selection of beautiful songwood workmanship. A frame that would look absolutely wonderful around a mirror, or a paining perhaps, together with the soft, soft music coming from within the wood? A cradle that would gently lullaby the sleeping baby? Maybe a comb that hummed as you ran it through your hair?

When Stann asked who was supplying the enchanted wood for her products, the owner only happily shared that she was able to provide the affordable prices she currently was due to the latest shipments coming to one of the local trading companies. Why, it wasn’t even that far from the market district, in fact. Oleander exchanged a long look with the Northman, and added it to their list. Songwood was very expensive, to the point where it was often cheaper to buy something in silver or the finest steel. Handling it in any large amount would require significant wealth.

Like any large city, Farcrest was a place where many layers of society collided. Rich and poor, law abiding and… otherwise. While it was not as clearly segregated as one would find in the great metropolises like Tier, or Etrana, even the ever-sensible Albander had a divide between the classes. Though most of the working men and women of the city managed to get by reasonably well, there were always those at the very bottom who had to eke out their living any way they could.

Word had gotten around about what Oleander had done for the orphanage. A good deed sometimes travelled swifter than a ray of light. The lowlifes of the city might be lawless, but they weren’t heartless. She had won some favour among those of the street by giving the children a happy festival and stopping the beating of one of the girls. When she came asking about what some of them knew about any outsiders moving strange goods in their neighbourhood, she received unexpected help. While taking a shortcut in chasing down another lead, a ruffled-looking fellow had waved at them, claiming to have seen some curious transports the other week.

“Aye, I saw it meself, I did.” The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after finishing his bottle of lunch. The suspenders hung unevenly, and his hair looked dirty and wild enough to pass as a bird’s nest.

“The cages?” Oleander attempted to clarify. She had dealt with daydrinkers like this man her entire life, and sometimes they needed to be prodded a bit.

“S’was a wagonload of the stuff, making chirping and squeaking noises like someone trying to wear a live embergrouse as a hat.” The man hiccupped a bit, and sat down heavily on a cracked and abandoned barrel.

“Did you get a good look at anyone receiving the cargo?” Stann had more than his share of experience with pulling stories out of merry clansmen, as well. Though, usually he was on their level while doing so.

“He had a truly vigorous moustache, and them sideburns almost down to his jowls. Beady eyes, that one, but dressed fine enough to show up an arti… arresto… a noble. That kind of man doesn’t shine his own boots, no sir.”

Stann looked at the redhead who nodded. That fitted what she remembered from seeing Orist. As unreliable as this man seemed to be, at least they had a witness of the two merchants actually dealing with the creatures directly. Everything else had been circumstantial, up to and including the merchants meeting with the strange pair in their back room at the trading company. Rhyce had claimed those two were mystics, which only made the whole thing more of a mess than it already was.

“Explain again why we’re not doing the same thing with this trading company as we did with the Huskers back in Tier? Sneak inside and toss the place? Fire optional,” Oleander asked her big Northern friend as they had left the drunkard with a few coins to be unwisely spent.

“Rena laid it out pretty clearly this morning, Red. We cut off this arm, and the head back in the elven forest will just find another one to use. We can either run around stamping out fires, or we can go after the source directly,” Stann said with certainty. It was often easy to mistake him for the simple brawler, especially next to his cousin, but the blonde man had just as much of a head on his shoulders as the rest of them.

“Are you channelling Kel right now, Bear?” The redhead teased her friend, bumping into him as they walked.

“Of course! We must overcome the obstacle by using our minds, and small rocks with tiny script on them,” Stann puffed himself up and made a twirling gesture at his too-short moustache, reminiscent of his cousin’s habit while pondering matters.

“Actually, I think I still have one of those. Kel lent me one for summoning rainclouds,” Oleander patted the many hidden pockets sewn into her clothes. A girl could never have too many places to squirrel away her shinies, after all.

“Is that why we’ve been rained on all day? Why would you do that to us?” The Northern warrior glared at the small woman by his side.

