Horizons of the Heart

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

Synopsis

After a arriving to the golden city of Tier, Jaden and her friends make a point of looking up the man who is most likely able to tell them a thing or two about the various smuggling operations working the midland area. Meanwhile, dark forces move according to their hidden design.

Flashback: Being the smallest and most agile of the group, Oleander is sometimes sent into unknown situations. This time she brought a friend along.

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Chapter 23: The Unquiet Ones

OLEANDER

Their bare feet made a dry patter as they ran down the winding corridor with their breath caught in their throats. The dust whirled up in their wake as they ran quickly, more away from, rather than towards.

"I blame you for this, Jay! I blame you so much!" The redhead skidded a little on the layer of sand covering the stone passage as they rounded a corner.

"Shut up, Ollie! Why did you have to grab that jewel out of the statue?" Jaden didn’t make the turn as smoothly, and bumped up against the wall before he got moving again. He was breathing heavily from their running.

"It's the size of my palm! Why did you make us take off our boots?"

"The script above the entrance clearly said 'connect yourself to where you are'!" Jaden was fairly sure he had translated it correctly. The symbols were old and draconic, but the architecture of the barrows was clearly intended for a humanoid culture. The rune seeker had claimed that in the old days, the orc tribes worshipped the dragons as gods.

"You've been talking too much with Kel!" Oleander managed to yell while ducking under an old stone portcullis that was stuck half raised.

"Just... shut up and run!"

They made good speed for several twists until they faced a split in the passages. Unsure where to go, Oleander looked up at Jaden, her short red hair matted by sweat slick against her face.

Go left

"Right! Let's go right!" Jaden glanced down the left tunnel just once, but shook his head to himself. Following his gut only put him in bad situations.

"The right way is the right way?" Oleander punned as she ran on ahead.

Please listen

The passages beneath the ruins spread out like a mad spider's web, overlapping and crossing through the others in a labyrinthine tangle. Oleander took the lead, scampering up a slightly sloped hallway, her bare feet slipping a little on the loose sand. In the darkness behind them, beyond where the light of their torches could reach, the noises of the things they had inadvertently set free followed them still. The tomb children of the Khuul Barrows walked again.

The last turn led them to a broken stone bridge that once reached across a yawning gorge that plunged deeper into the underground. The noises from behind was getting ever closer.

Oleander leaned forward and peered sceptically into the darkness below, waving her torch a little as if it would make the light would go further. With a grimace she stood up again, and shook her head to her companion. Going down wasn't an option. Meanwhile, Jaden had measured the distance across the gap to the far section of the bridge. Oleander might be able to make the leap, in ideal circumstances, but he surely wouldn't.

"Well, we're not going either of those ways," Oleander nervously looked back the way they had come from. Their pursuers would be there soon. Very soon.

"The wall is pretty ornately carved, you know..." Jaden ran his gloved hand over the surface in thought.

"This isn't the time to admire the craftsmanship of a dead people! Let's worry about not joining them!"

"No, I mean, we could probably climb this." The mystic patted the stone, and pointed up into the darkness beyond where the light from their torches could reach. Further up, there were visible ledges and cracks.

"Huh? Yeah, easily." The redhead peered up into the upper parts of the otherwise natural caves the old barrow ruins had been once been carved out of. With a confident look, she handed her torch over to Jaden and began scaling the wall quickly. Before long she found a natural outcropping that formed a shelf big enough for the two of them. She leaned down and motioned with her free hand.

"Catch!" Jaden juggled one torch after another up to Oleander's waiting hand. She safely caught them, just like she catches the knives she had trained with before, deftly putting both torches in a horizontal crack before hauling herself to the top. Jaden followed her up the wall, going a little slower and taking his time to find a solid grip before continuing. As he reached the top as well, they could hear the first of the tomb children make it around the last bend before the corridor opened up into the cave.

"Quickly, the torches!" Oleander grabbed the burning branches, and hurled them down into the gorge.

"Why did-" Jaden had barely opened his mouth when the redhead held her hands over it. Their perch turned a deep shade of black when the only illumination tumbled down into the ravine. The noise of many feet scratched across the sandy floor, which turned into a faint whistling as the short beings blindly fell off in pursuit of the light.

Suddenly, the cave with the broken bridge was not only pitch black, but also completely silent. Jaden felt Oleander's hands leave his face, and they sat curled up against one another on the ledge for a while, waiting to see if anything changed. They barely dared to breathe.

"I think," Jaden finally whispered, "I think they're gone. I think we lost them."

"Merciful mothers, I hope so." Oleander released the breath she had been holding. "What do we do now? Those were our only torches..."

"Well, uh, I guess we could wrap some clothes around my sword, and light that on fire?" There was a faint metal on metal sound as Jaden drew his Talram blade.

"Light it with what? My bag is still outside the fissure we crawled down through." They had been forced to leave most of their things behind to fit through the narrow squeeze. None of the others would even get that far. As the slimmest of the group, it fell to the two of them to make the descent.

"Magic, Ollie. Magic," Jaden reminded the redhead.

"Oh, right." The Olman girl snapped her fingers. "Wait, could you see if there's a way out by continuing upwards?"

"... we still need to make that torch, remember?"

"What, do you mean you can't see in the darkness? Some elf you are!" Oleander stuck her tongue out in the general direction of her friend. Even if he couldn’t see it, it had to be done.

"I'm not an elf, Ollie." Jaden sounded a little resigned.

"Well, I'll donate my shirt I guess,” she said as she started to pull it off.

Working carefully to avoid nicking themselves on the sword, they tied their shirts around the blade going by feeling alone. When they were satisfied the cloth wouldn't immediately fall off, Jaden held the sword out and called upon his salamander pact.

"Valignat!" Jaden immediately squinted in the sudden light, then glanced at the redhead next to him. "... wait, you had an undershirt as well?"

"Of course! Did you think I'd strip down completely for you, Jay?"

"No, but wasn't it hotter than a dragon's belly wearing layers in the Etrian desert?" He had been sweating buckets even in his light shirt. The desert sun was merciless.

"Shut up and climb, elf-boy!" Oleander commanded, indicating the uneven cave wall. It had plenty of handholds by the look of it.

"How many times do I need to tell you-"

The stirring in the air made them both go quiet. It came from above, a fresh breeze that made its way down into the darkness. They looked at each other, and then tried to see how far up the cave reached.

"We might be able to get out this way?" Oleander said with a hopeful tone.

"Here, hold the sword while I send a Far Whisper to Kellen and the rest. They might be able to throw down a rope or something." Jaden flexed his fingers, and wove the complex form that allowed him to send a message on the wind. It would follow the path the air was taking, and hopefully reach the outside.

"At least we got the treasure," Oleander smirked, holding up the large ruby triumphantly. The jewel sparkled in the light of the fire, promising wealth and fame, and all the things a girl could wish for. She glanced at the half-naked elven boy next to her. His bare upper body was shiny with the sweat from running and climbing. Yeah, everything a girl could wish for.

Redwall

The Ealbourne forest held many secrets from the warring days against the North. Many hidden paths and trails that the Albander forces used to quickly reposition themselves to outmanoeuvre the invading army. Today, most of those passages were forgotten except by those who made their living among the trees, or those who had access to the old maps. The Tassard family had been interested in old trading routes, especially when they were to be granted the lands after the old baron's line died with him.

Ariken drove his horses hard, switching every so often to let the other one rest a little as he kept the pace up. It was a sight to see, what some motivation could drive both man and beasts to do. He had left the miserable cottage they called a home in Carrick Field after sundown, and ridden the entire night. He would have to replace these horses too, just like he had the original ones he and his wife had used to flee their home on that fateful night. It gave him a sour taste in his mouth, having to resort to simple thievery, but it had to be done. The pace he had been keeping would have killed the animals, no matter stopping every so often to switch over.

Ariken set his jaw against the cool wind. He had given his word, and he would not disappoint their only way out of this dank pit of poverty. There was nothing he wouldn't give to claw his way back up to their rightful place in the world. He needed this. They needed this. With the harvester's help they would get it. All he had to do was to twist a few arms and grab an old thing from a small temple in a sleepy village. Nothing easier.

The sun had climbed the vault of the sky and was beginning to fall once more when he emerged from the cover of leaves and saw a familiar, disappointing sight. The small village had so much potential, if he had only been allowed to work his design upon it. He would have another chance, he promised himself, as he tied his exhausted horses in a hidden clearing within walking distance. Ariken steadied himself against a tree as he gathered himself. He was beyond tired as well, but the burning need inside him drove him ever forward. He wouldn't rest until he'd seen this through. He couldn't rest. With a shaking hand, he dug through the saddlebags for the one remaining bottle of milky liquid. He had already had the other one, now only an empty flask rattling around at the bottom of the bags. It would keep him awake and alert for another day or so. After that… he would have to resort to less pleasant methods.

The first order of business would be to sift through the remains of his mansion to find out whether the unwashed masses had looted everything, or if some of his hidden valuables. Some would help turn their existence into something less pathetic. Gold always helped with that. Some of the other items would help him with his plan. First, he needed rope.

Baron Ariken Tassard stepped into his home. It was shocking the changes not even two weeks of neglect had wrought on the proud mansion. It seemed empty in a way that belied the decorations and furniture that had been left behind. The spirit of the place was missing, in more ways than one. He stopped by the stairs and looked at the grand paining of his family, made back in Farcrest before they had been bequeathed these lands. The children looked so different back then, he recalled. The painting, however, had been slashed by what looked like several types of sharp objects. His own face was just a gaping hole. It was a good reminder of how the lowborn were just simple beasts without his direction. When he returned, his rule would be good for them. His strict rule would guide them. A second glance at the painting made him wince. It looked like someone had stabbed his portrait repeatedly in the chest as well. Very strict.

"Positively draconic," Ariken mumbled to himself as he descended into the cellar. Rope, and a barrel.

Ral Sona

When the sun had continued past the zenith of the sky the shadows of the large spires began to reach across the city. The heartwood city, the home of the two people, wore the canopy of the old trees like a comforting cloak. It made up a natural ceiling, high above, with enough windows in the green to let the daystar caress anyone who walked the sunlit paths between the shaded areas.

Housing and buildings were shaped together with nature, rather than out of it, giving each place a unique and living appearance. During the summertime, when everything was blooming and lush, Ral Sona wore her splendour of colours like a bride on her wedding day.

