Tag Archives: Basra Syrinx

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“It even looks evil,” Ami said nervously, clutching her guitar case and staring across the river.

Fort Varansis was situated on a long island in the River Asraneh, directly in front of them. The river, here, was broad and shallow, diverted into two lesser streams by the sizable island in its center. At this time of year, the current was fairly swift but not too dangerous to wade through; to their right, a sequence of crumbling stone pillars extended from the shore to the island, all that remained of an ancient bridge.

The fort itself did not look particularly ominous, though it was definitely in a sad state. After a century of abandonment, it was as much forest as fortress; though trees would ordinarily not have been permitted to grow near the walls of a fortification, and probably not on the island at all, the woods which extended from within Athan’Khar across the river into Viridill had long since overtaken everything. The fortress itself was more Avenist than Tiraan in style, stark and utilitarian—for the most part it had held up fairly well, the only major damage to its walls being where they had been ruptured by the unchecked growth of trees.

It was the trees that gave the scene its unsettling appearance. This was a pine forest, and its denizens were meant by nature to grow straight and tall—which, north of the river, they did. The trees on the island, however, were twisted into clearly unhealthy shapes, with bulbous trunks and clawed limbs, not to mention peculiar patterns on the bark.

“Is my imagination running away from me,” Ildrin asked tersely, “or do some of them seem to have…faces?”

“If it’s imagination, it’s not just yours,” Jenell muttered.

“None of them have faces,” Basra said in exasperation, rolling her eyes. “Are you about done, Schwartz?”

“With you, yes, ma’am,” he said, stepping back from her and eying her over critically before nodding to himself in satisfaction and moving down the line to Jenell, who was last. With Meesie sitting alert on his shoulder, he repeated the procedure he’d performed on all the others, first producing a pinch of powder from one of his pockets and sprinkling it on her forehead. Unlike some of her companions, Jenell didn’t sneeze, though the effort caused her to squint and wrinkle her nose. Schwartz, meanwhile, raised the gnarled wand he had been carrying, which still had some green and apparently living leaves attached to it, and began making slow, careful passes over her, stepping slowly around her to be sure he didn’t miss a spot. How he could tell was anyone’s guess, but he appeared quite confident in what he was doing.

“And actually,” he said as he worked, “it’s not impossible that some of those trees do have faces. Or bark formations that very deliberately resemble them, anyway. I couldn’t help noticing some of the branches look a lot like arms. With the bony fingers, you know?”

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine,” Ami muttered.

“But they’re perfectly safe,” Schwartz continued blithely. “These woods are cleared now, but remember that for a big chunk of a century they were under the effect wrought on Athan’Khar by the Enchanter’s Bane. Everything in there went weird, and very hostile. Plants, animals…lots of rather peculiar undead. So, yes, those are biologically normal trees, but they don’t just take on a different shape because the wild magic that shaped them is gone now.”

“Are you sure you can talk while doing that?” Jenell asked pointedly.

“Oh, don’t worry, this isn’t complex at all! Just time-consuming.” Meesie squeaked in confirmation, nodding her tiny head.

“And if he messes it up, the worst that happens is you’ll get wet,” Basra said archly. “I’m certain you’ve been trained for that, Private.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jenell said stiffly, a faint blush suffusing her cheeks.

“There is something I’ve been curious about, though, just to wrench the subject away from probably-not-evil trees,” Schwartz continued. “It occurred to me when we were passing the defensive lines being set up by the Army and the Second Legion along the border back there. How come the Silver Legions are so…old-fashioned? I mean, I understand religions have traditions and all, but for a cult dedicated to war it appears odd to deliberately fall behind the curve of military tactics and equipment.”

“Look in front of you, Schwartz,” said Basra, staring across the river at the crumbling fortress.

“Actually, please look at what you’re doing,” said Jenell.

“What happened in there changed everything,” Basra continued, ignoring her. “The holocaust of Athan’Khar, the Enchanter Wars which followed. The Legions were instrumental in driving back Heshenaad’s campaign, but it’s also true that Viridill was the first Imperial province to secede following the Bane, and the Silver Legions crushed a numerically superior Imperial force immediately afterward.”

“That was before battlestaves were commonplace,” Schwartz noted.

“And, in fact, the Legions used them, then,” Basra replied, nodding. “Such weapons weren’t issued to the rank and file; they were considered a kind of mobile artillery. But yes…that was then, this is now. Politics is war of a different kind, and in the modern world, the Sisterhood has its base and holy sites within an Empire which remembers the threat an up-to-date Legion can pose.”

“So you deliberately gave up your ability to wage war effectively?” Branwen asked, tilting her head. “I must say that seems odd.”

Basra smiled faintly, gazing across the river. “War is deception.”

“Well, there we are!” Schwartz said more briskly, straightening up and tucking his leaf-wand into one of his billowing sleeves. “All finished and waterproof. Shall we, then?”

“Now, you’re certain the protections on my case are adamant against water?” Ami demanded, clutching her guitar case protectively.

“I assure you,” Schwartz said, smiling, “I took great care with it.”

“Because I don’t mind getting wet, if I must, but if my instrument is damaged, you and I shall have a talk the outcome of which you will not enjoy.”

“I have a little sister,” he replied. “Have I mentioned that?”

Ami raised an eyebrow slowly. “And that is relevant to…what, exactly?”

“That I know very well not to risk damaging a girl’s most prized possession. I promise, Ami, your guitar will be safer for the trip than any of us.”

“Well, I suppose I can accept that,” she said, somewhat mollified.

“If you are quite done?” Basra said acidly, stepping forward into the river without waiting for a reply. Branwen sighed and gave the others a rueful smile as she moved to follow.

