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It was unusual for Teal to be rushing across the campus alone at this hour, but she’d been forced to detour from the cafeteria back to Clarke Tower to retrieve her book before Ekoi’s class. More than anything else, she was frustrated with herself for having left it behind. Sure, she wasn’t the most organized person, but since she and Shaeine had been sharing a room, incidents like these had diminished dramatically. In addition to her numerous other very pleasing qualities, Shaeine not only reminded Teal to keep track of these things, but set an example the bard felt she had to live up to. The priestess’s reminders had been increasingly unnecessary.

In fact, today she had mentioned that Professor Ekoi had specified their spellbooks would be needed in class, which they weren’t always. And Teal had carefully made sure it was in her satchel. Or so she’d thought. She distinctly remembered putting it there. And yet, after lunch, it had been absent; she’d found it right on her nightstand where it had been left the previous night.

She’d worry about losing her mind later; for now she had to get to class. Professor Ekoi was of a similar mindset as Tellwyrn with regard to classroom discipline. People who showed up tardy tended by become the object of…demonstrations.

Teal rounded the corner of a terrace and slowed to a stop, staring.

Where the familiar path of the campus should have been, she was now looking at an overgrown trail through an ancient, ruined castle, abandoned long enough to have been overtaken by a forest. Slowly, she turned to look behind her as well. Nope, no University there, either. She was…somewhere else.

Vadrieny jangled within her in alarm, and Teal sent her calming thoughts. Tellwyrn’s protections on the University were serious business; it would take something like a god to just snatch her up from them.

The hellgate was obviously opened by a University initiate, Vadrieny retorted. And a good many gods might take exception to us. They aren’t all as forward-thinking as Vidius.

“Hm,” Teal said, frowning and fingering her Talisman of Absolution. She turned in a slow circle, looking around again. “I have a good feeling about this.”

What do you mean?

“I don’t know,” she admitted, focusing on the oddly serene sensation to share it with Vadrieny. “Just…good. It seems like I should be more alarmed about something this apparently alarming, but it just isn’t there.”

The demon replied with a wordless rush of sensations: caution, trust, acknowledgment. She was far from certain about this situation but was willing to follow Teal’s lead.

Teal set off down the path at a somewhat slower pace, peering around. It meandered through what had been some kind of avenue, with collapsing walls of old gray stone on either side. There were birds singing, but no other sounds.

“You know,” she said aloud, “Professor Tellwyrn isn’t going to be happy about this. And I do have a class to get to.”

There was no answer. She shrugged, physically, feeling a mirrored emotion from Vadrieny, and continued on.

The trail wandered through fallen gates into a huge courtyard. The half of it to Teal’s right had collapsed into a ravine which had apparently opened beneath the structures; the left wall was swallowed up by climbing vines, with trees pushing through in several places. Directly ahead was a half-fallen dome of considerable size, with broken towers and battlements rising behind it. The swaying tops of trees poked out through what remained of its roof.

Teal paused, took in the scene, and then set off for the central building.

The doors, naturally, were long gone. Whatever had been inside was as well; the only features on the mossy floor were fallen chunks of masonry from the ceiling and walls. Beams of sunlight penetrated the cool dimness, brightening up the otherwise greenish light filtered through swaying branches. Actually, it was a beautiful space, and peaceful to behold.

And there was a man in the center.

He was pacing in a slow circle, studying the walls with his hands clasped pensively behind him, below the lute case slung over his shoulder. His suit was over a century out of fashion, and surmounted by an absurd-looking floppy hat with a long ostrich plume trailing from it.

“I changed the scenery for you,” he said as Teal stepped cautiously forward. “Actually, all of this is underwater now; makes it hard to really appreciate. The theme is the same, though. One example of ruined grandeur is much like another, in all the important ways.” He turned to her at last, revealing a nondescript face wearing a sad little smile, and spread his arms. “Welcome to the hallowed halls of the Heroes’ Guild.”

“I think,” Teal said carefully, “I’m pretty much attending the new Heroes’ Guild, or the next best thing. And you’re making me late for class.”

The man grinned at her. “Really, would you rather go back to your scheduled courses? Because you need only ask. But if you’re interested in having a new experience…here you are.”

“Here I am,” she agreed, approaching closer. “And…you are…?”

“Oh, let’s not do this,” Vesk said, idly waving a hand. “You know who I am. I hate having to make introductions—there’s just no way to do it that isn’t trite and hackneyed after centuries of repetition in story and song.”

“I guess so,” Teal said, coming to a stop a few yards distant. “I have to say, this is…a surprise.”

“Very diplomatic,” the god said with a grin. “So hesitant, though. You have good instincts, Teal, but you’ve done very little to hone them. Tell me…why did you ever stop seeking me out?”

She frowned, hitching up her book bag self-consciously, and tapped the Talisman pinned to her lapel. “I think you know exactly why.”

“That’s a little disappointing, you know,” he replied. “You really thought I would begrudge you a possessing demon? You’ve read the stories, Teal; you managed to hear recitations of a good few of them. There have been no shortage of half-demon bards.”

“Well,” she said defensively, “it’s a different situation. The priests at the Cathedral were quite insistent with me about this.”

“Priests,” the god snorted. “Well, I can’t say they don’t have their uses, but this new crop attached to the so-called Universal Church are even more hidebound and less divinely inspired than most. Still, you’re not without a point, and I’m not about to pile derision on you over this. As a traumatized teenager in the grip of authority figures… One can hardly blame you for absorbing some bad ideas.”

“Bad ideas?” she repeated warily.

“I think you had a warning about this recently from the Avenist Bishop,” he said. “About politics, power, and those who chase them. It was excellent advice, and by the way applies to that woman more than most, which you should keep in mind if you meet her again. But no, Teal, you may take this as my official contradiction: there is nothing about you, or Vadrieny, that is inherently incompatible with the path of the bard.” He shifted to face her directly, his expression solemn. “But if that is truly the path you wish to pursue, you’re not doing very well.”

Teal gaped at him, barely able to stammer, half-occupied with quelling Vadrieny’s rising outrage. “I—I—”

“Here.” Vesk stepped over to a waist-high slab of fallen stone; it rested at a very slight angle, making a serviceable bench. He seated himself and patted the shelf next to him. “Have a seat, kid. Let’s talk.”

She hesitantly obeyed, perching gingerly on the edge of the slab and setting her book bag down by her feet. For a moment, there was a strained silence; she couldn’t think of a thing to say. Oddly, Vesk’s presence was not overwhelming or intimidating as it seemed a deity’s should have been. She simply felt awkward in the presence of an authority figure delivering a rebuke.

“I think the core of your problem,” he said at last, “or at least the beginning of it, is that you just haven’t known many bards. Most who are drawn to the path will have sought them out by your age. They either attach themselves to a bard as an apprentice or make their way to one of my temples. You haven’t had many good examples to follow.” He tilted his head, regarding her thoughtfully. “But you’ve read a lot of the old adventures, and that’s not nothing. Have you noticed the tendency of bards to be, shall we say…dramatic and very specific characters?”

“They certainly are prone to having large personalities,” Teal said. “I’m, um, not sure what you mean by specific.”

“Well, you’ve noticed the personalities, at least. Tell me, Teal, what do you make of that?”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Honestly? I never really questioned that. Maybe because it’s such a common theme among the adventuring bards in the stories. It just always seemed right. And it makes sense, doesn’t it? Considering what a bard is, what they do… Personality is part of the equipment, alongside an instrument and a weapon.”

“Not bad,” he said with a grin, “and not wrong. But you’re missing a key observation. What I mean by specific personalities, Teal, is archetypal personalities. Think of the bards you’ve read about. They tend to fit one of the classic roles that occurs in stories. The wise old man, the spoiled princess, the dashing scoundrel. Of the two you’ve met since attending the University, we find the helpful merchant with a surprisingly important side-quest and the incorrigible asshole with a hidden heart of gold.”

“Ass… Hidden…” Her eyebrows rose further. “Surely you’re not talking about Weaver?”

The god winked. “Well, it wouldn’t be hidden if just everybody got a look at it, now would it? But back on point, Teal, there is a reason for this. It’s something not generally discussed outside invested members of the faith, but I’m going to spill the beans because this is an important lesson that you’re missing, and that the lack of which is going to lead you into trouble.” His expression grew more serious. “Most bards very deliberately and specifically craft their personal image, with the same care they put into crafting a personal instrument. Or, as you mention, a weapon, though not all have that particular skill, or need it. Image is another matter. The bard’s personality is made in the general form of something that anyone who has heard the stories will recognize. Or, in many cases, even someone who’s never heard a story in their life, though it’s blessedly rare to find such a deprived soul. Those stories are deeply held in the recesses of the mind, of all minds. They are primal archetypes, and wearing them like a suit of armor encourages everyone the bard meets to fit them into a role in the great drama of life.”

“Why?” Teal asked softly when he paused.

Vesk let out a soft sigh, turning to gaze abstractly at the far wall of the ruined chamber. “Because, Teal, by taking charge of their own story, their own characterization, they can avoid becoming the hero of whatever piece they happen to be in. It seems counterintuitive, doesn’t it? Everyone wants to be the hero—in fact, almost everyone thinks they are, and that their own little story is the world. The difference is that bards, specifically, are the ones who know how stories work. They’re the ones who understand that no one…” He turned again to gaze solemnly at her. “No one suffers like a hero.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” she said, frowning. “Or maybe… Maybe I understand and it’s not making sense. Not to contradict you, but the world just doesn’t run on story logic.”

“Well, not this one, no,” he mused, leaning backward to gaze thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “There are younger universes where the rules of… Well, that’s neither here nor there.” Vesk straightened up, turning back to her again. “We can talk on and on about souls and cognitive functions, but in the end, what makes people different from lesser animals is narrative. There are plenty of sapient creatures in the rosters of livestock and vermin. Elephants and orcas, rats and crows… But they don’t build things, redefine their environments, re-shape the world around them to suit their own imaginations. Only people do that, and what makes the difference is story.

“Narrative, archetypes…no, these aren’t physical things. In the absence of people, they not only mean nothing, they don’t even exist. They are not expressions of the nature of the world, but rather of the architecture of the minds of that specific class of beings who re-shape reality, and that makes them part of the world.” He grinned with barely restrained enthusiasm. “Subjective physics, the imposition of made-up patterns on the concrete universe. Story, Teal, is the original magic. It’s the primal force of change, of originality, of creation. And you cannot escape from it. Every thought you have, every interaction you have with other beings, is guided by that common understanding of narrative. That’s why a bard must learn and deeply understand that language, know all the classic plots, the old archetypes, the stock characters. Regardless of what the world actually, physically is, everyone is living in a world of story. And you had better believe that story shapes your life, just as it does the lives of everyone around you. To be a bard is to be one who has the knowledge, the power, and the responsibility to actively guide that re-shaping, rather than bumbling along as the hapless protagonist in your own rambling, poorly-constructed fairy tale.”

“Wow,” she breathed, staring at him wide-eyes. “I mean…wow. How come nobody writes this stuff down?”

“Oh, people have,” he said, shrugging. “It’s a little…well. Every god and all their followers could tell you in exact detail how their particular obsession is what truly shapes the world. The fact that you find this revelation profound says a lot about your own mindset; lots of people stumble across the idea in one place or another and brush it off as grandstanding bardic nonsense. It is what it is, though, Teal. And with that in mind, let’s talk about you.”

“I suddenly feel very nervous,” she confessed.

“Good,” he said seriously. “You’re the daughter of privilege, who nevertheless grew up tasting social ostracism for something you couldn’t help. You tamed an attacking archdemon with the power of love—and honestly, I wouldn’t even write that story, it’s so improbably sappy—went on to attend what you acknowledge is a school for heroes, won the heart of an exotic noblewoman.” He shook his head sadly. “Teal, you’ve got protagonist written all over you. By this point, you’re inescapably the hero of the piece. And for all the traumas you’ve survived, you have not yet come to the point where everything completely falls apart around you. That fact should make you very nervous.”

“I think I need to sit down,” she said tremulously.

“You are sitting down,” he pointed out.

“Not hard enough.”

Vesk grinned, and patted her on the shoulder. “If I had one piece of advice for you, young bard, it’s to get on top of this pronto. Occasionally, a bard comes along who is the hero of the story, but unlike most heroes they know it and do it deliberately. And someone with a bard’s knowledge of story has to be a little bit crazy to want that. Far from crazy, you’re remarkably level-headed considering all that’s been piled on your plate.”

“Maybe I should just run with it,” she murmured, kicking her feet against the stone. “Is that…arrogant?”

“Of course it is, but never let that stop you. Grandiosity is a bard’s bread, butter, and replacement fiddle strings. Just be aware of what you’re getting into if you truly want to embrace that route. First of all, you’ll find yourself competing with your entire social circle. I mean, really, you’ve got three paladins, two of whom are half-bloods with mysterious origins. A rogue princess standing on the cusp of historical upheaval. The tortured demigoddess trying to fuse wild nature with tame humanity, and of course, Fross. Great me in fancy breeches, that pixie’s got a hell of a tale to tell, and it’s only just begun. Your ladyfriend’s modest outlook is probably her best hope of escaping a truly brutal narrative slap-down.”

Teal swallowed hard, unable to find words. Vadrieny was a knot of attentive tension, not venturing any argument now, but unhappy with what she was hearing.

“A hero,” Vesk continued more softly, “may or may not stop to help another hero in need, depending on the situation, but they will reliably drop what they’re doing to rain destruction on anyone who threatens their plucky comic relief. If you’re going to surround yourself with powerful, important people, the smartest thing you can possibly do is to very carefully and deliberately subordinate yourself to them. Don’t mistake that for weakness; what marks a skilled bard is the ability to remain in control of a situation in which they wield no actual power.”

“I don’t want to rain destruction on anyone,” she said in a small voice. “Ever.”

Vesk nodded. “Well, that’s another thing, Teal. I will never criticize you for being a pacifist; you’ll find more of those in the histories of Veskers than Omnists and Izarites combined.”

“I think that’s a slight exaggeration,” she said with the ghost of a smile.

“Not in the least,” he said solemnly. “The fact that nearly all Omnists and Izarites are pacifists is beside the point: hardly any of them make it into the histories. It takes a bard to pull that off, and quite a few have. No, Teal, what I have to criticize you for is being one of the worst pacifists I’ve ever seen.”

“Excuse me?” she exclaimed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Think about it. How’s it usually gone for you, this last year and a half, when you keep finding yourself in conflict? Do you use your wits and guile to manipulate your enemies and your situation so that you avoid fights? Or do you continually let yourself get backed into corners and have to unleash your invincible, unstoppable counterpart to crack heads like some Stalweiss barbarian out of an offensively cliché penny dreadful?”

He lifted his eyebrows, gazing at her expectantly, and after a moment Teal had to drop her eyes in shame. “I… I just… I tried.”

“I know, Teal. And it isn’t that you aren’t trying hard enough, never think that. It’s just that you’re not trying the right things. In a way, having Vadrieny to fall back upon is one of the worst things someone with your convictions could have. Most people are forced to adapt themselves more aggressively; you have a luxury of nigh-invincibility that deprives you of that motivation.”

“It’s just that… You’re talking about manipulating people. Everyone. Enemies…friends. Family. Everyone. I don’t think I can live that way.”

“Okay,” he said with a shrug. “Then drop the pacifist thing and roll with that.”

“What?”

“The world’s violent, Teal. So are an awful lot of the people in it. You want to get through it without fighting? Then you’ll have to use guile. Lots and lots of guile, at every opportunity. That’s simply all there is to that. When you talk about living in peace, what you mean is imposing your will upon a world that very much doesn’t want to live that way. It’s the sword or the savvy. Pick one; you cannot exist without making that choice, and the choices you make by failing to make them on purpose always wind up being the wrong ones. Up to this point you’ve defaulted to the sword without truly understanding or taking responsibility for your own story. That’s a very weak position to be in, Teal. And to be perfectly frank, you’re better than this.”

She hunched her shoulders, staring down at her feet, and concentrated on holding back tears that suddenly wanted to come. Vadrieny extended a mental hug over her.

The thing is, love…he isn’t wrong.

“I know,” she whispered.

The god draped an arm around her and gave her a gentle, affectionate little jostle. “This is my edict: you, and your partner, are welcome in my temples and among my people. I know you don’t have the luxury of traveling around while under Arachne’s care, but there are opportunities even where you are to start shaping your own story, and your own character. Your friends are a great source of insight that you haven’t taken advantage of. Trissiny started it off by teaching you to fight without inflicting harm, but remember how she had to practically bully you into trying? She’s the only one of your little circle who’d be willing and motivated to do so. Gabriel and especially Toby have a lot of lessons they can teach you about coping in a hostile world without exercising force. Frankly none of you kids appreciate the amount of restraint Juniper exercises every day of her life. And, of course, you have a brilliant and vitally important tutor in the arts of guile in Ravana Madouri.”

Teal stiffened. “She…that one. You’re asking more than I think I can stomach.”

“Let’s call it what it is, Teal,” he said dryly. “Your antipathy toward her is projected guilt. You saw her exercise absolute cold-blooded cunning, and she saved you, your lover and your family in the process. That’s what you can’t stand.”

“I think that’s overstating it,” she said stiffly. “Duke Madouri did not appreciate what he was messing with.”

“Oh, to be sure, I don’t think anything he had prepared would have held Vadrieny down in the long run. But as Trissiny has told you—with characteristic asperity—you and your demon aren’t great at shielding others. You’d have lost someone you loved that night if Ravana hadn’t been such a cunning little snake.” Gently, he placed a fingertip under her chin and lifted her face. “And Teal, if you want to be a bard, it should always be you taking subtle control of that situation, not lashing out with your demon’s claws once it goes so far that you have no other options. Whatever Ravana’s character flaws—and yes, they are considerable—you are blaming her for your own issues, and that is wildly unfair to both of you.”

She swallowed and nodded, unable to form words.

“Educate yourself, bard,” he said, squeezing her shoulders once, then released her and stood. “If you’re willing to attach yourself to me as a devotee, you may consider that a divine command. I see absolutely vast potential in you, kiddo. I’m not going to watch you continuing to waste it. Work on this.”

“I…yes, sir,” she said, nodding, and brushed tears away from her eyes with her sleeve.

Vesk smiled kindly at her. “I’ll talk to you again, Teal, that’s a promise. And I look forward to watching your progress. Now, I’ve made you late enough for class—don’t worry, I’ll leave you with a note for Professor Ekoi.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not—” Teal broke off, blinking and looking around.

She was standing outside the building in which her magic class was already in session, satchel slung over one shoulder. In her hand was a thin envelope of yellowish parchment, sealed with a golden lute symbol that glowed faintly even in the sunlight.

“…necessary.”

“Fairies and demons are both a simpler and more complicated matter than arcane constructs,” Professor Ekoi said, pacing slowly up and down the dais. “The underlying principles we previously discussed are the same: the composition of each determines the relationship of magical and physical properties, which varies widely by type of being. They can be understood as extremely complex standing enchantments, in that regard. The central difference is that while demons and fae are species which can be studied and cataloged via naturalistic principles, there are no naturally reproducing arcane entities. Such beings are created, without exception. A different method is therefore necessary to examine them—and it necessitates a firm grasp of the principles of arcane magic to apply, obviously.”

Everyone turned in their seats as the door on the upper wall of the classroom eased open and Teal peeked warily in. Shaeine allowed a rare expression of relief to flitter across her face.

“Miss Falconer,” Professor Ekoi said in a wry tone. “Welcome.”

“Hi,” Teal said, stepping in and pushing the door shut behind her. “Sorry I’m tardy, Professor. I, uh, have a note…”

She took a few steps forward, holding out the envelope, but Ekoi forestalled her with an upheld hand.

“That won’t be necessary, Falconer. I advise you to give that to Professor Tellwyrn as soon as possible, and do not open it. You may tell your new acquaintance, when next you see him, that I enjoy practical jokes as he well knows, but it is not appropriate to disrupt my class with such amusements.”

“Um…okay.”

“Are you quite all right, Falconer?” the Professor asked more mildly. “It can be a disorienting experience. If you would like to visit Miss Sunrunner…”

“Ah, thanks, Professor, but I’d sort of rather just attend class as usual.”

“Very good, then,” Ekoi said, nodding. “Take your seat, if you please.”

“Wait, hang on,” Gabriel protested. “What happened?”

“I have no doubt that you will all be informed of these events, Mr. Arquin,” Professor Ekoi stated, her tail twitching in annoyance, “when you are no longer in my class. You’re not the one who was…delayed; it is very peculiar indeed that you seem to be the one most perturbed. If I may continue?”

Gabriel folded his hands neatly on his desk and gave her a saccharine smile as Teal slipped into her own seat.

Professor Ekoi resumed her slow pacing. “Now then, while arcane-derived entities are highly individual, with a sufficient grasp of the principles of arcane enchanting, it is possible to make educated deductions about their nature based on several standard rules. Not that these rules are without exceptions; they provide a starting point of examination, not freedom from the need to exercise deductive reasoning. To begin with…”

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10 – 20

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“If this is to prank on me, I strangling you,” Scorn warned.

Iris sighed; after the fifth repetition of these threats in which their fulfillment failed to materialize, they were notably less unnerving. “Well, you didn’t have to come, Scorn. It was an invitation, not a command.”

“No one is give me command!”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Iris said, rolling her eyes. Positioned as she was in the front, her eyes were safely out of Scorn’s field of view. She didn’t lack for confirmation that the demon was following, between her heavy footfalls and the constant rattle of her various bangles, bracelets and necklaces.

Fortunately, they were nearing their destination. Iris had veered as far to the right as possible on the way down the mountain, which of course forced them to hike through the grass rather than using either of the convenient paths, but the mountain’s broad base made it possible to reach the bottom without actually stepping into Last Rock—and bringing Scorn into Last Rock seemed like a bad idea, considering the loud arguments which had ensued when Trissiny had ultimately refused to take her there yesterday. There was, in fact, a very faint trail worn through the grass here; it wasn’t nearly as commonly used as the paved paths, but marked the route taken by student groups headed into the Golden Sea. In theory, that happened only once a semester, but University sanctioned trips were far from the only reason students left the campus without going into town.

“Right around here,” Iris said, glancing back at the towering demon with a forced little smile as they reached the level of the prairie. For the most part, the gentler side of the mountain eased smoothly into the ground, but there was an upthrust outcropping of rock, here, separating the grassy slope from the base of the mountain’s craggy and nearly vertical northwestern face. Scorn just snorted, but kept following.

Once around the natural barrier, however, their destination was apparent. The ground swelled here, rising slightly into a low hillock abutting the mountain’s base; a small thicket of stubborn bushes and stunted trees clung to the edge of the rocks, creating several hidden little spots which were favored canoodling spaces for students and townies alike. Far above, the alarming spectacle of Clarke Tower extended from the peak of the mountain; considering the slight elevation, this area had a beautiful view out into the infinite horizon of the Golden Sea, unmarred by the town.

A table had been set up on the little hill. Not a portable, folding table; it was a dainty little thing, relatively, but carved from solid oak and had clearly taken some doing to bring out here. A white linen cloth was laid over it, a subtle bouquet of flowers in its center, and a bottle of wine set to one side, surrounded by empty wineglasses and a plate of small cookies. Two matching carved chairs sat nearby, as well as a sturdier armchair.

“Ah, ladies!” Ravana Madouri said, waving to them as they appeared. “There you are! Please, join us. Scorn, I’m so glad you agreed to come—it’s such a pleasure to see you. Please, make yourself comfortable!”

Iris glided forward and settled herself daintily into the wooden chair beside Ravana’s, leaving the larger one for their guest. Scorn approached more slowly, enough that she barely rattled, studying the setup through narrowed eyes.

“What is this?” she demanded. “Why out here? You can have snacks on the school. If you are to luring me out for a trick…”

“Oh, nothing so sinister, I assure you,” Ravana said with a light laugh. “It’s just that alcohol is prohibited on campus—and as I have discovered, that is a rule one cannot simply break, and it’s a crime to waste a good vintage trying. No, one must unfortunately venture down here to the surface, as it were, to enjoy a glass of wine, which is one of civilization’s truest gifts. And as it seemed unwise to escort you into the town itself without the blessing of your friends, this was the only feasible way to include you! Don’t worry, it was no trouble at all.”

Scorn arrived at the table but made no move to seat herself, still squinting suspiciously. “Why you are not have class?”

“Introduction to Alchemy with Professor Rafe is scheduled for this hour,” Ravana said primly. “The Professor has suddenly canceled class, leaving us with a free period.”

Scorn frowned. “He is cancel…why?”

“Because,” Ravana said with a calm smile, “I bribed him to, with a pea-sized vial of hellhound breath. Believe me, that is the largest quantity obtainable without hiring mercenaries and spilling significant blood, and even that much cost more than any structure on the campus. Please, Scorn,” she added in a gentler tone. “Sit down.”

Finally, her uncertain expression calming only slightly, the demon lowered herself into the armchair with a last soft clatter of beads. Despite the way it dwarfed the other furniture present, it was barely serviceable to contain her, and creaked in protest under her weight.

Ravana, meanwhile, busied herself prying the cork from the wine bottle and pouring a judicious measure into each glass. “I think you’ll enjoy this vintage. I understand you have a preference for strong flavors—this is actually an elven wine, and they have different priorities. Grove vintages aren’t favored by most wine snobs in Imperial society, though I fear I must disagree with them. It is rather sweeter than one generally prefers in a red, true, but also has a distinctive yet subtle tartness which human vintners are rarely able to produce, and offsets the flavor beautifully, preventing it from becoming cloying. I believe the disdain shown by so many of my fellow enthusiasts is little more than bitterness that our race hasn’t managed to reproduce such flavors.”

Having finished pouring, she set aside the bottle and picked up her own glass, pausing to sniff it before taking a tiny sip and closing her eyes momentarily to savor the drink. Iris followed suit more slowly, her reproduction of Ravana’s behavior slightly halting and punctuated with glances at the other girl.

Scorn grunted and snatched up the remaining glass, tipping its contents into her mouth in one go. She swallowed convulsively, a trickle of scarlet liquid escaping to run down her chin. “Hn! Good stuff. Weak, but pleasing for taste.” Absently, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing traces of wine across both her skin and the numerous bracelets on that arm.

Watching her, Ravana winced as if pained.

“So, thank you for booze,” Scorn said brusquely, slamming the delicate wineglass down on the table hard enough to set it rocking. “Now you are tell me what you really want, yes? Or going to think I am suddenly nice by you for no reasoning?”

Iris frowned. “Um…what?”

“Your Tanglish needs some work, still, Scorn,” Ravana said calmly after another dainty sip of her wine. “There seems to be nothing wrong with your intelligence. Why is it you haven’t attempted to further your command of the grammar?”

The Rhaazke leaned forward over the table, baring her fangs. “Listen here, tiny girl. I am not come all the way down the mountain at being insulted by little vrekhshentmi. Maybe if your tongue is not better behave, I pull it off you. Yes?”

“Now, that is an interesting proposal.” Ravana set down her wineglass and folded her hands in her lap, regarding the towering demon in perfect serenity, while Iris stared up at her in clear alarm. “Let us pursue that hypothetical action. Suppose you ripped my tongue out. What would happen then?”

“You being quiet,” Scorn snorted, settling back in her chair.

“Of course, briefly,” Ravana said, nodding. “And after that?”

“After?” The demon shrugged in annoyance. “Who is care after? Is done.”

“Well, first of all,” said Ravana, “Iris here would apply healing magic to ensure I did not bleed to death. Unless, of course… Well, this is your scenario—would you prevent her from doing so?”

Scorn was frowning down at her in increasing confusion now. “I—what? Why I care? No, she can do…”

“All right, then,” Ravana continued. “First, on-the-spot healing, and then I would have to leave the campus for tissue regeneration treatments. It is dicey work, repairing severe damage to delicate organs, but actually regenerating a limb removed wholesale is comparatively easy. Expensive work, of course, as one has to contract a very competent fae healer, who are not common among humans, but for someone with access to my resources, not a hardship. So! All told, this would cost me some severe pain and a few weeks of missed schooling—and, of course, a ruined dress, as blood is highly unfriendly to fabric—and then I would be right back where I was, no worse for the wear.”

Scorn’s eyes narrowed to slits. “So?”

Ravana smiled coyly. “But that’s just me. What do you think would happen to you while all this was going on?”

The demon stiffened. “If you are to threaten me—”

“Please.” Ravana held up a hand. “I’ve not intention of doing anything to you at all. We are merely discussing a hypothetical scenario—which you proposed, I might add. Indulge me for a moment. In this scene, you have just brutally assaulted me. What happens to you immediately after that.”

Scorn clenched her hands on the arms of the chair, shifting nervously. “I don’t—why is matter?”

“Well, there is the issue of your friends,” Ravana said ruminatively. “I rather think Teal, and by extension Vadrieny, might be inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt. Miss Falconer has a low opinion of me, I fear. Trissiny, though… I cannot say how she would react to such a thing, but I highly doubt you would enjoy it. Of course,” she carried on over Scorn’s nascent objections, “all that would very likely be moot. After such an attack upon a student of the University, Professor Tellwyrn would immediately descend upon you. Immediately, and with terrifying finality.”

“All right, fine,” Scorn huffed, folding her arms and slumping back into the armchair hard enough to rock it momentarily backwards. “I not kills you, or rip off your tongue. Happy, then? We can put down the talk?”

“Forgive me, but you have misunderstood my intention,” Ravana said calmly. “I am not attempting to shut you up, Scorn; after inviting you all the way down here for wine, I am quite interested in having a conversation with you. Do try the cookies, by the way—they are a rather cheap mass-produced brand, but I confess I enjoy them immensely. Once in a while, even craven industrialists stumble upon a perfect recipe. I anticipate with great glee feeding these to some of my peers who would not ordinarily deign to eat anything not prepared by a private chef. But to continue! Let us carry this hypothetical in a different direction. Suppose the University were not overseen by a nigh-omnipotent and infamously disagreeable archmage. In the aftermath of your theoretical assault, and in the absence of such an overweening power, what follows?”

“This is the point of what?” Scorn demanded, glaring at her and not reaching for the cookies. Iris was ignoring her own wine, now, eyes fixed firmly on Scorn and one hand slipped into the pocket of her dress, which the demon fortunately did not notice.

“At that point,” Ravana continued, ignoring her query, “you would find yourself contending with, immediately, Imperial law enforcement. Trissiny would be legally entitled and perhaps doctrinally compelled to destroy you—I am not entirely certain about Avenist policies or how much leeway she has to make such decisions, much less what she would decide. You would most certainly be branded a living hazard by the Empire and probably immediately attacked. Whether you can stand up to a basic Army unit, Scorn, I am quite certain you are not a match for a strike team.”

“I am not come here for being threatened!” Scorn shouted, starting to rise from her chair.