Tinris didn’t pay the exultation of life much mind. He had been born here many years ago, and the city that changed with the seasons didn’t cause the same amazement in his soul as it did those who visited. It showed that one could grow used to anything, no matter how wonderful or strange. The elf didn’t even pay much attention to his surroundings at all. His soft shoes moved quickly across the lit path, his robes brushing the grass that hid just at the edge of the light. He walked hurriedly, like a man who was late for an appointment, and had too much on his mind.

Everything was falling apart. Only days after they had sent out people to look into the matter at strategic points along the logical routes, the accidents had begun to happen. Once was a surprise, twice was a coincidence. But the one that had almost killed Lienide couldn’t be explained any other way – someone, or something, was hunting them. His hand clenched around the scroll he had recovered from the mess that had been his workspace before the water ducts had broken, damaging most if not all of many years of hard work. It was a tragedy he would have to mourn another time. In his hand, he held the translation. It had shocked him to his core when he realised the message in those hidden places. It was so obvious, now. How could they have been so blind? He had to bring this to Ranath, or anyone really. Everyone. The ruling caste couldn’t ignore this. Not this time. Now it wasn’t just the ramblings of an overworked wordshaper. After all this time, proof.

His destination was a modest, but sizeable, building that curled around an oak that had been old even before he had been born. It wasn’t his home, but instead a place where they met, he and his colleagues. A place where they wouldn’t have to be afraid of the truth, and the words they spoke in sharing it.

Tinris didn’t even notice how the door wasn’t locked when he pushed it open and went inside. He looked out through the window, finally wondering if he had been followed. The world looked normal, out there. Light and shadow, living and vibrant. He paced the main room for a while, trying to calm down. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so he finally headed towards the small kitchen area to make himself a cup of tea while he waited for the rest to arrive.

Handling the heatstones, pulling them out of the clay jar and placing them in the oven to heat the kettle, was relaxing in its ordinariness. He reached up to the shelf where they kept the tealeaves, standing on tiptoe to reach. Ranath always put them on the upper shelf, despite everyone telling him not to.

The garrotte whipped past his face before he could react and the jar of dried leaves fell from his hands, breaking on the floor when he grabbed at the thin wire. It cut into his throat, cutting off both blood and breath. Tinris flailed behind him, trying to desperately do something to get free, but found himself being dragged backwards instead. His feet slipped on the broken pieces of the jar, scattering tea all over the floor. His eyes were welling up, not only with the pain and fear, but also with his failure. Warm wetness flowed from where he kept digging with his fingers at his throat, but there was no escaping the shadows that crept in along the sides of his vision.

When his body finally relaxed and lay still, the hands that held the garrotte kept on the pressure for another minute before letting go. It was a little hard to unwind the wire where it had cut into the windpipe. Finally, a gloved hand rifled through the pockets and pouches of the dead elf. The hand paused for a moment, then reached over and wiped away a tear that had slid down Tinris’s face. The scroll, crumpled but intact, changed owners and before the kettle had come to a boil the door closed softly once more.

Tinris’s blank eyes remained open.

Redwall

The children played around the edge of the forest. They had to catch the girl with the braids, since she had been the one to touch the well first. Only by touching her would you win, but if she made it to the old sign next to the road, she would be safe and win instead. The children darted around the adults who were still working. Some of the houses were still a little broken from the scary night when everyone went crazy. Even the witch Lyrissa was helping out. They had always been warned to stay away from her, but now their parents said she was a good person. All they knew was that she made pretty wreaths of wildflowers and sometimes toys or dolls out of wood.

Milas hopped out of the way of two men carrying a load of wooden planks, and saw how Jemime was cutting through the Forrestal's garden to reach the sign quicker. It was brave, since there was a dog guarding it. Milas knew that he could head her off if he took a shortcut as well, and ran as quickly as he could. He ran so fast, that he couldn't stop in time when another man came walking through the same narrow passage between the houses. He bumped into the adult, and would have fallen to the ground if he hadn't been caught in time.

"Thanks mister! Momma would've had my hide if I dirtied another pair of trousers," Milas brushed some dust off his legs. They didn't look too dirty. His mother would probably not notice.

"My pleasure. Just be a little more careful next time." The man was about to let him go, when he tiled his head. "You're Samul's son, aren't you? What luck I'd bump into you here!"

"Huh?" The child blinked.

"I'm your uncle Arik. I'm terribly sorry I missed your birthday, so I came all the way here to give you a present!" The man smiled widely. He looked a little familiar too.

"Oh! I love presents!" Milas was a little confused. He didn't recall having another uncle than Mat. But Mat was often busy in his temple as a priest, so it was possible he had other uncles who had just been busy as well.

"You'll love this one. It was so big, I couldn't fit it in anything smaller than a barrel!" The man held out his hands wide as if to show how large it must be.

"Really? What is it?" Milas couldn’t believe his luck! His birthday had been months ago, but this was like having another one all over again.

"And spoil the surprise? Would you like to come see it?" Uncle Arik nodded towards where he had come from.

"Yeah!"

Milas followed his new uncle into the forest. He could still hear the sounds of the village when they reached a small clearing. Next to a couple of horses was a large barrel. Whatever the present was, it must be wonderful.

"Go on, little boy. Look inside,” the man said, still smiling.

The child ran up and pried the lid off the barrel, peeking inside.

"I don't understand, uncle Arik. It's empty?"

"Not anymore, it isn't."

It was on the second day past Rosehaven, though the first camp they had to make barely counted since it was already afternoon when they had passed through the town. Only one more day on the road and they would finally be in Tier. Granted, it wasn’t an excessively long trip from Farcrest to the golden city, but after a while the miles of coast and farmlands became a dull ache in the backside.

Two interesting things occurred that day, though. The first was during breakfast, when Kellen had finally seen the fish-sausages at the bottom of the bag where they carried some of their food. He was going through them to check for ingredients for lunch, since his turn was coming up again. As soon as his fingers touched them, he jerked back like he had handled a hot coal.

"Wait, you love fish, but you hate demmel? How does that add up?" Oleander asked, looking across the field next to their camp to see if she could spot where the bag had landed. The Northman was very strong, and could throw very far.

"Ugh. Don't speak of those things. Alband has many things to answer for, but those wretched things are among the worst. Sausages should be meat from the land. Pork, bear or reindeer. Fish should be grilled or stewed. There's a certain order to the world." Kellen had lapsed into a lecturing tone of voice as he went on explaining things. At least he wasn’t hurling more of their supplies into the wild.

"You feel really strongly about this,” the redhead squinted up at him against the sun. Tomorrow they would be in Tier. They would survive without meat until then, having plenty of other things to eat. There were always potatoes.

"It's only common sense." The rune seeker took many things serious, but books and fish topped that list.

The other thing happened around noontime, when they had met a banner of knights headed north. When the two groups stopped, Mirena had recognised the leader as another paladin from Tier. Unlike Mirena, he rode fully armoured during the hot summer day, with a squire to carry his green and gold pennant on a spear. The two priests exchanged stories, and even though Jaden didn’t know what might have happened between then in the past, the other knight – Paladin Elmard, another proud Tierin highborn by the sound of his introduction – seemed to have mixed feelings of caution and respect for Mirena. Jaden knew that her friend was regarded as something of a rebel amongst her peers, having basically forced her superiors to send her alone into the field as a punishment for not accepting a safer duty as a temple priestess. No doubt this caused a varied reception when they bumped into her fellow paladins.

The reasons for the knights heading north made for happier news, however. Apparently, the prelate of Rosehaven had requested aid from the temple in Tier in handling the situation in Redwall. Since the demon had been dealt with, there was no reason to involve the inquisition directly – a fact that seemed to relieve Mirena greatly – but there was still the lingering threat of any of the demon’s servants who might be hiding in the Ealbourne forest. Also, there was the matter of tracking down and bringing the culprit Ariken Tassard to justice. Demon worship and nethermancy were crimes that on their own would sentence a man to a life inside the stockades. Both together, however, called for a harsher penalty.

Elmard’s troop wasn’t even the first one sent to Redwall, the previous one arriving a week ago. He was sent there to take over the protection of the village while the first troop followed up on their leads in finding the baron. Apparently there had been witnesses during the night of the battle of Redwall seeing the baron and his wife fleeing on horses, headed west along some of the old soldiers’ paths.

Rosehaven

It was evening again when he stepped through the ever-open doors to the temple of the sheltering hand. Those doors would never close, not even in times of war. No enemy soldier would dare to bring violence into the house of the heavenly healer. It was sacrosanct. Baron Tassard had a sour taste in his mouth as he stepped across the threshold. He didn't enjoy setting some precedence. The fresh dirt on his shoes left a faint track on the carpet, a dark stain against the simple and clean weave.

"Welcome to the temple of the sheltering hand, traveller. How can the priesthood aid you this evening?" A young man in an initiate's grey and white robes stood ready to greet newcomers. His face bore some freckles to go with the reddish-brown hair cut short.

"I come seeking succour. My own kin wishes me harm." Ariken presented an anxious mask, and wringed his hands as if afraid for his life. A furtive glance over his shoulder completed the performance.

"I... see. Uh. Well, only the prelate can offer the succour of the temple. I'll take you right to him, good man." The youth seemed surprised by the request, and stammered his way through the words. He waved at another initiate to see to the entrance while he was guiding the dirty, strange man into the temple.

They walked through the corridors that would take them to the prelate's office, exchanging only a couple of words. The nervous fidgeting of the man finally made the initiate offer some words of comfort.

"You have nothing to fear while you're here. Kuros' hand protects us," the young man tried to reassure Ariken. It was almost amusing.

"All the same, priest. All the same." Ariken stuck a hand into a pocket, and whatever he found there seemed to calm him.

When they reached the unassuming door that led to the office of the prelate of the temple, the initiate knocked a few times, calling through the door.

"Prelate Matrick? We have received a wanderer formally requesting succour," the young priest called, then leaned closer to the door to hear the reply.

The door muffled the response somewhat, but the young priest seemed to be satisfied with what he heard, as he opened it for the baron. The room was as utilitarian as the inner area of the temple, with no special favours for being the leader of this place of worship. Rather, it looked more like a tax collector's office, with many stacks of papers and notes spread out across the desk. There was even some stacked on a second chair within reach. The prelate sat in his ceremonial robes, more ornate than the ones worn by the initiates and acolytes, but humble when compared to the garments favoured by the other priesthoods. The clergy of Kuros proved themselves with their actions, rather than try to impress with lavish outfits.

"The Hand keep you and protect you who would seek the succour of the temple," the prelate said with some formality, his thinning hair forming a laurel around his head.