One by one, they slipped into the river, following the two Bishops single file, as Basra had ordered. She led the way slowly, taking care with each step. Long ago this river had been deeper on both sides of the island, and had been regularly dug out for defensive purposes. Now, it was broader than deep by far, its basin filled with silt; even the old bridge terminated in mid-stream, ending at the ghost of a shore that no longer existed. Schwartz’s charm work improved their footing as well as keeping them dry and protecting their shoes from being sucked away by mud, but still, fording a river with a muddy bottom and a brisk current was a dicey proposition. They followed carefully in the path that Basra had already confirmed passable, tense and exceedingly cautious.

They crossed without incident, however, and reassembled on the opposite bank, which had to be climbed, being far taller and less approachable than that on the other side. The six of them clustered together, nervously inspecting the nearby fortress and their own oddly dry clothes, with the exception of Basra, who stepped forward to peer across the river at the Athan’Khar side.

It was very much like the smaller forest here on the island, its trees distinctly menacing in aspect, but even bigger. There were no sounds but those of the river and cheerful songbirds, though; shafts of afternoon sunlight made a quite pretty spectacle in the woods on the haunted side. Of course, according to Schwartz’s information, the actually haunting was half a mile distant.

Still. Athan’Khar was feared for very good reason.

“I sense nothing undead, demonic, or otherwise Pantheon-opposed,” she said abruptly, grabbing everyone’s focus. “Snowe? Falaridjad?”

“Nothing,” Ildrin said curtly. “It’s…so empty. That disturbs me. In a place like this, it seems I should feel something.”

“That’s your expectations distracting you,” Branwen said with a kind smile. “Where one expects evil and horror, the absence of anything can be quite alarming. But no, Basra, I sense nothing either. Forgive me if I sound boastful, but my particular skills are rather more suited to this than either of yours. Nothing in the vicinity means us harm, or is even aware of us. In fact, I can’t feel the presence of any intelligence except our own.”

“Mm.” Basra shifted her gaze to Schwartz. “And you?”

“Offhand, the same,” he said, frowning, “but I’d need to set wards and cast a ritual to be certain. My magic doesn’t work the same way as yours. Now that we’re here, anyway, wards are a priority.”

“I thought you said this mysterious summoner was more than a match for you,” Ildrin said pointedly.

“Oh, he or she most certainly is,” Schwartz agreed. “And the whole point of this is to invite a visit from them, anyway, so it’s not as if we’d be trying to ward them off. That’s not what I’m concerned about. That’s Athan’Khar over there. We need forewarning of anything unnatural approaching the fortress. The spirits… They’re all interconnected. Mixed together. If one of them discovers there’s a party of humans camped on the border, more will come. And still more, until they either drive us off or destroy us.”

“Which would be inconvenient,” Basra said dryly. “Very well, you can set that up after we’ve made a quick tour of our temporary home. I don’t want the group to split up at this juncture, and we need to investigate the fortress briefly, at least, before settling in.”

“Ugh.” Ami wrinkled her nose in protest. “In heaven’s name, why?”

“You can’t possibly be that daft,” Ildrin said, staring at her.

“She’s not,” Basra said. “Bards love their little dramas. We’ll be camping in the courtyard, rather than inside the building, which is very likely to be unsafe after all this time. But we will at least look, and diminish the chance of being taken by surprise.” She turned on her heel and strode toward the yawning gates of Fort Varansis, whose doors had long since rotted away to nothing. “After coming all this way and taking all these precautions against fairy summoners and vengeful spirits, it would be awfully embarrassing to get eaten by a bear.”

“Ouvis and Naphthene make a lot more sense to me now,” Darling was saying as they made their way up the twisting dirt passage to the grotto above. “He ignores any attempted worshipers; she’s been known to answer prayers with lightning bolts. I always figured she was just a bitch, playing that unpredictable-as-the-sea bit a little too seriously, but now I wonder if Naphthene doesn’t have the entire rest of the Pantheon beat for simple common sense.”

“Those are the only two who make more sense,” Ingvar mused. He was bringing up the back of the line, and had been deep in thought since they had finally left the Elder Gods’ facility, though he hadn’t hesitated to participate in the discussion. “How many gods have no paladins? How can they? If what we’ve learned… Vesk, for instance. Who ever heard of a bard paladin?”

“Well,” Darling said thoughtfully, “keep in mind we seized upon the word ‘paladin’ to explain what the Avatar was describing… But really, that’s as much a cultural concept as a spiritual or magical one. He said the gods just need someone in whom to focus themselves, right? I mean, the ancient Huntsmen clearly weren’t paladins as we think of them, but they also obviously served Shaath in that regard.”

“I wonder,” Joe mused. “Since you mentioned Vesk. How many bards are there?”

“Practicing Veskers or fully accredited bards?” Darling asked.

“There, see, I reckon that makes the difference. A proper bard is somethin’ more’n just the general run o’ musician, right?”

“I think I see what you’re getting at,” Darling said, his voice growing in excitement. “Actually, you may be more right than you know. Vesk has a reputation for being more friendly and approachable with his initiates than any other god, but only with the actual, fully trained and invested bards. Of whom there are… Well, it’s not like I’ve ever taken a census, but I can’t imagine they number more than several thousand, worldwide.”

“If every bard is a paladin,” Ingvar said, trailing off.

“That seems like it’d jus’ compound the problem, right?” Joe said, glancing back at them. He was again leading the way with his wand lit. “Still. All he’d need to do is hide a handful of ’em in the ranks, an’ if he’s friendly with his bards anyway, an’ the significant ones don’t necessarily look any different than the others…”

“That’s the long and the short of it,” Darling agreed. “Not every god has called paladins, but… That doesn’t mean they haven’t used this…paladin effect, for want of a better term. If anything, it’s probably smarter for some of them not to call attention to their most important followers.”