“Sit down,” Ravana said. Her voice was quiet, her expression flat, but there was such utter finality in her tone, a complete faith that she would obeyed, that Scorn found herself back in her chair before deciding to go there. “You are not being threatened, Scorn. No one is going to hurt you. I am making a point. But very well, I think you are not without a point yourself. Going on to elucidate all the powers—the Empire, the cults, the Universal Church, not to mention House Madouri—which would descend upon you if you attacked me would swiftly become tedious and repetitive. And, yes, somewhat hostile. So let’s dispense with all that, shall we?”

“What is you want?” Scorn snarled.

“Why, isn’t it obvious?” Ravana replied with a sweet smile. “I want us to be friends.”

Scorn stared at her for a long moment, then turned incredulously to Iris.

“Oh, she’s serious,” Iris said, her lips twitching in suppressed amusement. “Believe me, I’ve been there. But yes, this is just what she’s like. If you want my advice, pay attention; she’s usually going somewhere worthwhile with these things.”

“Thank you, Iris,” Ravana said, smiling warmly at her before turning her attention back to Scorn. “What little I know of your homeworld and culture come thirdhand at best, Scorn. I have been forced to chat with Trissiny, Zaruda and others to seek information, as Teal is unfortunately disinclined to speak with me socially.”

“Why is Teal not like you?” Scorn asked, peering at her suspiciously.

“Presuming that you mean why does Teal not like me,” Ravana replied, “it’s quite simple: Teal Falconer is an extraordinarily kind, compassionate, and basically decent person.” She smiled, thinly and somewhat sadly. “And I am…to put it gently…not. She was in a position to see my character firsthand not so long ago, and I fear it rather distressed her. But again, we digress. At issue is you, and how well you are faring here.”

“I am do just fine,” Scorn huffed.

“Are you?” Ravana raised an eyebrow. “You are supposed to be learning about this world and fitting in, are you not? What have you done toward that goal?”

“I fit in!”

“Scorn,” Ravana said gently, “no, you don’t.”

“Listen, you—”

“Please, calm yourself. I’m not trying to insult you; I am offering to help.”

Scorn paused, a suspicious frown again descending over her features. “And you are help me…why?”

“I’m going to tell you a very great secret.” Ravana picked up her wineglass but simply toyed with it slowly, watching the crimson liquid shift about within and not lifting it to her lips. “In this world, Scorn, no matter what strength you possess, no matter your capacity to impose your will upon others or cause destruction, the truest and most consistent path to power is to show kindness. To provide for others, to accumulate favor. Placing people in your debt, building alliances…”

She trailed off as Scorn’s derisive laughter echoed over the prairie. “Are you drink too much of this grog? Power is power! Being nice is nice—is a…don’t know word, a nice thing, a, uh…”

“Luxury?” Iris suggested.

The demon shrugged. “Is a thing for doing when you have extra means, can afford to waste time for fun.”

“Yes, that’s a luxury,” said Iris.

“And that is the core of your problem,” Ravana said with a satisfied little smile. “Power in Hell, and presumably the sub-dimension from which you come, is about strength. Power in this world is about connection.”

“Connection?” Scorn’s frown deepened.

“The links between things.”

“I know what is word means!”

“You know the definition, yes,” Ravana agreed, “but you don’t seem to comprehend this point. In this world, Scorn, the abundance of resources has led to an abundance of people. Large populations require increasingly elaborate systems to support them. That is why we have complex laws, and political and economic structures far more sophisticated than anything you are used to. With me so far?”

“Go on,” Scorn said, nodding and still frowning.

“At issue, then,” Ravana continued, “is that when dealing with any person or any thing, one cannot simply calculate that person as a function of their own strength. You have seen spider webs since coming here, have you not?”

“Bah!” Scorn snorted. “Piddly little things, you call spiders. Good for snack, not scary. Where I am from there are spiders that are eating my kind if we are stupid around them!”

“And they hunt with webs?” Ravana prompted.

“Yes, webs, sticky thread, why is that matters?”

“It is a metaphor one encounters in Eserite literature, and one which I find explains the world better than any other I have heard. You can view each person as an intersection in such a web—tied to countless other things by multiple threads, and each of those things are linked to more things, and so on and so on, far beyond the point where one can see. By applying force to one such nexus, one causes the entire structure to shift, to vibrate…”

“And maybe,” Scorn said more softly, “to bring the spiders.”

“Precisely!” Ravana grinned at her in evident delight. “That, I think, is what you fail to understand about this world—being richer makes it more complicated. You seem accustomed to getting your way by applying force. Now, you are in a much denser web, and any power you exert in any direction is likely to cause vibrations that you cannot predict. In your position, it seems the wisest thing you could do would be to devote yourself to understanding this web as best you can. That, indeed, is the wisest thing anyone in this world can do. Those who have done it can be easily differentiated from those who have not: we are the ones who rule.”

Scorn’s face had not lost its pensive frown; she now stared off into space past Ravana’s head.

“You are sound a little like my mother,” she said at last.

“I take that as high praise,” Ravana said gravely.

“It is. This, you talk about kindness… You are make more threads, yes? Things, people connecting on you, who protect you.”

“They said you were intelligent,” Ravana said with satisfaction. “I am pleased to see they did not exaggerate.”

Scorn peered closely at her. “And this is how people becoming powerful in this world?”

Iris snorted softly, earning a sharp look from Scorn.

“In a way,” Ravana mused, “it is the essence of all power…but it is a truth not grasped equally well by all. Oh, anyone in a position of authority must necessarily provide some service for those beneath them, or they will not be permitted to retain their position for long. Governments exist, I firmly believe, for the benefit of those governing, but they do so by providing for the governed, and failing to remember this inevitably leads to their replacement. Those who are powerful and wise act in a way that does not look immediately different from compassion. It may be morally right to care for those beneath you, but that hardly matters to people like me.” She smiled, a distinctly feline expression. “Any sufficiently examined self-interest is indistinguishable from altruism.”

“Hum,” Scorn muttered. “Well. Is nice, I guess… You are make one mistake, though.”

“Oh?” Ravana raised an eyebrow. “Please, enlighten me.”

“I am not interested very in being power.” The demon started to rise from her seat with a soft rattle of costume jewelry. “Thank you for drinks, and interesting talk.”

“And are you interested in enjoying your life?” Ravana asked mildly.

Scorn froze. “What? Why?”

“Here’s the rub, concerning the difference between your people and mine,” she continued in a light, conversational tone. “By any reasonable standard, we are better than you.”

The demon again narrowed her eyes. “You are trying to make me angry?”

“Perhaps that was poor phrasing,” Ravana said thoughtfully. “Yes, it would be more accurate to say we are better off. I mean, look at yourself! Physically, you are an incredibly powerful specimen, compared to most earthbound races. I understand you have a substantial gift for magic, as well, and you certainly do not lack for intellect, as we have already discussed. If you are a typical example of your kind… I rather suspect that if the Rhaazke occupied a realm as abundant, peaceful and prosperous as this one, they would by now have achieved things beyond the ambitions of the mortal races.” She tilted her head to one side, studying Scorn thoughtfully. “But they haven’t, because—through no fault of their own—they don’t. You are here, however. If you are not interested in having power over others… Well, honestly, that is probably for the best. As I’ve told Iris before, the quest for power can become an all-consuming thing that leaves you little time to truly experience all that is good in the world. Since you don’t choose to embark upon that quest, doesn’t it seem you ought to do your best to fully enjoy what there is, here? If nothing else, don’t you owe it to all those of your kin who shall never have the opportunity?”

“I am still not know where you are talking,” Scorn said, but sank back down into her seat.

“Well, let me back up a step, then. In enjoying a pleasing experience, do you believe that more is better?”

“Of course,” Scorn snorted. “Always, is simple.”

Ravana nodded. “And that speaks of a mindset accustomed to scarcity. If you have few opportunities to savor good things, and must compete with numerous others for them…well, naturally, it would seem the only reasonable thing to do would be to grab at everything you can get your hands on and wring every last ounce of benefit from it you can, before someone comes along and takes it from you.”

“And now,” Scorn said, staring piercingly at her, “you are going to explain why it is different here, yes?”

The Duchess smiled broadly. “Again, you show your perceptiveness! And you are correct. Excessive, thoughtless self-indulgence is one of the most obvious signs of weakness a person here can display.”

“Weakness,” Scorn said flatly.

“Consider the thing in context,” Ravana continued, still unfazed by the demon’s annoyed expression. “Where one’s ability to act effectively is a function of one’s ability to choose one’s actions with care, any ill-considered grabbing motion can backfire just as severely as an unwise attack. Gluttony is considered a sin in some faiths—and I have often had the observation that what the religious call sins are generally just harmless behaviors which become dangerous when taken to excess. And so, among people on this plane, restraint is honored far more than indulgence.”

“Restraint,” Scorn said, her expression unchanged.

“The person who drinks too much and loses control is regarded with contempt,” Ravana said, gazing up at her. “The one who eats too much and becomes obese, likewise. Or the one who indulges excessively in sex, or drugs, or something as relatively harmless as a niche hobby. Not because others do not have the same drives, but because a balanced person understands that such self-indulgence is a failure of character. The drunkard, the glutton, the dissolute wastrel, they lead lives of misery. By fixating upon a simple pleasure which is within their reach, they cut themselves off from the experience of all the other joys life could offer—including the companionship of others, often, as doing this makes them objects of ridicule.”

“I am not follow your changes of talk,” Scorn said. “What is this to do with me?”

“Really,” Ravana said mildly. “Can you not think of anything you have pursued to the point of losing control? Of not experiencing fully because you’ve grabbed at quantity rather than quality?” She held up her wineglass, swirling the liquid within and gazing thoughtfully at it. “Tell me, can you appreciate the beauty of a gem more when it shines alone, or when it is buried in a pile of others?”

Scorn froze, her eyes widening in an expression of painful realization. “You are…say… To have too much of a thing, it makes people to mock you?”

“Well,” Ravana mused, “rarely when you can hear them, but yes…”

The demon grimaced in sudden revulsion, grabbing a handful of the necklaces and beads hanging over her chest.

“Stop!” Ravana barked, raising her voice for the first time. Scorn froze as the young Duchess leveled a finger at her. “You are about to allow others to control you, Scorn, and I won’t stand for that. You are better, and deserve better.”

“Who is control me?” Scorn asked plaintively.

“All those whose opinions you care about enough to change your own behavior. If you throw away your jewelry, you’ve as much as declared your willingness to be bound by their whims. And people will take advantage of that.” Her eyes bored into the demon’s, her expression serious and intent now. “Since you disdain the pursuit of power…how will you stop them? If your own strength is expressed through sheer force, how can you contend with those who manipulate using subtlety? That’s the real issue, Scorn, the great and painful fact of life. Even if all you want is to be left alone, and to enjoy your own existence… Well, if you’re not able and prepared to contend with people who choose to understand the arts of power, they simply won’t let you.”

“But…” The Rhaazke gulped, looking lost. “What about… How am I do…”

“In this case,” Ravana said in a suddenly more gentle tone, “if you’ll accept my advice, there’s a fairly simple strategy to employ. Remove one item of jewelry every…let us say, three days. Gradually diminish what you wear, so that the change is not immediately noticeable. It will clearly be a natural trend in your own tastes, and you can thus arrive at a state that will not invite the derision of others, without ever hinting to them that they had any power to sway your actions.”

Scorn swallowed again and nodded, settling back in her chair. “And you…teach me more? Of how to…to do this?”

“I am willing to,” Ravana said, turning a smile upon Iris and getting one in return. “It’s a new course for me, but I have learned a great deal by showing Iris, here, some of the tricks of the powerful and cunning. I had thought, at first, that doing so would be incompatible with any kind of happiness…but I’ve come to appreciate how these things can improve every aspect of one’s life. The same aptitudes that lead to power are those which heighten the sweetnesses of mortal experience.”

“How is this?” Scorn asked uncertainly.

“Well. Perhaps you would be willing to indulge me in a little experiment?” Ravana picked up the wine bottle again and poured more into Scorn’s glass. “Let me show you something. Take a very small sip of the wine, and hold it on your tongue for a moment. Then, before swallowing, pause and inhale through your nose.”

“What in crap?” Scorn exclaimed in exasperation. “How are we get to this from— Are you trying to choke me or just make me look stupid?”

Ravana smiled in amusement, showing only a hint of teeth. “Trust me,” she said quietly.

Scorn pursed her lips, staring at her in suspicion, then shook her head and picked up the wineglass. For a moment, she peered distrustfully at it, then sighed, shrugged, and very carefully tipped a small amount of wine into her mouth. Then she paused, lowering the glass, and breathed in deeply.

Her eyes widened, an expression of surprise and unexpected pleasure washing over her features.

Watching her, Ravana settled back in her own chair, folded her hands, and smiled.

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The day was just getting its legs under it as they approached the city. The route south from the Abbey had passed partially through the Viridill foothills, but for the most part skirted the eastern edge of the mountains, leaving them a splendid view of the sunrise. Even when the road took them behind a hill, the Viridills were low and rounded as a rule, not much inhibiting the early morning light.

It was a mostly quiet ride, though Schwartz was far more alert this time; despite the early hour, he was finally fairly well rested after sleeping for much of the previous day. After he failed to get much response regaling his traveling companions about a dream in which he’d been trying to navigate a giant spider web, he had occupied himself chiefly by playing with Meesie and watching the scenery. Eventually, though, his curiosity got the better of him.

“So, your Grace,” he said hesitantly, scratching the mousy little elemental between her ears, “why are we setting out so early? I mean…by the time we get there, it’ll be barely past breakfast. I thought we were going to see the Governor. Will he even be up?”

“She,” Basra said bitingly. “And yes, despite the way Imperial politicians in general behave, no governor of Viridill could get away with being a layabout. We may have to wait a bit for an appointment, but she’ll hardly decline to see us. As for the why, we are avoiding Bishop Snowe’s company.”

Perched on the driver’s seat up front, Jenell half-turned her head to give Schwartz an inscrutable look out of the corner of her eye.

“I, uh…why’s that, exactly?” he asked. “Seems like more help is always good! And Bishop Snowe is…I mean, you know, she’s…”

“Yes, they’re pretty nice, aren’t they?” Basra said, raising an eyebrow. “I couldn’t help noticing you weren’t too sleepy to get a good long look at her chest yesterday.”

“I say, that’s hardly fair,” he protested, flushing. Meesie puffed herself up, tail quivering indignantly, and squeaked at Basra.

“Don’t feel bad, she has that effect on everyone,” the Bishop said dryly. “Izarite to her core, that one. But that is about all she’s good for. Branwen Snowe’s help would mean one more person for me to manage, and quite frankly I can do without the additional headache.”

Schwartz blinked. “Oh. But, I mean…she’s a Bishop, after all, isn’t she?”

“I don’t know how you Salyrites do it exactly,” Basra replied. “Bishop Throale and I have rarely had occasion to work together. But different cults regard the Universal Church in different ways. The Izarites use Church office to get rid of politicking annoyances they’d rather not keep in their own temples but who aren’t bad enough to excommunicate. Why do you think she’s allowed to go on tours and such instead of doing her job in Tiraas?”

“Oh. But, I mean…she’s a columnist, and has a book out…”

“Ghostwriters. The Archpope’s doing, all of it.”

“And…she gives speeches, did that whole revival tour…”

“Yes, Izarites make good public speakers. That doesn’t mean she has a brain in her little head. If Snowe is here on her own, she’s going to be an annoyance; if Justinian sent her, which I doubt, he needs to butt out. Church politics meddling in Avenist affairs will only cause more trouble.”

“I see,” Schwartz said softly, looking rather stepped on. Meesie stood on his shoulder, patting his cheek and cheeping in concern.

“You might want to look ahead, Mr. Schwartz,” Jenell commented after a moment. “It’s worth seeing, if you never have.”

He perked up at her voice, leaning out over the side of the carriage to look forward. Basra raised an eyebrow in mild amusement, but did not turn to see for herself. The sight of Vrin Shai was not a new one for her.

Mount Vrin was geologically unique, being unusually craggy for the Viridill range, and also taller by far than most of its neighbors; this close to the southern edge of the mountains, they were in the process of trailing off into foothills, and Vrin seemed to spike upward from the ground quite abruptly. In addition to being impassible from the north, it had a unique shape, with two lower “arms” stretching out to the southwest and southeast from its main bulk, leaving a sheltered area between them facing due south. Within this highly defensible alcove stood the terraced fortress city of Vrin Shai.

The River Tsihar, one of the tributaries of the River Tira to the east, curved across the cultivated fields before the city gates, forming its first line of defense. Vrin Shai’s outer walls lay directly behind it, using the river as a moat; past that was another moat, this one artificial and filled with a variety of submerged hazards. Behind the moat stood the taller inner walls, with towers rising more than twice their height to give the artillery emplacements on top a clearer field of fire against attackers approaching the Tsihar. From the main gate in the center of the inner walls, a single street sloped upward to the east and west, where it switchbacked at small squared set against the mountain walls themselves, both blocked by gates set in fortified guardhouses. The street climbed further, coming together again in a final, innermost gate behind and directly above the first one. From there, the city rose in highly ordered terraces, its shape almost pyramidal against the looming mountain. It culminated in a grand temple at the very top, surmounted by a famous and truly titanic statue of Avei, carved from the living face of Mount Vrin and pointing a sword southward, toward Athan’Khar. Concealed passages carved into the mountainside accessed the looming watchtowers which rose from the peaks of Vrin itself, the tallest rising from its highest point above the center of the city. From the ground far below, the multiple telescope emplacements positioned atop the seven watchtowers were invisible, but the shapes of enormous mag cannons could be seen, aiming south.

This land had been the site of innumerable wars over the millennia, from the constant incursions by orcs and Narisian drow, to invasions from the humans of N’jendo to the west and the Tira Valley to the east, and occasionally even raids by distant elven tribes. Most recently, during the Enchanter Wars, it had faced down an assault by the dwindling forces of the Tiraan Empire itself. In all that time, Vrin Shai had never fallen.

“Wow,” Schwartz breathed, craning his head back to gaze upward. “Wow. You hear stories, but that is impressive. Wow! Those cannons up there… They must be able to shoot for miles! I bet no army ever got within range of the walls back in the old days…”

“In the old days,” said Basra, “those towers were only used for observation. Firing catapults from that height would be pointless; there’d be no way to aim them accurately and far too much risk of accidentally bombarding the city, not to mention the near impossibility of hauling ammunition up there. Being able to see anyone approaching was just as valuable. In war, information is a deadly weapon. But yes, with the advent of energy weapons, those are ironically Vrin Shai’s first line of defense. The topmost mag cannon has a clear line of fire all the way past the Athan’Khar border. Which is the only thing it even might be shooting at in this day and age, anyway.”

“Huh,” he mused, settling back into his seat and gazing raptly up at the city as they approached it.

He had time to gawk; even with the speed at which the enchanted carriage moved, it was another fifteen minutes before they reached the outer gate. Part of that was due to the increasing traffic on the road. Early as it was, the city was open for business and people were beginning to stream both in and out, forming a dense enough crowd of vehicles, animals, and pedestrians that Jenell couldn’t push for speed. As they neared the gates, the first Rail caravan of the day glided to a stop at the station, momentarily wreathed in arcane blue lightning. Vrin Shai’s Rail depot stood outside the walls proper, the Sisterhood having adamantly refused to allow any breach in its defenses for the purpose of Rail access. On paper, this was because the city was sacred to the goddess of war, and its fortifications were thus a sacrament; no one involved in the planning had bothered to mention that the last invading army to break itself on these walls had been Imperial. In practice, the discharging traffic from the caravans added another glut of people right at the gates. Their party arrived just in time to slip in ahead of these.

“Pull up beside the sentry house, Covrin,” Basra ordered as they eased into the gates.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The gates were, of course, staffed. Fully armed Legionnaires stood at attention, watching the traffic come and go, though in these peaceful times they were making no move to stop any of the travelers through the gates. As the carriage eased up to the curb against the inner side of the walls, a Legionnaire wearing a lieutenant’s bars approached them, noting Covrin in the driver’s seat, and saluted.

“I am Basra Syrinx, Bishop of Avei to the Universal Church,” she said, leaning against the carriage’s door to address the soldier.

“Good morning, your Grace,” the lieutenant said crisply, saluting again. “Welcome to Vrin Shai.”

“We are proceeding to the governor’s palace,” Basra said, nodding in acknowledgment. “My business is important but not immediately urgent. Dispatch a runner to inform Lady Tamsin of my arrival, and that I require an audience at her earliest convenience.”

“Immediately, your Grace,” the lieutenant replied, saluting a third time before turning to hustle back inside the guardhouse. Basra nodded up at Covrin, who then pulled the carriage carefully back into traffic.

They only got a dozen yards before a horse and rider emerged from the gatehouse stableyard, the mounted woman wearing the light leather armor of the Silver Legions rather than standard bronze; a pennant bearing the golden eagle was attached to her saddle. She saluted Covrin in passing, guiding her steed rapidly through the traffic on the way to the inner gates along the empty outer lane reserved for military personnel.

“I say, that was fast,” Schwartz noted approvingly.

“Military efficiency,” Basra replied, “can be a punchline or a way of life, depending on the military in question. In Vrin Shai, it’s a sacrament.”

“So I see.”

He resumed gawking at the scenery as they drove across the bridge to the second gates, up the right path to the third and back to the fourth and final set. Each time they passed through a gate, Schwartz commented anew on the thickness of the walls; by the last time, Basra was looking at him with visible annoyance.

“Ma’am, I’m not familiar with the layout of the city,” said Jenell as they finally passed through the innermost defenses.

Basra stood, turned, and seated herself beside Schwartz, facing forward; Meesie chittered at her, which she ignored. “The governor’s palace is just below the central temple, on the right. We’ll have to take the switchbacks all the way up; I’ll direct you.”

In addition to the terraces, and the switchbacking paths which not only lessened the steepness of the climb but provided defensive benefits, the city had canals, one running the full length of each terrace. To judge by the lack of boats and the distance between the water line and the street, they were not there to provide fresh water or transportation. They did form beautiful artificial waterfalls on their way down to feeding the moat the base of the city, and the bridges across them provided another layer of choke points. While no invading army had ever penetrated Vrin Shai’s walls, any that did would find their work only half done; it would be a long, brutal fight upward to conquer the city level by level.

Early as it was, the city was awake and going about its business; the passersby were plentiful, but thanks to its well-planned traffic routes the crowd did not slow their progress unduly. They also, unlike the people in the rural north of the province, showed little interest in the carriage. There were much finer examples to be seen; they passed later-model Falconer and Dawnco vehicles, and even a classic Esdel in excellent condition. Schwartz did far more peering at the city than the city did at them. Basra simply sat in regal silence for the entire trip.

The governor’s palace was near the top of the city, one level below the great temple with its towering statue of Avei. Made of the same local granite as the rest of the city, it was more distinctly Tiraan in style, notably smaller than either the temple above or the sprawling Silver Legion fortress with which it shared the second-highest level of the city, and also the first place they had seen Imperial soldiers. The uniformed guards stood atop battlements and at entrances, watching the carriage approach but seeming uninterested in it.

A thin-faced man with spectacles and a widow’s peak was standing outside the gates when Covrin pulled up to the curb.

“Bishop Syrinx?” he said diffidently, bowing as Basra stepped out of the carriage. “I am Raul Dhisrain, Governor Tamshinaar’s secretary. You are expected; the Governor will see you immediately, if you will be good enough to follow me?”

“Splendid,” Basra said, as if this were no more than her due. “Schwartz, Covrin, come along. Please have my carriage taken into the yard, Mr. Dhisrain.”

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to one of the soldiers standing near the gate. The man immediately approached, accepting the control rune from Covrin, and then the Governor’s secretary was leading them into the palace itself.

Though less stark than Vrin Shai in general seemed to be, the Governor’s palace was clearly an Imperial facility as much as a personal residence, if not more so. The decorations were minimal and tasteful, and ran toward Imperial iconography to a point that seemed almost excessive, perhaps in compensation for the overall Avenist flavor of the city. Or perhaps in defiance of the fact that the Imperial government here ruled only in name.

The Governor’s office was on the third floor, at the end of a broad hallway lined with columns and paintings of governors past. Dhisrain led them to a wide pair of double doors that could have belonged on a throne room, rapped once, then pushed one open without waiting for a response. He stepped aside, gesturing them through.

Basra entered immediately, and came to an instant halt just inside, forcing Schwartz and Covrin to peer around her.

The space was large for an office, though not as grandiose as its huge doors had hinted. Oval in shape, it was split in two levels, the higher of which contained the Governor’s huge desk and was backed by windows looking out over the city and the rolling hills beyond. None of that was what captured Basra’s eye, however, nor was the sight of Governor Tamshinaar, who stood upon her entry.

“Basra!” Branwen cried, waving enthusiastically. “Welcome!”

“Indeed, welcome, Bishop Syrinx,” the Imperial Governor said more calmly. “Bishop Snowe has been bringing me up to date on your findings.”

“Has she,” Basra said flatly.

“It’s gratifying to see the Sisterhood taking this matter so seriously,” she continued. Tamsin Tamshinaar was a statuesque woman in her later middle years, her hair going silver and drawn back in a severe bun, though her face bore only faint lines beside her eyes and mouth. She wore a stark, almost militaristic style gown clearly inspired by the fashion following Empress Eleanora’s tastes. “And the Church, as well. I’m honored to have such august personages assigned to aid us, but also a little concerned. Are matters even more serious than I have already been led to understand?”

“Oh, I’m not here on the Archpope’s orders,” Branwen reassured her. “Merely finding myself at liberty at the moment, and present to be of help in any way I can. Basra is the one you’ll really want to talk to about the mission.”

“As far as I’m aware, Lady Tamsin, you have been informed of everything the Sisterhood knows,” said Basra, finally stepping further into the room, her eyes never leaving Branwen. Covrin and Schwartz followed her at a circumspect distance, Dhisrain slipping into the office behind them. “Abbess Darnasia did not suggest anything should be withheld from you, and frankly I would not do so even if she had. This is no time for politicking.” That, she directed with a slight emphasis at Branwen, before finally turning her full attention to the Governor. “In fact, it may be that you have data on the elemental attacks that I do not, yet.”

“That it may,” Lady Tamsin agreed, nodding. “I have likewise not withheld anything from the Sisterhood, but I don’t know what was passed along to you. Regardless, Raul has copies of all reports and supplementary information we have gathered for you.”

The secretary glided forward, diffidently handing Basra the thick folder he had been carrying, while Branwen jumped back into the conversation.

“I hope you don’t mind me getting a head start on you this morning, Bas,” she gushed. “The Abbess said you and your companions were overtired—and I shouldn’t wonder, from what she told me of your adventures! Anyway, this is clearly your field, so I took the liberty of coming ahead to Vrin Shai to help set everything up for your arrival. Now, you just concentrate on doing what you do best, and I’ll do what I can to smooth the way!”

“This is a potentially sensitive matter in many regards, Branwen,” Basra said icily. “I would prefer it if you did not take liberties in Viridill without asking me, first.”

“Oh, of course,” Branwen said agreeably. “You’re in charge!”

“Bishop Snowe’s arrival has, indeed, given me time to make a few preparations for you, your Grace,” the Governor added with a calmer smile. “I’ve arranged a house for your party to use while in the city—it should be spacious enough to provide living quarters and serve your tactical needs.”

“I say, how generous!” Schwartz said, beaming. Basra gave him a dark look, which he appeared not to notice; Covrin’s eyes darted between them.

“I have the directions!” Branwen said cheerfully, holding up a small sheet of paper.

“Do you,” Basra replied.

“And I’ve called in a few favors of my own! It seems this is going to be detective work—we have to find the person responsible for these attacks before we can stop them. There are few people available I’ve, ah…taken the liberty of contacting. Last time, I promise!”

“Great.”

“At least one you already know!”

Basra’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Even better.”

“Well, I thought we could do with the sort of help who can circulate freely among the populace and get people to talk, and I realized, who better than a bard? Of course, the Veskers always love a good adventure, so I had a quick look through the Church’s active contacts to see who’s up for questing duty. And lo and behold, as luck would have it, there was a certain Ami Talaari who you’ve apparently worked with before! She’s now en route and should be here later today.”

“Why, thank you, Branwen,” Basra said with a toothy smile, folding her hands neatly behind her back. “How extremely helpful.” Hidden from the Governor’s view, she clutched one wrist hard enough to whiten her fingers, clenching the other fist till her nails gouged into her palm.

Covrin surreptitiously stepped between the Bishop and Schwartz.

“I’m so glad you’re pleased!” Branwen said, smiling beatifically. “I think we’re going to work wonderfully together, as always!”

“I’m sure we shall,” Basra said pleasantly. “I have so missed your company, Branwen.”

A droplet of blood squeezed out from between her fingers.

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“Thanks for letting me drag you out here,” said Embras. “This is a last-minute change in the schedule, based on an idea I had scarcely an hour ago, otherwise I’d have given you more warning.”

“Not at all,” Hiroshi replied with his customary unflappable calm. “It’s not as if any distance is an impediment when one can shadow-jump. And I quite enjoy the chance to stretch my legs a bit, and especially see new sights. Not that I’m not fond of Puna Shankur, but it’s pleasant to see more of the Empire.”

He made no mention of the fact that as his cult leader, Embras Mogul could send him anywhere on a whim with neither apology nor explanation.

“For instance,” Hiroshi added, nodding at the bustling crowd teeming in and around the double doors of the structure across the street from them, “what is going on in there?”

“Why, like the sign says,” Embras replied easily, “that’s the Mathenon Stock Exchange.”

“We can both read, Embras,” Bradshaw said wryly. “That doesn’t mean either of us has a clue what that is. If it were any other neighborhood in any other city, I’d think that was some kind of sporting event, the way those fellows are riled up.”

“It is peculiar to see men in business attire shouting at one another and drinking in public,” Hiroshi added, glancing once more over his shoulder at the heaving crowd as they passed further down the street.

“It’s the most ingenious thing, really,” Embras explained, smiling darkly. “First, trading companies and other businesses are organized so that shares of them, or stocks, can be sold as tradeable commodities. For instance, if, say, Falconer Industries sold stocks, we could just wander into that building back there and buy a share for whatever they go for, and be the part owner of one of the Empire’s most successful operations.”

“Does FI do this?” Hiroshi asked in a tone of fascination.

“Hell if I know,” Embras said glibly. “I’m only this up to date on the practice because, as you may have heard, I suffer a minor obsession with the Vernisites and their various schemes. But anyway, the whole idea of a stock exchange is first to divide a business into pieces which can be traded, and then to trade them. Once these imaginary slices of ownership become commodities, the laws of supply and demand come into play. People can make—or lose—money in trading them back and forth, and the companies in question can improve their fortunes by manipulating the market to increase their perceived value.”

“That is the barmiest thing I ever heard of,” Bradshaw snorted, shaking his head. “I give it a year before the government shuts that down.”