"Thank you, prelate," Baron Ariken mumbled as he entered the room with bowed head. He had met the priest several times before, and would no doubt be immediately recognised. Instead, he shut the door, leaving the two of them with the privacy he needed.

"Tell me about what troubles you," Prelate Matrick said, removing the spectacles he had resorted to using a few years ago when the letters began to blur.

"Well, you see, I was attacked in my home by strangers. They killed my daughter." Ariken's voice shook. He didn't have to reach too far to bring his real feelings to the surface.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, good man. Would you give me your name? When we know more of what happened, we can see if there is anything we can help you with." Matrick passed a weary hand over his face. No matter how long he lived, he would never understand man's need for violence. "However, is there a reason you did not seek the city guard first?"

"Because I'm a wanted man, prelate," the baron said as he raised his head, looking straight at the priest.

"Baron Tassard!" Prelate Matrick stood up quick enough to disturb some of the papers. They fluttered to the ground like wounded birds. "You would dare walk into the sanctuary of the Hand after what you did? Demon worshipper!"

"Keep your voice down, old man. I've come to make a deal with you." Ariken glanced at the door. It had kept some noise out, but if it turned into a screaming contest he had no doubt temple guards would come looking into the matter.

"There will be no deals with your kind, baron. Surrender yourself, and the gods might show you the mercy you denied your victims in Redwall." The prelate held a hand to his divine symbol, ready to unleash his magic if it the baron gave him any reason to.

"I believe you'll be interested to hear what I have to say. Did you think I'd walk into a temple full of priests without some insurance? What would stop you from seizing me with your magic?" Ariken talked calmly, trying to maintain control of the situation.

"What are you saying? What insurance?" Matrick frowned, leaning forward a bit as if to see the baron better.

"I visited my demesne on my way here. It seems as if the repairs are coming along just fine. Why, children are allowed to run around freely." Ariken reached into his other pocket and pulled out a wadded up square of cloth. "I saw your brother's family. Little Milas has grown quite a bit this last year, has he not?"

"Baron..." Prelate Matrick's voice held the edge of a warning, as he began to walk around his table.

"The child is very trusting. It wasn't hard to steal him away without anyone noticing," Baron Tassard said as he backed up away from the advancing, angry priest.

"You will deliver my nephew to me without delay, or things will be even worse for you. baron, I am... appalled by what you have become," Prelate Matrick said with a sick expression. "Using children as leverage!"

"I do what I must, prelate. Now, if you apprehend me, you will never see the boy again," Ariken took a step forward, regaining some momentum to his plan. "But, if you're willing to listen to me, he will soon be back with his family again. All this just a bad memory, soon forgotten."

"How do I know this is not just a bluff?" Matrick asked the obvious.

"I figured you would eventually say something like that." Ariken offered the crumpled fabric, walking closer to the priest.

The older man hesitantly accepted it, and unwrapped the contents. There was a tuft of brown hair and a small piece of blood and flesh. The priest's eyes went wide in horror.

"Just a piece of his earlobe. Enough blood for a priest of Kuros to be able to ascertain the bond of a blood-relative, right?" The baron had studied magic for a good portion of his life. How the gift had been denied him from birth had galled him no end. He was better than the mundanes. He deserved better.

The prelate didn't answer immediately, but moved his lips in a silent prayer as he touched the half-dry blood. After a moment, his face became a mix of both concern and relief.

"The boy lives, at least." Matrick signed, and then looked with narrow eyes at the other man in the room. "What... do you want?"

"Good, good. Now that we've on the same page, let's talk." Baron Ariken walked up to the chair opposite of the table. The dangerous part was over. If he had been mistaken about the priest's sensibility, this could have all ended right here. Without the dark gift of Amucia, his patron, he stood no hope against a magician. With a tired sigh, he sank down into the chair. Just a little more.

"You said you wanted to make a deal?" The prelate urged.

"Yes. A small something for something. An item you don't want, for a child you do want. A fair trade, in my book." Ariken was all about fairness, as long as it benefitted him.

"Don't be coy, baron, it doesn't become you. What are you looking for, here?"

"Recently, you received an object - an idol - for safekeeping. From Tier. Delivered by a Telum knight and some Northmen? I want it. I want it right now." Baron Tassard emphasised the last words by rapping his knuckles into the armrest of the chair twice.

"The... you must be joking! That dread thing should be locked away, buried for all time! There will be no deal. With the blood you brought me, my priests and I can perform a ceremony to find a lost lamb. We will find where you're keeping my nephew." Matrick was fuming, walking up to the table and slamming a hand into it in front of Ariken. "And you, baron, you will hang."

"You won't make it in time." Ariken interrupted the tirade.

"What do you mean? What did you do?" Matrick paused, eyeing the baron cautiously.

"I buried him alive. In a barrel. You'll probably find him, eventually. But not in time." The baron didn’t smile. This was not a time for gloating. It would only provoke the priest and possibly send him over the edge. This was negotiation.

"You... you monster!"

"You're wasting his time, prelate. Do we have a deal or not?" Ariken pushed on his moral leverage, knowing the priest would have to budge.

The priest stood for a moment, just staring at the baron. Then, he seemed to come to a decision. With a nod, he walked over to the door.

"If we're going to do this, then we will do it immediately. You're right. I'm not going to waste the air Milas has left." Matrick grabbed the door handle and pulled it open with the force he couldn’t bring to bear onto the baron.

"I'm glad you saw reason, prelate."

"I don't care about if you're glad or not. Let's get this over with." The old priest stormed out, leaving the baron to follow.

The two men left the office and walked in silence through the inner corridors of the temple, away from the relative splendour that served to inspire the awe of the Five Temples in the hearts of pilgrims. Soon, they found themselves before a short stairs that led down below the temple. The heavy doors, made to withstand a significant battering, were closed unlike the open entrance. The sheltering hand could also keep you away from harm by preventing you from going into danger.

The two temple guardians, in heavy armour and keeping their flanged maces at hand, stood at either side of those doors. Their large shields bore the symbol of the god, a hand engraved in copper. They looked ready to hold off an entire Northern clan by themselves if they had to. As Prelate Matrick came before them, they stood even more to attention, if that was possible. The priest motioned to them to stand down.

"As the oracle of Etrion stood before the gates of the first temple, remember your duty to heaven," the prelate told the guardians almost ceremoniously. The two heavily armed men shifted a little in their stance, almost as if they exchanged a glance with one another, but made no moves to halt the priest and the baron as they pushed open the doors and entered the reliquary.

Baron Tassard glanced over his shoulder, and saw one of the guardians pull the door shut again. What a life, he thought; having to protect a door in a place where nobody would ever dare to cause any trouble. Until he arrived, that is. He turned back to follow the prelate, as they navigated the cramped passages blow the temple.

"Do you always preach to your subordinates?" Ariken asked.

"I'm a priest, it's what I do. Also, it's a password," Matrick replied curtly, as they stopped before a second door that bore several symbols of protection and warning. The priest procured a keychain from inside his robes, and flipped through them until he found the right one.

"Ah." The baron waited impatiently as the older man pushed open the doors to the inner sanctum. He was so close now. He could almost feel the tides of power leaking out from this vault.

The temple reliquary was a place where the priesthood kept their most valuable items, but also where they hid away things too dangerous for the world to see. Every temple of Kuros had a place like this. It was almost laughable how easy it had been to access. Baron Tassard looked around. If he had more time, he might have wanted to spend days down here, perusing the forbidden books or exploring the properties of the heretical artefacts. But for now, he had a single goal. The priest led him along old shelves lined with various implements of the faith, until they reached a section of the room, cordoned off with an iron fence that reached from floor almost to ceiling. It looked like a cage, where they held the most precious things prisoners.

"It's in there," the prelate said, as he turned the key in the lock to the gate.

"Well, go get it then. The sooner we're done here..." Ariken began, not having to finish the sentence. He was also not about to willingly walk into a cage, if the priest decided that his oaths to the temple weighted heavier than his bond to his family.

Without a word, the older man entered the forbidden parts of the reliquary and quickly found a large ceramic sphere covered with runes. It didn't look like how Ariken remembered it, when he and Juliss had partaken of the rite of binding the first time. The night when they had surrendered their own daughter to the desires of their patron in exchange for power.

The prelate seemed to sense his hesitation, and tapped the sphere as he explained.

"A rune seeker sealed the... object inside. It is not my place to break that ward, even if I knew how to."

"That does not matter, priest. Give it to me, and we can be done with our business."

The greying prelate visibly gathered himself as he brought the sealed idol out of the cage. He faltered briefly before extending it to the waiting baron. His face was a mixture of many emotions, loathing one of the loudest.

The baron took hold of the sphere, feeling an equal weight fall from his shoulders. He wasted little time as he began to walk out from the reliquary. Ariken had only made it to the crypt corridors before the priest had caught up with him again.

"Please, you have that cursed thing. Just tell me where you have my nephew!" Prelate Matrick demanded of the baron.

Ariken looked up from the ceramic sphere. He could feel the sinister emanations coming from within.

"Yes, we had a deal, after all. The lad is buried beneath the fallen watchtower to the old west road. The earth is freshly turned, so you can't miss it." The baron had every intention of honouring his deals. He was a highborn noble after all. He held himself to a stricter standard than most men.

"How do I know you're not lying to me?" The priest demanded, not looking away from Ariken’s face.

"I'm a man of my word! On my honour, that is where you'll find the child." Baron Tassard balked at the very idea of being called a liar. If he had more time, as well as his old power, he would have been forced to show the priest that clergy stood beneath nobility.

"Thank you." The priest looked relieved, but that changed into determination. "However, I'm not. I can't let you leave with that. It has caused too much suffering."

Ariken weighted the sealed idol in a hand. It was almost too heavy. His free hand went into a pocket. Insurance. His fingers touched the smooth, hard surface.

"I was afraid you'd do something like that," Ariken said. Maybe he would show them their place, after all?

The sound of armoured boots approached the reliquary, as the temple guards the priest had warned earlier moved into position to cut him off from every avenue of escape. They had him cornered like a rat. Just like a rat.

"Just hand it over, and I'll make sure you get a fair hearing. Kuros’ is a merciful Hand." The prelate extended his own hand, as if the baron would just surrender himself and the idol.

"There's too much riding on the completion of this task, priest. For what it is worth, I'm sorry it came to this." Ariken showed what he had retrieved from his pocket, a complete finger bone covered in small symbols, and wrapped with a black ribbon. With a sharp twist, he snapped the fragile thing, releasing the purple haze within it.