The unlikely pair disappeared into the midday crowds, but the sound of their argument turned many heads as they passed.

Arim had lived in Alband his entire life. While he had on occasion visited Tier as a young boy, he wanted to go there again for no other reason than seeing it. Both times before had only offered a brief sight of the golden towers before the doors to whatever social function his family was attending closed out the rest of the world. While eating the lunch his cook had prepared, Arim entertained his lovely guest with his dreams of seeing Etrana, or even Charndion. He was toying with the idea of going there by skyship as a gift to himself at his thirtieth birthday, in a few years’ time.

“I would love to show you some of the wonderful things Tier has to offer, but my duties are keeping me much too busy at the moment,” Mirena said as they stood up from the table to move into the parlour.

“A familiar concept. Being of our station comes with all manner of responsibilities. I would hate to have been the heir to the family, or of a higher house. So much work.” There was a kindred spirit inside the kind-eyed Albander nobleman. Both of them had known a life where the obligations toward the family kept you from pursuing your own happiness. As a nobleman mostly in name only, Arim was fully expected to either play the part of the good courtier, or marry into wealth for the sake of his house. Something Mirena sympathised with only too well.

“The lunch was lovely, thank you, Arim,” she said, as they sat down in the same room where they had begun talking the other day.

A lot of documents, charts and maps laid spread out across the low table. Old things that showed the layout of the great Albar woods to the west, or business arrangements giving ideas on what was involved in moving something from Olmar to Alband. As expected many of them mentioned Carrick Field as where cargo was moved across the border.

“I can only apologise for not being able to offer anything more sophisticated at such short notice. I rarely treat guests of such standing as you at my home.” Arim took two glasses from his manservant’s tray, who then discreetly excused himself to give them privacy. With a small flourish, Arim offered one of the glasses to his guest.

“You flatter me. Remember, I’m no noble, just a merchant’s daughter. Also, compared to traveling fare, field rations, festival fried food, or what our good keeper serves us back at the Old Hog, this was a feast fit for any king.” Mirena sipped the wine, pausing at the surprising sweetness. Years of being brought along to parties to be shown to potential suitors allowed her to recognise a nice Etrian vintage. Not the best she’s had, but a welcome change from the more bitter types the northern coastlands seemed to favour.

“Ah yes, the Hog,” Arim suppressed a shudder out of respect for his guest. “Again, you deserve much better than that. I’m sure I could arrange something for you. I have some friends in the business, after all, and there’s a very reputable hotel merely a few streets from here!”

“That’s a very generous offer, and one I would have been sorely tempted to accept,” Mirena sighed a little. While the temple had worked most traces of the spoiled child out of her, some parts of her still longed for the feather mattresses of the Kaladon manor back home in Tier.

“However..?” The young nobleman paid enough attention to catch the words unspoken.

“My friends and I are due to depart come the morning. I’m afraid this will be my last day in Farcrest for the foreseeable future.” She smiled in apology.

“You know, we’ve been discussing old caravan routes, looking at even older maps, and the gods know what else… but I still don’t really know what it is you and your friends do?” Arim shrugged a little, swirling the remaining sweet dessert wine around in his glass. “I only met one of them so far. The elven girl, Jade, was it?”

“I suppose you could say that they’re technically working for me,” Mirena mused. Their relationship was a little complicated. To be able to go around doing what they did without incurring the wrath of the local constabulary, she had been forced to call upon some of the more obscure protocols of the Five Temples. “They’re registered custos in support of my mission as a paladin-errant.”

Arim almost choked on the wine. His eyes had gone wide as he pressed a ready handkerchief to his mouth. When he regained his composure, he placed the half-full glass on the table next to where Mirena had put her own.

“Does this surprise you?” The knight couldn’t help asking the obvious question, with an eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Well! I… yes. Yes it does, my lady. From what I've heard, priestesses are all austere and grim, ignoring the world outside their temples." Arim dabbed the corners of his mouth again. He looked adorable with that blush on his cheeks.