“It is rather ingenious, as you say,” Hiroshi mused.

“And so very Vernisite,” Embras added. “A whole lot of lies, nonsense and legal fictions committed to paper, used to create money out of thin air by manipulating human nature. I’m telling you, boys, as I’ve told you time and again, it doesn’t matter how many people Avei kills, Naphthene drowns or Omnu pompously lectures: it’s Verniselle who truly embodies the rotten, self-serving heart of the Pantheon.”

Bradshaw sighed. “Anyway. You were going to explain a bit more about our business here? I thought the matter in Puna Shankur was rather urgent.”

“Yes, of course. Hang a right here, lads,” Embras said, turning the corner onto a street which immediately proved itself to be much quieter. Not that there was much activity of any kind, with sunset fading rapidly into twilight. Mathenon was a very genteel place, or at least most parts of it were. Not very much happened after dark. “Before meeting with Hiroshi’s Sifanese expert, we’re going to drop in on an information broker who specializes in the diabolic. If anyone on this continent happens to have tips on how to tangle with a kitsune using infernal means, she will.”

“And how likely is that, do you think?” Bradshaw asked.

“Not very likely at all. In fact, not likely enough to be worth the trip on its own merits; I have a secondary agenda here. Our current troubles merely provide a perfect excuse to put it into play. I’ll explain more on the way back, fellas; we don’t want to be late to meet with Hiroshi’s friend. I already delayed to ask Vanessa if she wanted to come along. She didn’t.”

“Vanessa is busy wrangling our annoyed contacts in Calderaas…ah,” Bradshaw nodded, his pensive expression clearing. “I see. So this is where she scurried off to. I confess it didn’t really occur to me to wonder. Is this necessary, Embras?”

“Necessary? Probably not. But useful, definitely.”

He fell silent as a man lounging against a gate up ahead straightened, turning to face them and reaching into his coat. A soft footstep sounded behind the three men, another individual materializing out of an alley.

None of them faltered so much as a step. Embras held out a hand, palm up, and a seething orb of fire sprang into being above it, casting a sharp orange glow over the scene. Hiroshi flicked his wrists, two wands sliding neatly out of his sleeves and into his hands. Bradshaw simply walked on, acknowledging none of this.

To his credit, the burly man in the slightly shabby coat ahead of them hesitated only fractionally before turning his motion into a cough smothered behind a fist. “Pleasant evening, gents,” he said politely, tipping his hat.

“Right back atcha,” Embras replied cheerfully as they filed past him.

Mathenon’s founding, two thousand years ago, had been a mistake and a cause of much misfortune for everyone involved. Situated on the plains between the Golden Sea and the Wyrnrange, its location had nothing to recommend it except proximity to the Old Road and to the only significant source of fresh water in the area. The mountains provided scant ore and timber, there were few available native animals, and while the prairie did yield good crops if properly cultivated, it had been centuries before the then-kingdom of Mathenon had built up its forces enough to adequately protect its farmland from tribes of centaurs and plains elves. The city’s only true asset had been the road, the primary trading route between the dwarven kingdoms and the human lands in the south.

Two millennia later, Mathenon was known as the Gilded City—or, less charitably, as the richest place in the world that had done nothing to deserve it. With nothing to cling to but trade, the Mathenites had hurled themselves into commerce with a vengeance, and by this point in history had built up an empire of their own, whose reach exceeded that of Tiraas, even as it paid its taxes to the Silver Throne. Here were all the greatest guild halls, the trading syndicates, the merchant conglomerates and the banks which serviced all of them. The wealth of the world flowed through Mathenon, a goodly portion of which never flowed back out. And with little agriculture and no manufacturing to speak of, almost everyone living in the city was either involved in commerce, or in a less financially privileged class who made a living servicing the bankers and merchants in whatever ways they required. It was a city that infamously produced nothing, and took its cut of everything.

Unsurprisingly, it was also a thriving haven for those who profited less directly from the peccadilloes of the rich. Mathenon was unquestionably a stronghold of Verniselle, but the disciples of Eserion had a much heavier presence here than a city of its size could ordinarily support. To them, three men in well-tailored suits strolling the streets without guards as dark fell would seem at a glance like a walking gift basket.

But the Black Wreath did not pay the Unwary Tax. In most places, at most times, they would simply have avoided confrontations via stealth. Once in a while, though, Embras Mogul took a personal satisfaction in seeing agents of the Thieves’ Guild back down.

At the next intersection, Embras crossed the street to take a left down an even narrower avenue, this one lined with expensive houses behind walled gardens and lit by fairy lamps in elaborate brass sconces, which levitated three yards above the sidewalks, unsupported by poles. There was a grassy median down the center of the street, dotted with immaculately trimmed dogwood trees, each protected behind a wrought-iron fence topped with chrome accents. The whole neighborhood screamed of wealth.

“And here we are,” Embras murmured aloud, slowing as they came abreast of an open gate. The house beyond was quiet, but all its windows blazed with light; clearly there was a social event in progress despite the hour, but it was a demure sort of party, as befit the neighborhood. He turned at the path, Bradshaw and Hiroshi trailing silently behind, and strolled up to the house’s richly carved walnut door.

A servant stood at the top step by the door, dressed in a suit that was just similar enough to a Butler’s uniform to be evocative without being close enough to provoke the Service Society—which was a thing no sensible person did. She regarded them calmly from behind thick darkened glasses, which seemed incongruous at this hour.

“Good evening,” Embras said politely to her, tipping his hat. “I’m afraid we’re not expected.”

“I’m afraid you are not invited, Mr. Mogul,” she replied. “Specifically, and by name. Goodbye.”

“Now, now, let’s be neighborly to one another,” he replied with a cheerful grin. “A fellow deserves a chance to plead his case to the lady of the house, don’t you think?”

“What I think is that my job is, in part, to dissuade undesirables, a category in which you are emphatically included. You can spare me the charm, sir; you’re not charming enough to come between me and a steady wage.”

“Well, that seems to be all the grounds we need to reach an agreement,” he said smoothly, producing a decabloon from within his pocket and bouncing it on his palm.

The woman regarded him in stony silence for a moment, then reached up and pulled her glasses down the bridge of her nose. Her eyes had golden irises which glowed in the dimness, with vertically slitted pupils.

“Sir,” she said with a cold smile, “are you attempting to bribe me?”

“Nothing so clumsy,” Embras replied, now tossing the coin back and forth between his hands. “There’s no reason the mistress need suspect you were paid to let us in, when she’ll find it perfectly believable that I threatened, enchanted, or otherwise coerced my way past you. Isn’t that right?”

“You’re right in that regard—I can hardly be expected to fight off the likes of you.” She glanced behind him at the other two men. “The same cannot be said of those inside the house, Mogul. You realize she’s just going to throw you right back out again.”

“That, my dear lady, is between her and me,” he said, holding up the decabloon between forefinger and thumb.

Faster than a flicker of lightning, her tongue lashed out, seizing the coin and drawing it back into her mouth. She leaned over to turn the door latch, and pulled it wide for them, smiling ironically.

“Enjoy your visit, gentlemen. I will see you again very soon.”

“Much obliged,” Embras said lightly, stepping past her. Bradshaw and Hiroshi followed him in, both nodding politely to the doorkeeper. She watched them with that same knowing smile, her dark glasses once again in place, and shut the door gently behind them.

The soft sounds of conversation and pianoforte music resonated through the marble-appointed foyer in which they stood. A staircase lined with deep scarlet carpet curved up to a landing ahead of and above them; to their left was a wide doorway, blocked only by velvet drapes, from which the sounds of the party could be heard.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the only person visible, a hethelax demon wearing a suit oddly tailored to fit over his armor plates. “I would offer to take your coats, but you will not be staying long.”

“That’s a likely outcome, yes,” Embras said with a sunny smile. “She’s in the salon, I assume?”

“Yes,” the demon said evenly. “I would advise you to depart rather than seek her out.”

“I appreciate the advice,” Embras replied, tipping his hat and turning to push aside the curtains, his fellow warlocks following on his heels.

The salon was large and displayed understatedly expensive taste in its furnishings. It was also full, occupied by over a dozen people whose attire and bearing spoke of wealth. They stood and sat, chatting, sipping glasses of sparkling wine and nibbling canapes, looking for all the world like any gaggle of rich people enjoying a house party, apart from a few unusual elements. Several were obviously half-demons; one young woman had finned ears and slowly writhing tendrils instead of hair, another had eyes that were featureless pits of crimson flame, and a man near the door had patterns of scales across his cheeks and forehead. There was also a katzil demon curled up asleep in front of the fireplace. In one corner stood a pianoforte, being softly played by a female hethelax. Her clawed fingers made faint clicking noises on the keys, just barely loud enough to be heard beneath the music.

“No.”

The three had hardly made it in before being addressed by the lady of the house, who had risen from her chair near the fire to point imperiously at them. She was a young woman, well short of thirty, with elaborately coiffed dark hair and a pale complexion, attired in a gown in the latest fashion which emphasized her figure despite its modest cut.

“You are unwelcome in my house, Embras Mogul,” she said sharply, the music and conversation falling silent around them.

Embras swept off his hat and bowed deeply. “Be that as it may, it is a genuine pleasure, Madeleine, as always. I hoped I might implore you to—”

“You might not,” she snapped. “Leave, before I am forced to insist.”

He straightened, his expression growing serious. “Whatever you may think of me—of us—I do respect your wishes, and would not have bothered you if it were not important. We have an urgent need, Madeleine.”

“Good,” she said flatly. “May it devour you. Somewhere else.”

“I understand your dislike,” he pressed on, “though I do believe, as I’ve said, that it is born of a misunderstanding. Perhaps if you would deign to do business with me as with any of these fine people, we might make progress toward finding common…ground…”

He trailed off as she turned her back on him, stepping over the sleeping katzil to lift an ancient-looking oil lamp from its perch upon the mantle. She turned back to face them, languidly dragging her fingers along the lamp’s curved surface.

The violet smoke that poured forth made the room smell of myrrh and jasmine. It streamed from the lamp in an oddly twisted cyclone, resolving itself into the form of a woman with blue skin and aquiline features—at least from the waist up. Below the navel, her body was only a long tendril of smoke, connected to the lamp.

“I am summoned, and have come, as it is agreed,” she intoned, executing an elaborate salaam. “Gracious lady, I beg that you deign to tell this unworthy traveler how she may have the honor of serving you.”

“Qadira,” Madeleine replied, “the Black Wreath has entered my home, despite knowing their presence is unwanted. Embras Mogul, the high priest of Elilial, stands in my salon, having thrice refused my orders to depart. I would have you bear witness to his next actions, that the worlds both above and below may know how he comports himself, lest anyone find themselves holding commerce with a faithless brute where they expected a gentleman.”

“It is indeed a precious gift you bestow upon me, most honored one,” Qadira replied, turning a crafty smile on Embras and his companions. “The eyes of the djinn see all things, in every plane and beyond, but that I may watch firsthand as such as this unfolds will grant me prestige in the esteem of my kin. Again, lady, I am in your debt.”

Madeleine stared at Embras with a faint, smug half-smile; the others assembled in the room watched like an entire rookery of hawks, awaiting a signal to strike. As if alerted by the change in mood, the katzil uncoiled itself, raising its head to sniff the air.

After a very tense moment of heavy silence, Embras Mogul took a deliberate step backward, again tipping his hat to Madeleine. “Well. My apologies for intruding, good lady. Can’t blame a fellow for trying.”

“Not for the first time in our acquaintance,” Madeleine said icily, “you are deeply mistaken.”

“Do enjoy your evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he replied, turning and pushing back through the heavy curtains.

They made their quick way out of the house, not acknowledging the smug looks of the hethelax manservant and half-demon guardian. Bradshaw waited until they were out the gate and two houses back down the street before speaking.

“Well, Embras, since I know you as I do, I’m going to assume that was not as completely pointless as it seemed.”

“In fact, that simply could not have gone better,” Embras said cheerfully. “There was always the risk she’d summon a baerzurg to pummel us, or have that diffident fellow in the impossible suit give it a go, but really, that was remote. Madeleine’s never been one to go in for brutish tactics. Ill-considered and overdramatic, yes, but never barbaric.”

“And?” Bradshaw drawled.

Embras came to a stop, turning to face them. “And now, she has very obligingly gone on record before a djinn, refusing to help the Black Wreath when we came to her in need, hat in hand. Were the girl a hair less aggravated by my presence, I think she’d have thought carefully before doing something so rash, but it’s done now! At issue, gents, is these fence-sitters, of which Madeleine is a prime example.”

“You can’t possibly mean to start hounding every diabolist who’s not part of our organization,” Bradshaw said, frowning. “We’re stretched too thin as it is, Embras. After Tiraas this spring, it’s a challenge to stay on top of the demons and warlocks who need to be put down, in addition to our ongoing major commitments.”

“Of course,” Embras replied. “That policy hasn’t changed; we’re not going to go out of our way to smite anybody who does not absolutely need it. However, matters are careening toward a head, and a lot of these characters are unknowable variables that present a problem. We’re going to have to be ready to bring down Justinian when the alignment comes, and between his holy summoner program and having bloody Kheshiri in his stable of lackeys, he’s proved his willingness to draw resources from even the most deplorable places. Going forward, anyone in the infernal community who is not with us must be assumed to be against us. Take note of tonight’s events, lads, and find opportunities to repeat the performance. We are going to start putting each of these independent operators on the spot. Any time an opportunity arises, or you can create one, force them to declare either their support or opposition, as publicly as possible.”

“Ah,” Hiroshi said, nodding. “To burn away the fog of war with the light of hellfire, leaving no gray area in which Justinian’s creeping fingers can hide.”

“Poetic as always,” Bradshaw noted with a smile. “I hope you’re not proposing to trust all of these outsiders, just because we can coerce them into declaring their support.”

“Trust, no,” Embras replied, “but you know as well as I where their interests fall. That’s why that trick worked on Madeleine, and variants of the same will likely work on the others, even when we’ve used it enough that they start to see it coming. A warlock who betrays his word is hamstrung; the mortal community is too small and the demonic one too vindictive to do business with oathbreakers. If anyone does turn on us, they will pay the price even if we are in no position to extract it ourselves. Now, then! Hiroshi, my thanks for your patience with this little drama. I hope this isn’t going to make us late to meet your friend.”

“Indeed not,” Hiroshi said with a smile. “Uncle will be expecting us at some point this evening after dinner; it is nowhere near late enough to be an imposition, even on the east coast.”

“Splendid! Let’s not drag this out any further, regardless. Lead the way, would you?”

“Of course,” Hiroshi said, bowing. The haze of Elilial’s stealth settled over all of them—not that anyone was nearby, but one never knew who might happen to be looking out a window in time to see three men abruptly shadow-jump out of a public street.

Following the dimensional tunnel bored by Hiroshi, who knew their destination best, they emerged in a dirty, dark and cluttered alley. All three immediately set off for the lighted street at the end of it, unfazed by their squalid environs. Such alleys were the Wreath’s bread and butter, in terms of moving around cities undetected.

Night had fully fallen over the city into which they emerged, but this area showed no signs of going to sleep. Lights blazed forth on all sides, illuminating bustling crowds pushing through narrow, winding streets that made as stark a contrast to the orderly layout of Mathenon as their shabby cheerfulness did to its discreet ostentation.

Puna Shankur itself would be a contrast to most Imperial cities, lacking their organization, wealth, and omnipresent law enforcement, not to mention being lit by lamps and torches nearly as commonly as fairy lights. Punaji territory in general was wilder, poorer, and yet more festive, even in cities as far south as this one, where the locals were forced by the climate to bundle up more than the Punaji in general cared to. For that and other reasons, Puna Shankur was one of the less ethnically consistent outposts of Rajakhan’s realm.

This particular neighborhood was a perfect example of that; brown Punaji faces were less common among the crowd than paler complexions accompanied by tilted eyes. Embras and Bradshaw would have stuck out if not for the layer of misdirection they maintained; Onkawi and Stalweiss were almost totally absent from the passersby, and only here and there could the odd Tiraan be seen. The people here hailed from a dozen nations, and the signs were in nearly as many languages, but on the Tiraan continent such neighborhoods were often referred to as Sifantowns. In other parts of the world, this racial mix might have met each other with swords and wands drawn, but when surrounded by another domineering culture of people who couldn’t even tell them apart, those from that general region tended to cluster together. It was an imperfect familiarity, but it would do.

Hiroshi led the way down the bustling market street, then down a quieter one lined with ramshackle apartments rising four and five stories above. The streets here were scarcely wider than alleys, though most were better cared for by their inhabitants, and continued to wend this way and that with no apparent plan. Their guide strode confidently, however, well familiar with the territory.

“Is it safe to involve your uncle in this?” Bradshaw asked as they walked. “Most of us prefer to keep family out of the Lady’s business. Much healthier for them, unless they’re already part of the faith.”

“I would prefer that he not learn just whose business this is,” Hiroshi agreed. “Uncle knows only that I am bringing two friends who have questions about the kitsune. And he is not a relation of mine; everyone in the neighborhood calls him that. He is the man most dedicated to preserving the traditions of the old country in this one, and makes sure the Sifanese children who grow up in Puna Shankur know who we are, and where we came from. In fact, he seemed delighted at the opportunity to share his knowledge with interested parties who are not of Sifanese blood.”

He stopped before the door of a three-story structure that seemed positively squat beside its towering neighbors, and rapped, murmuring to his companions, “Remember, it is polite to remove your shoes in the entryway.”

“Noted,” Embras replied.

The door opened after only a moment, revealing a young woman with her hair tied back in a silken kerchief. A warm but restrained smile spread across her face.

“Sakamoto Hiroshi. Just look at you, fancy suit and all. Should I be honored that you’re still willing to visit us?”

“You may be as honored or as insulted as pleases you, Kiyoko,” he said, grinning more widely back. “As long as your mother makes those sweet buns of hers, you’ll just have to keep putting up with me.”

“Oh, well played,” she retorted. “Now I have to be the polite and traditional one, which rules out the excellent rejoinder I had about your obsession with my mother’s buns.”

“Does Uncle know you talk to guests this way?” Hiroshi demanded, planting his fists on his hips and glowering in mock outrage.

“Oh, please, you know very well who I learned it from. Come in, Hiroshi, come in. And your friends! Uncle’s expecting you; he’ll be right down.”

After a brief exchange of introductions, which notably did not include anyone’s surname, Embras and Bradshaw found themselves seated on the floor along one side of a low table in the living room. It was arranged in a very Sifanese style, rather bare of furnishings and decorations, but spotlessly clean and everything carefully placed. The sparseness was clearly a deliberate aesthetic, not due to poverty.

Scarcely had they had time to get comfortable when Uncle arrived; Hiroshi immediately rose, and both his companions followed his lead.

Hiroshi’s description had hinted at an older man, and Uncle was definitely that, but rather than the wise old master of archetype, he resembled nothing so much as a blackmith. Despite his gray and receding hair, and the thick lines which nearly hid his eyes, he walked with an unbent spine, and was of an incredibly powerful build, his arms thickly corded with muscle and shoulders almost too broad to comfortably pass through the doorway. He was also, they noted upon rising, rather short, the top of his balding head not quite reaching Embras’s chin.

“Uncle,” Hiroshi said warmly, first bowing, and then stepping over to clasp the old man’s hand. “It’s been too long!”

“And whose fault is that, boy?” Uncle replied, his Tanglish clear but with a distinct accent. “You know my house is always open.”

“And you know how life is, better than I ever will. I only wish I could still run around bare-footed, listening to your stories and sneaking sweet buns.”

“Don’t wish for the past, Hiroshi,” Uncle said, reaching up to pat his shoulder. “You’re right, as you well know. There is only forward. So! I hear your friends are curious about kitsune?” He turned his bright eyes on his guests inquisitively.

“Indeed,” said Hiroshi. “May I present Embras and Bradshaw, neighbors and colleagues of mine.”

“My apologies for the hour, sir,” said Embras, tipping his hat. “I’m very grateful that you would take the time to speak with us.”

“And it’s a pleasure to visit,” Bradshaw added. “Your home is beautiful.”

“Not at all, it’s only a humble place,” Uncle replied, coming to join them at the table. “Please, sit! Be comfortable. Kiyoko will be back soon with tea. I’m always pleased to talk of the old stories, but it’s very rare that someone not of our nation would come seeking to hear them.” He arranged himself cross-legged at the table, staring piercingly at Embras. “And with such a specific question, too. Why are you curious about the fox-goddesses?”

Embras glanced at Hiroshi, who nodded, before replying. “Well…the truth is, our interest is practical, sir. We seem to have drawn the attention of one.”

Uncle’s expression did not visibly change, but he stilled slightly, as if his very breath were held in abeyance. “Here? On this continent?”

“Here,” Embras replied, nodding.

Uncle let out a long, slow breath, shifting his gaze to Hiroshi. “And you are mixed up in this?”

“I did not learn of it until after the fact,” Hiroshi said. “These are my friends, Uncle; I consider their problems my own. But I’ve had no contact with the kitsune.”

“Nor have we, directly,” Embras added. “So far, she seems to be just…playing jokes on us.”

“Mm,” Uncle murmured, his brow creasing further in a deep frown. “And so, you wish to learn of their ways.”

“We would be extremely grateful,” said Bradshaw.

Kiyoko returned at that moment, carrying a tray laden with a pot of fragrant green tea and small cups. There was silence in the room while she poured, her manners notably more conservative in Uncle’s presence. The master of the house gazed thoughtfully at the center of the table throughout her deft performance. Only when she had departed again, and everyone had a cup in hand, did he speak.

“The story of the kitsune is the story of Sifan, and of the world,” he said at last. “Tell me, Embras, Bradshaw… Do you know of dryads?”

“I certainly know they exist,” Embras said, glancing curiously at Bradshaw. “I must say I’ve never considered them any of my business, either.”

“You’re suggesting they’re related to the kitsune?” Bradshaw said, frowning.

“That makes some sense, in fact,” Hiroshi said thoughtfully. “In the stories, kitsune are always seducing people or killing people. Sometimes the same people.”

“Hiroshi always loved the stories,” Uncle said, glancing fondly at the younger man. “But I don’t tell all the stories to the children. There are some it does not profit them to know. But if you have already drown the attention of a fox-goddess, you clearly need not worry about doing so. Very well, then.

“The dryads are spirits of conservation,” he said, his voice taking on the subtly rhythmic quality of a veteran storyteller. “Spirits of life, who dwell where they will and live in balance with nature. They are thus, as the youngest daughters of Naiya, because they were made to compensate for their elder sisters. Before them, the valkyries were spirits of death, and they reaped so vigorously and so well that the gods of the last age conspired to capture them, and expel them from the mortal plane, lest they unmake everything the Elders had wrought. It was this which led to the world we now know, for Vidius found a way to anchor them to the world, and to keep them engaged and able to interact, though in a limited way. For this, Naiya sheltered the young gods of the Pantheon in their war, and refused the slightest succor to her fellow Elders. If not for her aid, the new gods would surely have perished before ascending.

“The valkyries, like their sisters who came after, were created to balance an even older mistake. The eldest daughters of Naiya, the kitsune, are spirits of play, of passion, and of deceit. Even Naiya could not control them, and so she brought forth a land for them to call their own, and persuaded them to claim it at the expense of leaving the rest of the world to its devices. The kitsune are Sifan. They do not rule it; they do not care for such things. They simply exist, and all others who exist there are at their sufferance.”

“That’s fascinating,” Bradshaw breathed. “Did Naiya have another generation of daughters before them?”

“That is not part of the story,” Uncle said sententiously, and Embras hid a smile behind his teacup. That digression about valkyries hadn’t been exactly germane, either; if this wasn’t part of the story, it was because Uncle didn’t know it. “Unique among nations, Sifan has had an uninterrupted history since its founding after the Elder Wars. It has never been conquered, nor even invaded. Though troubled by storms, earthquakes and tsunamis, it has never been ravaged by a disaster so great that it could not recover. This is as it is because the Eternal Kingdom exists at the pleasure of the goddesses of the Twilight Forest. The first humans settled there because the kitsune allowed it. The drow of Nathloss sally forth to raid and keep our people alert because the kitsune find it amusing. The surviving orc clans dwell there because they asked the blessing of the kitsune and were given it, and the Queen’s government would not think to gainsay them, despite the conflict it caused with Tiraas. The dragons come to Sifan to meet because they come often alone, bringing gifts to the kitsune, and have earned a permanent welcome.”

“How amazing,” Embras murmured. “I’m increasingly puzzled that one would leave such a place, if it’s so apparently sacred to them.

“Wouldn’t you?” Uncle countered. “In Sifan, they are the highest, the most mysterious, the most feared, respected, and oddly beloved. The people respect their forest, and do not set foot within except by permission. We hold festivals during which they may walk among us to be honored, and sometimes lay blessings where they think them deserved. And if sometimes a kitsune’s playfulness results in a burned house or field, a daughter transformed into a cow or a son who never returns from the Twilight Forest…” He shrugged fatalistically. “Shou ga nai.”

“If anything,” Hiroshi began, frowning, but Uncle forestalled him with an upraised hand.

“To engage a fox-goddess in her own realm is to be a character in a story of which she is the author. They are older than the gods, and have powers which draw deeply from Naiya—and thus from the universe itself. And what they love above all else is play. Tell me, would you not be bored, staying in the same place for eternity, with nothing to challenge you? The kitsune are not bound to Sifan, but they rarely leave it. They have, however, now and again, and always when offered the chance to do something…interesting.”

“Hmm,” Embras murmured, stroking his chin. “This is altogether not encouraging.”

“You do not fight a kitsune,” Uncle agreed. “She plays with you, until she grows bored…or her toys are too broken to entertain her.”

Bradshaw drew in a deep breath and let it out in a slightly shaky sigh.

Embras, however, suddenly smiled. “Well, then. I simply cannot thank you enough for the insight, sir—I fear I was about to make a very serious mistake.”

“If you have drawn the attention of a fox-goddess,” Uncle said seriously, “there are few paths open to you which are not mistakes.”

“Indeed, I see how that would be so. If you can indulge us a while longer, sir, we would be deeply grateful to learn anything you are able to tell us about their habits. But in the broad strokes…” His smile widened. “I do believe I know, now, what to do.”

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Tellwyrn paused in chewing when the newspaper was slapped down on the table inches from her plate. She then resumed and swallowed her bite of fish before even looking up.

“You know, Emilio, there are countries in this world where you can be summarily dismissed for approaching your employer that way. Or beheaded.”

“Have you seen this, Arachne?” Professor Ezzaniel demanded curtly.

“No, of course I haven’t,” she said, delicately cutting off another piece of trout without even glancing at the paper. “I make a determined effort to have no idea what’s going on in the world, especially right after a Bishop of the Universal Church starts taking public potshots at me, and of course, you are the only person on this campus clever enough to think of bringing me a newspaper of course I’ve seen it. Let me eat in peace, damn you!”

“I have sufficient restraint not to interrupt classes for this, thank you,” Ezzaniel replied calmly. “It’s not as if we never discuss business over lunch. And this is most definitely business.”

“Pshaw,” Rafe snorted from the other end of the table. “How bad can it be? I wasn’t even mentioned.”

“Gods and ministers of grace preserve us,” Yornhaldt rumbled into his beer.

“Exactly!” Rafe cried. “I mean, really. They’re looking for embarrassing dirt on the University and don’t even hint at me? Bunch of amateur dilettante hacks, is all.”

“Admestus,” Tellwyrn said without rancor, “shut up.”

“Oh, that’s what you always say.”

“And it never works, but I continue to hold out hope. And the rest of you—yes, I see you gearing up to argue—just relax and eat, will you? Mrs. Oak did not slave away over a hot stove just so you could ignore today’s excellent main course in favor of gossip.”

The faculty lounge in Helion Hall was not full, many of the professors preferring to eat alone in their classrooms or living quarters (or the cafeteria, occasionally), but as usual several of the staff had assembled there. Including Professor Yornhaldt, who despite his protestations of enjoying his sabbatical, had become markedly more sociable since returning to the campus and finding himself with no academic duties.

“I am not one to get worked up about anything in the press ordinarily,” Ezzaniel said with a deep frown, “but I just received a telescroll from Marjorie Darke’s mother. She paid the extra fee to have a runner bring it up to me directly from the scrolltower office.”

Taowi Sunrunner looked up from her own plate, raising an eyebrow. “The scrolltower employs a runner now?”

“It turns out Silas Crete occasionally employs his granddaughter,” Ezzaniel said to her, “who incidentally has begun to reek of cigarettes since I last spoke with her, which I suspect is related. Regardless, this has officially reached the point where the kids’ parents are getting nervous.”

“Lady Annabelle Darke,” said Tellwyrn, cutting herself another piece of fish, “has nothing going for her except far too much inherited money and a surname that her grandfather was dashing enough to get away with and which just sounds laughably pretentious on anyone else. Marjorie is only here because Sebastian Darke and I did some jobs back in the day—which turns out to be lucky for all of us, as that kid’s the first one in the line who’s got some of the old man’s spark. The point being, we are officially hearing from the slow-witted, easily agitated demographic. Don’t rush to join them, Emilio.”

“I’m well aware of the Lady Annabelle’s shortcomings,” Ezzaniel said, seating himself across the table from her. “I am paying attention to her because the woman is a weather vane. Not an admirable character trait, but it does make her a useful sign of which way the social winds are blowing this week. It’s going to get worse, Arachne. This is in all the papers.”

“Really, you’ve read all the papers that came out this morning?” she mused, eying him languidly. “Who was teaching your classes, then?”

“Arachne!” he exclaimed in exasperation.

“Calm yourself, Emilio,” Yornhaldt urged, reaching across to pull the paper toward himself. “Just because she is calmly eating lunch doesn’t mean she is ignoring the issue.”

“I prescribe a calm meal as the go-to treatment for many minor ailments,” Taowi added.

“It’s like this,” said Tellwyrn, finally setting down her fork. “Yes, I am aware that this is a concern. No, I am not going to run around in a panic, or in any other way interrupt my routine. The day I deprive myself of an excellent plate of fish over clumsy politicking by the likes of Justinian, I will probably drill a hole to the planet’s core and let out all the molten iron out of sheer spite.”

“From anyone else I would assume that to be empty hyperbole,” Ezzaniel said warily. Rafe cackled around a mouthful of steamed vegetables. “Anyway, isn’t it a leap to pin this on Justinian? It was Snowe who made that speech, and she’s definitely got contacts in the papers. Almost all of them run her column.”

“Branwen Snowe,” said Tellwyrn, “despite being possessed of considerable gifts—”

“They are very nice,” Rafe said, nudging Yornhaldt with an elbow.