"What did you do?" The priest took a step back from the slowly expanding cloud.

"Netherstorm. I just tore apart the veil to the realm of the dead. Soon, every dead thing in the area will come back to life." The baron’s voice echoed strangely against the sepulchral walls.

"... but these are the temple crypts!" The priest looked around in horror, as the bones of long dead members of his order began to shudder.

"Exactly." Ariken stepped backwards into the shadows.

A rift in the air suddenly opened, and with an otherworldly cry countless spectres began to rush into the crypts. One by one, the skeletal remains of the holy dead twitched and jerked, their empty eye sockets filling with a baleful, purple light.

The temple guards didn’t wait for the prelate to call for their help, but charged to his defence even as the first of the unquiet ones rose up to shed the blood of the living. The armoured men formed a wall around their priest barely in time to take swings at the first attackers, but the crypts were large and the interred many. For every one they cut down, more seemed to take their place with their bony hands clawing and tearing.

Ariken slipped out during the panic and confusion. Screams followed him as he made his way back to the temple proper. As an afterthought, he pushed the big doors shut once more, barring it with a candlestick across the handles. It was a rush to handle such powerful magic. Imagine what he would be able to do when this was at his beck and call. Once he delivered this idol to the nethermancer, he too would wield the magic of life and death. Ariken grinned widely.

The walls of the temple were thick and sturdy, as was apparently the floors. None of the acolytes suspected a thing as the baron simply walked out. One of the girls even bid Kuros’ blessing on him as he stepped outside. It almost made him laugh right there and then. Instead of staying to gloat, he hurried toward the gardens where he had tied his newly acquired horses. It was almost comical how trusting these simple townspeople were, not bothering to lock up their stables at night. Of course, he could just have bought them with some of the valuables he had recovered from his mansion, but it would have been too great a risk if someone would have recognised him.

Baron Tassard sat up on to ride once more. The effort made his vision swim a little, the side effects of the potions catching up with him. He would just have to endure until he could make it back to the river. He had arranged for transport up the Odar previously, with promises of riches. His saddlebags contained enough hastily gathered valuables from his mansion to satisfy the boatmen. Then he could finally sleep, as he was carried back to his destiny. He carefully screwed off the lid of a small jar, dipping a needle into the reddish liquid within. The needle was pushed into his arm, next to the other ones. The poison wouldn't hurt him too much in such small doses, but the burning in his veins kept him awake enough to ride one more time.

The first watch was always the darkest. The stars were still coming out, and the moon had yet to rise. Rhyce sat down an armful of fallen twigs and branches to feed their fire. Even during the summer, the nights could get a little chilly. The fire would also keep any wildlife away, even though the most they could expect this far to the coast and the Olman border was some boars or perhaps a couple of wild dogs that had made it across the Odar river. The dogs ran free on the steppes of Olmar, where if you got too far north into Alband you would encounter wolves instead.

As Rhyce tended the fire, he heard a rider pressing on through the night. Whoever it was pushed their horses too hard. He could hear the heavy breathing from where he was sitting. It made the archer shake his head. Some people just did not respect the animals that served them. It was a lesson he too had to learn, at a cost.

A black bird landed on a low branch on the nearby tree, tilting its head to look at him with a beady, dark eye.

"Thought will see beyond the visible, memory will never leave you blind," the borderlander muttered, as the second bird landed next to the first. Memory could bring regrets, and thought could be a burden. Some would say it was a curse, but he carried both willingly. Anything else would be even more unforgivable.

After the moon had begun to rise above the horizon, Rhyce realised it was time to change watch. Even while pacing the outer edges of the firelight with his eyes on the night, his mind had been elsewhere. It had found a new place to go at quiet times, an unfamiliar place he had not visited for many years. He was not entirely comfortable with it. The archer unslung his quiver from his back, and set it down next to his bedroll. The weather had thankfully been clearing up a bit the last miles, with the moon finding gaps in the clouds, and no need to erect their shelter. He pulled a single arrow from the quiver, and held it in the same hand as his bow. Until the watch was properly changed, he would not be caught unarmed.

Rhyce knelt down next to the bedroll closest to his. The light of the moon made the difference between the dark hair and the lightly tan skin starker, but those eyes were closed and the full lips were slightly parted with the regular breathing of sleep. In the stillness of the night, with no other distractions, he could smell it. Brimstone, ashes, but most of all he could smell the flower.

“Arise, princess.” The borderlander reached out and gently shook the sleeping woman’s shoulder. “Jaden.”

The mystic’s eyes opened up, briefly lit by an inner fire before wakefulness made them focus on Rhyce’s face. As the fog of sleep left her, so too did the traces of something otherworldly.

“Is it my turn already?” Jaden pushed herself up, rubbing an eye. She was looking forward to their arrival in Tier the following day. They had all agreed on sleeping in proper beds tomorrow night. “Okay. I’m up. Thanks, Rhyce. You go sleep now.”

The archer only nodded in reply, already settling down to unstring his bow. When Jaden was finally on her feet and heading over to tend to the fire, she heard how Rhyce rolled over on his side, facing the darkness rather than the light.

Tier was a study in opposites. A city divided with a history reaching all the way back to the time when the kingdoms of man had first appeared on this side of the continent. It was the second city, founded only after Etrana herself. The villages and towns that grew up afterwards eventually became the nations of today, but at the beginning there was only Etrana and Tier.

Etrana, the jewel of the new lands, became the home of those who still dreamed of the days of the eternal empire. Etrana, the flower of the desert, was where the royal family in exile and the loyalists that had left the old continent behind settled down.

Tier, on the other hand, was the city of golden opportunities, where the other displaced people could forge their own future outside the reach of the old preconceptions. It became a place for the free, unbound by the rule of a single despot. Instead, they celebrated the rise of a new governing body composed of wise and influential people from every guild represented within its walls. Tier, the second city, the golden city, where the people could stand as tall as the towers.

The world marched on, and countries rose from where had only been trading posts or fishing villages, but Etrana and Tier remained, growing ever larger. When the new dynasty of Etria desired to reclaim the old glory of the empire, Tier naturally became a symbol of what had to be conquered to realise that dream. Thus began the period of war for the second empire.

Today, many generations after the fall of the second empire, relations were still strained between the two metropolises, but like two quarrelling parents they did their best to maintain a civil façade, if only out of concern for the children. As long as the Sartekh dynasty occupied the imperial throne, the vassal nations of Gion and Marsantias would look to Etria for guidance. Alband and Olmar were the two youngest countries, who had struggled for independence, with varying degrees of success. Olmar was always caught in the middle, and with Etria right at its doorstep, it had to tread carefully to avoid provoking the dreaming giant. Alband, further away, was afforded more independence, but had its own share of troubles due to the frequent skirmishes with the Northern Lands. The inheritors of the empire hadn't even been aware of any existing human tribes on the east continent when they arrived, and when the Northmen appear from out of the frozen reaches to defend their territories, the settles along the upper coastlands were caught by surprise.

The history of the young kingdoms was a study of misconceptions and bad decisions, built on a foundation of sand and dreams. With the clarity of hindsight, it wasn't so strange that it had been such an unquiet journey to reach the present.

Mirena sat up straighter than usual in her saddle when they passed through the north Alband gate. Even if it was just for a little while, she was home. The towers of Tier welcomed its daughter.

“Stand tall as the towers,” the knight mumbled the motto of the golden city.

“What was that, Rena?” Jaden looked at her brunette friend, who seemed to be taking a large breath as if cleansing her lungs from the Alband air.

“Just a quirk of mine, Jaden. What can I do for you?” Mirena brought herself down to the ground from the lofty heights in her mind.

“Yeah, could you take my horse to wherever we’re setting up for this visit? I need to head on over to the Tradegate market for a little bit,” Jaden nodded her head towards the west, past the temple quarters and the great domed temple of Telum that brought thousands of pilgrims each year.

“Certainly. Just be careful. We don’t know if the Sons of Husk have any stragglers left,” Mirena said as she meaningfully looked across the other people going through the gate.

“I’ll bring Ollie to keep me safe,” the mystic said with a lopsided smile.

“I said to be careful, and here you immediately try to go the opposite road. Very well. The rest of us will see if there are rooms at the Chimera and Hound first. If they can’t put us all up, we’ll leave a message with the keeper there where we’re headed next.” The knight pointed further along the north gate road as it continued into Tier proper. Jaden vaguely remembered that place being not too far from the Green Raven, both along the Archen Way known for its many taverns and inns, where they had stayed during their last visit in the golden city.

“I think I’ll have the easier job. You’ll be stuck with Alisan and Stann,” Jaden said, and both of them turned a little in their saddles to watch how the pale elf was making strangling gestures in the air at the northern warrior.

“Don’t remind me. He keeps calling her a lemon for some reason.” The knight sighed a little, like a mother watching her children squabble.

Hanging back a bit, Rhyce looked to the skies and sent out a quiet call to the eyes that followed the winds. Scout. Seek. Find.

The city was still in the heights of summer, and the bright sun made the towers of Tier into pillars of gold reaching for the heavens. It was slightly after midday when they had passed through the north gate, and instead of circling around the outside of the city, Jaden and Oleander took the shortcut through the temple quarters. Most of it was open for visitors, with only the training areas and private residences shut off from the public.

They passed a group of young disciples, priests-in-training, that carried themselves with as much dignity as they were able to. They looked like young teens, barely fourteen years old, hailing from all over the coastlands and at least one of them a Marsander by the looks of his straight black hair and deep tan. In a few years, these might become the next generations of paladins that would hear about the deeds of knight-errants like Mirena. The world apparently continued moving even when Jaden wasn’t watching it.

"How are you holding up, Jay?" Oleander must have thought Jaden was silent for another reason, her face betraying concern and something else.

"Well, I can't say I like how tight it is, but this bodice thing keeps things in place, mostly. Riding didn't hurt as much as it did going to Farcrest," Jaden winced at the memory of the trip from Redwall to the capital. The changes had accelerated greatly after she siphoned some of the demon's powers to contest Amucia's hold over the village.

"While most women wouldn't complain about having your particular problem there," Oleander glanced at her friend's chest with a little envy in her eyes, "I was actually talking about how you're feeling after everything that's happened these last couple of days."