“Perhaps they learned from Shaath’s case,” Ingvar said with a sigh. “If you do not take care to manage your flock, they can be used against you.”

“Exactly,” said the Bishop, nodding. “I bet a good many of the gods have their paladins invisible under everyone’s noses. Depending on exactly how it works in each case, even the paladins may not know. What I’m curious about now is Vidius. That one went from no apparent paladin to a very public one—suddenly, after eight thousand years. And he picked a half-demon. That deity is up to something…”

“Gods aside,” Joe muttered, “I’m kinda hung up on that bit about gnomes. I’ve suddenly got some hard questions about a certain incident involving a sonic grenade and a saloon. More’n I did in the first place, I mean.”

They emerged rather suddenly into the lovely little grotto under the tree. Joe stepped aside, extinguishing his wands and letting the others emerge. For a few moments, they just stood there in silence, listening to the soft voice of the stream and letting their eyes adjust to the filtered sunlight.

“It suddenly occurs to me,” Ingvar said, “that the air down there was remarkably fresh. It tasted more like a mountain morning than a cave.”

“I guess if you’re the Infinite Order, you don’t have to settle for stale air,” Darling said.

“Infinite Order.” Ingvar shook his head. “I… Quite apart from my quest, from Shaath’s predicament… I don’t know what to do with all this information.”

“Ain’t a whole lot you can do with most of it, seems like,” Joe said, holstering his wand. “And really, how much difference does it make? The world’s still what it was when we got up this morning. We just know a bit more about where it came from, that’s all. I reckon more knowin’ is better than less.”

“Hear, hear,” Darling said firmly.

“Which reminds me,” Joe added, turning to him. “You mentioned something I’m very curious about. What was—”

“Do you plan to stay down here chatting all afternoon?” Mary asked, striding into the chamber from the hidden door behind the tree roots.

“Ah, look who it is,” Darling said cheerfully. “Our standoffish tour guide! I trust you had a good seat from which to watch the action—you certainly weren’t terribly close to it.”

“I’ll be happy to indulge in wordplay with you another time, Antonio,” she said with a slight smile, “when there are not more pressing matters. Ingvar.” The Crow turned to the Huntsman, her expression becoming solemn. “Do you feel you have gained the answers you needed?”

“I feel…” Ingvar paused, rolling his jaw as if chewing on his thoughts. “…I feel I have gained the perspective to ask the right questions.”

Mary smiled more warmly at that. “You do have the seeds of wisdom within you, young man. I had a feeling, from the beginning.”

“Or he’s heard enough of your mystic routine by now to know how to parrot it back,” Darling suggested, grinning at the irritated look Ingvar shot him.

“In that, too, there is some wisdom, as you of all people know,” Mary said pointedly. “Now. First, you three will be needing a meal, I suspect. Or…did you try the nutrition pellets?” The corner of her mouth quirked upward in a mischievous expression. “They really are the most fantastic travel rations; you’d be well served to take a handful home with you. The trick is to swallow as quickly as possible.”

“We declined that distinct pleasure, in fact,” said Joe. “Lunch sounds real good right about now.”

“It would be closer to dinner,” Mary said with a fond smile, “but yes, let us attend to that.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to impose on the grove?” Ingvar asked warily. “Elder Linsheh was polite, but I gathered the distinct impression they elves in general are in no mood for visitors.”

“There is no need to trouble them,” said the Crow lightly, “any more than we will simply by being in their forest, since they will insist upon keeping watch. But no, what we must do next will not require their involvement. They will not, I trust, object to our use of the forest outside.”

She paused, tilting her head as if expecting a response from unseen listeners, but none came.

“What we must do next?” Joe asked. “What’s… I mean, wasn’t that it? We got the information we came for, right, about what happened to Shaath, and how?”

“That wasn’t the full extent of the quest,” Darling said, turning to Ingvar, “but I thought it was pretty well established we can’t do anything for him right now. What comes next will take careful planning and, honestly, effort that could last years. We’ll be there to help, Ingvar, but I at least can’t afford to drop everything and devote myself to this…”

“No.” The Huntsman shook his head. “No, this quest is finished. I know what I need to, and you’re correct; proceeding will take time, and much further study. I thank you, shaman, for your aid; you made this possible. There was, however, the matter of a bargain. You wish to collect immediately?” He turned a questioning look upon Mary.

“The trail will grow colder the longer it is ignored,” she said calmly.

“Bargain?” Joe asked. “Wait…did you already tell me about this? I’m sorry, after the wham-bam of revelations an’ visions over the last couple days I don’t feel like my brain’s runnin’ on all charms.”

“The visions were sent to me,” Ingvar said, folding his arms, “but some outside party whom we can be even more sure now was not Shaath. The Crow is very eager to know who this person is, since he quite deliberately pointed me toward her. And I, I must confess, am as well.”

“Seems like it’d be worth knowing,” said Darling. “What’s the plan, then? Isn’t this something you could handle yourself, Mary?”

“Any shaman powerful and subtle enough to do this would be able to evade my tracking,” she said calmly, “possibly unless I had a great deal more to go on than I do, which is moot anyway. However, they clearly reached out to Ingvar. I believe they will entertain an overture from him.”

“An overture?” Joe scratched his head, displacing his hat. “How? I thought you said these hints came from dreams?”

“And through dreams they can be explored,” said the Crow with a knowing little smile. “The ritual is somewhat involved, and you will, as I said, need to eat first. This is not something to undertake without the full strength of mind and body. From here on, however,” she added, “Ingvar must go alone. This mysterious agent will have nothing to say to either of you, and including you would likely discourage him or her from speaking to Ingvar.”