“—has never had an original thought in her life,” Tellwyrn continued. “Sorry to disabuse you of this notion that I am sitting obliviously atop an ivory tower, Emilio, but I have been keeping track of political, social and theological trends. This secular humanism Snowe has been spouting for the last few months is a direct extension of ideas the Archpope has been promoting with more circumspection. And the fact that she’s an Izarite Bishop in and of itself signifies that she’s his creature; the followers of Izara regard Church politics as an unnecessary burden, and fob those positions off on people they want to get rid of.”

“If anything, that makes it worse,” Ezzaniel said with a scowl.

Tellwyrn rolled her eyes, gesticulating disparagingly with her (fortunately almost empty) teacup. “There is not a damn thing Justinian can do to me or this University except earn my ire, and he’s far too savvy not to know it. This isn’t directed at us, Emilio. He’s using it for some other purpose. That is why I’m not rushing to take action. It would be rash to blunder into any plan without understanding what’s actually going on, and that has yet to be revealed. What is fascinating to me is that Justinian isn’t the first source of these up-with-people notions he and Snowe have been propounding. It’s point-for-point Black Wreath theology.”

“Oh, dear,” said Rafe. “How villainous. Do you think we should assassinate him?”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Tellwyrn said irritably.

“Yes, you did, and may I just say your persistence in the face of impossible odds is one of the things I admire about y—”

His voice abruptly stopped, though his mouth kept moving. Rafe paused, blinking, and tried to speak again, then turned a scowl on Professor Yornhaldt, who smiled innocently back even as he lowered his casting hand.

“Thank you, Alaric,” Tellwyrn said dryly.

“My pleasure,” Yornhaldt replied while Rafe dug in his belt pouches for the anti-magic potions he always kept on hand.

“Arachne,” said Taowi, “you seem to be trying to reassure us, but each revelation you drop about Archpope Justinian is only more alarming than the last. Now you suggest that he’s involved with the Black Wreath?”

“Hardly,” Tellwyrn snorted. “If anything he’s been more persistent than his last three predecessors in hounding them. No, those ideas are basically good ones, I’ve always thought so. There are cults within the Pantheon that have similar priorities, notably the Eserites and Veskers. It has never been Church doctrine, though, far from it. Justinian’s not with the Wreath, but he’s up to something that he knows the general public is likely to be leery of. Hence designating a scapegoat. It’s the oldest trick in the book, when you want a great mass of people not to notice what you’re actually doing to them.”

“You’re very calm, considering you speak for the scapegoat in question,” Yornhaldt noted.

Tellwyrn shrugged, picking up her fork and resuming work on her fish. “Even if I considered this a crisis, I’ve never found freaking out to be a useful strategy for anything. It’s not a crisis, though, and even so I’m not ignoring it. Just stay the course, ladies and gentlemen—if you have any more irate communications from parents, handle them as best you can while I deal with this.”

“Why would we be fielding communications from parents?” Taowi inquired. “In fact, come to think of it, why did Lady Annabelle send that directly to you, Emilio?”

“I may have incidentally encouraged her to think of me as a sympathetic ear,” Ezzaniel said noncommittally.

“What he means,” Rafe said with a deranged leer, “is that he nailed her. Good on you for not boasting, old man! I would. She’s quite the hottie for a dame her—”

He fell abruptly silent again, paused, and then snatched a handful of vegetables from his plate and hurled them at Yornhaldt. They splattered across a shield of blue light that appeared around him.

“Boys,” Taowi said scathingly. “Cease that immediately. And clean it yourselves!”

Tellwyrn shook her head. “As I was saying, I am dealing with this. I’m not going to ignore it, but managing public opinion is a task outside my usual skill set. As such, and since I have no afternoon class, I am going to seek the counsel of an expert. But not, I repeat, until I finish my lunch.”

 

“Well, well, wouldja look at that,” Ruda drawled. “Arquin’s figured out the dog-in-the-park trick.”

Scorn came to a stop, frowning at the scene on the lawn before them. “Trick? Is for what?”

“Is for gettin’ girls,” Ruda said, grinning.

“Getting…” The demon blinked her eyes. “Where is dog? That is thing… The word I am told is ‘horse,’ yes?”

“Barely,” Trissiny murmured.

Gabriel was, indeed, surrounded by several girls, including most of those from the freshman class, as well as Hildred and a couple of seniors. As they watched avidly, with a variety of high-pitched noises of approval, he drew back his arm and hurled the branch he was holding the length of the lawn.

Whisper’s invisible hooves were soundless on the grass as she charged after it; her ephemeral mane and tail streamed behind her, leaving a wispy trail of smoke like the exhaust of a dwarven engine. She skidded to a halt by the stick and picked it up in her teeth, pausing to prance a few steps in place before trotting back to her master, head held high.

“I have never seen a horse play fetch,” Trissiny said.

“I think you had the right of it, Boots,” Ruda replied. “That thing’s just barely a horse. Hey, maybe Arjen would like a game of fetch!”

“He wouldn’t,” Trissiny said curtly, walking forward again. Ruda and Scorn trailed after her, the pirate chuckling.

“Oh, c’mon, have you ever tried? Or do you just treat him like a big, armored carriage for your convenience?”

Trissiny let out an irritated snort. “Arjen doesn’t need to eat and exists in a state of perpetually perfect grooming, but I still brush him and give him apples. I am not neglecting my horse just because I don’t play fetch with him. Horses don’t do that!”

“And yet…” Ruda grinned.

“I thought we’d established that Whisper is barely a horse.”

“Well, hello to you too,” Gabriel replied, the girls having drawn close enough to be heard by the end of that comment. Whisper nickered a greeting.

“Don’t make that face, Arquin,” Ruda said lightly. “You’ve apparently just finished demonstrating she’s at least part puppy.”

“Yeah, she’s fun, isn’t she?” he said, grinning up at Whisper as he stroked her nose. She whinnied in delight, bouncing once in place, very much like an overeager dog. Szith, Maureen and Ravana all took a couple of steps back from her at this; the “puppy” in question was still big enough to crush someone if she moved too carelessly.

“She is pretty,” Scorn breathed, stepping forward and reaching out with one clawed hand to pat the horse.

Whisper immediately bellowed in outrage and reared up, slashing at the Rhaazke with her front hooves. Scorn yelped and bounded backward, and the rest of Gabriel’s audience scattered in fright, even Iris, who had been stubbornly sticking by his side.

“Whoah, whoah!” he exclaimed, fearlessly stepping in front of the rearing horse and reaching up to pat her on the neck. “Easy, girl. Be nice to Scorn, she’s a friend. Easy, now.”

“Your dog-horse is a butt!” Scorn shouted, baring her teeth. Whisper thrust her head over Gabriel’s shoulder and snorted disdainfully, ears laid back.

“And you be nice, too,” he snapped, pointing at her. “Whisper is from the divine plane—she’s not going to take to a demon easily, or quickly. You have to be patient with animals. She’s very smart; as long as you’re not a jerk to her, she’ll come around.”

“Why am I being not the jerk?” Scorn snapped, stomping a foot childishly. “I being the nice and horse stupid dog get rrhaash k’thavkh nhak drroughn!”

“Scorn,” Trissiny said firmly, “Tanglish.”

The demon swelled up in fury. For a moment she tremble with repressed anger, clenched fists vibrating at her sides, then she whirled and stomped away. “Bah! Not being my problem, your horse is cannot behave! Come on, we go see the town. Find your demon trails!”

“Oh, that sounds like a great fuckin’ idea with her in this mood,” Ruda muttered.

“Come, paladin!” Scorn shouted, stopping and turning to glare over her shoulder.

Trissiny folded her arms, braced her feet, and stared at her.

For just a moment, it seemed like Scorn was on the verge of another outburst. After a moment, however, she drew in a deep breath and spoke in a slightly less furious tone. “Will you please to come, yes?”

Trissiny sighed and shook her head, but strode off toward the demon. “We’re not going off this campus unless you calm down, Scorn. It’s going to be enough of a challenge to introduce you to the townspeople, especially with all this newspaper nonsense going around. Animals don’t like demons, and you absolutely cannot react this way every time something snarls at you.”

“I being am calm!”

“Then why are you shouting?”

“I NOT ARE SHOUTING!”

Whisper snorted again, pawing at the ground. Her hooves weren’t visible, but nonetheless tore up a clump of grass.

Gabriel let out a low whistle, patting Whisper on the nose. “Well, none of that was encouraging.”

“What was that about demon trails?” Szith inquired. “I’m not certain that was translated correctly… But she did sense the same demon Trissiny did. Are they actually hunting for one?”

“Honestly, all that worries me less than the dialect,” Gabriel said thoughtfully, still petting Whisper and gazing in the direction in which Trissiny and Scorn had gone. “Her Tanglish hasn’t made any progress in a while.”

“Well, give the girl a bit o’ credit,” Maureen said reasonably. “She’s only been learnin’ it a handful o’ weeks, aye? I’d say she’s doin’ pretty well, considerin’ that.”

“That’s the thing,” Gabriel replied, frowning. “She does speak it pretty well for being new at it… But most of that progress she made in the first week. It was crazy how fast she picked up the language. Seriously, there’s nothing wrong with Scorn’s intelligence, quite the opposite. But then she just quit. She’s been talking that way ever since.”

“Why d’you think that is?” Iris asked, gazing at him with wide eyes while patting Whisper’s neck. Behind her back, Hildred repressed a grin, winking at Maureen.

“Mm,” Gabriel mused, finally turning back to face the rest of them. “I grew up in Tiraas, which is a big melting pot of a city. People from all over settle there, including lots of immigrants. And you can kind of tell the degree of investment someone puts into fitting in. There were people from outlandish places like Shengdu and Glassiere who had basically no accent after just a couple of years, because they were constantly working to improve their diction. And then there were those who still speak this barely comprehensible pidgin Tanglish after living here for decades and raising their children in Imperial culture, who just couldn’t be bothered.”

“Languages do not come to all with equal facility,” Szith noted. “They are much easier to learn if one starts young.”

“That’s true,” Gabriel acknowledged, nodding to her.

“I think I see what he’s getting at, though,” said Ruda, frowning. “And it’s a good point. There comes a point where someone decides they’ve learned enough for their purposes and just doesn’t fuck with it anymore. Arquin’s right, Scorn’s as sharp as a tack when she wants to be. It’s a real issue if she’s just not gonna worry about improving her Tanglish now she’s gotten mostly understandable, most of the time. She’s supposed to be proving she can fit in and make her way on this plane. Proving it to Tellwyrn, who doesn’t accept ‘meh, good enough’ as a valid attitude from anybody.”

“What’s going to happen to her if she doesn’t learn to fit in?” Iris asked.

“Not sure,” Gabriel mused. “I highly doubt it’ll be pretty, though.”

“I think we might wanna bring this up with Teal,” Ruda said to him. “Scorn’s doin’ okay with listening to people in general, but Vadrieny’s still the only one she seems actually motivated to please.”

Behind them, Ravana was still gazing down the path the paladin and demon had taken, her expression deeply thoughtful. After a moment, a faint smile crossed her features.

“Hmm.”

 

The central temple of Vesk in Tiraas was a deliberate study in contrasts. Most of it was built in rounded patterns, a rather chaotic arrangement of white marble towers and domes, surmounted by a minaret wreathed by a spiraling staircase, atop which musicians would perch to entertain the entire district on days considered holy to the Veskers—who considered any occasion holy when they could get away with creating a spectacle. Its uppermost great hall, however, was almost like a Shaathist lodge in design and layout, right down to its enormous exposed timbers. It had better lighting and a sloping tile roof, but even its décor seemed deliberately evocative of the Huntsmen’s aesthetics, with old instruments and weapons prominently displayed in place of animal trophies. Along its walls, between the windows, stood statues of various gods of the Pantheon, Vesk himself notably not among them.

Despite being called the great hall and serving as the center of the temple’s own society, it was actually not meant to be accessible to the general public. The temple’s entrances led to public spaces outside its various theaters and performance halls—the areas used by the bards for their own purposes were reached by networks of spiraling, deliberately confusing hallways, which themselves were peppered with barriers ranging from simple locked doors to enchanted alarms and force fields, and a couple of rather whimsical booby traps. It took quite some doing to reach the great hall, which was why everyone congregated there looked up in surprise when it was entered by someone not of the faith.

By the time she had crossed it to the dais at its far end, those who recognized Professor Tellwyrn had whispered her name to the others, which of course explained the matter of how she’d gotten in. The bards began drifting toward her, eagerly anticipating a show. There was nothing they loved like a good show.

Master Harper Roundol was seated on the dais, having been in conversation with two other bards. They all broke off, staring, as the legendary elf made a beeline for them. At her approach, all three rose and bowed respectfully.

“Professor,” Roundol said, straightening back up and absently stroking the neck of his guitar. “This is an unexpected honor! What can we do for you?”

Tellwyrn came to a stop in front of the dais, planted her hands on her hips, and looked him up and down. Then she studied the other two bards for a moment, and finally glanced around the hall.

“Um,” the Master Harper prompted.

She pointed at his guitar. “Can I see that for a moment?”

Roundol protectively tightened his grip on the instrument. “Ah… Might I ask why—”

In the next instant, with barely a puff of displaced air, it was out of his hands and in hers.

“Perfect, thank you,” Tellwyrn said briskly. “Stand back.”

Grasping the guitar by the neck, she lifted it over her head. The sound of wordless protest that tore free from the high priest’s throat was almost musical in its poignancy.

A hand grabbed Tellwyrn’s wrist from behind.

“That instrument,” said Vesk, gently but firmly taking it from her, “is an absolute masterwork. It has passed through the hands of seven of my high priests, cherished by each as if it were a child. The wood from which it’s made is simply not attainable anymore; in addition to being possibly the finest example of its craft to be found, anywhere, it is one of the most sacred objects in the world which is not actually overlaid with divine blessings. And in utterly typical fashion, here I find you threatening to smash it, just to get my attention.”

With another soft breath of air, the guitar was back in its owner’s hands, and Roundol lost not time in retreating from the elf, glaring reproachfully at her as he clutched it protectively to his chest. The god, incarnated as usual in his nondescript form, completely with absurd floppy hat, smiled thinly as Tellwyrn turned to face him. “For once in your interminable existence, Arachne, as a personal favor to me…”

And suddenly layers of reality peeled back, Vesk’s presence filling the temple and beyond. Without seeming to change physically, his very identity blazed forth with such sheer pressure that lesser mortals were driven back against the walls and to the floor, even before he bellowed in a voice that seemed it should have cracked the mountain.

“WOULD. YOU. PLEASE. NOT?!”

“You know, I like this much better than the last time I had to seek you out,” she said smugly, folding her arms. “This is altogether a lot easier when I don’t need your full cooperation. And much, much quicker.”

The god’s awesome presence retreated as quickly as he had brought it forth, leaving only an apparently mortal bard scowling at the Professor. “I suggest you watch that attitude, missy. The Pantheon has several excellent reasons for tolerating your shenanigans—that doesn’t mean each of us has endless patience. You can fulfill your most important purpose in the world just as well sealed away in a dimensional bubble as you can running around on your own. Arguably a lot better, in fact. Several suggested it, after that nonsense you tried to do in the Deep Wild.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Tellwyrn said with a grin. “Remember, I’m the one who’s spent a full human lifetime researching each of you megalomaniacal fuckers. I know who can be pushed, and exactly how far.”

The assembled bards watched all this avidly; with the reality-rending grandstanding apparently over, they seemed mostly interested in the conflict and not unduly impressed by the presence of their primary object of worship. Vesk and Tellwyrn stared flatly at each other from mere feet apart, she smirking, he scowling.

“Oh my gods!”

The new voice belonged to a young woman with somewhat unruly dark hair, who came skittering into the great hall as if late for her own wedding, the lute case slung over her shoulder bouncing against her as she pelted forwards. “Ohmygodsohmygodsohmygods!”

She skidded to a stop barely before crashing into the glaring pair. “Professor Tellwyrn, Arachne, oh gods this is so awesome, it’s such an honor, I’m a huge fan!”

Tellwyrn turned to stare at her. “What.”

“I’ve read all the stories about you, even the ones that are obvious lies because honestly those are the funniest. You have the best stories! I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I first heard the Plavoric Epics recited—I sat through the entire Saga of the Third Hellwar sung in Sheng because nobody performs it anymore just for the parts at the end where you came in. You’re the reason I became a bard! This is just, wow, I can’t even… Will you sign my face?”

“That’s weird,” Tellwyrn said bluntly. “You’re weird. Go away.”

“Eeee heeheehee!” The girl actually did a little jig, clapping her hands in pure delight. “Classic Tellwyrn!”

“Kelsey,” Master Harper Roundol said gently, taking her by the shoulders from behind and starting to pull her away. “The Professor is here on business with Lord Vesk. Let’s give them a moment to chat before she vaporizes somebody. Or worse, my guitar.”

“Oh, she’d never do that,” Kelsey protested, still staring avidly at Tellwyrn. “I mean, the second one—she blasts people to dust all the time, but she’s super respectful of valuable art. She’ll threaten to break things but like in the battle with Almophriscor the Red she only lost cos they were fighting in his lair and she kept pulling her punches to avoid damaging his hoard, he had basically the world’s best collection of marble statuary, and after that he was so impressed he let her stay there to recuperate and even gave her…”

“Yes, yes,” Roundol said soothingly, dragging her bodily back to the dais. “Shush.”

“There, y’see?” Tellwyrn said smugly, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at Kelsey. “Research. You should give it a try, Vesk; I bet you’d be less vulnerable to obvious and transparent ruses.”

The god heaved a sigh. “What do you want, Arachne?”

“To seek your inimitable advice,” she said. “I trust you have noticed the issues I’m having with your Archpope. I must say I’ve never been the target of a campaign of slander that I actually had to care about before.”

“I am not getting rid of Justinian for you,” Vesk said with the ghost of a smile. “And get with the times, Arachne. Slander is spoken—or sung, for that matter. Printed slander is called libel.”

“I don’t need him gotten rid of,” she said in exasperation. “There’ll always be another one. You’re the expert on manipulating public opinion. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you helped us to both dismantle the Empire during the Enchanter Wars and put it back together afterward. You owe me, Vesk, both for that business and for wasting sixty years of my time!”

“I never told you to do any of that,” he complained. “See, this is why nobody’s happy to see you when you visit—apart from all the smashing, I mean. All this blaming everybody for failing to contend with your various bullshit. You’re like an emotionally abusive old mother. Have you been hanging out with Naiya much lately, by any chance?”

“Actually…wait, that’s right. It was sixty-three years.”

The god of bards groaned dramatically and massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “If I help you, will you cease harassing my clergy and bugger off?”

“That is the deal I was offering, yes,” she said with a feline smile.

“Fine. Loath as I am to encourage this behavior, your problem really is so incredibly simple it almost pains me to see you floundering with it. Honestly, Arachne, the fact that you don’t have better people skills after three thousand years of this has got to be history’s greatest failure of character.”

“Less character assassination, more practical advice,” she said sharply.

“Justinian’s campaign is a political one,” Vesk said, staring intently at her face now. “Political campaigns are never won—they are only lost. Right now, the attention is on you, as is the onus to refute or validate his accusations. In that position, you have no winning moves. Honestly, your policy of ignoring him could conceivably be used against you, but it might also be your safest way to go. If, however, you decide to actually engage with this issue, what you need to do is make the matter about him, not about you.” He leaned forward, gazing deep into her eyes, and spoke with deliberately excessive emphasis. “And if that is what you intend, then I am not the one you should be speaking to.”

“All right, all right,” she said, leaning back as if he had bad breath. “Point taken. Really, I’d have expected less ostentatious delivery from you of all people.”

“Well, forgive me,” he said sardonically, straightening back up. “I may not be the best at research, but I have met you, after all. Seriously, though, that was all you wanted? Any number of political operatives could have told you that much.”

“Yes, no doubt,” she said with a smile. “But I don’t trust any number of political operatives.”

“And there it is,” Vesk said, shaking his head and smiling ruefully. “The real reason I continue to tolerate your crap. For being such an apparent brute, you do know how to pluck the right strings.”

“I had some good teachers,” Tellwyrn replied cheerfully. “All right, then! Seems I’ve some more planning to do. As you were, ladies, gentlemen…and bards.”

She turned her back on the deity and strolled off toward the door through which she had entered, leaving most of her audience looking incongruously delighted at the spectacle they had just witnessed. Except, of course, for the Vesker high priest, who was again clutching his guitar protectively and giving her back a resentful look.

“Arachne,” Vesk said in a suddenly knowing tone. “You realize that since you think it’s acceptable to show up at my place and take liberties with my people, I’m going to consider that a mutual arrangement.”

“Well, it’s past time, I’d say,” she replied, pausing to glance back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Honestly, I do my best, but there are things that girl needs to learn that I’m just not a good person to teach her. Just try not to disrupt my class schedule too much, please.”

She resumed her path toward the door, and almost got there before being intercepted by Kelsey.

“So, hey, since you’re here, I would love to chat a bit, hear some stories, maybe buy you a drink? Wouldja like to hear the song I’m composing? It’s about you!”

“Oh, I would,” Tellwyrn said brusquely, brushing past her, “but I’m very busy doing absolutely anything except that.”

“My treat! I’ll take ya to the best restaurant in town! Fancy a hundred-year-old scotch? Or a quick screw? Or a slow one? Honestly I’m not even into women—or skinny people, for that matter—but it’d just be such an honor—”

“Young woman, you are one more ill-advised comment from being transformed into something small and edible.”

“Ma’am, that would be the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.”

“You’re a creepy little snot, aren’t you?”

Roundol approached Vesk, staring thoughtfully at the door through which the two women had just vanished. “M’lord, do you think we ought to go do something about that? The poor girl’s setting herself up for more trouble than I think she understands.”

Vesk grunted. “She’s survived three thousand years of trials and tribulations, Tamelin. She’ll survive Kelsey. Probably.”

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“It sounds like your fact-finding trip was more exciting and less informative than I would have hoped,” the Abbess said, steepling her fingers and gazing sharply up at Basra.

“Well put,” Basra replied. “It wasn’t wasted time, however. The elves knew little of immediate, direct value, but they did have very useful insights to offer, and our visit with the witch gained not only his perspective on the matter, but the possibility of gaining support from Viridill’s fae-wielding community. In this matter that may ultimately prove a game-changer. Most of all, our encounter with the shadow elemental was very instructive.”

“The way you describe it,” Narnasia said, her expression not wavering, “you made short work of the creature, and it made little lasting impression.”

“Yes,” Basra agreed, “but again, it was the insight of the elves that made the experience worthwhile. We learned that the shadow elemental is a rare and expensive creation, and not intended for combat. Indeed, it didn’t acquit itself well at all when pressed. Our unseen opponent is taunting us with his ability to squander resources, just to make a point.”

“His or her,” Narnasia said flatly. “And don’t make the mistake of thinking everyone competent thinks the way you do, Captain Syrinx. There seems to me a simpler explanation: the creature did not intend to fight. As you described the events, you were stopped by the elves, who revealed that something was following you, and then it attacked. Correct?”

She glanced at Covrin and Schwartz; the Legionnaire looked to Basra, but Schwartz replied immediately.

“I say, now you mention it, that is the way it played out.”

The Abbess nodded. “Self-destruction is a time-honored tactic for spies who are found out and cornered. This would mean you achieved an actual victory by depriving this mysterious witch of such a valuable agent.”

“That fact alone makes me suspicious,” Basra said coldly. “It is too early in the campaign to indulge in wishful thinking.”

“My experience with immortals,” Narnasia replied, “which the elves seemed to imply this person must be, is that they do not live long by being incautious. My experience with people who amass power is the same. And those who lurk in the shadows, tentatively poking their enemies for signs of weakness, do not squander resources. It frankly beggars belief to imagine that any foe capable of conjuring as valuable a servitor as a shadow elemental apparently is would deliberately waste it, for such a simple reason as making a point. A being of such power and resourcefulness would not be approaching their attacks so tentatively. So relax a little bit, captain, and enjoy your victory.”

“I hardly think this is time to get complacent,” Basra insisted, glancing over at the other two. She continued somewhat grudgingly. “We do need to get some rest before proceeding, though, you’re correct in that much.”

“What is your plan?” Narnasia inquired.

“At the moment, our only option pursuant to established strategies is to wait,” Basra said distastefully. “For Hargrave to produce information, and for our antagonist to move again. I do not intend to waste time in idleness—since we can’t act directly, we should take the opportunity to re-position ourselves. I mean to embark for the capital…” She glanced at Schwartz again. “…tomorrow. That, surely, should give everyone time to rest up.”

“Tiraas?” he asked, perking up slightly.

“The provincial capital,” Basra said, exasperated. “Vrin Shai is in a central location from which we can reach most points in Viridill fairly quickly, either by Rail or conventional roads. It also has the largest concentration of the Legions and the Sisterhood’s resources, not to mention the Imperial government offices. It’s the best place to wait, and should afford me the opportunity to find or create new avenues of investigation. And,” she added, nodding to Narnasia, “while the Abbey is a very secure location, it may be best, since we are being specifically targeted, to take ourselves away from the novices. Vrin Shai is nearly as defensible as Tiraas itself.”

“I note that line of thinking was starkly absent when you placed these two at the Izarite temple,” the Abbess said.

“As I explained,” Basra replied testily, “the followers of Izara are on no one’s target list, and history is full of accounts of all manner of armies and villains going well out of their way to avoid harming them. The Abbey is another matter; the person behind this clearly has a quarrel with Avei’s interests, specifically.”

“Full might be exaggerating it,” Narnasia acknowledged, “but I’ve heard of a few such events. Fair enough, I suppose.”

“For the moment,” Basra continued in a suddenly calmer tone, “while everyone is assembled here, I would like to put Private Covrin forward for a commendation for her performance against the elemental. For an untested private to maintain that kind of discipline against an opponent magically projecting fear, and without the support of a full line of Legionnaires, impressed me. I tapped Covrin for her political acumen specifically; I’ve been concerned that I may have been depriving her of valuable combat experience. That was a better display than I would expect from most soldiers of her rank, however.”

Jenell’s head had jerked toward the Bishop, eyes widening at the mention of her name. She kept silent, though, stiffening back to attention when the Abbess’s eyes fell upon her.

“Mm,” Narnasia said noncommittally. “If you’re so concerned about her career trajectory, Captain, you can always have her reassigned to an active cohort and select someone less green as your personal aide. Which, I believe, is a more standard practice.”

“Be that as it may, it’s a different discussion,” Basra said curtly. “I bring it up because your endorsement would be beneficial to the process.”

“Oh, indeed,” Narnasia replied, staring at her. “I’m sure if you really want to push this through, you could probably get the girl a medal strictly on the basis of your own political connections.”

“That’s correct, I can,” Basra shot back. “But giving handouts and doing favors is for opponents, rivals and useful contacts. To soldiers I give nothing they haven’t earned. Covrin deserves to be acknowledged for her own merits, not for my patronage.”

“I’m glad to hear that, anyway,” Narnasia agreed. “Very well, I’ll consider this.”

Basra tightened her mouth momentarily before continuing. “Regardless, I’ll be sending a similar endorsement to the Collegium for Mr. Schwartz’s help in the same event. Fortunately, as Bishop, I do not need your help to accomplish that.”

“Oh, now,” Schwartz said awkwardly while the Abbess stared at the Bishop. “It wasn’t as great a thing as you make it sound. I mean, it’s not as if I’d seen a shadow elemental before yesterday, but I certainly have read about them! I knew the thing wasn’t actually all that dangerous. I was a lot more impressed with the way you and Covrin charged right at it!”

“Covrin and I are soldiers,” Basra said more calmly, glancing at him. “That is what is expected of us. You, Mr. Schwartz, are an academic, and I’ve known people with more combat experience than you who fled like rabbits from lesser threats than that. You kept a cool head under pressure and acted intelligently, and helpfully in battle. That’s more impressive than you may realize.”

A soft rap sounded on the office door.

“Enter,” Narnasia called, her eyes still fixed on Basra’s face.

The door opened a crack and a white-robed novice slipped in. She paused, glancing around, then sketched a quick bow to the Bishop before hurrying around the desk to the Abbess’s side, where she bent to whisper in the old woman’s ear.

“Ah,” Narnasia said, patting the girl’s hand, an oddly satisfied expression falling across her features. “What excellent timing. It seems your guest has arrived, Captain Syrinx.”

Basra raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me, my guest? I was not expecting anyone.”

The office door was pushed open wider, admitting a diminutive but well-rounded woman with deep red hair, wearing the white robes and black tabard of a Universal Church Bishop.

“Basra!” Branwen Snowe cried in evident delight. “How wonderful to see you again! It’s been far too long.”

Basra drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly through her nose in what sounded suspiciously like a hiss.

 

“It’s right this way,” Raichlin said, smiling at them over his shoulder as he led the way through the lodge’s stone hallways. “I have an office, but I hate it. The library’s the most comfortable room in the whole place, and my favorite for other reasons.”

“Sounds good!” Darling said cheerfully. Ingvar and Joe, characteristically, held their peace.

Ingvar was mostly preoccupied studying his surroundings, and especially the other Shadow Hunters they met in passing, with great care. For the most part, the lodge could have been a Shaathist one in terms of general layout and aesthetic, though the Huntsmen preferred to build with wood rather than stone. The great hall had the same general design and décor, with hunting trophies proudly displayed, though it had no altar or wolf statue.

It was the people he found most interesting. In a lodge dedicated to Shaath, one could tell a lot about a person by their manner of dress. The women showed through hairstyles, collars and other adornments whether they were claimed, unwed, too young to be either, or widowed. Among men, the Huntsmen carried specific weapons that distinguished shamans, beastmasters, clerics, and others, and of course the younger boys who had not yet achieved any rank.

Here, everyone was both more homogenous, and less. They occasionally passed people in the halls, and had met a good number of curious onlookers in the great hall; in general, the Shadow Hunters were less reserved and less solemn than the Huntsmen. Also, a number of them were accompanied by animal companions, either dogs (Shaathists did not favor domesticated canines), large cats (which made Ingvar nervous, as Shaathist doctrine considered them un-trainable), and birds. There might have been something signified by the specifics of their clothes that he didn’t know enough to interpret, or they might have been just individual expressions of style. Though the Shadow Hunters had the same general preference for comfortable, practical garments he was accustomed to seeing, they also liked them more worked and decorated than the coarse fabrics and untrimmed hides Huntsmen favored. In fact, now that he considered it, they dressed a lot like wood elves.

And as far as he could tell, the women dressed more or less the same as the men. Ingvar was not about to offer any comment on this; explaining proper gender roles to people outside the faith was almost always pointless, and often provocative.

“Here we are,” Raichlin said, pushing open a set of double doors and gesturing them through. Each of the three nodded to him in passing, then paused inside, studying the chamber.

To judge by its dimensions and the positions of windows along its circular outer wall, the library appeared to occupy a couple of floors of the entire tower. There were no walls across its interior, though there were multiple thick stone columns helping to support the structure, and waist-high bookshelves radiating out from an open sitting area in the center, offering an unobstructed view across the whole space. There were two other clusters of chairs and reading tables around large fireplaces against the outer walls, currently unlit. Balconies ringed the perimeter, two and three stories up, providing access to more shelf space, all fully stocked with books.