"Oh, Rena healed the worst of my injuries. I'm okay." When Jaden bit back the immediate response that she wasn’t one those ‘women’, or any woman at all, she was reminded by the strange itching she had felt when the priest had asked her god to mend Jaden's wounds. The feeling had been stronger than the time when Mirena had healed her injuries from fighting their way through the Sons of Husk in Tier. Was it getting worse?

"That's it?" Oleander seemed to expect something more.

"Yeah, basically. I mean, my shoulder is still a little sore. At least I didn't get hurt while fighting Nerak the other day." If the rogue void mystic had landed a direct blow, they wouldn’t be having this conversation now.

"Fine. We don't have to talk about it." The redhead pushed on through the street crowd, leaving Jaden confused.

"What?" The mystic wondered out loud.

When they had finally made their way along the inland street to the west gate, also more commonly known by its informal name, the Tradegate. Outside the large arched opening in the walls of Tier was the sprawling collection of tents and temporary business arrangements that made up the perpetually changing Tradegate market. Smells of spices, cheap beer and buyer’s remorse wafted against them as soon as they stepped outside the protection of the golden city.

“So, are you looking for anything in particular?” Oleander seemed a little more guarded, and didn’t look at Jaden directly. It was probably because she was watching for danger. They had few friends and many enemies in Tier, and the winding ways around the tents of the market made for excellent ambush spots.

“Actually, I was going to see if I could get my sword back.” Jaden didn’t sound too hopeful. She could likely find her way back to the place, if that merchant was still here, but once she got there she had no idea what to do.

“Good luck with that. Stann sent me on a mission to find a new sword for him as well, but he was pretty specific about who to look up. Apparently, he put in a down-payment with a Northern weaponsmith for a special order before we ran off last time.” The redhead weighted a heavy purse in her hand while keeping her eyes on the crowds. “Maybe I’ll find something for myself as well. My stabbies are starting to look worn.”

“Will you be alright on your own, Ollie?”

“I’ll have to be, won’t I?” Oleander finally looked his way, and for a moment Jaden could peer beneath the casual veneer and see that the hurt from the betrayal of trust had not as much healed, as scabbed.

"Welcome, be most welcome, to Zajid's tent of marvels and delights! I am most certainly Zajid, and-" the tanned man with curly, oiled dark hair paused in his speech as he took in his customer. He motioned vigorously with his hands. "I see a welcome face, indeed! Yes, come, come in! I remember you! Akam sal narot!"

"Uhm, hello," Jaden offered as she passed the tent's flaps that hung low to keep out some of the dust from outside. Simple dirt roads passed for streets, snaking between the temporary establishments that made up the Tradegate market. During the summer they were dry and dusty, spring and autumn brought rains and turned them into rivers of mud. Winter was really no better.

The owner of the tent paused a little. The customer certainly did look like the one from before, but there had been some rather marked changes. His eyes flicked down to chest level, briefly, before returning to those rare, golden eyes. Zajid hid his confusion well, but he would've sworn upon the scales of Melat that the elf had been a boy last time. Then again, he had sold the customer a mirage veil...

"What can Zajid do for you today, dear customer? Maybe a nice necklace, set with a beautiful topaz, to flatter your eyes, as well as bring attention to your most splendid-" Zajid was about to gesture to the woman's other memorable traits.

"Excuse me, jiet, but I'm looking for the sword I offered you in trade last time," Jaden interrupted the Etrian merchant.

"Ah? Yes! Yes, of course! Very hard to forget, a blade like that!" The merchant nodded sagely. Enchanted weapons were not all that common, especially not ones that could be traced back to the imperial days.

"So, can I see it?" Jaden took a step closer, her eyes darting around the various displays.

"Of course! Of course. Come, sit down. Let us have tea, and talk about everything and anything."

Zajid put his arms around Jaden's shoulders and led her to the small, round table, and the pleasantly padded stools. They were a welcome change from the saddle, after several days of riding. While the swarthy proprietor busied himself with the teapot, sending pleasant wafts of aromatic Etrian tea throughout the tent, Jaden looked around at the various knickknacks and pretty things that were for sale. Oleander would probably go nuts in here, with so many easily-pocketable shinies.

As their teacups rested on the lacquered saucers, with trails of steam making ribbons in the air, Zajid chatted amicably of various things. His time making a fortune as a winemaker in Imesh until an ill-fated liaison with the illume's youngest son forced him to abandon a life of opulent debauchery and travel the world as an adventuring merchant, armed with only his stories and a smile.

"And that, jieta, is why Risan sink a small boat in their harbour every Founding festival," Zajid concluded another outrageous telling of his legendary escapades. It was hard to tell what of it that was an outrageous embellishment, and what might have a foundation of truth.

"Uh, could we please talk about my sword, now?" The mystic turned the teacup in her hands, so unlike the ones her mother used back in Talraman, but the aroma was reminiscent.

"Of course, of course! That must been a splendid story, how a charming elven maiden ended up with a Talram blade! No, don't tell me. Truly, it is probably for the best that I do not know." Zajid held up a hand to his eyes, as if looking at his customer would unveil the background of the sword. His fingers parted to allow an almond eye a peek anyway. "It was an heirloom, yes?"

"I, yes, in fact it was. It belonged to my father. I kind of need it back." Jaden brought up her coin-purse. "I don't have enough to buy it back right now, but I can give you a hundred crowns if you promise to hold onto it until I have enough?"

"Zajid would never dream to disappoint an honourable customer such as yourself - although he would remind you that it is customary to present a tenth of the value, of which you are regrettably a little short. By about two hundred crowns."

"I might be able to get the rest of it, but..." Jaden took another glance at the Etrian man, and got a sudden impression that he for once wasn't telling the entire story. "Wait, you don't have the sword anymore, do you?"

"Why, such an accusation! It wounds Zajid to see the dear customer disappointed like so! Letting such precious craftsmanship slip through these fingers was the last thing he wanted to do," Zajid held up his hands, as if looking at imaginary sand sifting through his fingers. "But, alas, he was made an offer he couldn't refuse."

"What? Who bought it?"

"It was a most respectable customer, who claimed to be a collector of Talram artefacts and memorabilia. Also, a customer who paid in coin after but the requisite amount of haggling." Zajid nodded to himself. It was as it should be.

"Argh! Okay, I can't be angry with you. I traded it to you knowing that this might happen." Jaden raked her scalp with both hands in frustration. "Can you tell me anything about the buyer?"

"Of course! During the haggling, we briefly fought for the last crown, before I was allowed my meagre profit margin. Very generous." The merchant held up a coin plucked from the folds of his sleeves, it gleamed in the light of the lamps before vanishing just as quickly between his fingers with a flourish.

"I didn't mean that! Name, age, nationality, distinctive features... gender? Anything at all?" Jaden made vague gestures with her hands as if trying to paint a picture in the air. She must’ve been spending too much time around Oleander, picking up her wavy habits.

"Ah, of course! Certainly. Anything else would not be very helpful, yes? Ah. No. Zajid is bursting with remorse, but he cannot acquiesce." Zajid made a big, heartfelt sigh at the situation.

"Why? Did they pay you to keep quiet about it? Threaten you? If so, why did you even tell me you had sold it to begin with?"

"While this humble merchant of irreplaceable wonders was paid most handsomely, it is not that. Zajid just... can't. His lips are sealed, puzzlingly and involuntarily." The merchant actually looked uncomfortable, and a little confused. It was as if he actually couldn’t say anything specific about whoever had bought the Talram blade.

Jaden sat, wracking her brain for any ideas. In the end, she came up with nothing of value. It could be anyone, or any organisation. The mountain had made a lot of enemies over the years, and any one of them could have an interest in picking up Lacunai objects for study or bragging. She had made a mistake selling in the first place. Jaden felt something sour rise up in her throat when she realised that it had been in vain, too. The veil had been torn apart only weeks afterwards, in a random accident. With an empty feeling she stood up and began to make her way toward the entrance. Hopefully she would find some other way to make this up to her sister.

Before Jaden could pull the tent curtains aside, Zajid called out from behind her. He actually looked apologetic, with his friendly brown eyes saddened by how things had turned out.

"Please, wait. I cannot bear to see a customer leave with such a heavy heart. Allow me to offer you a gift! Yes, how about a bottle of this fine perfume? Did you know it was made by blind monks, deep in the mysterious Sorun!" Zajid caught the customer's unimpressed expression. "Zajid may have already spoken of these before?"

"Brought here on the backs of panthers, was it?" Jaden put her hands on her hips, and raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"Yes! Very mysterious! Also quite puzzling. But, I present you here a selection of truly delightful scents. Pick one, I insist!" Zajid put his arm around Jaden’s shoulder once more, leading her to a table laden with many coloured vials of different shapes and sizes.

Jaden paused. Had she even opened the one she got from him last time? Come to think of it, she couldn't recall even seeing that bottle in her pack when they left their camp this morning. Maybe she had lost it somewhere? It was likely, given how much they ran around.

"Okay, fine. Do you have any with violets?" Jaden picked a scent at random. It was the one Mirena used sometimes, right?

"For you, my dear, most certainly!" Zajid smiled widely, his white teeth sparkling like pearls.

Talraman

The room was circular, and even-coloured. Aside from the door and the darkened window placed opposite of it, there was nothing to rest one's eyes on. It enforced the feeling of being trapped. There were only two places: the room, and the rest of the world. A single chair, large and solid-looking, was fixed to the floor facing the door. Strong shackles for wrists and ankles, covered in otherworldly glyphs, held the occupant firmly in place.

Behind the chair stood two men wearing blue-grey leather uniforms and silvery masks that hid their entire faces, polished to a mirror sheen. Their distinctive gloves were studded and embroidered with a symbol all children of the mountain had grown up to fear, a square inside a circle. Mageslayers. Those who hunt magicians. If the protectors was Talraman's military forces, the mageslayers were their secret police, and sometimes assassins.

"Tell us again what happened." The woman in the philosopher’s robes didn't address the person bound to the chair by name. Those that sat in that chair no longer had names.

"I... I already told you. So many times." Veranna's head rolled to the side, her face streaked with dried tears. They hadn't hurt her. They didn't have to. The pain inside was all they needed.

"You will tell us as many times as we require." The philosopher walked to the other side of the chair, while tapping her steepled fingers against each other. She didn’t even truly look at Veranna.

Veranna tried to breathe for a while. Just breathe. Then she started from the beginning. The meeting. The Olman man. The elf that he had brought with him. The chase through the tunnels. The fight. The end.

"Call your spirit," the woman demanded, facing the observation window that was located behind the chair.