The Huntsman nodded, then turned and bowed deeply to each of them. “I thank you both, as well, for your companionship. Brief as this adventure has been, you’ve made it even more enlightening than it otherwise might have been.”

“Oh, stop with all the goodbye,” Darling said, reaching out to bop him lightly on the head. “We’re not gonna run off now. You may be doing dream rituals, but that just means Joe and I can laze about nearby. Gods only know what this is going to bring down on us all.”

“If you’re in some kinda dream state, all the more reason to have a couple friends watchin’ your back,” Joe added with a grin.

“I flatter myself that I am a reasonably competent watcher,” Mary said wryly.

“Shush,” Darling ordered. “This is guy stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”

At the expression on her face, even Ingvar had to break into laughter. That, at least, spared him the need to reply to them, which he wasn’t confident he could do with any grace. Things between the three were amiable, now, since the wolves…but very much uncertain, for the same reason.

“Let me ask you a question, though,” Darling said in a more serious tone, frowning at Mary. “Did you send a…what was it? A shadow elemental to warn Malivette Dufresne we were coming?”

She raised her eyebrows sharply. “I certainly did not.”

“Yeah, I figured,” he said, nodding. “That doesn’t seem like your style. Then we should all be aware that a certain mysterious someone with significant elemental powers has been not only tracking our moves, but staying a step ahead of us. Shadow elementals… I’ve only heard of that once or twice. They’re rare, aren’t they?”

“Difficult to make,” said Joe. “Takes a heck of a witch to summon somethin’ like that.”

“The ability to approach through dreams,” Ingvar said slowly. “That is a fae power, is it not?”

“There are techniques within all four schools of magic to do such things,” Mary replied. “It is most easy through the fae, though, and most effectively—assuming the proper skill—the divine. But yes, I see the course of your thoughts, Antonio, and I think you’re correct. When you reach out through the dream, Ingvar, you must be aware that your arrival will probably be expected.”

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“The point is this: I don’t believe we are under attack.”

Basra’s pronouncement had the desired effect; the undercurrent of murmuring in the office immediately ceased, and all those present fixed their eyes on her, most frowning. In many places such a statement might have brought on a rush of shouts and denials, but the individuals here were all of a more disciplined nature.

Governor Tamshinaar’s spacious office was very nearly cramped with the full complement of those assembled. Basra occupied the middle of the central floor, with the rest of her party—now including Mr. Hargrave—spread along the wall behind her. The Governor herself sat behind her desk, with her secretary Mr. Dhisrain standing discreetly against the wall behind. Assembled on the upper tier of the office around the desk, and spilling down the steps where space ran out, was nearly the entire upper leadership of Vrin Shai and Viridill itself. Generals Ralavideh and Vaumann, who commanded the Fourth and Second Silver Legions, respectively, stood together to the left of Tamshinaar’s desk, with Legate Raizheh Salindir, the ranking priestess of Avei in the Vrin Shai temple and the province itself. The city’s mayor, a stout and surprisingly young woman named Lorna Mellon, stood on the other side of the dais with Colonel Nintaumbi, who commanded the Imperial forces in Viridill. Nintaumbi was a broad-faced Westerner whose wide frame was all muscle and a testament that he didn’t take his rank as an excuse to sit behind a desk, and incidentally the only man on the dais aside from the Governor’s secretary.

“How would you describe these events, then, your Grace?” General Vaumann asked pointedly, arching a blonde eyebrow.

Basra partially turned to glance behind her. “I spent the early part of the morning with Mr. Hargrave, here, and several of his friends. For those of you who don’t know, Hargrave is a practicing witch and a respected figure in the local community of fae magic users; when I first set out from the Abbey to investigate the elemental incidents, he was the first person I visited, and has spent the last few days meeting up with his fellow witches from around the region. Mr. Hargrave, would you kindly summarize the situation for them as you did for me earlier?”

“Of course, your Grace,” he said politely, stepping forward and pausing to give a deep bow to the assembled dignitaries. “Ah, Ladies, officers…everyone. I’m sorry, I’m more accustomed to my little town…”

“Please don’t be self-conscious, Mr. Hargrave,” Lady Tamsin said with a kind smile. “I appreciate you putting forth so much effort on behalf of our province. Now, what can you tell us about this?”

“Yes, well,” Hargrave said more briskly, “as Bishop Syrinx said, I went to meet with some of my…well, I suppose ‘colleagues’ is a word, though the nature of our association…is immaterial, sorry.” He paused, grimacing, and tugged on his collar. “Most practitioners of the fae arts are rather solitary creatures, aside from being the least popular type of magician among humans. There are probably several hundred scattered throughout Viridill, but I’m personally acquainted with a few dozen, and it was them I sought out to consult about the elemental problem. And actually, I am back here so quickly because many had the same idea. I was spurred into action by Bishop Syrinx, but it seems many of my friends have been receiving…portents.”

“Can you be more specific about that?” General Ralavideh asked sharply.

“It’s…the answer to that question is generally going to be ‘no,’” Hargrave said hesitantly. “I presume you are familiar with the basics, but the main difference between arcane scrying and fae divination is the tradeoff between specificity and…you might call it penetration power. Scrying gives you very precise information, almost perfect pictures if you do it just right, but scrying is quite easy to block or deflect with counterspells. A mage of sufficient skill can even intercept scrying spells and feed them false information, so I’m told, though it’s not really my field…”

“Mr. Hargrave,” Colonel Nintaumbi interrupted, “everyone here is either a military professional or works with them closely. We know the nature and limits of tactical scrying.”

“Ah, yes, I’m sorry.” Hargrave was clearly badly out of his element; the normally self-confident man hunched his shoulders slightly under the rebuke.

“Kindly refrain from badgering the specialist I’ve brought in to help, Colonel,” Basra said coldly.