"Really? That may be true for some, but most of us are just people." Mirena was used to the preconceptions many had of her order. After all, what kind of people spent their entire lives in service of an absolute concept without it rubbing off on them?

"Never have I been so happy to be proven wrong." He leaned back in the couch, chuckling at his own reaction.

"Is that so?" Mirena had spent a good part of the morning arranging her hair artfully for this meeting. The chestnut waves framed her face very attractively.

"Very much so, my lady. You turn all my expectations on their heads." Arim had turned a little so that he faced her more directly.

"Why, one could assume certain things from words like that."

"Maybe? Would you like me to stop?"

"I..." The Tierin woman looked wistfully at the two glasses on the table, standing so close together that were they to reach for them at the same time, their hands would inevitably touch. The knight had a duty toward her friends, and their current mission. "I think we should focus on the task at hand."

"As you wish. I'm sorry if I was too forward." Arim straightened in his seat, mentally donning the Albander sense of propriety again.

"No, that's alright, Arim. Under other circumstances..."

"Then I hope we can meet under those circumstances some time. Maybe that tour of Tier?" The nobleman spoke with hopefulness.

"I'd like that." Mirena pushed away the ideas of where she would take this man, when the opportunity came around.

"Then, let us get on with this business to hasten that day, shall we?"

"What are we going to tell the others?" Jaden asked, as they passed through Potter's Square on their way to the Old Hog. While most of the actual sale of pottery had moved to the market district, there were still one or two people putting their wares on display. Maybe it was due to a sense of tradition, or because the street passing through this part of the craftsmen's district led directly towards the more commercial parts of the city.

"Same as before," Rhyce seemed more interested in the rooftops than the people they passed as they walked onwards.

"'Little as we can, much as we want'? I'm not even sure how to begin to explain it." She mumbled to herself.

After walking in silence for a while, Jaden noticed that Rhyce kept glancing at her. While the borderlander kept a watchful eye on almost everything at once, his eyes always seemed to return to her. She couldn’t be sure whether it was him checking up on her, or if she just had something on her face. He would tell her if she had, wouldn’t he?

"What? Rhyce, please don't get weirded out by my manifesting. I thought I had to grab you and fly away." Jaden tried to keep the whining out of her voice. Almost all of her friends had given her that hesitant look this morning. Only the archer had treated her normally so far. Well, normal for Rhyce.

"Not that. Something he said, before he fell apart." Was that a pun? From Rhyce?

"Uh..." Jaden tried to think back. Nerak had been absolutely livid and shouting all kinds of things. A part of her was already scrambling to contain any potentially compromising Lacunai secrets that may have been spilled.

"He mentioned a lich."

"Oh."

Rhyce merely walked in silence, waiting for Jaden to take her time. Time to give him an answer, or to sell him a lie.

"Rhyce... it's not like that. It was just a misunderstanding. I don't work for anyone." That wasn't necessarily the truth, since she now reported to Master Hetagon. The ring on a ribbon nestled between her breasts was a symbol of her new promise. "I just dropped in on some kind of deal between the smugglers and the... a magician. There was some confusion and fighting."

"Lot of that lately," the archer observed.

"Tell me about it." Sometimes it felt like all she ever did was fight. If it wasn’t fighting other people, it was fighting herself. She was so tired of fighting herself.

When they returned to the Old Hog, they were the first ones back to stay. The keeper had grudgingly let them know that some of their friends had been by earlier, briefly, before heading out again. The dwarf set down some fresh mugs on the table with a clatter and scowled at Jaden.

"That, an' one of yuir elven friends came here, esking fer ye lot," the stocky fellow grumbled. Turgar had made no secret of how he felt about elves in general. "Oi don' need more o' yuir kind here, mind."

"Do you think it was that woman the cousins ran into the other evening?" The black-haired mystic looked at her friend for his opinion.

"Likely." Rhyce turned to the keeper, who was looking at them with suspicion clear on his face. "Was it a blonde and pale woman?"