"I can't! He's gone! There's nothing left!" Veranna found the strength to shout. It hurt to shout. It hurt just to try.

"I don't believe you."

"It's just a big, gaping... abyss. That goes on forever and ever." She was surprised that there still were tears inside of her. She thought they would all be gone by now, lost down into the same chasm that had swallowed half of her being.

"Very well. If you can't do that, then you can do something else." The philosopher sounded so reasonable, never raising her voice. She only asked her questions.

"... what?" Veranna squeezed her eyes shut. She knew what would happen. It felt as if she could see the future.

"Tell us again what happened." Still the same voice, almost gentle. But not quite.

"I want to see my father."

"Tell us again what happened."

"Let me see my father!" Her blue-streaked hair fell over her face as she jerked against the steel bonds she could never break.

"You have no father. You are no longer Lacunai. You are just a problem." The philosopher gestured to the room. "And we are the solution."

Veranna's head hung limply as she was wracked with sobs. The woman in the strict black robes with the silver trimming stopped in front of her, and folded her hands while she patiently waited for Veranna to go quiet again.

"Tell us again what happened."

The Chimera and Hound sat squat in the middle of the serpentine Archen Way, a part of Tier where you couldn't look in any direction without seeing some sort of establishment touting their food, drinks, or beds. It actually wasn't that far from the Green Raven, and going by the gossip of the Chimera's serving girls, the other inn was now managed by a relative to the previous keeper.

Above even the tall towers of Tier, the skyspire made an effort to bridge heaven and earth. Around the spire several skyships were docked, but it was too far above to see whether the boarding bridges had been extended or not.

During the imperial war a lot of skyships were destroyed by either magic or monsters. Having an opponent with the ability to transport soldiers or necessities quickly, or just the eagle's eye perspective, quickly became a huge advantage that neither side deemed acceptable. The skyships became targets of opportunity whenever possible, and even today, many generations afterwards, there wasn't as many of them around. Some say that the art of crafting the flying ships had been lost, and seeing as how most current skyships were in fact retrofitted military vessels, there might be some truth to that rumour. Alisan seemed particularly impressed with the skyships, claiming how she had never seen them in person before, which wasn't all that strange since Ral Sona did not have a skyspire of its own.

While Kellen was talking about the history of the spires, and how the empire had constructed them in all major cities that had bowed to its rule to bring the countries closer together, Stann saw a number of travelling wagons make their way along the road in the direction of the skyspire. He vaguely recalled seeing them standing outside one of the inns in Rosehaven when they had passed through some days ago. He easily spotted how the wagons were full of people wearing magician's robes, the Arcane Order if he wasn't mistaken. Most likely, they were headed to the spire to catch a skyship home after their visit to Farcrest and the convocation. Seemed like an awful lot of sorcerers, though, but what did he know about such matters?

Before Stann could give it any more thought, a noise across the street drew his attention. There was a group of city guards pointing their way. No, they were pointing at him specifically. Did they look a little familiar?

"Hey! Hey you!" The taller of the guards tried to push through the people walking in the middle of the street. "Northman! You're the one who almost ran me over with your horse couple of weeks ago!"

Stann put on his best, innocent face and made a shrug at the guards. Why, did he do that? No-no. Surely you must be mistaken. The winter warrior nudged the sides of his heavy Northland horse, picking up the pace a little while the frustrated guard hurled invectives his way.

It was later at the inn, where there had thankfully been spare rooms for all of them once the keeper had seen the amount of coin they were willing to part with, when Jaden and Oleander finally caught up with the rest of them. By that time, Stann had already sent out some feelers through the complicated web of contacts worked by his clansman in the leather business. Leatherworking required hides and skins, but sometimes the discerning city folk required more exotic hides. Rothald promised to look into who was running most of the illicit trade-routes in the golden city, but most of the signs pointed already toward the Whitewater cartel.

When the redhead and the mystic returned, even the Northman could feel that something had changed there. The two avoided looking at each other more than necessary, but it seemed more sad and awkward rather than angry. As soon as Oleander laid eyes on the Northern warrior, her eyes lit up and she almost bounced in her steps as she came up to him.

"Hey Bear! Look what I got!" She held up a pair of daggers of a darker metal than the usual coastland steel. The design looked a little different as well, where the blade actually was wider and thicker towards the end than at the hilt. "Dwarven anvilknives! Weighted toward the end with a mercurial core. When thrown, these stabbies flies as straight as an arrow!"

Rhyce looked unconvinced, but didn't argue the point. Instead, he and Stann both looked at the wrapped bundle the redhead carried slung over her shoulder. It was large enough to hang down to her knees.

"Is that what I'm hoping it is, Red?" Stann pointed at the bundle.

"Oh yeah. The smith you sent me to told me he had been working together with a dwarven master ironpriest for the last week. He seemed pretty pleased by what they came up with!" Oleander unclasped the wrapped object, and let it fall down on the table with a heavy thud. The mugs of beer almost fell over at the surprisingly solid impact.

Stann didn't wait for an invitation, and flipped back the rough wool covering, exposing the scabbard and finally the hilt. It was a big sword, larger than his previous broadsword, but something that could still be wielded with a single hand if it was strong enough. The scabbard was wooden, polished smooth and stained a rich brown, reinforced by brass details and a metal loop for the belt. But the sword itself was magnificent. The lamps inside the inn reflected into his face from the clear steel of the blade. Stann felt a big hand on his shoulder.

"There's a beauty, cousin. A blade for a real warrior. Is it dwarfcraft?"

"By one of the finest smiths out of the emerald halls," Stann said with fatherly pride as he ran a thumb along the edge. Even Alisan, who seemed to have an eye for swords as well, appeared impressed by the craftsmanship despite the traditional grudge between her people and the dwarves of the underkingdom.

To the side Jaden watched the exchange with a cold knot of envy in her stomach. She knew she couldn't begrudge her friend this happiness, but that didn't change how she felt. The fact that it was all her own fault just made it worse. In fact, she felt a little sick. Days of eating travelling fare or perhaps something else. Or maybe it was just riding for so long? The bodice hadn't done as good a job of things as she first had thought. She really felt sore in ways she couldn't explain.

Eventually Mirena called them to order, and they sat down around a square table in as private a part of the common room as they could manage. Thankfully it wasn't too busy with only a few other guests more interested in their own affairs than the group's. The two serving girls seemed content to hang by the kitchen door and snicker behind their hands when they looked at Kellen and Stann.

"From what we can tell, our best bet is to go directly to the cartel with our questions," the knight started their meeting.

"Definitely. Also, like I said, they kind of owe us," Oleander immediately volunteered. "I bet I can work some deal for us."

"Let's hope so, little fox," Kellen said, sitting down next to Stann and reaching for one of the mugs of beer that had remained upright. "Without their insight in the smuggling operations in the midland area we're working somewhat blind."

"Oh, c'mon Kel! Give me a little credit here. What's the worst that could happen?" The redhead leaned back and blew some hair out of her face.

"Go away! We're closed!"

Oleander looked at Stann, back at the door, and then up at him again. It hadn’t taken them too long tracking down one of the places Pered Ghaveri operated out of. Anyone who made a living moving goods in or out of Tier knew of the Whitewater cartel, and most of them reluctantly.

"Well, I guess we should just leave. They're closed and all," the redhead said, her voice brimming with innocent sarcasm.

The winter warrior didn't bother to reply, but instead leaned back and set a heavy boot to the door with all his weight. The frame cracked and the door shuddered. From within came some surprised shouts, and scraping of wood against wood as someone tried to flip down the bar to hold the door. The second kick broke the hinges and sent the door flying inside, pushing the two men struggling behind it to the ground.

"Knock-knock!" Stann shouted as he stepped on top of the broken door and the squirming men underneath it.

"Templars calling! Have you found your faith in the glory of Telum yet?" Oleander called, flipping a dagger in one hand while walking in after her friend.

"Oleander, please don't bring my god into your little rampage," Mirena chided from outside. She, just like the rest of them, came prepared for trouble just in case. She hadn’t drawn her sword yet, and instead carried her helmet in her hand.

The group of thugs and lowlifes inside had sprung to their feet, grabbing cudgels and knives. It was a good dozen of them lounging around the room, now ready to defend their turf. One of them saw the gleam of the knight's armour, and yelled to his compatriots.

"Hopping prophets! It's the paladins!" The place erupted into chaos.

Jaden watched as Kellen and Rhyce waded into the fray as well. The archer kicking out legs and bruising wrists with painful raps from his unstrung bow; the rune seeker igniting the protective symbols on his arms, and then overpowering any man within his reach as their weapons bounced harmlessly off his magic armour.

"Guys... Can't we just try to parley with them, or something? We don't need to-" Jaden ducked as a stray chair flew over her head, and clattered to a stop at the other side of the street.

"Is this... usual for you? It seems as if more violence than required is being offered," the white-blonde elf shied from a particularly vicious jab that slipped past Oleander's guard. The redhead spun in a half circle and drove her heel into her assailant's crotch to return the favour. The man collapsed with bulging eyes and some foam in his mouth, his hands clutching the foot-shaped indention.

"I wouldn't say this is how we usually go about things, Alisan," Mirena spoke diplomatically, choosing her words carefully. "However, after a fortnight of quiet, they apparently feel it's time to exert themselves a bit."

"By beating criminals using a table?" Alisan pointed at what Stann was doing. The playing cards were fluttering down around him like square petals caught in a whirlwind of violence.

"'Better bruise than bloody'. It is not serious until they draw their weapons."

"Oleander seems to have a dagger!"

"She's beating them with it, not stabbing. See?" The knight indicated where a man fell to his knees after the Olman girl slammed the hilt of her dagger into his left temple. Mirena sighed a little when the redhead immediately followed it up with an unnecessary kick to the ribs.

Jaden took a step inside the commotion, and raised her voice in an effort to be heard.

"C'mon guys, this isn't really necessary!" A quick look around the room showed that nobody was paying attention to her. Being ignored was something that annoyed her more than she realised, and she began to entertain an idea about doing something about it. "Can't we just talk for a minute?"

"Go back to your forest, you filthy elves!" A wild-eyed man broke free from the melee and rushed at Jaden, brandishing a large bottle, half full with some cheap brandy.

"Oh well," the mystic surrendered, and raised a finger towards the crowd. The imaginary line went right through Kellen, square in the middle of the chaos. It didn't matter, for what she had in mind. The effect was lessened by the number of targets anyway. "Noctophyx!"