They liked their reading a lot more than the Huntsmen, it seemed.

Raichlin led them to seats in the central area; there were three other Shadow Hunters browsing the library, two softly talking over a book on the first balcony and a lone woman leaning against a window and reading up on the third. All glanced up at the party’s arrival, one man waving at Raichlin, before going back to their own pursuits.

“This is downright amazing,” Joe said honestly as he sank into a padded chair. “I thought only Nemitites collected books this ardently.”

“I’ve often thought the greatest weakness of the Pantheon system is the way it encourages people to over-specialize,” Raichlin observed. “A god for each sphere of human activity, and people devoted to each god. It doesn’t seem a recipe for a balanced life, does it? More than one thing can be important, even sacred. I mean no offense, of course.”

“None taken,” Darling said glibly. “I’ve had the same thought myself.”

“Some things are simply more important than others,” Ingvar said quietly. “People signify their beliefs, and their priorities, through their choice of allegiance.”

“True enough,” Raichlin agreed. “And I can’t claim to be without my own prejudices. We don’t prohibit members from worshiping Pantheon gods, but the whole focus of our order’s life makes it all seem rather…extraneous. Here, we respect the wild, we insist upon our freedom…” He nodded to Darling, grinning. “We value knowledge, study the arts of combat, healing, magic… If some god showed up here insisting we had to do only one of those things, I think they’d be kicked out.”

“All due respect,” Joe said dryly, “but I’ve got a feeling that’s an untested theory.”

Raichlin laughed, but quietly, mindful of the library. “True, true. But I’m monopolizing the conversation, when you’ve come all this way to seek us out. Liesl said you’d been sent here by the Crow, of all people. So!” He folded his hands in his lap, leaning forward and studying Darling’s face. “What can our little lodge of hunters do for you, your Grace?”

“Pardon if I gave you the wrong impression by babbling on,” Darling said easily. “It happens, I’m a babbler. I’m only here to help out, however. This is Brother Ingvar’s quest.”

“Oh? Forgive me.” Raichlin turned to Ingvar, his expression open and expectant.

Ingvar drew in a breath to steady himself. Once again, discussing this with another outsider…

“For the last few weeks, I’ve been troubled by persistent dreams that my lodge’s shaman deemed prophetic. I wasn’t sure…until the most recent, after proceeding as usual, hinted I should seek out the Crow for help.” He paused, glancing at Darling, whose expression remained neutral. “I didn’t honestly think she would be accessible, but…she actually turned out to be interested.”

“I’m rather impressed that you found her,” Raichlin noted when he paused for thought. “I’ve not had the pleasure myself, but she’s not known to be amenable to people taking up her time.”

“Actually, it seems she got wind that I was looking and found me. And… Well, the short version is she decided to help.” Ingvar frowned. “To be quite honest, I was never totally sure until that point that these were anything more than dreams. I had the sense that they were, but…how can one really know? But, anyway, the Crow’s advice was to seek out the Shadow Hunters of Veilgrad. So…” He shrugged. “Here I am.”

“Interesting,” Raichlin mused. “These dreams. What can you tell me about them?”

Ingvar had to pause to draw in another deep breath. It felt almost traitorous, revealing what could be Shaath’s state of weakness to these apostates. “I saw the god. Shaath. In different ways every time, but always imprisoned. Bound, and suffering.”

A frown settled on Raichlin’s features, and he nodded slowly. “That’s very curious. Hm…”

“You know what it means?” Ingvar demanded, unable to fully suppress his eagerness.

“I doubt it’s going to be as simple as that,” Raichlin cautioned. “First of all, dreams, whether prophetic or not, are rarely literal. They come from a part of the mind which runs entirely on metaphor. And really, doesn’t that make sense in this context? The binding of a god is not something easily done, nor something that could be done without people taking notice. But…” He nodded. “Granting that it may not be a truly literal message, yes. I have an idea what that could address. Tell me, Ingvar, what do you know about our order, here?”

For a moment Ingvar bristled at the apparent delay, but forced himself back under control. It probably wasn’t a hostile action; in truth, he’d had the same from more than one shaman, and elder Huntsman. They rarely seemed to want to answer questions directly, preferring to lead the questioner to the answer in steps. Mary had said as much outright.

“Very little,” he replied. “The Huntsmen are a diverse group; each lodge has variations in its own doctrine. I’m hardly aware of the particulars of all of them; I certainly have not studied the offshoots, those that diverged enough to qualify as a different faith entirely.”

“Ah, but there you proceed upon a false assumption,” Raichlin said, smiling. “We did not diverge from Shaathism. The appelation Shadow Hunter is a Shaathist invention, and meant as a disparagement, but we’ve never bothered to resist it.”

“Good policy,” Darling commented. “Insults tend to lose their power if you embrace them.”

“Just so,” Raichlin agreed, “and we’d rather the Huntsmen did such as that instead of attacking us, which…while not a likelihood in this day and age, has been one in times past, and might one day be again. But no, we didn’t come from the Huntsmen.”

“They…came from you?” Joe said, frowning. Ingvar tensed in his seat.

“Mm,” Raichlin mused. “We certainly predate the organized faith, but no, I wouldn’t say they came from us. The modern lodges definitely borrowed a lot of ideas from the Rangers, but they owe just as much of their lineage to other sources. We’re…a distant uncle, perhaps, not a father.” He grinned, which only served to heighten Ingvar’s distaste.

“Rangers?” Joe inquired.

“Yes indeed, that’s the original term,” Raichlin said, nodding. “It’s the one we still prefer to use within our own ranks. Shadow Hunters is so much more dramatic, though!”

“Now, stop me if I’m wrong,” Joe said, “but the ‘ranger’ is one of the basic adventurer archetypes, ain’t it? One that’s more or less fallen by the wayside…”

“You are very far from wrong!” Raichlin smiled at him, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve heard of the Heroes’ Guild?”

“Of course!”

“Yes, you would’ve… The Guildhall was in Mathenon, same as Sarasio. Not close to it, but that general region. Well, after the Guild was felled, its various orders…split, you might say. A lot of them were overtaken by the cults. Warriors had a natural affinity for Avenism, for instance. The modern Wizards’ Guild is the result of a schism from not long after that, when a few very stubborn practitioners did not want to be swept up under Salyrene’s umbrella. And, of course, the Rogues either joined the Thieves’ Guild or were wiped out by it over time. But the Rangers, well… We’d always stood somewhat apart. The nature of living close to the wild means one’s not as inclined to loiter around Guildhalls, waiting for quests to be posted on the bulletin board.”

“On that, we agree,” Ingvar snorted.

Raichlin nodded at him, grinning. “Having a structure of our own, we survived the Guild’s demise just fine, and we continue today. We do this by not being excessively hidebound. The world’s changed a lot over the centuries, and the graveyards of history are occupied by societies that tried to resist the tide. So, no, our lineage predates Shaathism, and has point in common, but isn’t fully shared with it.”

“Shaath has been a member of the Pantheon since the Elder War,” Ingvar snapped. “You surely are not going to claim your Rangers have existed longer than that?”

“No indeed,” Raichlin replied. “We’ve only a relatively few thousand years of history under our belts; Shaath has definitely been around longer than we have. I said we predate Shaathism, not Shaath. You’ve probably never been told this, Brother Ingvar, but for most of recorded history, until not very long before the rise of the Tiraan Empire, a Huntsman of Shaath was…basically a wandering holy man. They lived alone in the wilds, protecting them from those who would despoil them, offering healing and rescue to travelers in need. There couldn’t have been more than a few dozen in existence at a time.”

“What?” Ingvar exclaimed, heedless of the library’s quiet.

“There was no cult,” Raichlin continued, gazing calmly at him. “No traditions or organization. To feel the call of the wild was an inherently sacred calling; those who answered it learned from nature itself, and Shaath directly. The Rangers always revered true Huntsmen of Shaath until they organized and began recruiting. And while the cult, when it formed, definitely took a lot of its structure from the Rangers, it’s very likely that the first Rangers themselves were attempting to imitate the Huntsmen, without ever attaining Shaath’s blessing. So… You could say we are the chicken and the egg. It’s hard to say which came first, and may really be pointless to ask.”

“You say ‘true Huntsmen,’” Ingvar said tightly, “as if to imply that those of us alive now are not.”

“You’re right, forgive me,” Raichlin acknowledged. “That was thoughtless phrasing on my part. Original Huntsmen makes more sense; they were definitely a whole different animal before Angthinor came along.”

“Who?” Darling inquired.

“Angthinor the Wise was a great leader among the Huntsmen of Shaath,” Ingvar said tersely.

“The Huntsmen today don’t give him nearly enough credit,” Raichlin added. “Angthinor created the organization as it exists now. He was a man of very particular ideas; the modern Huntsmen reflect his preconceptions at least as much as they do the arts of the wild.”

“Be careful, Shadow Hunter,” Ingvar growled.

“You be careful,” Darling said firmly. “We’re the guests, here, and remember you came here to ask for his help.”

“This is a difficult thing to discuss,” Raichlin said seriously. “Believe me, I take no offense; I don’t expect it to be easy to hear. But I won’t insult you by softening the truth, Ingvar. What you choose to believe is up to you; it should always be kept in mind that everyone’s perspective is tainted by their limited point of view, and I am no exception. That’s exactly why a point of view unfamiliar to your own can be valuable. It opens up whole new ways of seeing the world.”

“What you propose is absurd,” Ingvar snapped. “Gods don’t just change.”

“That’s theology, and over my head,” Raichlin said. “Regardless of what gods do or don’t do, people definitely change. Cults are no exception. Ingvar, have you ever heard of the Silver Huntresses?”

“Should I have?”

“It doesn’t really surprise me that you haven’t,” Raichlin said with a grin. “They’re another group who share a parallel lineage with your order and mine—related, but not descended, mostly. They were very much like the Huntsmen of Shaath in function and style, except universally female, and sworn to Avei.”

“What?” Ingvar exclaimed.

“And,” Raichlin continued more ruminatively, “they’re gone. The last lived about five hundred years ago. Times changed; the Sisterhood of Avei changed. The Silver Legions are about the same age as the Huntsmen; they’ve existed twelve or thirteen centuries in their present form. Before that, there was a League of Avei, composed of both men and women sworn to that goddess, though they were a lot more like mercenary bands than a modern army. Most of Avei’s important work was carried out by her Hands, and the Silver Huntresses, which were a slightly less awesome and more numerous version of the same basic things. They were survivalists, yes—Rangers in a sense—but also fighters; some used swords instead of bows, or magic instead of either.”

“That sounds plenty useful,” Joe observed. “Why’re they gone, now?”

Raichlin shrugged. “An Avenist historian would have more insight into that. It’s a hobby of mine, but I’ve certainly not tried to ferret out the motivations of the goddess of war. But the short version is that the Sisterhood changed because war changed. And war changed because agriculture changed.”

“Agriculture?” Darling repeated, visibly fascinated. “As in farming?”

“Humans, by any reasonable definition, are an invasive species,” Raichlin said with a rueful grin. “We move into an area and spread until our numbers are as great as can possibly be supported. Well, improvements in farming made for a bigger food supply a few centuries ago, followed by explosive population growth. More people meant the birth of professional armies as we know them. For most of the Age of Adventures, armies were luxuries only kingdoms could afford, and weren’t necessarily a match for the highest-level adventurers. Now, suddenly, any nation and quite a few lesser entities could field a well-trained, well-equipped group of men and women fighting in unison, which was generally more than a match for the average adventurer team. War changed; Avei rode the tide skillfully. Hands of Avei became soldiers as much as solo warriors, trained to lead armies; the League was reorganized into the Silver Legions, who became the best professional army. And the Silver Huntresses, being basically adventurers, fell out of favor.”

“But you didn’t,” Joe said, frowning. “The Huntsmen didn’t.”

“Because Rangers and Huntsmen are a fundamentally conservative force,” Raichlin agreed. “We protect the wild areas and our own traditions. Avei’s forces have always been more proactive, seeking to impose the goddess’s will. They interact with the world quite aggressively, and would be at a stark disadvantage if they failed to adapt to it—so they didn’t fail. The full transition from Huntresses to Legionnaires is considered by historians to be one of the most important signs of the end of the Age of Adventures. Hang on a moment…”

He rose and quickly crossed to the wall, where he selected a small volume in green leather and brought it back to them. Raichlin handed the book to Ingvar before sitting back down.

“Annals of the Silver Huntresses,” Ingvar read from the cover, frowning.

“You keep that,” Raichlin said. “If you were called to this quest, Brother Ingvar, I think any insight you can gain into the history of those who walk in the wild will help you.” He paused, sighing. “You’re not the first person recently who I felt needed an acquaintance with that bit of history. The Hand of Avei was here a few weeks back; I gave her a copy, too. She had never heard of the Silver Huntresses. How quickly we forget.”

“If this is one of your last copies,” Ingvar said, starting to hand the book back, but Raichlin held up a hand.

“Not at all, not at all. We have a few more, and if more are needed, we’ll print them. Preserving such lore is all part of what we do.”

“Print them?” Joe inquired.

“Ah!” Raichlin grinned broadly. “Yes indeed, we have a printing press, just in the next room, in fact. A quite modern one from Svenheim—it’s made life a great deal easier, not having to copy books by hand. It’s not just the Nemitites who care about preserving knowledge, as I said. We still have to bind them by hand, of course, but even so.”

“Is there another way?” Joe asked.

“When I was in Svenheim acquiring our press, the factory foreman showed me a machine that binds books, yes. It was hugely bulky, however; that’s a rather more involved process than printing them. And we don’t deal with enough volume to make it worthwhile. Maybe someday when the technology improves; the Rangers embrace progress as it’s useful, not because it’s progress. But anyway, we are drifting off target. You gentlemen came here for a reason.”

“I appreciate the insight you’ve offered,” Ingvar said carefully.

“But it’s not really what you came for, is it?” Raichlin mused. He drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair, expression thoughtful, before continuing. “I think, Brother Ingvar, I can give you some much more useful direction. Gentlemen, would you mind being our guests for the remainder of today and this evening?”

“Not in the least,” Darling said immediately, glancing at the others but notably not waiting for their input. “Is something interesting happening tomorrow?”

“It is now,” Raichlin replied with a smile. “It’ll take time, and a rather significant hike, to get there… But if you’re amenable, and would like a deeper perspective on these dreams, there’s something I think you should see.”

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“What is she doing?” Bradshaw asked, watching the pixie bob in place at the intersection. A few of the passing townsfolk seemed to have the same question, to judge by the stares they gave her. Some shied away from the bouncing ball of silver light, but clearly Fross was a known quantity in Last Rock, to judge by the number of cheerful greetings she received and returned. Notably, no one actually asked what she was up to. Apparently it was expected that University students would be a little odd.

“This is the fourth place she’s done it, whatever it is,” Embras replied, lounging against the side of the general store. “I didn’t happen to see her place the first one, but I could detect the spell; I’ve been following her since number two. Notably, she’s placing them in a grid around the periphery of the town—it’s a little hard to tell, Last Rock is so small, but I believe she’s covering each point where streets and alleys meet that’s surrounded by the town itself. Nothing out in the prairie, it’s aimed at quartering the village. They’re detection wards, that much I can see at a glance. I’d like your assessment unclouded by my theorizing, though; you are my acknowledged superior in spellcraft. That’s why I poked at you so urgently to jump down here.”

“Hmm…” Bradshaw rubbed at his chin, studying Fross, then glanced up and down the street. “You want to stay and watch where she puts the others first?”

Embras shook his head. “They’re detectable; we can follow up on that later. Best to keep a distance from her, methinks. Follow me, I’ll show you the first one. It’s also the most isolated, which is convenient.”

He straightened, brushing dust from the shoulder of his white suit, and led the way back toward the periphery. Both warlocks passed other people in the street, weaving around them as they went; though the citizens of Last Rock also stepped aside as they would have for anyone else on the sidewalk, none actually noticed their presence.

“Here we are,” Embras said, arriving at a currently unoccupied intersection. It was a T-crossing, where a narrow street terminated against the wall of a large stone barn that had been repurposed for storage, and neither of the other facing buildings had doors nearby. The street itself was mostly there as a boundary between structures, and had no pavement. “Passive and personal silencing only, please; I don’t want to risk casting a concealment over this thing until we’re certain what it does.”

“Good call,” Bradshaw murmured, beginning to pace in a circle around an invisible spot in the center of the intersection. “It’s a ward, all right. And in fact, it looks to be specifically geared toward detecting stealthed demons.”

“How fascinating!” Embras said, smiling broadly in delight. “You don’t suppose she could actually tag us with this?”

“Heavens, no. Far better mages than Fross have tried with no luck; nothing here is a threat to the Lady’s gift. Still, though…”

“Good work?” Embras prompted after he trailed off.

“Mm. Pretty good, yes. In fact, better than that. It’s not the best spellcraft of it’s kind I’ve seen by any stretch of the imagination… But considering this was done by a second-year student arcanist, it’s actually downright amazing. That pixie’s going to be a fearsome sorceress once Tellwyrn and Yornhaldt get done with her.”

He paused and knelt, peering closely at something on the ground, then carefully produced a small lens from an inner pocket of his robe and studied it.

“Hmm hm hmmmmm. This is very tight for student work. Unpolished—there are significant gaps in the frequency coverage, the kind of thing I’d expect from someone who doesn’t know the most probable ways an infernal spell would be hidden. But what she does cover is quite carefully woven. There’s a care and attention to detail there…”

“My goodness, you’re starting to sound positively enamored,” Embras said with amusement.

Bradshaw ignored him. “With the exception of an intersection lattice, here, clearly attuned to divine magic. That’s left wide open. It’s clearly intended to make this ward detectable to someone using a divine perception spell, and that’s necessarily going to create a gap in the ward’s structure. She left it more open than it needs to be, though. Inexperience, or she may be uncertain of the skills of whatever light-wielder is going to be making use of this.” He straightened up slowly, still frowning at the invisible ward.

“So…Trissiny, then.”

“Or Arquin,” Bradshaw countered, “who is, himself, an amateur arcanist. Or Caine; keep in mind we still don’t understand what’s going on there. That trick he pulled in Veilgrad is not part of the paladin’s general repertory. However…” He sighed. “Looks like you were right, Embras. They are working together on this. After Veilgrad I really didn’t think they’d pull together that fast.”

“I told you at the time,” Embras replied, “we didn’t divide them, they did. Splitting off the paladins was a tactical decision. It was a bad one, but it was deliberate and not indicative of friction in the ranks, which makes all the difference here. I wouldn’t have taken this approach if I wasn’t confident the others would rally around Trissiny. A Hand of Avei stampeding through the town is no use to anyone who’s not selling insurance; now we’ve a group to work with, several of whom have an education in politics, strategy, and magic. There are handles there that can be manipulated, hooks that Trissiny herself lacks. The question,” he mused, beginning to pace back and forth, “is just which of them we’re working with. The whole sophomore class, that’s a given. But there are all of a hundred people up on that mountain, students and staff, and a community that size is tightly knit by necessity. We lack solid data on a lot of them.”

“This reinforces the point I made in the first place,” said Bradshaw. “If we are dealing with the whole class, you’d better be extremely careful. And what are you going to do when Tellwyrn gets wind of this? They may have told her already.”

“What little they know to tell her isn’t damning, and won’t be,” Embras said. “Don’t worry, I have plans in place for Tellwyrn. Layer upon layer of plans; you don’t make assumptions or take risks with a wild card like her. But no, you’re right—the rest of this campaign calls for exceedingly light touches. We shall be faultlessly polite and playful with the little dears. No direct interference, just signals to point their attention where we want it.”

“So, no more chaining them to trees,” Bradshaw said dryly.

“That was a different matter and you know it,” Embras retorted, pointing a finger at him. “And so do the paladins. Even if Omnu proved interested in countering the disruptors—and really, who could have predicted that?—detaining them that way was for their own good. They won’t admit it, but they understood. No, in an ideal world, the rest of this will unfold on its own, without us needing to take the risk of doing anything at all. We’ve seen Justinian’s plants gearing up their own bags of tricks, and we’ve now got the students with eyes sharp and backs up. Hopefully they’ll do most of our work for us.”

“Snort,” Bradshaw said, deadpan. “This is my disdainful snort. Feel my disdain.”

“Yes, yes,” Embras acknowledged with a grin. “Nothing’s ever that easy. This, I’m afraid, is where the fun part begins; we’ll need to keep a careful watch on those two priestesses, and poke at the kids in such a way that it brings their noses across whatever trails those leave. Gonna be dicey, I won’t lie.”

“We’re still too blind for this,” Bradshaw complained, folding his arms. “We have only general profiles of many of those students and none at all of a lot of them. Only the sophomores and the professors are known quantities. So many ways this can go wrong.”

“Yes,” Embras agreed, nodding. “I’ve already consulted Ali, which is good for starting points. He was full of smug warnings about us becoming the targets of a foxhunt, but aimed me at the most likely interlopers. The new freshman girls, interestingly enough.”

“Hmm.” Bradshaw narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I can definitely see Domingue sticking her nose into this. She is not a fan of ours.”

“I’m honestly more concerned about the Lady Madouri and the drow,” Embras mused, gazing absently at the spot where Fross’s ward was laid. “That girl’s a vicious little snake even by the standards of the aristocracy, and this year’s drow is an An’sadarr—a soldier.”

“Very little scares me less than soldiers.”

“A soldier on her own for you to play games with? No, that’s too easy to be any fun. Here, though, we’re dealing with one who’s been trained specifically to contend with a nastier brand of warlocks than us—and even I don’t want to cross spells with a Scyllithene shadow priestess if I can help it—in the context of far more clever and resourceful individuals who will be actively trying to expose us. I really don’t fancy finding myself in an enclosed space with an irate Narisian guardswoman.”

Bradshaw sighed. “Embras… You know I trust you, but are you sure this is worth it?”

“This is the game, now,” Embras said quietly. “Us and Justinian. We can’t rush the timing till the alignment, and with Snowe’s campaign it’s clear what he’s aiming at—which we already suspected. This is about setting up the board, Bradshaw. We need to arrive at the endgame prepared to beat him there, but we also have to let him get there. And he has to let us get there for the same reasons, and with the same considerations. Yes, this was an attack of opportunity, but it’s too perfect. If we can damage his credibility with the paladins, we’ll have won a significant coup.”

Bradshaw opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly stilled and turned to stare at the corner of the old barn. Embras simultaneously straightened, following his gaze.

A moment later, Vanessa limped around the corner, her face drawn in a tight frown of worry.

“Oh, good, you’re here too,” she said by way of greeting, then turned to the high priest. “You’d better get back to Calderaas, Embras. We have a problem.”

“Can you be a little more specific?” he said.

“I’ve spent the morning fielding irate messages from about half our contacts in the city,” Vanessa replied. “They’re rather steamed to find that you’ve been clumsily spying on them.”

“Excuse me, I’ve what?” Embras raised both eyebrows in surprise. “Clumsily? Them’s fightin’ words.”

“They’re complaining that your personal succubus has left a wide trail around their homes and places of business,” she said grimly. “Then they started comparing notes, and it took me so long to prevent that from bursting into chaos that I’ve only just had the chance to cast a few divinations of my own. Vlesni’s tracks are all over the city, Embras. Quite glaringly. It looks like she spent last night futzing around just about every safe house and ally we have in Calderaas, and none of them knew it until they awoke this morning. Naturally, they are not taking it well. About half haven’t discovered it yet—it’s going to be messy when they do. This could well cost us our foothold in the city if it’s not fixed.”

“What the hell?” Bradshaw exclaimed. “Vlesni? Blatant tracks? Even if she’d turned on us, Embras, she’s too good to make such a mess. What could she possibly be up to?”

“Why, isn’t that an excellent question,” Embras replied thoughtfully. “Vanessa, can you kindly nominate a good site for us to investigate that is not currently swarming with pissed-off individuals demanding explanations we don’t have?”

“The nook behind Halisar’s,” she said immediately. “He left the city yesterday. Embras…where is Vlesni?”

“Another excellent question,” he said. “The nook it is. Let’s go have us a little look-see. Not that I doubt you, Nessa, but this is all hard to credit.”

“Oh, I know exactly how you feel,” she said darkly, taking a step back from them. The thin shadow cast by the barn bent, leaning forward, swelling and darkening, and in the next moment she was gone. Bradshaw and Embras rippled immediately afterward, vanishing as well.

In their absence, there was a brief pause, and the shadow shifted a fourth time.

The three warlocks emerged from the darkness in a hexagonal cul-de-sac approached only by one alley, which itself was so cluttered with stacks of broken crates and other detritus that the path there wound through a veritable maze. Walls on all sides rose at least three stories, casting the space in perpetual shadow; old, nigh-inscrutable graffiti lined its walls. The runes hidden within those messages were all but undetectable, both because of the pattern of the fading paint, and because they were partly inscribed in invisible ink. A single door stood in one wall, and several crates and boxes scattered about made convenient if impromptu seats. Despite its quite deliberate atmosphere of disuse and squalor, the area was uncommonly clean.

“All right, here we are,” said Embras, straightening his suit jacket. “Care to point me at—never mind, I think I see it.”

He took a few steps toward the door, staring through narrowed eyes, Vanessa and Bradshaw following along behind. For a moment, all three studied the door and the wall around it.

“That’s…most peculiar,” Embras mused at last. “Most peculiar. She doesn’t leave traces that overt in places she’s actually been. I find Vlesni so useful to work with largely because she is discreet, even for a succubus.”

“Well?” Vanessa folded her arms. “Let’s hear what she has to say for herself.”

“Quite right,” Embras replied, turning back to face the center of the nook, and snapped his fingers.

The demon appeared soundlessly, glancing around in mild surprise overlaid with boredom.

“Really, Embras,” she protested lazily. “A little forewarning is courteous. One of these days you’re going to catch me in the bath.” Grinning, she rose up on tiptoe and stretched her arms above her head, the catlike gesture serving to marvelously highlight her figure. “You know if you want a good look, you need only ask.”

“Vlesni, my dear,” Embras said mildly, “where’ve you been?”

The succubus lowered her arms, frowning slightly. “What? Why? Did you need something? If you called, I didn’t hear it. That’s never happened before…”

“Answer the question, if you please,” he replied.

“All right,” she said with a shrug. “Right then I was in Ninkabi, watching the local cell as you asked. They’re still not doing anything remotely interesting, by the way, but by the dictates of the bitch goddess Irony I’m sure that’ll start up immediately now I’m gone.”

“And before that?” he said. “Last night?”

Vlesni frowned now. “Last night? I was at the Black Isle, in Razzavinax’s library.”

“Did you do anything of interest?”

“Not terribly. The good books are locked up and I’m not about to mess with his wards; he took Rizlith with him to Tiraas, so there’s not much to do there except read. There’s still stuff worth reading, but that gets dull so quickly.” She smirked. “I did manage to wrangle a threesome with a couple of the students to pass an hour or so. Since you’re so interested in my personal life, there are two of them I’m getting accustomed to that, with various others. The magical anonymity adds a certain spice for them. These two are siblings, neither even aware the other is even at the academy. Next time I’m gonna get ’em in bed together. Of course, I’ll never be able to tell them I got them to boff, Razz’d have my wings for that, but I’ll know.” She grinned fiendishly, twitching her tail like a contented cat. “It’s the little things in life, don’t you agree?”

“Can we please,” Vanessa said in a strained tone, “never, ever hear about her sex life again?”

Vlesni’s grin widened. “It’s all right, Nessa dear, you were drunk. That totally doesn’t count. Ask anyone.”

“Shut up, Vlesni,” Embras said softly, immediately regaining the succubus’s full attention. “Look at that door. Tell me what you see, and then explain it.”

She frowned at him, then shifted her gaze to study the door as directed. Bradshaw had already stepped over to it and was peering about through his lens. Vlesni’s expression melted to one of shock, then morphed to fury; she dashed past Embras, placing her hands against the wall and feeling around the pitted brickwork.

“What the fuck?” the demon snarled. “What—who did this? How? How did they do this? Embras!” She whirled on him, fists clenched and wings fanning out in a menacing display. “Explain!”

“I believe that’s what I just asked you to do,” he said. “It’s not just here, Vlesni. There are traces like this all over Calderaas. Just about everywhere in the city where we can go and feel slightly safe—or could, until this morning. Our friends and contacts who live under your brand new shadow are not pleased.”

“You think I did this?” she screeched. “Me? How? Why? Embras you can’t think—I have no explanation for this! I don’t understand how it could happen!” Tail lashing in agitation now, she seemed almost on the verge of tears.

Embras studied her calmly, visibly unimpressed. “And yet…there it is.”

“Embras!” she wailed. “You know I wouldn’t risk undermining you like this. You think I want to go back to Hell? If I’d been sneaking around on you I’d have a good cover story! I—this—this is insane! I have no idea what—how—who…”

“That actually is a solid point,” he mused.

“Unless that’s what she wants you to think,” Vanessa said skeptically. Vlesni shot her a baleful glare.

“Embras,” said Bradshaw, “look at this. Look at the way this energy is distributed. The quantity of it is purely absurd; Vanislaads don’t leave traces like this unless they bleed all over something. And see where it’s spread?” He pointed with his lens. “Along the walls, the door frame, over the door. Unless you think Vlesni has been running around the city scent-marking walls like a stray cat…this was planted.”

“Even if she were working against us,” Vanessa said grudgingly, “this would be an utterly idiotic thing to do. A priest would be able to pick up on these traces, they’re so outstanding. She’s got a giant target painted on her forehead, now. I cannot see her taking a risk like that for anything.”

Vlesni snarled wordlessly, quivering with rage.

“Yes,” Embras said, nodding slowly. “Yes, I’m inclined to agree. This costs us—one of our most subtle agents has just had her ability to move severely limited. Which, by itself, explains the why of it.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully with a thumb, staring at the marked door. “But…how? And by the same token, who? To do something like this, a person would first have to find discernible traces Vlesni had left—itself a tall order—and then somehow reproduce them. I confess I don’t even know a spell that can do such a thing. Bradshaw?”

“Sure you do,” Bradshaw replied. “Not exactly like this, but we were just doing basically the same to Trissiny Avelea. The difference is, that was the tiniest whisper of a trace, and it took a physical sacrifice from Vlesni to do it. This… Someone did the opposite, working from the merest hint of her residue to produce sizable quantities. That is the mind-boggling part. I don’t know any infernal craft that could do such a thing. The Lady could, a couple of the archdemons could have. Prince Vanislaas surely could. But those are inherent gifts, not any spellwork. Also, Elilial and Vanislaas have much better things to do than footle around Calderaas making life difficult for their own servants.” He shook his head. “I’m at a loss.”