“Yes, let us keep the side commentary to a minimum until we’ve heard everything, shall we?” the Governor suggested. “Please continue, Mr. Hargrave.”

“Yes, of course,” Hargrave said quickly. “Well, oracular divination is the opposite: nearly impossible to interfere with, but far more…vague. The information one gets that way tends to be rather symbolic. Any serious witch performs divinations at various times for specific reasons, but we also make ourselves receptive to them; the spirits and beings with which we have congress often communicate most readily in that manner. And that is why many of my fellow practitioners were urged into action at the same time I was, despite having different kinds of urgings. We met near the center of the province, not far from here, and compared notes. It seems many of Viridill’s witches have been contacted quite deliberately. It is, as I said, vague, but we believe these visions to have been sent by the being responsible for the elemental attacks.”

“Indeed,” Lady Tamsin replied, leaning forward and frowning intently. “And what does this person have to say?”

“Filtered through the perceptions of a dozen different practitioners,” said Hargrave, “and after comparing notes amongst ourselves, we feel the visitor is trying to court us. Well, them. I was not approached.”

“Court,” General Vaumann said sharply, “as in recruit?”

Hargrave nodded. “The overtures varied somewhat by individual, but the common theme among all was a sense of friendship.”

“You mentioned, Mr. Hargrave, that you were prompted into action by Bishop Syrinx,” said Mayor Mellon. “Does that mean you did not receive such an invitation?”

“Indeed not, your…ah, ma’am,” he said. “For a fairy practitioner of sufficient skill and power—which this person surely is—it’s possible to send out a message tailored to a certain range of emotional perceptions. Fae magic is very good with emotional states. Any time you hear of some ‘chosen one’ being designated without a god doing it specifically, you can bet you’re dealing with fairy magic. We think this mysterious summoner was sending out his message to target those most easily agitated against the establishment here in Viridill.”

“I see,” the Governor mused. “And yet, many of these who got this message came to discuss it with you.”

“Well, m’lady, we’re all creatures of emotion,” he replied. “But we are not ruled by our feelings. That’s just…being an adult. Due to a certain dark chapter in Imperial history which I’m sure you all know, witches in particular tend to be rather standoffish toward the rest of society; it’s a state of mind which could attract such a questing spell. But we all know which side our bread is buttered on, so to speak. Especially those of us here in Viridill; the witches of this land may be reclusive, but we greatly appreciate the shelter offered by the Sisterhood of Avei, and certainly have no wish to see our neighbors harmed. Presented with the likelihood that someone was trying to undermine Viridill itself, most of my friends were moved to meet and compare notes, see what we can do about this. Not being a receiver of the message myself, I wasn’t included in the dream summons they sent out until I was already on the way to investigate, and then it naturally picked me up. But since Bishop Syrinx spoke to me, I was able to direct everyone back to Vrin Shai. Well, first to the Abbey, but she was already gone from there so we thought…”

“This ‘everyone’ you speak of,” Legate Salindir said quietly. “I know you and your witches were instrumental in pacifying the water elementals last night, for which you have our appreciation. I was told there were fourteen of you present?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, nodding. “And more who didn’t come here. Once we brought each other up to speed, helping the capital was one concern; the others have scattered through the province to gather up more support and direct it wherever more elementals may pop up.”

“How many?”

“Seventeen others when we left them, your, uh…ma’am. There will be more by now, I’m sure.”

“And,” the Legate continued, staring piercingly down at him, “how many practitioners do you think will respond favorably to the aggressor’s overtures?”

Hargrave tightened his mouth unhappily. “There…are always a few, aren’t there? Much as I’d like to think my folk have better sense and better morals, there just aren’t any barrels without a bad apple or two. I shouldn’t think more than a handful, if that. Honestly I don’t know of anyone I’d consider likely to turn against the Sisterhood or Viridill that way, but I hardly know every witch in the province.”

“Nonetheless, your insights are extremely helpful, Mr. Hargrave,” said the Governor.

He grinned, bobbing his head. “Well, ah, thank you, m’lady. I try to be useful.”

“It was the other thing you told me that I thought everyone most urgently needs to hear,” Basra said pointedly.

“Oh! Yes, right, I’m sorry.” Hargrave turned to nod to her, then faced the dais again, his expression growing dour. “A constant in everyone’s visions and dreams has been… Athan’Khar. After talking it over, we’re reasonably sure the messages are coming from there. That’s probably where the summoner is hiding.”

“When I spoke with the elves in the Green Belt,” Basra added, stepping forward again and raising her voice over the murmurs that sprang up, “they hinted at the same. All current evidence is circumstantial, but I consider it a solid working theory at this point that our enemy is hiding in Athan’Khar.”

“That casts another color on this entirely,” General Ralavideh said sharply. “We all know there’s only one kind of powerful spellcaster native to there…”

“In point of fact,” said Basra, “I consulted with Colonel Nintaumbi just before this meeting on that very thing. Colonel, if you would kindly share with us what you told me?”

“Certainly,” he said, nodding and turning to face the others on the dais. “I know what you’re all thinking, but it needn’t necessarily be a headhunter, and in fact I think the circumstances counter-indicate that, even if we accept the hypothesis that our enemy is hiding there. Everything we know of this summoner suggests a fae magic user of immense skill and power, correct? Headhunters, by contrast, are not notably skilled or strong in any one school of magic. In terms of straightforward destructive ability, they aren’t really comparable to an archmage, paladin or sufficiently talented warlock. What makes them dangerous is their ability to counter any kind of magic used against them, and the fact that their magic is not wielded consciously, but by the spirits within them. They have faster reaction times than even an elf, and an arsenal of spells that enables them to mitigate any attack, even one far stronger than their own.”