"Aye. Like a ghost bearing sad tidings." Turgar made a face as if he had bitten into something particularly sour.

"Why? Did she mention anything that had happened, something bad?" Jaden asked with worry in her voice. She didn’t need any more troubles right now.

"Tha' she was t' come back. Bad enough in me book with one of ye around. Don't want ye elfing up me business."

"I told you, I'm not-"

"Alright. Thank you, keeper." Rhyce nodded at the dwarf, and brought Jaden to the side. "Might have some time before the others return. How much do you want to share?"

"I..." Jaden paused, momentarily moved by the faith the archer had in her. He seemed willing to trust her judgement, even when she didn't truly trust in herself. "No more lies, Rhyce. Let's not hide things from our friends, please."

"Right." Rhyce didn't show whether he approved of her decision to be honest with the others or not. He just accepted the situation, and moved on. The borderlander began to head toward their rooms.

"Wait, Rhyce. I... I just wanted to say thank you. For everything today. For when you found me in the streets the other day." Jaden sought the eyes of her friend, who had stopped when she began talking. They were safely out of sight from the main room where some of the usual patrons were drinking the day away.

"Would've done it for any of you," he replied, but something in his voice sounded off, an almost noticeable urgency.

"There's something else, isn't there? I know anyone of us would stand up to protect one another, but... I don't know. The way you offered to challenge Master Hetagon, stepped in front of Nerak's void elemental..." She moved closer to the borderlander as if to hear his feelings better. Redwall had changed them both. Rhyce met her approach with an even stare, but she could see the subtle differences from his normal stony facade.

"You took something from me when you saved me from that shed," he said softly. They both remembered what had happened back at the Tassard's mansion, what had been done to the archer. The knives, the brands, the blood.

"What?" Jaden whispered. Her heart turned into a knot. She hadn't considered how her actions might have hurt her friend, somehow. Jaden had only done what she felt she had to, to save Rhyce after Amucia had commanded her servants to take his life.

"You took my pain." Rhyce turned away and put a hand on the wall. "Sometimes I miss it."

"I... I'm sorry." She didn't know what to say. What could you say to something like that?

"Don't be. Your fire burned many things that night. I was just one of those. But fire doesn't always hurt. Sometimes it warms."

Jaden felt tears start down her face. She had no idea. She pulled the leather jacket closer around herself, reminded that she had torn apart her clothes again.

"I should go change." She all but ran around the archer, into the room she shared with Stann.

It was odd, the things you noticed when you were upset. For some reason, the large basket of sausages on the Northman's bed seemed so out of place it was almost funny. Maybe it was the decorative bowtie around some of them that pushed her over the edge. Several emotions struggled inside of her, all trying to break free at once. She sank down on her own bed, shaking with conflict. Why was she feeling so much?

Rhyce watched the door for a while. From the rooftop across the street, he had a bird's eye vantage that told him how the black-haired mystic was doing. He wasn't one to doubt himself much. He had left judgement to others he trusted with that sort of thing, but sometimes he allowed himself to wonder. What had been done, had been done. The present was heavy enough for any person without looking for more burdens in the past.

No, he had a role here. A duty, even. As one Rhyce had died at the hands of the demonspawn in that shed, another Rhyce had been delivered into the light by the mercy of a princess of fire. The emptiness left behind by the pain was slowly being replaced by forgiveness.

Rhyce looked down on his left hand, the palm scarred by the thorns each time he gripped his bow to take a life. When the last of his pain was gone, would he still be able to kill? Would forgiving himself also mean forgiving his enemies?

Rhyce didn't doubt himself, but sometimes he wondered.

He rested his back against the wall, and closed his eyes for just a moment. It was time to remind himself once more why he was fighting. Remember the names. Remember the faces.

A Room in Farcrest

She didn't know how much time had passed. Memories and feelings were all out of sequence. Nothing made sense. Ever since the...