“This is your fault!” Vlesni screeched, pointing accusingly at Embras. “You and that damned paladin-taunting spell of yours! So help me—”

“What?” Embras said flatly, staring at her. “No, really. Go on and finish that sentence, Vlesni. I’m curious.”

She pantomimed a throttling motion at him, baring her teeth.

“Embras, take it easy,” Vanessa said reprovingly. “She’s no more irritating than most of her kind, and she’s also got a point. I would be very surprised if this weren’t connected to that business somehow. It’s all too convenient.”

“Foxhunt,” Bradshaw said suddenly.

Embras turned to him. “What’s that?”

“Remember, you were telling me about Ali’s warning?” Bradshaw said, staring intently back. “You used the word ‘foxhunt.’ Was that his word, or yours?”

“His,” Embras said slowly. “I noted it at the time. It’s not a word that comes up in general conversation, and Ali does love his wordplay.”

“Oh, forsaken gods,” Vanessa whispered. “Embras, Tellwyrn brought a kitsune onto that campus.”

Vlesni groaned and sagged against the wall. “Just put a wandshot in my head right now. Let’s not drag this out.”

“Could a kitsune do something like this, is the question?” Embras asked, again frowning at the wall.

“That’s…a very good question,” Vanessa replied. “It’s hardly clear what they can do. I only know of a handful of instances of them ever leaving Sifan.”

“Are we jumping to conclusions?” Bradshaw asked cautiously. “The connection seems rather specious.”

“No, it fits,” Embras said. “We’ve got a mean and impressively impossible prank on our hands, the sudden proximity of a powerful fairy of unknown capability—whose students we are actively taunting—and Ali’s warning to link the two. Trust me, I know him; the only thing he loves more than sneaky wordplay is sneaky wordplay that’s only obvious in meaning when it’s too late.”

“Well,” said Bradshaw, tucking the lens back into his robe, “if that fox-woman is capable of doing something like this, it goes without saying that she’s a nasty piece of work. The complexity of this, the power necessary… She clearly ranks close to Tellwyrn herself as a threat.”

“And she’s the newest faculty member, of course,” Embras murmured. “The one about whom we know almost nothing.”

“Right,” Bradshaw said worriedly. “I think we’d better fix that immediately.”

“Quite so,” Embras replied, suddenly brisk. He clapped his hands together, then rubbed them vigorously. “All right! To arms, people. Vanessa, I’m delegating the mess in Calderaas to you, with apologies. This is where your talents shine, however. I want your silver tongue put to work smoothing all these ruffled feathers.”

“Well, that was an entertaining visual,” Vlesni muttered.

Embras ignored her, still addressing himself to Vanessa. “Do what you have to to keep everyone happy—the local cell is under your command for purposes of this assignment. However, before that, I want you to jump to Rodvenheim and get Svalthram in on this. We are obviously being hunted, and I’m not going to risk you without insurance. Explain the situation to him, and make sure he’s looking over your shoulder the whole time.”

“Svalthram?” she queried, raising her eyebrows. “Well, it can’t be said that you’re not taking this seriously.”

“Oh, I am dead serious,” he said darkly. “Anybody tries to take advantage of this to move against you, I want them put down viciously.”

“Very well,” she agreed. “I’m on it. I’ve been on it most of today already; hopefully I’ve laid sufficient groundwork already to keep this from swelling any further.”

“Attagirl,” he said approvingly. “Meanwhile, we face the simpler but no less daunting of rustling up some solid information about kitsune, and Kaisa Ekoi in particular.”

“Ekoi Kaisa,” Vanessa corrected him. “They put the surname first in Sifan.”

“Quite right, thank you.”

“I’m not sure it’s all that daunting,” Bradshaw objected. “There’s a language barrier, but Sifan’s only a moment away by shadow-jump—I’m sure they have libraries…”

“No!” Vanessa cried in alarm. “Absolutely not, you don’t just go to Sifan and start poking around—especially about kitsune, of all things! There’s a reason we don’t have cells there!”

Bradshaw blinked in surprise. “I thought… It was my understanding the reason was none of the cults have a solid presence there. We’re not exactly useful where there are no Pantheon gods to oppose.”

“It’s not that simple,” Embras explained. “Religion in Sifan is…different. Many of the cults are indeed completely absent, including ours. It’s positively crawling with Eserites and Veskers, but they answer to the Queen as much as to their own organizations, if not more so. There’s a local Avenist sect that has no actual ties to the Sisterhood at all. And not to put too fine a point on it, Bradshaw, but kitsune and similar local phenomena are also part of the reason we don’t act there. We have no business in the place, and there are things in the Twilight Forest which would hunt us like rabbits. No… In general I prefer firsthand information, but in this case, we had better stick to what can be gleaned about kitsune from Tiraan sources. Asking prying questions about anything related to demons, fairies, or anything remotely sensitive is a quick way to get a visit from what passes for the local Thieves’ Guild. And if you think the Guild in Tiraas is nasty, just hope you never have to contend with the shinobi. There’s a very good reason all our Sifanese members were recruited after leaving the Eternal Kingdom itself.”

“Hm.” Bradshaw frowned pensively. “Is Hiroshi still in Puna Shankur?”

“If he’s not, the cell there will know where he went,” Vanessa replied. “That’s probably our best starting point, though, you’re right. Puna Shankur itself is off the beaten path and outside Tiraan authority, and Hiroshi is remarkably well-read.”

“Someone has a crush,” Vlesni muttered, too sullen still to be properly snide. Vanessa ignored her.

“Embras,” Bradshaw said, “until we’re on better footing with regard to this, Last Rock…”

“Way ahead of you,” Embras said fervently. “That will have to manage itself for a day or two at least, until we know what we’re dealing with, and how to deal. I’m not taking chances with an unknown quantity this apparently dangerous.”

“And if it turns out we can’t deal?” Bradshaw prompted insistently.

Embras sighed. “Then… Yeah, I’m afraid we’ll have to consider dropping that campaign, if this fox-woman proves too much to contend with. It’s a priceless opportunity, but after Darling’s hilarious little prank in Tiraas this spring, we cannot afford to risk people. Bad enough we don’t have time to rebuild our numbers before our date with Justinian. For now, we’ve got our assignments. Let’s hop to, people. Vlesni, you’d better stick with me for a while, at least until Vanessa manages to cover your tracks.”

“They aren’t my tracks,” the succubus snarled. “And hell yes, I’m with you. If this kitsune can be killed…dibs.”

She remained blissfully unaware of the tip of the scythe hovering mere inches from the back of her skull, the slightest cut with which would have removed her instantly from the mortal plane.

Alydren loomed invisibly over them, staring balefully down at Vlesni, whose image was glaringly sharp to her even across the watery barrier between planes. Regretfully, the valkyrie pulled back her scythe, mindful of the strategy of the situation. Alarming the warlocks by dispatching their pet succubus would mean she wouldn’t learn anything further. For now, she waited. Watching.

Vanessa was the first to depart; Alydren studied the dimensional pathways carved by her shadow-jump for a moment, but turned her back on them to follow Embras, Bradshaw and Vlesni. They were going after more information on the fox-goddesses. That, in her estimation, was much more interesting.

For several reasons.

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Darling’s irritating refusal to show weakness continued all the way up the winding trail that lead east, into the mountains beyond the city. To be sure, the trail they chose wound back and forth up the slope so as not to present an excessive challenge, but it was still a mountain climb; there was a significant vertical component to their trek. Joe’s indefatigable calm did not surprise him, for all that wandfighting didn’t seem like a particularly strenuous skill, at least physically. The Kid was a frontier dweller and had made his mark against many opponents; in any lodge of Shaath’s followers, he would be accounted a man regardless of his age. Darling, though, was a city slicker of the worst kind, and his failure to get even winded felt vaguely insulting to Ingvar.

Not for the first time, he considered setting off cross-country, straightening out the curves in the trail, so to speak. That was a good way to lose the track, though. Not that he couldn’t find a lodge in the forest purely on the strength of his own skills, but getting lost would add who knew how much time to the journey. Plus, he would eventually have to explain to the Crow why he’d ditched the companions she had selected for him. Ingvar had not totally ruled that out, but wasn’t to the point of deciding on it yet.

“Y’know,” Darling said breezily, stopping in the middle of the trail and craning his neck back to peer up at the pine boughs above, “in a way, I think I might be getting more out of this than you two country boys.”

Ingvar decided first not to hit him, and second not to dignify that with any response at all.

“Oh, I’m sure this’ll be rich,” Joe muttered.

“It’s just that… Well, I personally see a certain kind of beauty in the rhythms of a city,” Darling intoned, resuming his walk as Ingvar brushed past him. “In my city, anyway, though I suspect they each have a life and a glory of their own. But I can well believe that’s a kind of beauty you have to be particularly attuned to in order to appreciate it. This, though!” He spread his arms dramatically, as if offering to embrace the forest. It was a quiet, clear morning, the air filled with the songs of birds and insects, as well as the sharp scent of pine needles. Sunlight filtered through the branches over the trail in golden streams here and there, leaving most of the forest to either side in cool shade. The whole day could have been painted, as if it were someone’s perfect idea of an idyllic scene of nature. “I don’t care who you are, this is gorgeous.”

“It does have a kind of majesty to it,” Joe agreed. “Only forest I knew back home was the elven grove. Needless to say, I didn’t go in there much, but I vividly recall those few visits. The place was… It had this feelin’ to it, like it had been made for people. Not humans, necessarily, but people. Elves live in balance with nature, but while that means their land ain’t exactly parks, there’s a certain tameness to it. Like you can tell it’s under somebody’s control. This here’s… I dunno. Ancient, primal. Wild.”

“This is actually a very young forest,” said Ingvar from the front of the group. “Not much more than a hundred years old, if that.”

“Really?” Darling sounded legitimately interested, for whatever that was worth. “What gives it away?”

Ingvar paused, gesturing into the woods on their left. “To a limited extent, you can tell by the size and spacing of the trees. Note the lack of variation; almost all of them are about that big. There are no enormous elders, and relatively few saplings. Most of these trees grew up at the same time, and cast thick enough shade that younger ones haven’t space or sunlight to grow between them. That’s not a reliable proof, however; forests tend to reach a kind of equilibrium on their own that looks similar. More to the point, the spacing between them is very close to even. See how it almost forms corridors, going off into the distance?” He paused to let them both peer into the woods, noting the frowns when they saw what he meant. “In a way, Joe, this is the opposite of your elven forest. These trees were planted, on purpose, and then left to grow up wild.”

He turned and continued up the path, the others falling into step behind them. “To be truthful, though, I know the history of this land. There are a lot of centennial forests in the Empire. The Tirasian Dynasty has very careful laws about conservation. They needed them, there was so much clear-cutting and strip mining during the relative anarchy after the Enchanter Wars. The slopes around Veilgrad were one of the areas that were re-planted late in Sarsamon’s reign. A lot of the pine woods in this province were planted for logging, but the trees around the city itself are protected. They’re helping to hold the mountainsides in place and blocking snow, preventing avalanches.”

“Huh,” Joe mused.

“They also provide homes for game,” Ingvar added. “Meat and fur are economically significant around here, too.”

“Are you this well-versed on the state of the wilds everywhere?” Darling inquired.

Ingvar shrugged. “I could probably tell you the basics for most provinces. You can deduce a lot just from the climate, geography and nearby population. But no. Any Huntsman, even one who has never been here, knows how the wilds of the Stalrange live.”

“I see,” Darling murmured.

“For instance,” Ingvar went on. “There. Hear that?” He pointed upward. “There it is again—that bird, with the high-pitched, whooping voice.”

“Mm hm,” said Joe. “What’s that?”

“It’s a scarlet heron,” the Huntsman explained. “They’re not true herons, actually, they just happen to resemble them. It’s a coastal, tropical bird; it wouldn’t survive a week in a pine forest in this climate, at this altitude. However, the call is pretty widely known, as it’s uniquely easy for humans to imitate.”

Behind him, Joe and Darling’s steps both faltered as they paused. Ingvar glanced back over his shoulder. Joe had tucked his thumb into his belt, placing his hand near a wand; Darling ducked both hands slightly into his sleeves, curling his fingers back until they nearly reached the cuffs. Just for a moment, but it was enough of a tell for Ingvar to deduce the presence of throwing knives up his sleeves. A weak sort of weapon, in his estimation, and entirely characteristic of the thief.

“So,” Darling said lightly, “our approach has been noticed. Well, Mr. Grusser did say this path led right to the Shadow Hunters’ lodge. I guess that’s a good sign! They seem not to have hostile intentions.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?” Ingvar demanded.

“Well, anybody watching us can clearly see we’re in the presence of a Huntsman of Shaath, traditional attire and all,” he said, grinning. “So they’d have to assume you would recognize that bird call. Whoever else that message was meant for, it was basically an announcement to you that our approach has been noted. Seems like they’d be a lot more circumspect if they wanted to communicate privately. Or don’t you think these Shadow Hunters can imitate local birds, too?”

“Could be,” Joe allowed. “Could also be lettin’ us know we’re bein’ watched is a warning.”

“Meh.” Darling shrugged. “Not impossible, but as warnings go, that’s pretty flimsy. No, I think if they wanted to tell us anything, it’d be more direct. It makes more sense to me to take this as a peaceable sign.”

“Or,” Joe suggested, “they don’t care at all about three guys strollin’ through the woods, an’ there’s somethin’ truly dangerous in the forest not far from here.”

“Joe, you’re a regular little basket of sunbeams, you know that?” Darling said sourly. Ingvar held his peace.

The trees thinned as they climbed, affording a better view both ahead and behind them. Rounding one of the trail’s switchbacks, the three discovered they suddenly had an astonishing perspective of Veilgrad from above. The city jutted out from the foot of the mountains, a long finger pointed into the vastness of the prairie beyond. From this altitude, there were even signs of its recent pains; far more buildings were under construction and repair than normally would be, and there was a scar near its northwestern quarter where a whole block had burned.

Incredible as the vista was, they had to turn and examine the scenery ahead and above them in more detail, for they had finally come into view of the lodge of the Shadow Hunters.

Its general design was similar to the traditional Shaathist lodge: a huge longhouse, its peaked roof formed of enormous pine beams and covered in thatch, built upon a high stone foundation with a broad flight of steps rising a full story to its front doors. This one, fittingly enough, was more eclectic in design, somewhat resembling a medieval castle built around the main structure. Battlements were in evidence here and there along its peaks, notably surmounting the round tower attached to one front corner of the lodge. The tower soared twice the height of the lodge’s roof, but was so broadly built it managed to look squat; it had to have as much interior space as the main lodge, and more. There was also another rectangular segment jutting out from the lodge at right angles, smaller but built along similar lines, with a steep thatched roof. This one, however, was unmistakably a chapel, complete with stained glass windows and a steeple rising from its far end. Rather than an ankh as was traditional for Universal Church chapels, this one was surmounted by a stylized horned eagle wrought from iron. It was not the traditional eagle symbol of Avei, though it could well have been a rendition of the same kind of bird.

As they stood in the path, staring up at the lodge, a spine-chilling scream echoed from high above, and a shadow passed over them.

All three men turned to behold a winged shape gliding overhead. It swept out in a wide arc before coming in to land atop the lodge’s round tower, where it was hidden from view by the battlements. Given the speed with which it moved, and their disadvantageous position, they were not afforded a clear look at the bird. Its wingspan, though, had to be broader than any of them was tall.

Ingvar grunted and set off walking again. After a moment, the others followed.

A standing stone of clearly ancient provenance stood at the next bend in the path, marking the point where it turned to lead directly to the lodge. At least eight feet tall, the stone was so old it had been worn round by the elements, yet still bore traces of what must once have been very deep carvings, now outlined by the lichen clinging to them.

Atop it sat a blonde woman in coarse, practical garb similar to traditional Huntsman’s kit, casually working at a piece of wood with a knife.

“Good morning, guests,” she said as they drew abreast of her perch. “What brings you?”

The three paused, and Ingvar’s two companions looked at him, Darling with an encouraging nod. As if he needed encouragement.

“Well met,” Ingvar said, bowing slightly. Given how high up she was, dipping his head too deeply would have seemed ridiculous. “I am Brother Ingvar, a Huntsman of Shaath.”

“Not from around here, you aren’t,” she commented, pointing at him with her carving knife. “Not with that beardless face. I don’t imagine the local Huntsmen went out of their way to make you feel welcome, now did they?”

“You have trouble with the Huntsmen?” Darling asked. His tone and expression were a masterpiece of polite, neighborly interest; they seemed to work on this Shadow Hunter (for such she had to be) better than they did Ingvar, to judge by the way she smiled down at him.

“It waxes and wanes,” she replied. “Lately, the situation is not ideal. The Huntsmen got pushier by the day while the city was suffering from chaos effects, and now there’s absolutely no living with them, since they acquitted themselves so well fighting undead in the catacombs. Grusser threw them a parade. Only a matter of time until they overstep and he has to rein them back in, and they’d better hope it’s him doing it and not the Duchess. Oh, but I’m interrupting your introductions.”

“With me,” Ingvar said somewhat stiffly, “are Joseph Jenkins of Sarasio, and you seem to have already met Bishop Antonio Darling of the Universal—”

“Did you say Joseph Jenkins of Sarasio?” They finally seemed to have the woman’s full interest; she set down her knife and carving and leaned alarmingly over the edge of the stone, staring avidly down at Joe. “No fooling? The Joe Jenkins?”

“The ‘the’ himself, ma’am,” Joe said, tipping his hat. “Somewhat less impressive in the flesh than in song, so I’m told.”

“He’s a modest one,” Darling said cheerfully. “I guarantee no one has told him that.”

“Not true. Weaver manages to squeeze it in at least once a day.”

“Well, you guys must have quite a story,” she said, grinning now. “I’m Liesl, the gabby and insignificant. Since the honor’s all mine, I’ll try to make the pleasure all yours. Really, though, what brings you to our doorstep? This is like the beginning of a bar joke. A Huntsman, a Bishop and the flippin’ Sarasio Kid walk into a lodge…”

Darling laughed obligingly; Ingvar gritted his teeth momentarily, gathering his patience, before answering.

“My companions and I have come in pursuit of a spiritual matter. We were sent to seek the Shadow Hunters for… I…honestly don’t know.”

“Hm,” Liesl mused. “Sent by whom?”

“By Mary the Crow.”

She fell still at that, gazing down at them with a suddenly closed face.

“Well,” she said at last. “Well, well. You just get more interesting with every word you say. Not to mention more alarming… All right, hang on.”

She hopped nimbly to her feet, tucking her knife back into its sheath and her piece of wood into an inner pocket of her leather vest. Before any of them could say a word, Liesl stepped off the edge of the standing stone, plummeting to the ground.

It wasn’t a lethal drop by any means, but longer than a person ought to casually jump. She hit the ground in a roll, coming smoothly to her feet right in front of them and pausing only to brush off her leather trousers. Ingvar recognized the move well enough; young Huntsmen like Tholi were always doing similar things, as if to prove to themselves, each other, and the world that they deserved their rank. He felt grateful to have outgrown that phase, himself.

“Walk this way, gentlemen,” the Shadow Hunter said with a knowing little smile. “Your business is over the head of the likes of me, I think. You’d better come inside and talk to Raichlin.”

 

Parvashti opened her eyes, sighed, and hopped down from the rigging. It wasn’t a long drop to the deck; the Sleepless was a nimble little ship, built for speed rather than capacity. She barely had enough of a fall for her feet to make a good, satisfying thump, but it was still enough to alert the Captain that she was finally down. He had doubtless been twiddling his thumbs and listening for it.

“Well?” Captain Nayar demanded, thrusting his bearded head out of his cabin’s porthole. “Storm, or no storm?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “The sea is…making up its mind.”

“Not sure?” he bellowed, vanishing back below. In moments he came bursting out on deck in his towering entirety, glaring. “Not sure? We either sail in two hours, or not, based on my esteemed windshaman’s prognostication. I’ve got cargo rotting in my hold!”

“How fast do you think Narisian platinum rots?” she asked mildly.

“Woman, I don’t pay you for not sure!”

Parvashti strode forward, glaring right back at him, and thrust a ringed forefinger into his substantial paunch. “No, Captain, you pay me not to nail you amidships with a harpoon, so caulk it before I decide I’m overdue a raise! Are you Punaji or a cave elf your own damn self? It’s the sea! It’ll make up its mind when it does, and I’ll know before anyone else. You want certainty of a storm? Stick your great bearded gob into the waves and tell Naphthene what a twat she is. Until then, you’ll have to be content with being a little ahead of everyone else on these docks!”

“Bah!” Nayar roared, throwing up his hands and turning to scowl at the city behind. Anteraas perched on a narrow wedge of flat land between the cliffs that made up the Tiraan Gulf’s coast, flanked by the ancient stone arms of its harbor. Those cliffs rose in both directions, climbing toward the Stalrange in the east and toward Tiraas itself, atop the Tira Falls barely visible to the west. In times past, the capital had been visible only on the clearest of days, but now its glow made it a constant presence on any night that wasn’t too thickly shrouded by fog.

“Oh, keep your beard on,” Parvashti said in a milder tone. “How much money have I made you already? I guarantee no one else knows the portents my familiars can read. We’ll need most of those two hours anyway to wait for the others to get back with the supplies.”

“Fine, fine,” Nayar grunted. “As soon as everyone’s aboard and everything stowed, we set sail.”

“But—”

He held up a hand to forestall her. “Trade is as much a game of strategy against mortal opponents as it is a game of chance against the elements. You know that slimy arseplug Gupta is watching us—he’s figured out that my windshaman knows things no other knows. When we leave the harbor, he’ll follow, while everyone else dithers to see what comes of this.” He gestured out at the gray sea and gray sky, calm but of a worrying color. The chilly southern sea was unpredictable at the best of times; some days, it seemed it went out of its way to obscure its intentions. “If you give us the clear to keep on for Puna Vashtar, so be it; the Sleepless can outrun that tub of his no matter what charms he’s finagled in port. If not, we’ll put in at Tehvaad and leave him to wallow in the storm.”

“Truly, you are a master of your craft, o great and canny one,” she said solemnly.

Nayar snorted to express his opinion of her wit. “Oh, did you get your paper?”

“Paper? What paper?”

“The newspaper. You didn’t subscribe to one?”

“Sub— News— Captain, what have I told you about drinking on the job?”

“That I’d better invite you?” he replied with a grin.

“Damn right! What the fuck newspaper do you think I would subscribe to? When would I do such a thing? What address do I have? Why would I care what the shorecrawlers think is fit to print? Use that shaggy hatstand for its intended purpose!”

“You’re going to make some poor bastard a dreadful wife someday, you ungodly shrew,” he said. “All I know is—in fact, here.” He ducked back below decks for a moment, reemerging almost immediately with a newspaper bound in twine, a small note tied to it. “This was delivered by some boy while you were up there mumbling at the wind. Has your name and all, so I figured… Eh. Maybe one of the crew just thought you’d be interested and sent it along. The headline’s about that crazy school you went to.”

“What?” Parvashti strode forward, snatching it from his hand. “Give me that!”

She ripped away the twine while he muttered imprecations about her manners and stomped to the port rail to glare out at the sea. Parvashti’s eyes darted rapidly back and forth across the page, a frown growing on her features as she read.

“Captain,” she said, “when we next make port… I might want to take a little leave soon.”

 

“There,” Erland grunted, backing out of the tight space between boilers into which he’d had to squeeze to reach the access panel. “You were right, Harald, it was the glass conduits. Somehow, some idiot managed to forget to fix them properly in their housings.” He made a point to speak respectfully to his partners at all times, even when correcting them; having been the idiot in question, he felt free to express his frustration a little more directly.

“And the glass?” Harald said nervously, apparently not making note of Erland’s mistake. “It’s all right, no cracks?”

“All in perfect order,” Erland assured him, holding up his pocket lens and thumbing the charm that made its rim glow. “The shutdown wasn’t due to damage, but Kjerstin’s protective charms working as intended. I double-checked the pistons for signs of strain while I was in there. Everything’s fine, no grinding or overheating.”

“I told you so,” Kjerstin said smugly, beginning to tick off points on her fingers. “Told you the charms were necessary, that they’d work, that you were too sleep-deprived to be putting in those conduits last night—”

“All right, all right,” Erland said soothingly, holding up his hands. “You can make your speech later. For now, we appreciate your charm work. The engine’s still intact, the conduits are now installed properly, and we’re ready to try again.”

The other two dwarves glanced at each other, nervousness plain on their faces.

“We are ready to try again, aren’t we?” Erland said dryly.

“All these false starts,” Harald muttered, rubbing his hands on his trouser legs. “Every time I get more nervous… Sometimes it feels the machine’s trying to warn us we’re up to something that should not be attempted.”

“Oh, bah,” Kjerstin snorted. “If nobody tried new things, the world would never change.”

“I know what my grandfather would say about this gadget,” Harald said, staring at the engine. “All this glass and filament… It looks like some kind of elvish sculpture.”

“Really, have you ever seen an elvish sculpture?” Erland said with amusement. “Make time to get out of the foundry and into a museum before your brain withers in your skull.”

“Your grandfather still wears his beard down to his belt,” Kjerstin said sharply, “and his generation isn’t too old to have to worry about getting it caught in gears. That is not a joke; you know good dwarves have suffered beard-induced decapitations, working with big enough machines. Some people are just too hidebound to embrace innovation!”

“You two want to re-hash this discussion again right now?” Erland said pointedly.

They paused again, staring at their machine.

“Feh, you’re right,” Harald said. “We’re putting it off. All right, Erland, let’s give her another go.”

“You could’ve built it with some extra dials or something,” Kjerstin muttered, folding her arms and betraying her own nervousness with a rapidly tapping foot. “Some dummy switches. Something for me to do.”

“I’ll work a few useless gizmos into the next iteration,” Erland promised, grasping the lever. “Here goes nothing, once again.”

He hauled the lever into the active position, opening the channel to the desktop-sized elemental forge hooked up to one end of the engine and letting raw heat blaze forth into its mouth.

Immediately, with gratifying smoothness, their creation purred to life. The sound it made was almost musical, high-pitched and harmonic, quite unlike any combustion engine they had ever worked with. Light shone forth from multiple points, orange fire from its exhaust ports, arcane blue beams racing through its exposed power conduits, multicolored runes igniting in sequence along the casing.

At the device’s opposite end from its power source, the piston began working. It barely had to accelerate, starting off pumping at nearly its full capacity.

They tensed, waiting for another alarm or sudden shutdown, as had happened the last four attempts. Nothing came, though. Just the light, the pleasant voice of the engine, and the rapid motion of its output piston against the springs and pulleys attached to the gauges Harald was monitoring.

“It’s stable,” Kjerstin breathed. “It’s working!”

“Kinetic output at fifteen jonors,” Harald reported excitedly. “By the Light, Erland, it’s even higher than we projected!”

“That’s a little too high,” Erland said, cautious despite his own enthusiasm. “We didn’t design it to stand up to that kind of power flow…”

“But it’s working!” Kjerstin squealed, bouncing up and down. “From a heat source to kinetic energy with zero waste or byproducts! Erland, we’re rich!”

A shrill whine sounded from the engine before he could respond; runes flared red, and suddenly its shutdown charms activated again, slamming the barrier shut to cut off its power source and force its lever back into lock position. The blue light faded from the conduits, and its soft voice wound down into silence.

“To get rich,” Harald observed, “we’re going to have to make it run longer than thirty seconds…”

“Oh, you big fuddy-duddy,” Kjerstin said, darting over to swat at his shoulder. “We’re just building a proof of concept, here! We have something to show the Falconers now—their grant is provably not wasted money. They’ll invest in improving it, they have to!”

“I never assume humans are going to do the sensible thing,” Harald grumped. “Please, Kjerstin, don’t get worked up this time before we see results.”

“It’s obviously just a matter of control, right? We refine the runes so that they regulate the power input rather than just shutting it off when it gets too much—”

“Oh, just like that? You’re talking about a complete rebuild of the enchanted components! And we’ll have to re-design most of the physical machine to accommodate…”

Erland let their discussion wash over him, listening with half an ear as he stepped over to his cluttered work desk and sank into the battered chair there, feeling weak from a combination of excitement and relief. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face. They were both right: there was a long, long way to go before they had an engine that would actually power anything, but the concept worked. It could be made to work, at least. All their efforts were finally bearing fruit.

His eyes fell on a newspaper, printed in Tanglish, sitting on top of his stacks of paperwork. He hadn’t bought that… Had Kjerstin brought it in to show him?

Erland’s expression fell into a frown as he read the headline. Oh, this was not good. Professor Tellwyrn was going to immolate somebody.

“Hey, Kjerstin,” he called, interrupting their argument. “Didn’t you happen to mention that the Falconer’s daughter was attending my alma mater?”

“What of it?” she said, exasperated. “You bring that up now?”

“You were talking about funding, and politics,” he said, eyes still on the paper. “There’s something unfolding down there that we may want to pay attention to…”

 

“Your pardon, Princess,” Cartwright said diffidently, “but this newspaper was just delivered for you.”

“Newspaper?” Yasmeen said distractedly, picking it up from the silver tray on which the Butler held it out. “I’m not in the habit of reading the…” She trailed off, staring at the headline. “…Cartwright, who delivered this?”

“A young man who is not a member of the Palace staff,” Cartwright replied, her round face as impassive as always. “I took the liberty of ordering that he be followed. Needless to say, the Palace guardsmen are not equipped to pursue someone discreetly beyond the walls of Calderaas, but I suspect his point of origin is within the city.”

“A man penetrates this deeply into the palace,” Yasmeen said sharply, “a man you do not know, and you merely have him followed? What if, instead of a newspaper, he had been delivering a dagger? How did he get in here? He should have been apprehended the moment you knew something was amiss!”

“With respect, your Highness,” Cartwright said calmly, folding her hands behind her back, “the content of the paper, and the manner of its delivery, is suggestive. This means of conveying information is a favored tactic of both the Thieves’ Guild and Imperial Intelligence; there are innumerable possible motives either might have to draw your Highness’s attention to Last Rock. Apprehending an agent of either organization would avail us little, and risk creating considerable backlash. When our agents report back, we will know more about who he was, and can act further at that time.”

“I see,” Yasmeen said more calmly, returning her eyes to the paper and reading below the headline. “Quite right, then. That was quick thinking, Cartwright.”

“Your Highness,” the Butler replied, bowing.

“…where is my mother at the moment?”

“Her Majesty is currently entertaining Lord Taluvir in the west drawing room, Princess. His Lordship appeared quite wroth; the matter is likely to tax her considerable stores of diplomatic skill, I fear.”

“Hmmmm. This is definitely not worth interrupting her for, then. Unless…”

“There has been no message from Last Rock from or concerning Prince Sekandar, your Highness,” Cartwight said serenely. “Given the esteem in which House Aldarasi is held by Professor Tellwyrn, he can be assumed to be well so long as we are not notified otherwise.”