“That,” said General Vaumann dryly, “and they are homicidally insane.”

“Indeed,” the Colonel agreed, nodding to her. “And that’s another point. All this indicates planning. Headhunters simply don’t do that, at least not in the long term. Whatever the personality traits of the elf who makes the journey to Athan’Khar, when dealing with a headhunter our business is with the spirits within, and those are wildly aggressive. There has never, ever been a case of a headhunter doing something so well-planned and subtle. To the extent that when they do exhibit such controlled behavior, it’s usually the elf’s personality breaking through and attempting to subdue the voices of the spirits, which some have been able to do for fairly long periods at a time.”

“What’s to stop a headhunter from being in total agreement with those spirits about needing to destroy humanity and the Empire?” General Ralavideh asked pointedly. “I assume no elf makes that pilgrimage without knowing what to expect.”

“Not impossible,” Nintaumbi conceded. “Interviews with headhunters have been necessarily brief. It would be without precedent, though. I cannot imagine having a brain full of screaming maniacs is good for anyone’s mental stability.”

“Surely nothing but a headhunter could live in Athan’Khar,” the Mayor protested.

“Actually, that’s not necessarily true, ma’am,” Schwartz piped up, seemingly not noticing the quelling look Basra directed at him. “Anyone powerful enough to do what we’ve seen them do could contend with the forces in there. Especially if they’re not human; the spirits of Athan’Khar are dangerous for anybody, but it’s only humans they always go out of their way to attack.”

“Bear in mind that anything we conclude at this point is speculation,” said Basra. “We are just barely beyond the realm of guesswork; there’s scarcely enough information to begin forming theories. But we have been dealing with this individual long enough for certain patterns to emerge, and from those we can draw some preliminary conclusions.”

“And just what have you concluded, your Grace?” the Governor asked.

“Elder Linsheh made the point that for a witch or shaman to accumulate this much power they would have to be quite old,” said Basra, beginning to pace slowly up and down the floor. “Humans possibly can live that long, especially lifelong practitioners of fae crafts, but as Schwartz points out a human inside Athan’Khar would be too constantly on the defensive from the inhabitants to arrange anything like this. We are, therefore, likely dealing with an elf or a green dragon, if not some kind of miscellaneous fairy. Naiya’s get are not well-categorized.”

“The Conclave of the Winds insist they represent every living dragon on the continent,” Colonel Nintaumbi mused. “There are several names of dragons the Empire presumed active missing from their roster, which we had taken to mean those dragons were dead. A few of them were greens. Then again, there’s no reason the Conclave would be entirely honest with us. Dragons are always cagey about their business.”

“And,” Basra added, “Mary the Crow is active. I myself met her in Tiraas last year.”

“I’m surprised you survived that,” the Governor said over the mild stir caused by this.

“Don’t be,” Basra said with a shrug. “She’s a crafty old bird, more prone to making long plans than violent outbursts, which is why I mention her in this context. It’s somewhat off-track,though. What’s significant right now is my original statement: looking at this pattern of events, I do not believe our antagonist is actually trying to assault us.

“Consider the elemental incidents which have occurred. The early ones disrupted travel and trade, then came a more ominous attack indicating planning ability—misdirecting Silver Legionnaires away from one of their bases in order to attack their stored supplies. In all of these, direct harm to individuals seems to have been avoided; there were some minor burns and bumps, but based on the records I’ve seen, all such could be ascribed to the chaos of the elementals’ presence. Then there were two elemental attacks directed at my party specifically; a shadow elemental which posed very little physical threat, and a large rock elemental which certainly could have but never actually harmed us. My bard responded quickly to distract it,” she added, nodding back at Ami, “but it’s possibly it wouldn’t have done so. Then, last night, the water elementals here in Vrin Shai, which were clearly not dangerous.”

“What are you getting at?” General Ralavideh demanded.

“These were not attacks,” said Basra, “they were messages. This summoner is communicating quite clearly with us. The first events show they understand trade routes and the importance thereof, and that they are capable of executing military tactics. The shadow elemental showed that they can afford to waste valuable agents, so secure are they in their power and resources. Mr. Schwartz commented on the difficulty of diffusing a rock elemental into sand to sneak it into our courtyard, a clear message that they can plant a highly dangerous foe behind our defenses. Plus, by repeatedly dropping elementals on me, specifically, they show they are aware exactly who is on the hunt for them. And as for the water elementals… That demonstrated that the vaunted defenses of Vrin Shai are nothing to them. They can hit us anywhere, and in almost any way. The overall point of all this has been to show that they do not specifically wish to harm Viridill, but they very much can.”

There were no mutters this time, but the various dignitaries assembled on the dais looked around at each other, frowning in thought.

“An interesting theory,” said Mayor Mellon after a moment.

“It does hang together,” General Vaumann acknowledged. “But such a message is, in and of itself, a threat. It’s also missing a vital component: why tell us this?”

“I suspect that’s coming very soon,” said Basra, folding her hands behind her back. “The question has been going around my head ever since this began: who would have such an argument with the Sisters of Avei, and why? The Black Wreath doesn’t and can’t use fairy magic, and the Huntsmen of Shaath lack the manpower, the magical power, and frankly the imagination to do something like this. I realize, now, that I was missing the point. The summoner specifically doesn’t want to attack the Sisterhood, or Viridill. They want to go through Viridill. This is aimed at the Empire, or will be; right now, we are being warned to stay out of it.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Nintaumbi said sharply. “If someone wanted a clear line of attack at the Empire, why go through Viridill at all? They could avoid the Sisterhood’s defenses entirely by striking to the west into N’Jendo.”