A rush of darkness threaded through the combatants, sapping their vitality. Those closest to Jaden staggered backwards, overcome with sudden weakness. Rhyce, who had been working his way back towards the entrance, slipped and almost fell, catching himself on the wall at the last moment. Only Kellen remained unaffected, but his protective runes were flickering as they were rapidly draining. For a moment, Jaden felt a strange feedback across the bond to the breathstealer, as if it was reluctant to share any more of its strength with her at the moment. She had a brief impression of anger and pain, but it faded away just as quickly. With a shake of her head, she returned to the present to take control of the current situation.

"Do I have your attention now?" Jaden stepped inside, her voice sharp and brooking no argument. "I see any more of this nonsense, and I won't be as kind. Do I make myself clear?"

"Y-yes, mistress," stammered a man, sitting up from the floor with one eye starting to swell shut. He kept fidgeting, as if he expected another reprimand.

"Good! We've got business with your employer, Pered Ghaveri. Take us to him right this minute." The mystic pointed towards the back rooms with an imperious finger. A number of the thugs shifted a little, almost shuffling, before a couple of them all but ran off to warn their boss.

Stann stood with his hands on his knees, as if catching his breath after a run. As the rest of them filtered into the thoroughly wrecked outer room he looked up at the black-haired mystic with a mixed expression.

"Did you have to zap us as well?" The winter warrior looked like Jaden had hurt his feelings with her magic.

"Clearly you had some excess energy to work off. I just did what I could to help." The mystic couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow and smirk a little. She didn’t notice how she had shifted her weigh toward the other hip, almost mimicking a stance her sister often used while gloating.

"Har-har," muttered Oleander while picking up the dagger that had fallen from her weakened fingers. It had landed point-first in the floorboards heavily enough to stand on its own.

When it was apparent that the ruffians weren’t going to put up any more fight at the moment, Kellen eventually released the protective enchantment and the runes on his arms lost their flickering, sea green glow. Around his feet were a number of glass shards and wooden splinters, where the improvised weapons had shattered against his magical wards.

"Well done, Jaden," Mirena approved with a smile, as she approached the mystic. She too kept a watchful eye on the men, but her hand stayed away from her undrawn sword. "You handled that very nicely. Remind me to make more use of you if we need to defuse situations like these in the future."

"Thanks, I guess?"

One of the thugs returned, limping a little from where Rhyce had kicked the side of his knee. He cleared his throat, looking towards Mirena and Jaden.

"Ghaveri will see you now," he said, nodding back towards where he had come from.

“Alright! I thought I would have to invite myself all over again,” Oleander snorted, stepping over one of the men who had been hit by the breathstealer’s vitality sapping magic the hardest. In the background, Stann exchange a quick look with his cousin, and then followed the redhead. The warrior and the thief were more streetsavvy than the others, so having them deal with the criminal boss would probably be for the best.

"Go on ahead and keep our hotheads from ruining our chances with Ghaveri's riverboats. I'll stay here with the rest and make sure the lackeys don't do anything regrettable." The knight made a rare self-deprecating smile. "Besides, I doubt I would be much good dealing with a criminal like that. My oath would insist on dragging him to justice, but we have to consider the greater good at the moment."

"I'll keep things from falling apart, Rena," the black-haired mystic returned the smile, and turned to go with the blonde Northman and the redhead into the back.

"Sorry about the elf-thing, mistress," mumbled the man that had been about to attack her earlier. He had his head bowed a little, like a scolded boy in front of his mother.

"That's alright. A lot of people make the same mistake," Jaden graciously accepted the apology as she followed Stann and Oleander.

"... what?" The man looked confused, but then shrugged a little and went to look for his shoes.

"It seems to be strange, yes?" Alisan was lingering by the entrance, with her head tilted to the side.

Rhyce finished stringing his bow, and looked up at the elf with the question in his eyes.

"Such a dirty place, yet I can smell flowers." The pale elf crossed her arms as she leaned on the doorframe once she was sure it wouldn't stain her dress.

The archer could smell the violets too.

Through a series of corridors, they eventually found themselves in a secure inner office. They had passed by several storage rooms on the way. Oleander seemed to be paying some attention to where they were going, and even got a tricky look to her eyes when they finally stopped in front of the last door. Inside, they were greeted by the sight of a mildly overweight man with clean-shaven jowls and a rich green cap covering matted dark brown hair. He was leaning back in his chair, his silk shirt only slightly wrinkled, and one hand tapping an impatient rhythm on the table. On either side of him were papers of various orders and contracts, as well as bottles of finer liquor than the outer rooms would see in a year.

In addition to the thugs that had led or followed them to Pered Ghaveri's office, there was a pair of dangerous-looking knifemen leaning against the wall to the side. They had that look of practiced casual calm about them, but ready to spring into action if needed. Oleander often looked much the same way, Jaden realised. Wariness hidden beneath a veneer of indifference.

Almost cowering by Pered’s side was a miserable looking man clutching a threadbare cap in his hands. With his wild hair, visible scars and recently healed nose he gave the impression of a man leading a life of many poor choices.

Pered ran a hand across his brow, and eyed each of them in turn. Stann got a long look of annoyance, but the middle manager of the cartel saved his true glare for the redheaded Olman. Jaden was spared only a brief glance of mixed curiosity, which suited her just fine.

"Pered, old friend, what's with the warm welcome?" Oleander opened her arms wide and grinned.

"Miss Lockless. I wasn't expecting you here today. Or ever again." Pered continued tapping a finger against the table, a gesture of irritation more than nervousness. The Tierin criminal clearly didn’t feel threatened by the intrusion.

"'es the one what did it! Fortnight ago, bashed into me pub, 'e did, dealing out wolf tickets and broken teeth like it was 'is birthday." The scarred man jabbed an accusatory finger at the Northern warrior.

"You going to make this into something?" Stann glared at the man, who backed down a few steps.

"N-no, don't need no troubles."

"That's right, you don't." The Northman assured the unlucky man.

"Are you quite finished terrorising my associates?" Pered looked like he wanted to dig his fingers into his temples, the way he was rubbing them.

"Not yet," Stann turned back to the man who had pointed him out, and made a slitting gesture over his throat, causing the fellow to scramble back far enough to bump into the wall. With that, the Northman once more gave the Tierin criminal his full attention. "Alright. Now I'm done."

"Marvellous."

While the rest of them began to talk, Jaden tuned out the specifics of the discussion. If voices started to rise or if knives appeared, she would step in to keep things from escalating, but right now Stann and Oleander were much better suited to handle the discussion. Instead, the mystic inspected the décor of Pered’s study, eventually stopping by an unexpectedly well-arranged bookshelf. She even recognised some of the books, focusing on traveling journals by famous explorers and several well-known plays. Surprisingly, Pered even had a copy of the Hand of the Emperor, given Tier’s almost hereditary bad blood with Etrana. She flipped a few pages, looking at the beautiful woodcuts of the more memorable scenes of the play. Soon, Oleander’s drawling voice brought her out of her reverie. Although she had missed the beginnings of the conversation, she recognised cajoling when she heard it.

“So, you see how this should be right up your alley, Pered? Couldn’t be simpler, huh?”

"That's easy for you to say, Miss Lockless. You're Olman." Pered said contemptuously.

"Oh, come on! The Olmar occupation of Tier was over two hundred years ago! None of our grandparents had even been born yet!" Oleander groaned. "Except maybe Jay's, what with elven immortality and all."

"Still not an elf, Ollie," Jaden called from the playbook she was browsing.

The man in the alley drew back as soon as the shouting began. He kept close enough to see a little of what was happening. Even if he hadn’t, the furniture flying out of the door and almost hitting the elves painted a picture even a broken mind would understand. He barely recognised the knight. When he had last seen her, she had worn a dress as she cut through his friends.

When the dark elf stepped forward and used her magic, any doubt in his mind disappeared, instead replaced by anger. She had used the same trick on him, leaving him paralysed for hours. Unable to move, buried alive under the rubbles of a burning house. He touched the flame-scarred skin on his face gingerly as hatred boiled inside him.

It was hard, but he had to let go of his rage. There would be no sense in attacking them now. No, a good harvester waited for the right time to reap his crops. While he wasn’t a harvester yet, he would live according to the teachings of his master. Patience provided the greatest rewards.

The man pulled back into the comforts of the dark alley and bided his time.

"Smuggling things into Alband? That's hardly a challenge. The south border is easier to get through than a Kasman maiden's underskirt." Pered waved almost dismissively, and took a drink from a glass on his table. He hadn’t offered his guests any.

"We didn't ask you if you could do it, but HOW you would do it." Oleander pointed out.

"Depends on the cargo. Small things? Just hide them in the saddlebags of any day travellers heading up from Olmar. The guards only stop larger wagon trains that come through unexpectedly."

"And what if you wanted to move such a large cargo?" Stann countered.

"Hmm. Again, it depends. If I had really precious goods, but plenty of time to deliver it? Sneak along the mountain range. Ford the Odar at the Shelmot Plains, and use the old soldier trails through the deep Albar, cross the Arentine Highlands - avoiding Chander Crossing, of course - and then nipping in through the less watched inland gate into Farcrest." Perel leaned back with a pleased expression, resting his hands on his stomach. He enjoyed watching the two foreigners try to follow his mental roadmap.

"Right, okay. But what if it was more urgent. Say, you carried perishables?" The redhead carefully chose her words.

"Smuggling produce? Or are we talking... exotic perishables, here? Interesting." The Tierin smuggler rubbed a finger across his upper lip thoughtfully. "Probably forget about the borderlands passage, then. Too poor roads. I'd follow the Odar, cross at the old bridge and use the main coast roads until I get close to the city. I would probably set up a station in some nearby village, so I could send in smaller deliveries from there, a wagon at a time, mixed with other common goods. Like timber. There are always timber transports along the roads in Alband."

"What, like Rosehaven?" Oleander had a hard time imagining someone operating a criminal conspiracy out of that sleepy coastal village.

"Probably not. Too many nosy priests what with the temple there. They're much harder to bribe than simple guardsmen, or lesser nobles. I would go for Redwall, or Norgrove." Pered looked at his handkerchief. It had a fine floral pattern that matched the subtle scent coming from it. It was one of his favourites.

"Redwall," Stann muttered, exchanging a meaningful look with Oleander.

"Now, I think I have been very accommodating with all your questions," Pered said, with hands steepled together. "Any... gratitude the cartel might have had for the events that gave us a surprising amount of elbow-room in the foreign quarters, consider it repaid in full."