“Very well,” Yasmeen said with a sigh, folding the newspaper. “When she has the liberty, please inform the Sultana that I wish to speak with her at her earliest convenience.”

“I have already made the arrangements, your Highness,” Cartwright replied, “and ordered your Highness’s writing desk to be prepared with your favorite jasmine tea and baklava. Your Highness was scheduled to be interviewed by that unmannerly individual from the Wizards’ Guild; he has been informed that the meeting must be delayed.”

Any other servant would be reprimanded for such presumption, but there was no point in going to the considerable expense of employing a Butler if one did not let them buttle.

“Thank you very much, Cartwright.”

“It is, as always, my pleasure, Princess.”

 

Agent Fawkes moved as casually as was humanly possible, conveying the impression to any onlookers that he had every right to be here, on these enclosed manor grounds. Not that there were any onlookers—he had cased the premises quite thoroughly before entering—but one did not last long in his profession if one suffered lapses of professionalism. He laid the newspaper down on the steps to the manor’s kitchen door, which his intel stated was more heavily used by the house’s occupants than the front, and turned to make his way back to the side gate.

He found himself staring directly into a wide pair of eerie crimson eyes. She had appeared in complete and utter silence.

“Hi there!” Malivette Dufresne said brightly, smiling. “Whatcha doin’?”

For the barest moment, he froze. Fawkes was trained to confront the unexpected, to confront death, to contend with attractive women and terrifying monsters. The combination of all of the above was enough to rock his equilibrium, though. Just a little bit.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said respectfully, stepping back from the vampire and bowing. “Just delivering your paper.”

“That’s interesting,” the undead Duchess said, her smile widening to show off her fangs in what he was certain was not an accidental gesture. “Because people making deliveries tend to leave them at the gate, since it’s not, y’know, open. Also, I don’t subscribe to any newspapers. But since we’re getting all friendly, my pet peeves are poofy-sleeved dresses, sausage too heavily spiced, women who wear too much makeup, and people who come to my home and lie to me.”

Fawkes allowed himself the luxury of a small gulp. Such a show of vulnerability could actually be advantageous; establishing himself firmly as a lesser creature meant she was less likely to do something violent. That was, if his intel on Dufresne was correct; if she were the wrong kind of monster, it could have the opposite effect. Now, face to face with her in all her unnatural glory, he had to wonder. For one thing, it was broad daylight and she wasn’t so much as steaming in the sun…

Malivette was considered an ally of the Throne and a citizen in good standing, and this was a mission of relatively low priority. Under the circumstances, Intelligence’s policy for such a confrontation was clear.

“My apologies, your Grace,” he said, bowing again. “I work for the Imperial government; I was told to deliver this newspaper to your home. That is the entirety of what I know of the matter.”

“Ahh,” she said knowingly. “I see. Well, then. Be a good boy and let’s have it.”

She held out her hand expectantly. Fawkes glanced at it, decided against making any further comment, and turned to retrieve the paper he had just set down. He placed it in her hand with yet another respectful bow.

“Now then,” Malivette said briskly, “let’s see what we have here. Oh, my. Professor Tellwyrn still retains her absolute genius for annoying powerful people, I see…”

Fawkes cleared his throat very softly, stepping backward away from her. “Well. Enjoy your paper, your Grace. If there’s nothing further, I’ll be going.”

The vampire made no response, crimson eyes tracking back and forth as she read the lead article. Fawkes stepped back twice more before turning his back on her. He did not rush, nor pick up his pace in the slightest, as he made his way back across the grounds. Professionalism.

Still, it was with considerable relief that he finally slipped out the side gate into the overgrown path beyond. He didn’t quite indulge himself in a sigh, knowing roughly the range of that creature’s hearing, but allowed himself to un-tense slightly as he re-latched the gate behind him, then turned to head back into the forest.

He was instantly seized by the throat and slammed back into the gate.

“One other thing,” Malivette said in total calm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to suddenly be standing there on this side of the wall. She wasn’t even looking at him, still reading the newspaper held in one hand; the fingers of her other one were as icy and rigid as marble against his neck. Fawkes had better sense than to struggle against them, merely rising up on tiptoe so he could continue to breathe. “Be a love and report to Lord Vex that if he wants to give me a message, he can do so like a civilized person. If I continue to find his playthings creeping about my back steps, I can’t guarantee he’ll get them back in one piece. Clear?”

“Explicitly,” Fawkes replied, unable to fully compensate for the strain on his vocal cords. “I shall relay the message, your Grace.”

“Attaboy!” she said brightly, releasing him.

He was, by that point, only slightly surprised when she exploded into a cloud of shrieking bats and swirled away, back toward the manor. At least she took the paper with her.

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“All right, hear ye and all that shit,” Ruda proclaimed as soon as everyone was seated. “I’m callin’ this meeting of the Class of 1182 to order.”

“And Schkhurrankh,” Scorn added, raising a hand.

“Right, yes,” Ruda agreed. “Class of 1182 and their sidekick, Phlegm the Mighty.”

Suddenly scowling thunderously, Scorn started to rise from her chair.

“Vrash’khai nkh thrimpf,” Teal said softly. The Rhaazke paused, glancing at her guiltily, then sank back down. Teal turned to Ruda, scowling herself, now. “Will you please not mock her? She’s working to adjust.”

“Fuck yes I’m gonna mock her,” Ruda said bluntly. “I mock everybody. She’s supposed to be learning how to get along on this plane, right? Well, she can’t be flying off the handle at anybody who looks at her crosswise.”

“That actually is true, and important to learn,” Gabriel said more quietly, directing himself to Scorn. “Being demon-blooded on this plane means trying extra hard not to make waves. A lot of people barely need an excuse to attack you to begin with.”

“Let them,” Scorn huffed, folding her arms. “I collect they faces!”

“Who has been teaching her words?” Juniper asked, frowning at Ruda.

“I think we need to have a few conversations about this later,” Toby murmured.

“Anyfuckingway!” Ruda shouted. “Before this digressed into a discussion of demon social skills, we were gathered here for a reason!”

“A reason in addition to lunch?” Gabriel asked, picking up his sandwich.

“Arquin, by Naphthene’s pendulous teats, I swear—”

“Yes, yes, fucking stabbed, I know,” he said around a mouthful.

There were several spots around campus with picnic tables, all isolated from each other and most somewhat shaded by trees or buildings. No space had been provided for the entire student body to move an organized meal outside the cafeteria, unless they wanted to lay it out on the lawn, but the outdoor tables represented opportunities for smaller groups to gather for food or study sessions. The sophomores had, at Ruda’s insistent urging, collected lunch from the cafeteria as usual and made their way to a nook close to the alchemy building near the campus’s east wall. Actually, the table here had appeared only a few weeks ago; previously the spot had only held a few trees, one of which had been altered somehow during the first week of classes to look almost anthropomorphic.

When asked about this, Professor Tellwyrn had only said cryptically that anyone seeking to torture classmates should do it their damn selves and not involve innocent shrubbery.

“Here’s the issue,” Ruda said, laying her hands down flat on both sides of her plate and panning a stare around the table. “Trissiny keeps sensing demons.”

“It was just twice,” Trissiny said hastily. “It’s the circumstances that are strange.”

“Right,” said Ruda, nodding. “Both times, other people present who should have been perceptive to a demon felt nothing. The first time, though, Scorn did feel it, and could even identify it by species.”

“Vanislaas child, yes, I remember,” said Scorn, looking bored and still somewhat annoyed. “But that is one time. Last night, you interrupt my sleep for nothing.”

“Right, that’s what I was coming to,” said Ruda. “The difference is, the first time Scorn was right there, while the second, she was five floors down.”

“For stealthy species of demon, such as Vanislaads,” said Shaeine, “that distance would make all the difference in whether a sensitive individual would detect its presence.”

Gabriel raised his hand. “I am being invisibly harangued to insist that there is not and hasn’t been a Vanislaad demon on this campus, and Vestrel is beginning to be insulted at the lack of faith being expressed.”

“Hard to have faith in something you can’t see,” Juniper murmured, absently lowering her hand to pat her jackalope, who was back at Clarke Tower. He had been banned from the cafeteria after charging at Mrs. Oak and demolishing a rack of glasses.

“Isn’t that what faith…is?” Fross chimed.

“Right!” Ruda said loudly, slapping the table for emphasis. “Fuck’s sake, people, I’m starting to empathize with Tellwryn, and that pisses me off. Can’t you lot keep your focus for thirty seconds at a time?”

“Is food time,” Scorn mumbled around an unnecessarily visible mouthful. Everyone averted their eyes. “Better things to do than watch you speech.”

“I see two basic possibilities here,” Ruda went on, ignoring her. “One, to get it out of the way, is that Trissiny’s losing her mind.”

Trissiny sighed.

“Uh,” said Gabriel. “I don’t think…”

“Yeah, I’ve honestly ruled that out immediately,” Ruda continued. “And not just out of personal attachment. If the Hand of Avei were suffering mental disturbances…well, that would create notice. Anything from the Sisterhood discreetly sending people here to collect her to Avei coming down and putting a stop to it. You can’t have your soul hooked up to a deity and them not take note when shit’s seriously wrong with you.”

“That’s more correct than you may realize,” Toby added. “Paladins don’t go insane—there have been observations written on this for centuries. It’s another reason paladins are used as front-line defenders in the case of chaos incidents. That kind of direct mental connection to a deity protects the mind from severe damage.”

“Right,” said Ruda, nodding. “So, unless anybody can think of something I haven’t, we’d best assume that Trissiny and her ‘sense evil’ thingamajig are functioning as intended.”

“What’s your actual idea, then?” Teal asked after a moment, in which there was no sound except chewing.

“Assuming that her senses are working correctly isn’t the same as assuming what they’re sensing is true,” said Ruda. “Senses can be fooled. We’ve got two other paladins to contradict Trissiny’s impressions, and especially Gabe’s valkyries. I get the idea they’re kind of specialized anti-incubus agents. Right?”

“Anti-undead would be more accurate,” Gabriel replied, setting down his sandwich. “Remember that Vanislaads are demonic undead, not true demons. But yes, their extra-dimensional origin makes them especially visible to valkyries, who themselves exist multi-dimensionally. Vanislaad stealth and shape-shifting absolutely do not work against soul reapers.”

“You are suggesting that someone is deliberately sending false positive demon signals to Trissiny?” Shaeine asked, frowning faintly.

“Nothing else makes sense to me,” Ruda replied. “That just leaves the questions of who and why.”

“I should think the how is also a significant concern,” said Ariel.

Ruda sighed. “Arquin, do you have to bring that thing with you everywhere?”

“Funny. I was going to ask Trissiny the same thing, but it turns out this meeting was your idea.”

“She always has a helpful perspective on magical matters,” said Gabriel, “you just have to learn to tune out the other commentary. Speaking of which, Ariel, you have any insight on this? And kindly refrain from irrelevant personal observations.”

“If you would refrain from associating with irrelevant persons, I would have none to make. To answer the question, however, the key issue here is that two other paladins in proximity to Trissiny were not alerted during the first incident. Sending out signals to trigger senses of that kind is rather simple magic, and would not be noticeable to valkyries; Fross could probably do it.”

“Aw, thanks!” Fross chimed. “I don’t actually know a spell for that, but now that you mention it, it seems pretty easy to reverse-enchant from the description…”

“At issue,” Ariel continued, “is that sending such a signal in such a way that it triggered only one specific person’s senses while avoiding others is inordinately complex magic. I can extrapolate arcane, infernal and fae methods of doing such a thing, but all would require significant energy reserves and a highly sophisticated casting. I frankly do not know what to make of the fact that the demon perceived the same signal. Data on Rhaazke is generally lacking on this plane of existence.”

Everyone turned to look at Scorn, who was busily licking the napkins in which she had carried her sandwich, and eying Toby’s half-eaten one. He nudged it away from her.

“Well, the sword’s not wrong,” Ruda admitted. “How is indeed a concern. But to backtrack, I think who and why are still things we should discuss, since we seem to be at a dead end there.”

“The who would explain the why if we knew it, I think,” Teal mused. “Any number of people might want to take potshots at the Hand of Avei. Most of those have motivations built right into their affiliations.”

“Something about that troubles me,” said Shaeine. “In Tar’naris we have a saying: ‘Evil yields only to a greater evil.’”

“Well, that’s grim,” Gabriel commented.

“I believe I understand what she’s getting at, though,” said Trissiny, nodding. “The Avenist proverb is ‘if the wicked feared the righteous, they would be righteous themselves.’ Assuming this is the work of someone with an established enmity to me… I don’t have any personal nemeses, that I know of. And if it’s someone opposed to Avei, it is very strange that they would attack me here.”

“Uh, here’s where you are, though,” Juniper said.

“Perhaps I muddied the issue with my choice of words,” said Shaeine. “My apologies. ‘Evil’ is a somewhat naïve concept most often used to dismiss foreign perspectives. My point, and Trissiny’s if I am not mistaken, is that any of the parties who would be inclined to assault Avei’s interests would also tend to shy away from antagonizing Professor Tellwyrn. Between her and Avei, I would hesitate to guess whose wrath is more fierce, but Tellwyrn’s is indisputably more indiscriminate.”

“This who becomes an increasingly interesting question,” Ruda mused.

“Well, one prospect springs right to mind,” said Gabriel. “I assume you all remember that asshole in the white suit from Veilgrad. He played us all like fiddles—if Malivette hadn’t jumped into that, the whole thing would’ve been a clean Black Wreath victory. Here, we don’t have a vampire backing us up, and even then she pulled it off through sheer element of surprise.”

“That is a significant point,” Shaeine agreed, nodding. “Professor Tellwyrn is, at present, a somewhat static entity, and it has been observed before that she can be maneuvered around. These particular tactics suggest discretion of exactly that kind.”

“And the Black Wreath are excellent candidates for someone looking to start trouble for the Hand of Avei,” said Toby. “What’s curious is that they specifically avoided doing the same to me and Gabe. Seems like they should have just as much of a problem with us.”

“Maybe not,” said Trissiny. “I mean no offense, but Omnu and Vidius aren’t usually represented on the front lines against the Wreath. Avei’s forces are.”

“Hn,” Ruda grunted. “If anything, this makes the motive more obscure, not less. It’s fine and dandy to call this general Black Wreath fuckery, but remember their defining characteristic is they don’t do shit without a plan in place. What do they gain from ruffling Trissiny’s hair?”

“Provocation?” Shaeine suggested.

“I could see them maybe wanting to goad her into making a mistake,” Gabriel said, frowning, “but I can’t see how this leads to that. If I were the Wreath, aimlessly pissing off the Hand of Avei would not be on my agenda. Stop me if I’m wrong, Trissiny, but based on the crash courses Tarvadegh’s been feeding me, the Wreath’s strength is its cunning. In a straight-up fight, hardly any warlock is a match for a paladin, especially one of Avei’s. If it’s them, there’s gotta be something more going on.”

“We don’t have any actual info on that yet,” Ruda cautioned, “but you’re right, Gabe. We’d best be on the alert for something further to develop. Anyhow, while this is a productive theory, remember we haven’t established for a fact that this is the Wreath’s doing.”

“Who else?” asked Teal.

Ruda drummed her fingers once on the picnic table. “Well. There’s one other prospect…maybe. Ravana has a theory.”

Teal stiffened. “When were you talking with Ravana about this?”

“Ravana’s the little blonde one, right?” said Gabriel. “Of the new froshes I’ve only really talked to Iris.”

“Let me backtrack a bit,” said Ruda. “This started with the revival, and Bishop Snowe’s very un-Izarite shot across Tellwyrn’s bow. Then, after the cults packed up and left, there were two extra priests left over—an Avenist and a Vidian.”

“There’s a new Vidian priest?” Gabriel said, straightening up. “I haven’t been really involved at the temple since this weekend…”

“Sister Takli isn’t assigned to the Silver Mission in any official capacity,” Trissiny added. “But she’s staying in Last Rock for awhile, and wanted to volunteer while she’s around. That seemed perfectly admirable to me.”

“Has there ever been a priestess of Avei who randomly moved to town before?” Ruda said pointedly.

“The Mission wasn’t here before,” Trissiny replied. “Neither was I. I thought it was odd, but nothing about it seems sinister. I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Ruda.”

“Well,” Ruda continued, “yesterday there was the play, and the impromptu picnic, where Juniper’s bunny caused a scene, remember? Well, that new Vidian was there, right before, and immediately got involved.”

“What’s your point?” Gabriel asked, frowning.

“I’m repeating a theory, not proposing it,” Ruda replied. “Ravana found the sequence of events suspicious—she wanted to come to the paladins with this, but I asked her not to. That’s just something I prefer to do myself. Honestly, I’ve seen that girl’s type, and she’s trouble; it remains to be seen whether she’s trouble for us or someone else.”

“You have no idea how right you are,” Teal said grimly. Shaeine reached to hold her hand under the table.

“But her theory is that Archpope Justinian is using proxies to move against the University. Agitating the townsfolk, that kinda thing. Remember how Jack suddenly lunged at that guy from a standstill?” Ruda turned to Gabriel. “Arquin, hypothetically speaking, how possible would it be for a Vidian cleric to use a little spark of divine magic to flick a rabbit’s ear, and more cult-specific gifts to make sure no onlookers noticed it?”

“What?” Juniper sat bolt upright in her seat.

“Easy, there,” Toby murmured, patting her arm.

“Hypothetically speaking?” Gabriel pursed his lips, frowning at the table. “It’s the divine spark bit that would be tricky, there, but it could be done with a very small shielding spell. That’s possible, Ruda, but this whole thing seems really tenuous to me.”

“What?” Juniper snarled, rising from her seat. “Are you saying that woman hurt my bunny?!”

“Whoah!” Toby and Teal immediately lunged from both sides, taking her by the shoulders. Not that they were physically strong enough to hold the dryad down, but she at least stopped while Toby continued. “Nobody’s saying that, June. Gabe’s right, the idea is seriously a stretch. Why would a priest do such a thing?”

“Now who is fly off the handle?” Scorn commented, smirking.

“I thought something was wrong!” Juniper growled. “Jack doesn’t just freak out like that for no reason!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ruda exclaimed. “He does that all the damn time!”

“He really does, June,” said Toby. “Everyone’s noticed it. Haven’t you seen how people leave the area when you bring him around?”

“I hate to have to tell you this,” Gabriel added, “but that rabbit’s a menace.”

“He’s not a rabbit,” Juniper said sullenly, finally letting herself be nudged back into her seat. “He’s a jackalope. There’s a difference. They’re excitable. It’s not his fault!”

“That is correct,” Ariel observed. “Since wild animals cannot be expected to train themselves, it is clearly your fault.”

Gabriel silently stood up, unbuckled the sword from his belt, laid her on the bench and sat on her.

“Thank you,” Ruda said to him.

“I believe I follow Ravana’s line of thinking,” said Shaeine. “If her theory is correct, this priestess’s actions would be consistent—assuming she actually committed such an action instead of simply being present while Jack exhibited perfectly characteristic behavior. Agitating the bunny to create a scene between students and citizens would advance this hypothetical goal. However, that scenario is constructed almost entirely of unverified assumptions.”

“Ravana’s a sly little snake,” added Teal. “If there are political machinations afoot, then it’d be a very good idea to listen to her—she’s probably more of an expert on that than anyone our age has a right to be. But the other side of that is I think she’ll be pretty likely to see hidden motives where they don’t actually exist.”

“Why on earth would the Archpope want to attack the University?” Trissiny exclaimed. “How could he possibly gain from that?”

“I dunno,” Gabriel mused. “Snowe did make that speech—we all saw it. And what she did afterward, or tried to. Plus, Tarvadegh’s warned me to be careful about the Universal Church; Justinian has a reputation for being a smooth operator.”

“He seems pretty popular with the general public,” Teal said, frowning.

“You do understand what a smooth operator is, right?” Ruda said dryly.

“Mother Narny and Commander Rouvad have both said similar things to me, now that you mention it,” Trissiny mused, her expression growing thoughtful.

“No one’s said anything like that to me,” Toby objected.

“It stands to reason that the various cults would have different attitudes toward the Universal Church,” suggested Shaeine. “A defining trait of Omnists seems to be their inclination to get along with everyone. By contrast, Avenists are constitutionally more combative, and Vidians more…subtle.”

“You can say it,” Gabriel said with a grin. “’Two-faced’ isn’t even taken as an insult in the faith.”

“Guys, I think this is wandering off the point,” Fross chimed. “Remember where we started from? Are you seriously going to suggest that the Universal Church is trying to antagonize Trissiny with false fragments of demon aura?”

A short silence fell across the table.

“Yeah, I’m inclined to agree with Fross, here,” said Ruda, nodding slowly. “Figured I should mention Ravana’s ideas; if there’s underhanded fuckery afoot, they’re worth considering. But this kind of shit in particular seems a lot more characteristic of the Black Wreath than the Universal Church. Pretty much by definition.”

“I’m not entirely convinced this Church thing has anything to it,” Teal added. “Though…I may be biased. Ravana Madouri really makes me nervous.”

“At some point, Teal,” said Gabriel, “I think we’re gonna need to hear the story behind that.”

“Regardless of that, she has a point,” said Toby. “Even if Justinian’s as much of a politician as you’re suggesting, and even considering Bishop Snowe’s behavior—which was extremely creepy at minimum, I’ll agree—I can’t see any possible motivation for the Archpope to try to start trouble with the University.”

“You children should make more of an effort to keep up with the news,” Professor Ekoi said brightly. Everyone jumped, staring; she was standing at the head of the table, smiling benignly, and had definitely not been a moment before. The kitsune laid a short stack of newspapers on the end of the picnic table. “There are fascinating things in the headlines today, quite relevant to your discussion. I happened to pick up the fresh editions in Calderaas this morning.”

“What were you doing in Calderaas?” Gabriel demanded.

Ekoi fixed her eyes on him, her smile widening to show her long canines. “On the subject of invasive personal questions, Mr. Arquin, why are your undershorts flying from a flagpole on the main lawn?”

“What?” he exclaimed. “There’s not a flagpole on the lawn. I don’t even know what you’re talking oh gods please tell me you didn’t.”

Ruda collapsed in laughter, nearly sliding off the bench.

“Remember, Mr. Arquin,” Ekoi said solemnly, “manners are miniature morals. You kids may keep those—I think you will find them enlightening. I shall see you in class.”

She turned and sauntered away, tail waving languidly behind her.

“I disavow any knowledge of anything flying from any flagpoles,” Gabriel announced. “On an unrelated subject, you guys know if there’s a shop in Last Rock where you can get clothes on the cheap?”

“Don’t buy cheap clothes,” Teal said, lips twitching. “They just need to be replaced faster.”

“Uh, guys?” Juniper said, holding up the topmost newspaper so they could all see the headline.

“Snowe vs. Tellwyrn?” Teal read aloud. “How does anyone think that’s even a contest?”

“Are they all like that?” Trissiny asked, reaching for the remaining stack.

Ruda grabbed it first, spreading them across the table amidst the remains of their sandwiches. “Looks like…yup. Wow, I wouldn’t have expected one Bishop’s speech to generate this much interest in the newspapers. Was it really that newsworthy?”

“I…guess?” Teal said uncertainly.

“Or,” Shaeine murmured, “someone has exerted influence on the papers to make this happen.”

Another brief silence fell.

“So,” Ruda said, drumming her fingers on top of one of the newspapers, “the Church or the Wreath. Well, they both have a motive, though I still can’t tell what the Church’s is. They clearly are taking aim at the University, though.”

“Is this something we should be worried about?” Fross asked nervously. “I have to admit I’ve sorta skipped politics in my reading. I mean, apart from what we’ve been over in Professor Tellwyrn’s class, which isn’t exactly…current.”

“This is something for Professor Tellwyrn to worry about,” Toby said firmly. “Someone targeting Trissiny is our business.”

“And hers,” Gabriel pointed out. “Come on, you know that’s exactly what she’d say. Don’t you guys think we ought to take this to her?”

“I’m not sure I want to approach her, with the mood she’ll be in when she sees this,” Juniper muttered, still reading the paper.

“We’re not gonna have Tellwyrn’s skirts to hide behind forever,” Ruda snapped. “And we will have many of these same problems. We know the Wreath is after Vadrieny, and from what you guys said about what happened in Veilgrad, that guy seemed weirdly interested in the paladins. It stands to reason the Archpope would have similar interests, whatever it is he’s doin’ here. No, we deal with this.”

“How?” Teal asked.

“Well,” Ruda said thoughtfully, leaning backward and staring absently at the scattered newspapers, “we’re gonna need more information, first. Which of our prospects is actually behind the demon shit getting thrown at Triss?”

“Wreath,” Scorn snorted. “Is obvious. You are stupid?”

“Teal, I’m gonna stab your demon in a minute,” Ruda growled.

“Why is it obvious?” Teal asked Scorn.

The Rhaazke shrugged. “Sword say the hard part being the hiding, yes? Easy spell, but hard to make Trissiny only sense the aura? Well, I sense it too, so is Wreath hiding.”

“What?” Gabriel frowned. “What did she say?”

“Why does that mean it’s a Wreath spell?” Trissiny demanded.

Scorn looked incredulously around the table at them. “I am Rhaazke.”

“Yep,” Ruda said. “Gonna stab her.”

“Scorn,” Gabriel said irritably, “pretend for a moment that you’re from a completely different plane of existence with different rules, and nobody here knows what the hell you are talking about!”

“If I understand correctly,” Shaeine said before Scorn could react to that, “you are saying that the Wreath’s gift of stealth does not work against Rhaazke?”

“How’d you get that outta that word salad?” Ruda exclaimed. “And that’s another thing, Tanglish isn’t demonic. You can’t just mix words together at fucking random!”

“That’s what I thought she said,” Fross chimed.

Scorn sighed dramatically. “You know nothing. Fine, I explain. The goddess, she does not trust demons. They are made by Scyllith, and made to be hard for control. Also some still being loyal to Scyllith. Rhaazke are different; Scyllith throws us out, very long ago. So in Hell, when Elilial takes command, she does not trust demons to be in charge. Her highest…um… What is word?” She turned to Teal. “Servants in charge?”

“Lieutenants?” Teal suggested.

“Llllluuuutennn…” Scorn drawled out the word and gave up halfway through, shaking her head. “You all complain my language is silly.”

“Anyway,” Gabriel prompted.

“Yes, fine, going on. Highest… People being in charge under the goddess, they are the archdemons,” she nodded to Teal, “and some others she makes herself. Very unique beings, not like the demon races. Prince Vanislaas, the Shroudwraith, Kelvreth of the Eyes… Others like them. Not being of Hell’s races, they are loyal to her. Well, our queen, Srkhankhvrithz, she is one of these highest leewww…in charge. But the other Rhaazke, we serve a little lower, but still over the demons. Hell is not our home, we have always hated Scyllith, and the Lady Elilial gives us everything, so we are trusted servants,” she said proudly.

“So…Rhaazke are middleman administrators in Hell?” Ruda said, frowning. “What’s that got to do with you being able to sense through Wreath fuckery?”

Scorn shrugged irritably. “Obviously, we have powers given to do our tasks, yes? We served the Lady before the Wreath was made, and we stand closer to her. Humans are not permitted in Hell, but humans are also not trusted. Some try things, even some Wreath. Rhaazke must be able to hunt through their tricks, yes?” She grinned. “Not all Rhaazke have as many gifts, but I am noble bloodline, being trained for high service. This stealth the Black Wreath has, it is the Lady’s gift, and she decides where it does not work.”

“Fascinating,” said Ariel, slightly muffled under Gabriel.

“If that’s true,” Trissiny said slowly, “we have a perfect counter to the Black Wreath’s greatest weapon.”

“It also means Scorn’s right,” added Toby. “That would explain perfectly why the spell aimed at Trissiny caught her as well. If the concealment was a Wreath stealth that doesn’t work on her… It has to be them.”

“It also means we can beat them,” said Gabriel, grinning fiercely.

“Yes!” Scorn said, smiling back.

“Hang on,” Ruda interrupted. “Scorn, does the Wreath know Rhaazke can do this?”

“Not for them to know,” Scorn said haughtily. “If they know, they can sneak around it, yes? Then is pointless.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Juniper asked.

“She literally just explained it,” said Ruda in exasperation. “After Veilgrad the Wreath know we’ve got a Rhaazke. If they knew their concealment doesn’t work on her, they could compensate. But if Scorn is right, they don’t.”

“Which means,” said Trissiny, her eyes widening, “we have exactly what we need to outmaneuver them.”

“Yes!” Scorn cried, grinning broadly.

“Um,” Toby said, “you do realize that in order to capitalize on this advantage, you’re going to have to keep Scorn near you and…wait for them to strike again?”

“Oh,” Trissiny said, frowning.

“Yes!” Scorn repeated. “We will have fun! We go to classes and visit the town and when the Wreath moves again, we crush them!”

“…great,” Trissiny said weakly.

“Whoah, now, stop,” Ruda interjected. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, we need a plan. First, this advantage has to be protected; we can’t let the Wreath learn that Scorn can see through their defenses.”

“Yes, very true,” Scorn said, deflating. “This is secret—Wreath is not to learn.”

“Also,” Teal added, “it’s not clear to me exactly how we can capitalize on this. If the Wreath is just making Trissiny sense the presence of demons that aren’t there, having Scorn sense them too changes…what?”

“Right,” Ruda said, nodding. “We need to come up with a plan.”

“To begin with,” Fross chimed, “I may be able to work out a spell to augment Trissiny’s senses—there has to be a way to track those signals more precisely, rather than just perceiving them. It’ll be really tricky for me to work with divine magic, though…”

“I know a spell for that,” Ariel said from under Gabriel. “Trissiny will have to cast it herself, but I can walk her through the process. After a few weeks of basic schooling in divine spellwork, she hopefully possesses the basic competence.”

“That sounds like a skill I would be interested in learning anyway,” Trissiny agreed.

While they carried on talking, Gabriel surreptitiously shifted, pulling Ariel out from under himself and gripping her by the hilt. Her scabbard hid the patterns of faint blue light that flickered along her blade as he ignited a charm they had worked out previously.

“Vestrel,” his voice echoed from the sword, silently but resonating through the dimensional medium in which the valkyries dwelt.

Invisible to the others, a black-clad figure approached him from behind, spreading one ebon wing protectively over him as she leaned forward. “Something on your mind, little brother?”

He glanced fleetingly up at her with a small smile, quickly enough that his classmates did not notice, absorbed in their discussion. “What do you know about this new cleric in town?”

“Nothing, really. We don’t keep track of them all. Why?”

“There’s something going on. It’s too perfect, more priests arriving just as Bishop Snowe starts trouble with Tellwryn and the newspapers start carrying these tales. Are the girls too busy to do me a favor?”

“Never,” Vestrel said with a grin, affectionately brushing him with her pinions. They didn’t physically connect, of course. “We can spare the time to see what the new priestess gets up to when she thinks no one is looking. The Avenist, too?”