“And that is what a headhunter would do,” Basra agreed, nodding at him. “But if we presume our foe is not insane or obsessed with all humanity, that clarifies their purpose even further. The civilizations of the West are fairly recent additions to the Empire; only Onkawa actually wanted to be part of it, and stayed loyal even through the Enchanter Wars. And that is all the way up on the northern edge of the continent. But if someone had a grudge with the Tiraan specifically, as a society, they would look east. Just beyond Viridill is the Tira Valley and Calderaas, the cradle of Tiraan civilization. To reach that, you have to go through Viridill.

“The fact that they have not defaulted to all-out war as a first measure strengthens the theory,” she continued, starting to pace again. “Even when Athan’Khar was a living country, and the Sisterhood and the orcs skirmished across the border all the time, there was respect there, and a lack of real animosity. Both possessed codes of honor governing battle that enabled them to relate to one another in a way that no one else ever really tried to do with the orcs. Even the Jendi simply regarded them as monsters—but they, at their worst, just tried to fortify their border to keep orcish raiders out. It was Tiraas that razed Kharsor and the entire country, and left it as it is now. Whoever’s in there has a sense of history.”

“If what you’re suggesting is correct,” Governor Tamshinaar said slowly, “soon we can expect a more direct approach from this summoner. Specifically, to propose that Viridill and the Sisterhood stand down while they pass over our lands to attack the Imperial heartland.”

“That is my theory, Lady Tamsin,” Basra agreed, nodding.

“It should go without saying,” the Governor said coolly, “that such a proposal will not even be considered.”

“Absolutely,” the Legate said firmly. “Even without getting High Commander Rouvad’s personal endorsement, I can guarantee that. The Sisters of Avei do not stand by while innocents are attacked over ancient grudges.”

“And,” said Basra, “as soon as that is made clear, we become targets. At that time, we will see the full power of this enemy, which so far they have demonstrated only in a rather…playful manner.”

A chilly silence fell, in which the expressions of those around the Governor’s desk grew even darker.

“How can we defend against something like that?” Lady Tamsin asked, turning to Colonel Nintaumbi.

“My people are already fanning out through the country, m’lady,” Hargrave chimed in. “They’re not military, but they will be in position to respond to any elemental incident, and on the alert to do so.”

“I also suggest involving the Salyrites,” Branwen added, smiling briefly at Schwartz. “They have already expressed a willingness to help, and this threat is clearly relevant to their expertise.”

“Ah, if I may?” Schwartz said rather diffidently, stroking Meesie, who was perched in his other hand. “Getting elementals summoned long-distance is…hard. It’s plenty impressive that this character can do it, but nobody can keep it up indefinitely. If it comes to all-out war, there’ll definitely be more incidents like that, but if they plan to move a large force of elementals, they’ll have to actually, y’know…move it.”

“Which is the entire point of this,” Basra said, nodding. “If they could just materialize an army in the Tira Valley, they would do it. They want to be able to cross over Viridill, which means their way can be impeded. Specifically, by Silver Legions backed by priestesses, the best possible counter to elementals.”

“I’ll move the Second Legion to the border,” said General Vaumann.

“And I,” added Colonel Nintaumbi, “will be sending to Tiraas for reinforcements, and specifically strike teams. Those will be absolutely essential if this comes down to responding quickly to magical threats cropping up all over.”

“The central problem we face,” said Basra, “is that we are stuck on the defensive. Invading Athan’Khar is totally impossible; what’s in there would chew up an army in hours.”

“Do you have any suggestions, Bishop Syrinx?” asked the Governor.

“Yes,” said Basra. “I would like permission to move my team into Varansis.”

At that, the outcry of protests from the dais took the Governor a few moments to calm.

“Excuse me?” Ami asked pointedly. “But what is this Varansis and why are we just now hearing about it?”

“Fort Varansis,” said General Ralavideh with a scowl, “is a fortress positioned at the mouth of the River Asraneh, marking the ancient border between Viridill and Athan’Khar. It is, obviously, abandoned.”

“What?” Ildrin practically shrieked. “That is in the corrupted zone!”

“Actually, it’s not,” said Schwartz. “The corruption of Athan’Khar has been steadily receding ever since the Enchanter Wars. It’s about a half-mile south of the river, these days.”

“However,” Colonel Nintaumbi snapped, “the Imperial and Avenist defenses are set up well on this side of the Asraneh. You are talking about moving into a crumbling ruin that’s been home to nothing in the last hundred years but monsters, ghosts, and more recently wild animals, well beyond the range of anyone’s ability to help or protect you. This is madness, Bishop Syrinx!”

“No, Colonel,” Basra said evenly, “this is a calculated risk. I am as familiar with the scouting reports as you; spirit incursions as far northwest as the river are rare these days, and in any case, my team represents a range of skills that can fend off most attackers. We will not be going into Athan’Khar proper, and thus should not run afoul of its inhabitants. The point is that placing ourselves that close to the enemy’s base of operations is an aggressive move, which, since we know they are watching my group specifically, will get their attention. The summoner likes to make blustery moves to send messages; well, two can play that game.”

“And what precisely do you intend to do once you have this summoner’s attention?” the Governor demanded.

“Whatever seems necessary,” Basra said calmly. “With us, as the Colonel points out, isolated and beyond help, it’s my hope that this person will finally reveal themselves, or at least communicate more directly. How we proceed from there will depend upon what is revealed at that time. Ideally we can exercise diplomacy, or subterfuge, to prevent all this from coming to a head. First Doctrine of War: war is to be avoided if at all possible. Failing that…” She shrugged. “If they show themselves, that can present an opportunity for more direct action, if such is appropriate and possible.”

“You just will not be happy until you get us all killed,” Ami breathed.

Basra half-turned to give her a chilly smile. “It’s not us I intend to get killed. For the record, none of you have to come.”