"Sure, Perry. No problem!" Oleander sat on the edge of the table, casually pushing an expensive bottle along with a finger. "Throw in a discreet boatride up the Odar, and I'll forget to inform my paladin friend about all the black zalach I've been smelling from these crates here. She's liable to, oh I don't know, report things back to her temple here in Tier. It’s practically next door! You know how nosy those priests are, right?"

"Why, you little pest..!"

"You were going to send a boat upriver anyway. Now you just have some armed passengers for added protection. It's a win-win, just like breaking the Husks was!" Oleander left the bottle at the very edge of the table.

"I... You..." Pered was red-faced, and was about to rip his handkerchief apart. "Fine. I'll remember this, Olman."

"Think of me while I'm gone, Perry. Oh, and you might want to change up your business a bit. I mean... zalach? Still? Didn't you learn from last time?" The redhead stood up and backed away from the table, like a performer taking a bow to her audience.

"Get out!" Pered stood up and pointed angrily at the door. Bumping into the table sent the bottle teetering off, breaking and splashing its amber contents on the floor.

Talraman

"This is unlike annulling a normal contracted bond," explained the greying philosopher as calmly as she could to the three men standing with her. "Ever since the Lacunai enacted the presently accepted method of the bond, we have had ways to sever the connection voluntarily or... otherwise, as the situation required."

"How is this different?" Alam Hetagon folded his arms while he listened, dividing his attention between this philosopher, and her younger colleague inside the questioning chamber.

"The spirit bond is much deeper, much more thorough. Approaching synthesis, you could say, especially when the drift sets in. It goes beyond being a magical conduit. Mystics become physically dependent upon the spirit after a point." What the older woman spoke of was common knowledge among the more academically inclined mystics, but she often found herself advising the military and political parts of their government at times.

"Consequences of this connection being broken?" The winged mystic asked the obvious question.

"The natural state has always been for the mystic to die, releasing the spirit back into the Dreaming. If the spirit was destroyed, however... This is new ground for all of us." The philosopher curbed her enthusiasm. New knowledge excited her, since there really was far too little of it when you reached her age.

"Then speculate."

"Progressive impairment, both physical and cognitive. The metaphysical wound of this unnatural separation creates a bleed of both vitality and magic. During this period of gradual weakening, the mystic would be unable to access any magic for their contracts. Essentially, they're rendered mundane." It was really quite ingenious. There were many ways to drain a magician of their power reserves, or render them useless by removing their foci. The Lacunai had always held an upper hand due to how their magical potency was distributed across several bonds. There was really no way of siphoning off a contract’s power directly, without the creature present. But this… wound, it devoured all magic, the mystic’s own or any belonging to her bonds.

"And then they die."

"Most likely, yes. It's possible that the afflicted will eventually stabilise, but any magic ability would be gone forever. Spiritual sterilisation." Another word had appeared among her colleagues who had been looking into the situation. Sundered. The old philosopher preferred the more clinical term, however.

For a long while, they remained silent as the philosopher continued to probe the subject in the other room. Eventually, the subject ceased to deliver any coherent information.

"Can it be healed? Reversed?" Councillor Ilduste spoke for the first time, taking care to keep his face a blank mask. His long, grey hair fell unbound past his shoulders like frozen rain.

"We have some theories to that effect, but most of them are... unconventional. The mystic is weakened past the point of a symbiotic bond. Forcing a new connection would be more akin to possession." The philosopher spread her hands in apology, even though she was quite willing to attempt the experiment.

"An unpleasant idea, to say the least. But something to keep in mind,” Hetagon said, putting the matter to the side for the time being. With a nod, he excused the older woman on behalf of the entire gathering, and then gestured to the interrogator, signalling that it was time to leave things for the time being.

The door to the chamber opened, where the younger philosopher stepped out into the softer light of the observation room. She bowed respectfully to the gathered senior Lacunai, and after a whispered conversation with her superior, left the room along with the older woman. The two mageslayers with their mirror masks made sure the door to the chamber was sealed before leaving the three men alone, following the philosophers as they walked away.

"I am sorry you had to see this, Councillor Ilduste," the Lord Protector said to the older man next to him. The councillor had been informed when they had brought his daughter home in the state they had found her. It did the older man credit that he had neither asked for, nor expected any special treatment for his child. The mountain only expected your best.

"Do not concern yourself for my sake, Lord Hetagon." The lines around the councillor's eyes betrayed his struggle. Hidden in the long sleeves of his robe, the hands were clenched. "The important thing now is to get to the truth of this matter."

At the Lord Protector's other side stood another man, half a hand taller than him, with horns curling back out from his dark hair. Small, black scales adorned his hairline and cheeks. Garen of the Iron Scales was no longer a protector these days, although Alam and he had served together in their youth.
Now, the patriarch of the Tarasovs acted as an ambassador to the Nimbus of Wyrms. The dragons had kept a watchful eye on the Lacunai ever since the great war, before the time of the second empire. Garen, and other dragonmarked mystics before him, had served an invaluable role in keeping the tentative peace between the two societies.

"Envoy Tarasov? Do you have any thoughts?" Alam’s voice brought his old friend out of whatever thoughts had preoccupied the dragon mystic.

"Until we find the other one, Taseno, we have no way to confirm whether we're actually dealing with a lich or not. Her- the subject's account of the event is unreliable at best." Garen looked at the lord protector and the councilman sideways, his horns gleaming as they caught some of the soft light. He was taller than both of them by more than a hand, but size could be deceiving among the Lacunai.

"That said, we hardly have time to devote any more resources to this matter. Not now, when the preparations for the great return are so close to being finished," Councillor Ilduste said, looking away from the sole remaining woman in the chamber beyond the observation window. "Lord Hetagon, how did your business in that city go?"

"As expected. They are a difficult tradition to deal with at the best of times, but they will take any side as long as their fee is met. Which was outrageous, by the way, but for what we are asking we could expect nothing less." Alam made a face. He disliked having to negotiate. He had suffered being the diplomatic envoy under protest.

"Not when we're entrusting everything to them, no," the councillor agreed.

The gathered Lacunai looked into the room where the sweating woman sat shackled. If they were prone to superstition, it would have been all too easy to take this as a bad omen.

"I have seen enough," said Councillor Ilduste, turning to leave. To anyone who didn't know him, he appeared composed.

"I agree. I don't believe the philosophers can get much else out of this." Lord Hetagon began to turn to the door that would take them to the stairs up from the lower levels of the citadel’s depths. "Let us return to the planning room."

"If you don't mind, I would like a moment with..." Garen glanced at the councillor, his voice measured and casual. "With the subject."

"Of course. But keep it brief," the winged mystic said as he followed the older man.

Along the Odar river

The warm summer made the air rise, allowing the birds to circle effortlessly above the riverside building. Every so often some of the seagulls swept down to catch the bits and pieces floating down the river from where the barges emptied the spoiled parts of their cargo. Among those white and speckled wings hid a black bird that never left the updraft. Instead, it kept a watchful eye on the struggling man dragging something out into the bushes behind the house. When the man returned to get the shovel, a pair of boots was still visible sticking out from beneath the undergrowth. The man kicked at the exposed part, before getting to work digging a shallow hole.

After finishing his work, the man stood up and wiped sweat from his face. His red muttonchops were wet from the exertion. With a sense of finality, the man walked back to the house and left the shovel thrust into the loose dirt.

Far above on the winds, the crow let out a squawking cry and tiled a wing. It broke off from the cover of seagulls and headed along the river towards the coast and the golden city that waited there.

Talraman

The door opened once again, after the philosopher had left accompanied by the two wearing their faceless silver masks. Veranna was only barely aware of her surroundings. The questions, the endless questions had left her exhausted. Drained. She hadn't thought there had been anything left to take from her, but the mountain would always demand everything from you. When the questions didn't immediately start, she found enough strength to raise her head a bit. She saw the boots of a man. Not a philosopher, not a mageslayer.

"The elf."

Veranna stared at the boots for a while. She didn't really understand the question. Not that it was a question. It was a statement, but there was an expectation of compliance hidden within.

"... what?" Her lips were parched, as if all the water inside her had left with her tears.

"Describe the elf."

"She was... was kin cealon. Dark hair, lightly tanned skin. She was hurt. Limped." She spoke in broken sentences, panting, with her thoughts moving without direction. It was so hard to concentrate. Past and present began to blur together. "She looked like someone I used to know..."

"Who?"

"Lilya Tarasov." Veranna remembered Lilya. Their classes together. Sparring. They had been so evenly matched. Earth spirits. Desert creatures. Storm versus stone.

"You didn't mention this before."

"I didn't- I can't... Nobody asked..." She lost her thoughts again. They fled from her mind like pebbles falling down the mountainside, never to stop.

"Did she fight well?"

"She was... brave. Didn't give up. Even when she knew... couldn't defeat me." Veranna remembered the elf’s eyes. Golden. Sad.

The boots tuned as if to leave, but instead closed the door. Veranna managed to look up and saw the man as he stepped closer to the chair that held her. The dragon. Iron Scales.

"I spoke with the others. There is no cure for you." Garen Tarasov explained to the girl in the chair.

Veranna felt the strength leave her again, she sagged even further into her metal bonds.

"You can never again have what you lost,” the dragon mystic continued, walking over to slide shut the cover over the observation window.

She felt herself begin to shake again.

"Do you want me to release you from this?" Garen returned to the chair, his voice just loud enough for her. He wasn't talking about the chair.

"Y-yes. I can't be like this." Veranna could barely feel herself anymore. Everything was just falling into the gaping chasm inside.

"As you wish."

The room seemed to darken and the sound of her heart grew fainter. It was as if the world drew back even further from the room, forgot about it entirely.

"Halean." Barely more than a whisper across the dragon mystic's lips. He called on one of his pacts, and in the corner of Veranna's eyes she could see an approaching ghostly figure. It looked like an elf, but paler than moonlight. The eyes were shadows and the silvery tresses floated freely in the air.

She knew she should be afraid, but even fear had abandoned her.

The banshee caressed Veranna's cheek with a hand as cold as the grave, and then began a low, keening dirge. The song reached into the broken mystic, and unravelled the last few strings that still kept her heart going.

Garen watched as his contracted ghost put the young woman to rest. He hadn't done this out of mercy or compassion. It had been necessary. He didn't want to return to this room one day to find one of his own children strapped to the chair. Above all things, he would be strong for his family. That was the Tarasov way.