His eyes flickered at Trissiny, who was paying attention to what Toby was saying. “I don’t know… That seems wise, but also like it’d be stepping on Triss’s toes.”

“What she doesn’t know hurts nothing. And if a cleric of her faith is indeed trying to manipulate her…”

“Point taken. If you would, then.”

“Oh, this sounds like it’ll be fun!”

“Stop, back up,” Ruda said sharply in response to Juniper’s last objection. “Nothing just happens without context—just because we’re pretty sure the Wreath is behind these specific events does not mean we can just ignore whatever the hell the Church is up to.”

“Indeed,” Shaeine agreed. “Even if the Wreath are not responsible for the trouble presently being stirred up, trouble can be taken advantage of by anyone. We must not develop blind spots—everything going on here deserves our attention.”

“I’m still lost as to why the Church would attack the University, though,” Toby said, shaking his head. “I just don’t see any benefit in that. And in its own way, the Church is almost as inscrutable as the Wreath; Triss, Gabe and I can probably get some information from them, but you can be sure they’ll stonewall us about anything they’re doing with regard to the University we all attend.”

“Maybe not, though!” Fross chimed. “Can it hurt to ask?”

“Fuck yes it can,” Ruda said firmly. “If they’re playing games with us, letting them know we’re onto them will only make it worse. I can’t see the Universal fucking Church backing down from a challenge.”

“Well,” Gabriel said mildly, “keep in mind that just because we don’t know everything now doesn’t mean we won’t learn more.”

“How exactly are we going to learn more?” Ruda asked, exasperated.

He shrugged. “I’m pretty sure something will come up.”

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Jenell rapped on the door a third time, her expression growing increasingly sour, and stepped back from it. As before, there was no sound from within the room.

It was still before sunrise; the sky peeking through the windows behind her was gray, but light enough to reveal the silhouettes of trees, and the shapes of the Viridill mountains beyond. She folded her arms, tapping a foot impatiently, then stopped and corrected her posture when another woman rounded the corner of the hall, strolling her way with a pastry in hand.

She was a little older than Jenell and not as pretty (a point of data she always noticed about other women, Avenist training be damned), wearing the long but clingy robes common to this temple, with a pink lotus badge at the shoulder. The Izarites here in Adhran had their sigil embroidered directly onto their robes, rather than using the enamel pins favored by the cults in Tiraas. The priestess gave her a warm smile and a nod of greeting; Jenell snapped to attention and saluted silently.

Not that she was obligated to, under the circumstances, but one of the Legionnaires stationed to guard this temple had taught her that trick the night before, after she had been cornered three times by clerics and offered everything from hugs and candy to therapy and sex. They meant well, but it got very obnoxious, very quickly. However, they wouldn’t bother a soldier they thought was on duty. Hence the saluting.

The woman passed around the corner on the other end of the hall, and Jenell scowled, stepped forward again, and rapped on the door for the fourth time.

She gave him to the slow count of ten, then raised her gauntleted fist and began hammering viciously on the wood.

It was absolutely amazing how long that went on before getting a response; by the time the door was opened from within, she was starting to expect another priest to come see what the racket was about before the room’s occupant did. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.

Unfortunately, it immediately looked like her troubles were only beginning.

Schwartz was a wreck. The puffy bags under his eyes almost hid them, and he slumped against the door frame, apparently unable to balance on his own. He had the worst case of bed hair she had ever seen or imagined; in fact, it was almost unbelievable that he’d gotten it to stick up that much without effort and the application of some kind of product. His eyes were open unevenly, the left one barely slitted. As she took in the sight of him, he blinked, slowly, eyelids out of sync.

“Bmwlaah?” Scwhartz enunciated.

“Good morning,” she said crisply. “Time to go.”

He blinked again, more evenly this time. “Uh…bm. Carvin.”

“No, but close. You really don’t handle sleep deprivation well, do you?”

“Wha…I the…s’fin…” He paused to yawn widely enough to display molars. “Wha?”

“You’ve slept about four hours,” Jenell reported. “Based on your comments yesterday it was your second night in a row of not getting enough rest. I see we’ll have to avoid that in the future, if you’re going to be around much longer. Now get dressed, we have to go pick up the Bishop.”

“Was…saw th’elves,” he said blearily, still blinking his eyes.

“Yes,” she said patiently, “and that was the last interesting thing that happened yesterday, so I suppose I can forgive you for blurring out the subsequent details. You were half-asleep by the time we got here. You can nap in the carriage, we need to…”

She trailed off, staring. His eyes had drifted shut and he slumped against the door frame, gradually sliding forward and down. As she watched, he actually began to snore again.

Jenell sighed, gritted her teeth, and pulled off one of her gauntlets. Schwartz snorted and jerked when she thrust the tips of her forefinger and thumb into his left nostril. When she yanked out a few tiny hairs, he let out a yowl and shot upright, eyes wide and blinking.

“There,” she said. “Is that better?”

“Ow!” he protested, clutching his nose.

“Sorry,” she said, insufficiently motivated to try for a sincere tone. “It used to work on my dad when I was little. I know you’re tired and not used to it, Mr. Schwartz, but I need you to get ready and be downstairs, in the carriage, in fifteen minutes. We have to go to the Legion barracks and get Bishop Syrinx, then head back to the Abbey. And I will not be late.”

“Legion…barracks…Bishop.” Apparently marginally more alert, he peered around. “We’re not…there? She’s not here?”

“We are at the local Temple of Izara,” Jenell replied. “She left orders to pick her up by seven in the morning. That means we have to go. I would willingly break a few of your limbs to stay off Syrinx’s shit list, so believe you me I will not hesitate to drag you through the halls in whatever state of undress I find you in if you’re not down there in that carriage in fifteen. Clear?”

“Carriage,” he said, yawning hugely. “Broken limbs, yes. Fifteen. Just lemme…”

“Do,” she said curtly. “And don’t fall asleep again. You don’t want to test me on this.”

“M’kay,” he mumbled, turning to shuffle back into the room. Jenell stayed long enough to observe that he was going for the wardrobe, not the bed, before turning and striding back down the hall. She didn’t bother to shut the door. It wasn’t like anyone in this temple would be unused to the sight of a skinny man getting undressed.

On her way back to the temple’s side exit, she paused only to duck into a lavatory and thoroughly wash her hands before putting her gauntlets back on, checking her face in the mirror by habit in the process. Bags under her own eyes, though not as bad as his… She was used to functioning without much sleep, these days.

The stables were positioned around to the side of the temple, out of sight of the exquisitely manicured gardens and main courtyard out front, where guests would not have to behold such mundane trivialities as the horses that brought them—or what those horses left behind. Jenell wasn’t sure if this was due to Izarite doctrines about pleasure and relaxation, or simple old-fashioned snobbery. Likely some combination of the two. The temple did have designated parking for enchanted carriages next to its stables. Not much parking, there being only four slots, but it was something. It surprised her not in the least that some of those who frequented the Temple of Izara were wealthy enough to have such fripperies even in this district—or that the clerics would pander to them. Cults served everyone equally, in theory, but it was the rich whose donations kept things running, and the rich never let anyone forget it.

The carriage, unsurprisingly, was exactly as she had left it last night, after returning from driving the Bishop to the Legion fortress atop the hill. There was no reason it shouldn’t have been, considering the area, but Jenell had learned to assume the worst about everyone and everything, and let her life be filled with pleasant surprises. She climbed into the driver’s seat and activated the control rune, listening to the hum of the enchantments that purred to life from beneath. They were barely audible while parked.

A figure appeared in the temple door and headed toward her, waving. Jenell nodded politely back, considering repeating her salute trick for a moment, but decided against it. He was obviously coming right for her anyway, and in any case he would know her situation, having had it explained last night.

The high priest in charge of this temple had been introduced to her as Brother Nansin, no other title being given, not that she understood how Izarite rankings worked. He was a tall, slender man with broad Western features on a narrow face. Not bad-looking, but not one to turn heads. She had noticed that; it seemed the disciples of the goddess of love ought to be pretty people as a rule. This was Jenell’s first chance to spend prolonged time in their company, and found them to be generally average-looking.

“Good morning, Private Covrin,” he said politely, coming to a stop beside the idling carriage.

“Brother Nansin,” she replied. “Thank you again for your hospitality. I hope we weren’t too much of an imposition.”

“Guests are never an imposition, of any kind,” he said firmly, but with a warm smile. “The followers of Izara are here to provide for the needs of all who come to us. I appreciate Bishop Syrinx’s willingness to bring us up to date on the dangerous events unfolding. Obviously, Avei’s followers will and must take a more central role against such a threat, but it seems likely there will be many people hurting in the near future, if you are not successful in putting it to a swift end. We shall stand ready.”

Well, he was definitely a ranking priest. No one else could make a speech out of “good morning, and thanks.”

“The goddess grant it is so,” she said diplomatically. She could have tried for a solemn tone, but Izarites were supposed to be able to sense emotions and hidden motives; standing this close, he might be aware of her disinterest in the conversation. The most polite course of action seemed to be simple…politeness.

“I’m sorry you must leave us so soon,” Nansin said, still smiling. “Is your friend on the way?”

“I hope so,” Jenell said frankly. “He’s likely to be embarrassed if I have to go fetch him again.”

At that, the priest cracked a more genuine grin. It faded after as second, however, to a pleasant and calmly open look that she recognized, and she stifled a sigh. After last night, she recognized that expression.

“I feel I have to apologize for some of my brethren,” he said. “I didn’t learn until after you had retired last night that several members of the order had approached you. Obviously, they know not to bother the soldiers on duty guarding the temple, but here, a guest is a guest. I hope you weren’t made uncomfortable.”

Well. That hadn’t been quite what she was expecting.

“No harm done,” she said calmly. “I appreciate the good intentions.”

“Good,” he said, nodding, still wearing that caring almost-smile. “We have taken in Legionnaires in the past.”

Jenell went still. “Pardon?”

“Not often,” Nansin continued, “and not permanently. But situations arise from time to time in which a soldier is placed in a position that is not easily resolved through the chain of command. We have some experience in negotiating matters with the Legions to ensure they are protected from reprisal and able to return to duty. Really, it is not so difficult as one might fear. The Legions are nothing if not devoted to justice, and quick to discipline those who abuse their structure at the expense of fellow soldiers. Sometimes it just takes a little outside help to identify who is culpable, and who is a victim.”

“That’s very interesting,” she said stiffly, adopting a bored tone and turning to watch the door for Schwartz.

He followed her gaze, standing in silence for a moment. Not leaving. She repressed another sigh when he began speaking again.

“I assume you are aware of Izara’s gift to her clergy, the ability to feel the emotional needs of those around us.” Nansin hesitated for a moment before continuing, still gazing into the distance. “Of course, I mean no lack of respect to the Sisterhood or the Legions, but… It requires only being in a room with Basra Syrinx to sense that something isn’t right, there.”

He glanced up at her; Jenell stared woodenly ahead, ignoring him now.

“I was, of course, attentive to her warnings and requests when the three of you convened in my office last night,” Nansin went on. “Still, it was impossible for me not to notice, Private Covrin, the way you tense in her presence, and particularly the agitation you feel when she directs her attention at you. Obviously, that doesn’t tell me a whole story, but I have seen enough of humanity to paint a general picture—”

“Brother Nansin.” Jenell turned bodily in her seat, bending over the edge of the humming carriage and leaning down to stare flatly into his face. “Mind. Your own. Business.”

He held her gaze in silence for a long moment, then nodded. “Your privacy is sacrosanct. Anything an Izarite cleric senses in your presence will never be revealed to anyone, unless you request it. Just know, please, that we are never as trapped by circumstances as they make it seem. If you thought you had nowhere to go, Jenell, let me promise you that you can always come here.”

Jenell straightened up and stared icily at the temple’s side door, ignoring him in truth now. They were clearly past the point of politeness, and not at her instigation.

Nansin gave her another moment, then sighed very softly and bowed. “I wish you a safe journey, Private Covrin. Thank you again for the warning you brought us.”

He turned and glided away on long legs, around toward the front gardens this time, rather than back through the side door. Jenell glanced once after him, as he rounded the corner, but thereafter kept her eyes fixed on the side entrance, mentally composing herself.

Fortunately—for him—Schwartz emerged with a few minutes to spare, looking somewhat disheveled but far more functional. His hair had been wetted down and attended to, and was merely mussed rather than disastrous, and nothing was going to hide those bags under his eyes any time soon. He had managed to get into his clothes correctly, though, and was also carrying a bottle filled with dark liquid.

“Hi,” he said, clambering up beside her. “Morning. Very nice people in there, they gave me some strong tea for the trip.” He paused to yawn again. “Hope I didn’t make us late… I’d kill for a cup of coffee right now, but I expect it’s not realistic to expect that to be found outside a port city…”

“Don’t you want to ride in the back?” she said mildly, half-turning to nod at the cushioned seats behind and below.

“Oh,” he said awkwardly. “Well, uh, if it’s a problem, me being up here…?”

“I don’t care,” she said. “This bench isn’t very comfortable, though. With the lack of padding, you’ll feel every bump.”

“That’s fine, it’ll keep me awake,” he replied, managing a weak grin. “I’d just feel… Um, kind of awkward, being ferried around by myself back there, like you were my private driver. Sort of pretentious, y’know? I’ll probably hop in back when we get the Bishop.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, placing her hands on the turning wheel and thrust lever. The carriage’s hum heightened as she guided it forward.

He waited until they had exited the temple grounds and were on their way up the hill toward the fortress before speaking again.

“So… I expect you’ll find this an odd question, but…” He paused, grimacing self-consciously, and fiddled with his bottle of tea. “Why were we in the Temple of Izara?”

Jenell glanced over at him, permitting herself a small smile. “You really don’t function well without sleep, do you?”

“Well, I don’t think anyone does,” he said defensively. “It’s not just the last two days, either… I’d just finished up a research project when Sister Leraine asked me to assist the Bishop, and of course I was honored! But, you know, I’m not used to, uh, field work. Or field work and then half a night’s sleep…” Another yawn forced him to stop, and he took a long swig of tea. “Also, I could really go for some breakfast.”

“They’ll probably give us provisions at the barracks,” she said, focusing on guiding the carriage through the early morning traffic. The semi-rural townsfolk were up with the dawn, though luckily most of them weren’t on the roads yet. Other than the occasional chicken or dog, she had little trouble; the people they saw mostly wanted to stare at them. Or at the carriage, which to her amounted to the same thing.

“So, and I’m sure this was all explained last night and it just went in one ear and out the other… Uh, why were we sleeping in the Izarite temple while Bishop Syrinx went to the Legion fortress?”

“The Bishop felt it was important to inform the Izarites of the possible danger,” Jenell said, her eyes on the road ahead. “Once there, she asked Brother Nansin to put us up for the night. The reasoning, as she explained it, was that our group had clearly been targeted by our mysterious antagonist, and she was likely the primary target. In the event of an elemental attack overnight, she wanted it directed at her, in the presence of a barracks full of Legionnaires. Putting us in a separate place was a security measure, in case the worst happened; we could return to the Abbey and tell Abbess Darnassy what we discovered. The Izarite temple was ideal, since elementals are severely disadvantaged on holy ground, and Izarites in general are almost impossible to dislike, which would make such an attack less likely. At least, that was how she explained it.” She glanced over at him. “Also, where’s your rat? Did you forget her back there?”

“Oh!” Schwartz clapped a hand to his head. “Thanks for reminding me! No, she’s fine, I just dismissed her for the time being. What you were saying about elementals was true—Salyrite temples have protections for multiple kinds of magical beings, but Meesie gets very uncomfortable in other sanctified spaces. Hang on, I’ll—”

The carriage bumped on a loose cobblestone, and he had to grasp the bench for balance, nearly losing his grip on his tea bottle in the process.

“Told you,” Jenell commented.

“Ah, yes, on second thought, I believe I’ll wait to re-summon her until we’re on the way back. Don’t want to leave it too long; she gets depressed without regular attention. But the Legion barracks will be blessed, too, won’t it?”

“Probably,” she said, not bothering to remind him that their eventual destination was the Viridill Abbey, one of the most sacred places in the world.

“Anyhow,” he said, re-settling himself on the bench, “I suppose that all makes sense, when you explain it that way. I mean, honestly, I’m a little puzzled at some of the logic, there, but I’m sure the Bishop knows what she’s doing.”

“I’m sure she does,” Jenell murmured.

“It was good of her to think of protecting us,” he added after another swig of tea, sounding more cheerful. “And the Izarites! Very thoughtful…”

He seemed baffled when she burst out laughing.

“Ah, Schwartz, you are adorable, you know that?”

“Um, well, I…” He actually blushed. “Thanks?”

“Basra Syrinx is probably the only person who can lie to an Izarite priest right to his face and not be called down for it,” she said, her expression growing grim in the aftermath of her sudden mirth. “She was hoping for an attack directed on us. We’re weaker than she is, and we’d have been in the custody of a goddess weaker than hers, as she sees it. That’s what she would have done if she were targeting this group.”

He blinked twice. “I say… But that… Why?”

“She told the truth about one thing,” Jenell said, her eyes fixed on the approaching fortress. “Nobody hates Izarites. Even here in Viridill, where their religion isn’t widely approved of, it’s impossible to truly dislike them. They’re just so harmless. Downright cuddly. One of the biggest problems we face in finding the person behind the elementals is social: he’s probably a member of a community that holds itself apart. Or maybe not, I’m not sure I understand how the witches around here work. But the point is, people would rally against anyone who assaulted a temple of Izara. That would be an ideal outcome from her point of view.”

Schwartz was silent for a moment, staring straight ahead and seeming to forget his tea.

“That’s rather…cold,” he said at last. “Are you… That is, I mean, did she tell you this?”

“Didn’t need to,” Jenell said wearily. “I know how she thinks. You want some good advice, Schwartz, avoid getting on Basra Syrinx’s bad side. You have no idea what that woman is capable of. If you’re lucky, you’ll never have any idea.”

“Herschel,” he said quietly.

“Bless you.”

He grinned at that. “Hah, like I’ve never heard that one before. No, it’s… That’s me. Herschel Schwartz. Fine old Stalweiss name that nobody from Tiraas can pronounce, so I won’t take offense if you mangle it.”

She gave him a long, appraising glance, which he met with a hesitant expression. He was not at all the sort of person with whom she’d have been caught dead associating, in her life before the Legions. Still… He was nice. As banal a thing as that was, she was learning to see the value in it. It had been a long time since she’d talked with anyone who was actually, simply nice. Well, nice and not annoyingly aggressive about it, like the Izarites.

“Jenell,” she said finally, then added with a smile, “when I’m not on duty.”

“Jenell, then,” he said, smiling back. After a moment, he averted his gaze, coughing awkwardly. “Well, ah, anyhow, I appreciate the, er, heads up, as it were. I’ll keep it in mind. Though I suppose it’s to the best the Bishop’s on our side, isn’t it? I mean, sure, if you’ve got to deal with someone that cold, it’s reassuring to know they’re one of the good guys.”

Once again, he seemed confused as to why she was laughing.

 

Quentin Vex was permitted into the Imperial sitting room at his request, needing only to wait for the Imperial Guard manning the door to announce him. Once inside, he bowed deeply, tucking the newspapers he carried under his arm.

Two very attractive young women stood at the back of the room, near the breakfast service, carefully distant from the table where the meal was laid out. Milanda Darnassy and Isolde Fraunsteldt were both youthful and of a curvaceous build, but otherwise a study in contrast: petite and dark-haired, and tall and blonde, respectively. They would be those with whom the Emperor and Empress had spent the previous night, now present to serve breakfast in the absence of servants, one of the more peculiar little customs the Imperial couple had developed. There was always at least one, though the Empress chose to sleep alone about half the time. Also present and discreetly unobtrusive against the wall was a black-coated Hand of the Emperor, this one a pale man on the shortish side.

The Emperor and Empress were having breakfast with a nobleman Vex recognized, and had not expected to find here.

“Your Majesties,” Vex said. “Lord Amfaedred. My humble apologies for intruding.”

“You are forgiven,” Eleanora said mildly. “I assume this is important, Quentin?”

“Important, your Majesties, but not necessarily urgent. I can come back…?”

“Oh, please don’t put state business off for my sake,” Amfaedred said hastily, rising and bowing to his liege. “I thank you deeply for the honor, your Majesty, but I’m sure I have taken up too much of your priceless time as it is. With your permission, I’ll withdraw so Lord Vex can carry on with what I’m sure is very important business.”

“Of course,” Sharidan said, with a knowing little smile. “Thank you for visiting us, milord.”

“The pleasure was entirely mine, your Majesty. Entirely.” With another bow and an unctuous little smile, Lord Amfaedred turned and scurried out of the sitting room with more haste than was seemly.

“My sincere apologies,” Vex repeated as soon as the door had been closed behind him. “I was not aware that you were confronting Amfaedred today.”

The hint of reproach in his tone was so faint it might almost have passed unnoticed. That was still more than virtually anyone else alive could get away with, here.

“It was a spur of the moment idea,” Eleanora said with a mischievous smile. “If we weren’t planning on having him for breakfast, just think how surprised he was to be summoned. Anyway, Quentin, our aims were accomplished. He knows his financing of House Leduc is not a secret. Now we wait.”

“If I gauge the man correctly,” said the Emperor, absently picking at his fish, “he’ll either drop the whole thing, or panic and do something rash. In either case, you will of course have him under close observation?”

“He already is, your Majesty,” Vex replied. “I’ve no doubt I’ll be informed by my assistant that he was here the moment I return to the office. A remarkably capable young lady, but she does enjoy being cheeky.”

“What brings you here so early?” Eleanora asked. “Or should I simply ask how bad it is?”

Vex cleared his throat. “I wonder if your Majesties have seen the papers yet today?”

“Actually, I can’t remember the last time I read a newspaper,” Sharidan remarked. “Being that I have an Intelligence service full of individuals who are exorbitantly paid to bring me information before the journalists get to it.”

“Sometimes the news is not newsworthy,” said Vex, taking the papers out from under his arm and approaching the table. “Or rather, it reveals more about the editors than about the world. I trust your Majesties remember the affair last year involving the Black Wreath’s attempt to place columnists in all the major papers, subverted by the Universal Church?”

“Which resulted in the Church’s first celebrity Bishop,” said Eleanora, “who spouts ideas that are eerily similar to Wreath theology. Yes, this rings a bell.”

“It would appear the Archpope’s influence with the papers is still in effect,” said Vex, laying the newspapers down on the table and fanning them out so their headlines were visible to the Imperial couple.

They stared in silence for a moment.

“Snowe vs. Tellwyrn,” Sharidan read at last. “Don’t think less of me, Eleanora, but I suddenly want to actually see that.”

“Bishop blasts adventurer University,” said the Empress, reaching out to shift the paper on top so she could fully see the headline underneath it. “Who appointed Arachne Tellwyrn? A valid question, but one with an obvious answer. She did.”

“This is remarkably one-sided coverage,” Sharidan mused. “I assume this is a representative sample?”

“It’s not every paper carrying the story,” said Vex, folding his hands behind his back, “but the others have a consistent theme. Critical essays and opinion pieces challenging the University are running all over the Empire this morning; only most of them reference the Bishop’s rather inflammatory remarks at Last Rock this weekend. The unanimity of opinion, here, suggests an organized effort.”

“Now, why on earth would Justinian try to start something up with Tellwyrn?” the Emperor wondered aloud. “I confess, Lord Vex, when you reported Snowe’s speech to me I thought you were being over-cautious.”

“You were correct, your Majesty; I was. That is, after all, my job. The improbability of this campaign is, I think, largely why I didn’t notice it gearing up. That, and it would only take an afternoon to get these things written and sent to the printers. I didn’t truly imagine that Justinian would act so aggressively against Tellwyrn. There seems to be nothing to gain.”

“The question remains,” Elenaora said sharply, “what is he trying to do? That woman couldn’t possibly care less about public opinion; the best he can hope for is to rile her up, which will have consequences for a lot of people besides him.”

“For that reason alone, your Majesty, I suggest acting against him,” said Vex. “But in addition, I believe it suits our interests to support Professor Tellwyrn.”

“Oh?” Eleanora said dangerously.

Vex cleared his throat. “For the last year, since the success of the Sarasio incident, I have been discreetly in contact with the Professor, pointing her toward trouble spots throughout the Empire. She is, as you are aware, fond of using such things as class exercises; I deemed it a wise use of resources to have her students handle issues I was already monitoring.”

“Is that so,” the Empress said very quietly. “Why is this the first I am hearing of this?”

“I did not judge it worth your Majesties’ attention,” Vex said evenly. “I will, if you command, inform your Majesties of everything I do, but the sheer volume of reports would negatively impact both my efficiency and your attention span.”

“You are on thin ice, Quentin,” Eleanora said flatly.

“To be quite honest, then,” he replied, “I knew you wouldn’t like it, your Majesty. I wanted to see if it would work before you shut down the idea.”

“Does it?” Sharidan asked in an interested tone.

“Quite well, in fact,” Vex replied, turning to him. “Their success rate has been better than my agency’s, I must admit, though they do tend to cause a great deal of disruptive ripple effects that my agents avoid; that, I think, makes all the difference. Overall they perform as would be expected from trained adventurer teams. I am speaking, of course, of the adventurers from the days of the Heroes’ Guild, not the freelancers of the last century. And it goes without saying that I suggest only lower-priority incidents to Tellwyrn; I don’t want her or her students near anything truly sensitive. I would regard this project as a great success, and one with important implications for the future.”

“Go on,” Eleanora said evenly.

“The truth, your Majesties, is that Professor Tellwyrn and her University are just not going to go away, and nothing we do can make them. For fifty years she has managed to passively coexist with the Empire, but that cannot endure forever. I would rather she be with us than against us. Using her students to solve small problems advances our goals and hers, trains the Empire’s most dangerous young citizens to act in the Empire’s benefit, and strengthens the Throne’s relationship with Professor Tellwyrn. I am sure I need not remind your Majesties who it was that removed the last Emperor of the Ravidevegh Dynasty from the Silver Throne.”

“And so,” Sharidan mused, “she is tentatively with us, and Justinian is suddenly against her. Well, this does seem very cut and dried, doesn’t it?”

“That in and of itself is suspicious,” Eleanora remarked.

“Yes, your Majesty,” Vex agreed. “I cannot guarantee that part of the Archpope’s motivation is not to act against an established ally of ours. Regardless, he has mostly evaded reprisal from the Imperial government by operating scrupulously within the law, or through sufficient proxies that we could never justify action against him without seeming to be the provocateurs. In this case, he has overreached. Whether he does not expect a response from us, or expects a mild one, I feel it is time to surprise him.”

“What are you proposing?” asked the Emperor.

Vex leaned forward to tap one of the newspapers with a fingertip. “Whatever his goal, this is about public opinion. The Church and the Empire have different ways of swaying it; ours are better. I think it’s time to make Tellwyrn a hero and her Univeristy one of the Empire’s proudest holdings.”

Eleanora rolled her eyes; Sharidan glanced at her, then returned his gaze to Vex.

“Interesting,” the Emperor said. “I’m inclined to agree with your reasoning. The good Professor has never caused problems except in retaliation, and if it is indeed impossible to continue ignoring her, she makes a far better ally than enemy.”

“I’m afraid I can’t disagree,” Eleanora said, not without reluctance.

“There are a couple of additional points,” said Vex, “which I include strictly on the basis of timing, not because I see direct connections between them and this incident. But this propaganda campaign was launched literally overnight, and I take notice of anything related to the Church which happened at the same time.”

“Such as?” Eleanora prompted.

“For one, Bishop Snowe wrapped up her revival tour in Last Rock. She is now en route to Viridill, where Bishop Syrinx has been for the last few months. I do not yet know what either of them are up to; my information suggests that Syrinx is being punished for something by Commander Rouvad, though the Sisterhood is surprisingly adept at keeping me out of their business. Regardless, Snowe and Syrinx are known confidantes of the Archpope. And there is that unfolding issue in Viridill. I was informed yesterday that Syrinx herself was sent to address it by the Abbess.”

For a fleeting moment, he glanced up at Milanda, who stood demurely with her hands folded at her waist. She did not acknowledge the conversation, though Isolde looked at her sidelong.

“Mm,” Sharidan murmured. “Keep us informed.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

“You said ‘for one,’” Eleanora prompted. “There’s more?”

Vex raised an eyebrow. “Antonio Darling has abruptly left the city.”

The Imperial couple exchanged a loaded glance.

“As I’m sure you recall,” Vex continued, “the last time he did so, it was to collar a handful of Black Wreath agents at the Archpope’s behest, in the company of his fellow Bishops. That was the incident, in fact, which brought them all to our attention. Now… I have seen no indication that he is working for the Archpope in this matter, but Darling’s motivations and loyalties are always a complex matter. He is currently in Veilgrad, in the company of Joseph Jenkins of Sarasio, and a Huntsman of Shaath named Ingvar, who may or may not be a woman. The issue is…muddy.”

“A female Huntsman?” Sharidan said, raising his eyebrows. “Is that even possible?”

“Is this perhaps a dual spirit?” Eleanora asked. “I believe the Shaathists disagree on that doctrine, but some of their sects support it.”

“Religious dogmas of that kind are outside my realm of expertise,” said Vex. “I have ordered a dossier compiled on this Ingvar character, and will be fully up to speed on the matter by tomorrow. For now, that is all I know. My policy with regard to Darling remains constant: we learn a great deal by watching what he does, and would gain little by interfering with him. If I begin to see signs that he is more strongly connected to the Archpope than I thought, however, I may revise that policy.”

“Agreed,” said the Emperor, nodding. He glanced at Eleanora, who nodded in return. “Very well, you may proceed at your discretion.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” Vex bowed again, gathered up his papers, and turned to go.

“Lord Vex,” the Emperor said quietly when he was nearly at the doors. Vex turned back to face him; he and Eleanora were both gazing at him with inscrutable expressions.

“Yes, your Majesty?”

“The fact that Justinian got this plan of his to every newspaper before you learned of it,” Sharidan said evenly. “The troubles at the south gate that very nearly derailed negotiations with the Conclave, the disaster in Veilgrad where Intelligence agents were foiled by chaos cultists, the misjudging of the threat in Desolation… I do not expect perfection from our servants; that would be insane. But this sequence of bloody noses and black eyes begins to resemble a pattern.”

“I have observed it too, your Majesty,” Vex replied in perfect calm. “I assure you, it is about to cease.”

“Are you certain?” Sharidan asked. “The will of the people is the only thing that truly supports the Church or the Empire. Justinian is now acting on that directly. The stakes…”

“With respect, your Majesty, Justinian has played this game with us successfully till now because he was very careful to operate only in his own sphere of control.” Vex smiled, thinly, and coldly. “He is now in mine. I mean to make him feel unwelcome.”

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