Veranna rolled over on her side, causing the blue streaked hair to fall down into her face. There was a dull pounding. Was it inside her, or was it real? She pushed herself up a little, and immediately regretted the decision. It made the room tilt sharply to the side. There was nothing inside of her to hold her world steady, anymore.

She slowly opened her eyes again. Was she alone? Nerak had been coming and going a lot, saying things like 'it was going to be alright' or that he was 'going to fix things'. He never stayed to talk. There was nobody in the room. Not even her, really. She was more than alone. Hollow.

The pounding was louder. The door swung open, allowing two people inside, and another one who remained in the outer hall. Veranna managed to fix her eyes on the closest. One of them, one of them..!

"What a sad state you're in, Ilduste," said the black-haired woman with the yellow tabard, as she crossed the room. Her face showed annoyance, or disgust.

"Take her. Let the philosophers back on the mountain see what they can pull from her." The man who waited outside spoke of her fate, hardly deigning to look her way. Like so many back home, Veranna had idolised that man.

"Yes, my lord," the woman with pointed ears nodded, and then turned to the third member of the group. "You. Grab her legs."

Veranna tried to fight them off, but she was too weak. She had nothing left except emptiness. They dragged her out of the home she had made for Nerak and herself. It had been theirs. The last of it she saw was the vase of wildflowers that got knocked over, dripping water down on the floor. It would leave a stain.

"And there was no sign of the other one?" The winged mystic asked the two protectors who had followed him when he had left the mountain.

"I heard about a commotion at the convocation, shortly after you left, my lord," said one of them.

"Tarasov. You were there as well. What did you see?"

"No sign of Taseno. If he was there, he managed to sneak past us somehow. The altercation was the usual posturing between two sorcerer houses." The stony-eyed woman made a gesture with a hand, letting the other two know how she felt about sorcerers.

"Very well." Alam Hetagon turned back to the first mystic. "Continue keeping an eye on events here in Alband, reporting back as usual. Get in touch with us immediately if Nerak Taseno resurfaces."

Lilya watched her commanding officer and colleague walk ahead while they went over operational details. She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt a mild headache coming on. The things she did for her brother.

Somewhere outside Carrick Field

The sun had set over the small cottage at the outer edges of the town. It sat at that awkward distance where nobody was quite sure whether it was actually a part of the community, or a forgotten homestead from a time before the town had expanded its way.

It was a humble place. Old and solid rather than the decorative and open design that had become popular during the later generations. Thatched roof and whole timber walls kept the drizzle of rain out. The rain had blown in from the coast, traveling across the country since dawn to reach this place.

A woman peered out through the single window, hugging a wool shawl around herself. It was a constant reminder to her of the things she had been forced to leave behind, the things they had to sell or get rid of to hide here. Surely it was better than death at the hands of the unwashed masses, but she deeply resented having to live this way.

“Close the shutters, Juliss! You’re letting in the wind.” The man in equally unassuming farmer’s clothes complained. It was warm enough during the summer, but the stiff breeze flipped through the pages of his book, one of the few prized possessions he managed to keep.

“I think I see someone coming,” she turned to her husband only for a moment, but when she looked back the figure she had spotted on the meadow was gone. It was too dark to see clearly anyway.

“It’s probably just a farmhand leaving town for the evening. Drink and work. That’s all they do.” Ariken waved dismissively as he tried to find the passage he had been reading.

The baron had barely finished talking as there came as heavy knocking on their door. It almost felt like it shook the entire cottage. Ariken and Juliss Tassard felt it in their very bones.

“Who is it?” Ariken hissed. He had instinctively hunched down in the chair.

“I can’t see. What do we do?” The baroness whispered back, trying to peek out of the small window.
The wind grew stronger, making Juliss cover her face. At the same moment, the door suddenly blew open sending in leaves and turning over the rickety hatstand. The tall figure at the threshold simply watched them crouching on the floor, simple disdain clear in his eyes.

“Grand Harvester!” Ariken scrambled to his feet at the same time as his wife pushed herself up as well.

Their uninvited guest pushed the door shut with a bony hand, and the room suddenly became as still as a sepulchre. It even felt colder. Despite the strong winds, the tall, old man looked almost unaffected. His grey hair was smooth, and his robes unwrinkled. It was as if he wasn’t truly here at all, but only an apparition. As he took a step into the centre of the room, the moment passed. The reality of the situation bore down on the Tassards.

“It is… good, yes, good to see you! We heard such rumours out of Tier. Fighting. Battle. Is it true?” Juliss straightened herself as best as she could, making herself presentable in her simple clothes.

“The Tier faction has fallen, yes,” Jeddhar spoke with that too-dry voice of his. It was like he was dying of thirst. The tall Olman man looked around the single room of the cottage. “Matters were strained in Farcrest as well.”

“We had… ill fortune at home. We had to abandon Redwall,” Baron Tassard clenched his hands. Those… people. He invited them into his house. He fed them. Then they killed all his servants. Killed his daughter!

"If you are here alone, then where did Amucia go?" The nethermancer asked the obvious question. The Tassards would not willingly part with their patron.

"The Mistress, she... They killed her, Grand Harvester." Juliss wringed her hands and looked at the floor.

"They killed Amucia?" Jeddhar almost sounded surprised, as much as his painfully dry voice could deliver. The demon must have had weeks or months to feed on that village, if not more. She would have been absolutely bloated with power. "Who did this?"

"It was a Drigorii handmaiden, and strangely enough a paladin with an errant's sword." Ariken would never forget what he had seen, when the unlikely women had stormed into his Mistress’ chamber that night.

"Don't forget the Northmen,” the baroness added. There had been others, but they weren’t important, she felt. Who cared about some untamed borderlander, or a simple Olman girl?

Jeddhar’s face grew even harder, if that was possible. His eyes were on the fire burning in the small hearth. He seemed to see something in those flames that the other two couldn’t. The nethermancer didn't believe in coincidences, especially not at this scale. It could only mean one thing.

"I see. If I hadn't met that particular group already, I would have flayed you alive for telling such an outrageous lie."

"It's true, Grand Harvester! On my honour!" Ariken stood up to his full height. He had done many things in his life. Many… questionable things. But he always kept his word, and he always held himself to the standards to which he believed a nobleman should strive.

"That changes things. I had hoped to use the two of you to perform a rite of gathering." Without his phylactery Jeddhar was too dependent on his living receptacles. But nethermancy was a hungry tradition, always demanding sacrifice. He believed in not wasting your resources unless you had to, and with his stolen magic running low he needed to regain his strength somehow.

"Without the Mistress, neither of us can be your ritus attendant," the baron's wife lamented. When Amucia fell, their source of power had dried up. It was only through the demon they could work magic.

"I know." The nethermancer considered the alternatives. He could drain these two. They had worked with him before. They had touched the phylactery, and by doing so unwittingly became bonded to it. But that would be wasteful. They were skilled ritualists, in their own way.

"But you could help us call for a new patron, yes? We could receive the dark blessing anew?" There was a pleading in the baroness’ voice. The power was addictive. Losing it created a craving that could not be sated.

“I could do that for you, yes.” Jeddhar could see the possibilities in this. The Tassards were desperate enough to do whatever he asked of them. “But first you need to bring me two things. A blood sacrifice, just like before. Also, an idol locked away in the temple of Kuros, in Rosehaven.”

“Of course. Anything you require, Grand Harvester.” Ariken considered a number of different plans for a moment. Reaching a conclusion, he strode over to the fallen hatstand and grabbed his overcoat. “I know just how to go about it was well.”

"Just in case," Jeddhar stopped the baron with his voice alone. "Here is an insurance policy."

Ariken accepted a small bundle gingerly, putting it into his coat pocket. He had seen markings like those before in the books. Hopefully it would not come to that, but it was better to be prepared. Always have a back-up plan.

Baron Ariken Tassard grabbed the horses they had fled on that night two weeks ago. It had felt like an eternity, but now he would take the first steps in regaining all they had lost.