Jenell, who had been silent throughout the meeting, subtly moved her hand to her belt, where she touched not her sword, but a book-shaped bulge in one pocket.

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A constant background noise of angry mutters filled the square, but for a moment at least, it was still. Wilson cowered under the glow of active battlestaves, the townspeople held position, and the students stood as if frozen in place.

“Teal,” Sekandar said very quietly, “this would be a good time to show your other face, I think.”

Vadrieny shifted her head, fixing Scorn with a fiery stare, and said softly, “Be still.” In the next moment, however, she withdrew, flaming wings and claws vanishing to leave Teal still holding the towering Rhaazke by one arm. Scorn looked unhappy, her jaw clenched, but she obeyed the archdemon’s last command.

A man stepped to the side from the thick of the crowd, seizing the young boy by the arm and bodily tugging him backward, scowling and mouthing an obvious reprimand that was inaudible to the students from beneath the constant babble. Rook drew in a deep breath and let it out explosively, keeping his grip on his staff but sagging physically in relief to the point that the weapon drifted down to aim at the ground.

In that moment of comparative calm, Ravana cleared her throat and stepped forward, attempting to push between Finchley and Rook. When neither man budged and she failed to exhibit the necessary physical strength to force them to, she cleared her throat again, more loudly, and spoke in a well-practiced, resonating voice that projected across the square despite the angry buzzing of the townsfolk opposite.

“Gentlemen, if you will not lower your weapons, kindly power them down, at least? It’s clear to me that we are suffering from a series of misunderstandings. I have no intention of bringing any formal charges against Mr. Wilson. We do not punish people for having opinions.”

Rook and Finchley paused, glancing at each other, but Moriarty immediately relaxed his grip on his staff’s clicker, causing the electric glow limning its business end to fade. Rook followed suit a moment later, and all three shifted their grips to aim the weapons skyward.

The square grew quieter; while the crowd kept up a low, disaffected murmur, the shouting ceased. More people continued to trickle in through side alleys, but they all slowed and peered around on arrival, the additional numbers seeming not to add to the overall tension.

“Very good,” Ravana said with an approving smile. “Now—”

At that second, Trissiny and Gabriel dashed into the square from the direction of the town’s edge, both skidding to a stop and staring at the scene.

Immediately, shouting resumed, louder and angrier than before.

“There she is!”

“What the hell’s wrong with you, girl?!”

“You know how—”

“Repent!”

“Goddammit, Carl!”

“All y’all, settle, let ‘er explain—”

“Please!” Trissiny shouted, raising her hands—which was not as calming a gesture as she seemed to mean it, since she was still holding her sword. “Everyone, please! Is anybody hurt? Did anyone notice something alarming or odd tonight?”

“Y’mean, aside from you?” a woman shouted derisively, prompting a chorus of agreement.

“Triss,” Gabriel said, “I don’t think…”

“Listen to me!” she shouted. “There was a demon in this town tonight! It’s very important that everyone make sure they and their neighbors are unharmed and unaffected.” This had a slight calming effect on the crowd, but angry mutters continued. “If you feel at all unwell or out of the ordinary, please go to the church or the Vidian temple to speak with a priest; symptoms of infernal attack can be—”

“Is that why you broke down the Saloon’s door, you hooligan?” barked an older man in a ragged hat.

Trissiny visibly gritted her teeth. “I was trying—”

“You can’t just warn people about danger, you gotta run around scarin’ folks half to death an’ breakin’ down doors?!”

“Listen to me—”

“You knocked over my front fence! Who’s gonna fix that?”

“Stop,” Szith ordered, thrusting a fist in front of Sekandar when he tried to push forward. “Defending her will only make this worse. We need to disengage, all of us.”

Indeed, Gabriel appeared to be trying to persuade Trissiny to back away, though his muttered pleas were swamped by the slowly increasing roar of the crowd.

“That. Is. ENOUGH!”

Gabriel and Trissiny both jumped apart, whirling to face the stooped figure that emerged from the alley behind them. Finally, actual quiet descended on the scene, broken only by scattered murmurs. She hobbled forward, dragging herself along on two canes, and a veritable chorus of sighs rose from the citizens of Last Rock, accompanied by many rolled eyes and shaken heads.

“Evenin’, Miz Cratchley,” someone said in a tone of ostentatious resignation, earning a few titters.

“I never saw such a sad display,” Mabel Cratchley declared, pulling herself to a stop just inside the square and glaring furiously. “What’s got into you people? Where are the good, solid folk who who’ve weathered prairie storms and elf raids since before that mountain had anything on it but flowers? A hundred years and more Last Rock has stood here, since before the Empire bothered to extend its protection over us, and we’ve stood our ground on our land just the same. We’ve relied on nothing but each other and the gods, and lived to remember it. We earned our lives out here, through work, faith, and god-given skill. And now…now, I find y’all standing around, fixing to throw a fit because of a few bruises and broken fence latches? What, you got shoved and shouted at, and now you have to whip up a mob?” She pointed one cane at the prone form of Wilson, teetering momentarily on the other. “I expect such from fools such as that. I thought better of the rest of you!

“What would make you happy?” the old woman continued, taking another shaky step into the square. The now-quiet crowd actually pressed backward, as if physically driven by the force of her outrage. “There was a demon in our town. A demon! And you’re all pitching a fit because someone rushed down here to warn you, and chase it off? Have every last one of you lost your minds? We have the incredible blessing of a paladin in our midst to protect us, a Hand of a goddess herself, and you’re all complaining? You’d like it better if she left you to see your children corrupted and strangled in their beds, is that what I’m hearing?”

She planted both canes firmly in the dirt, then laboriously straightened her spine, drawing herself up to a surprisingly considerable height to glare at the silent throng. “I’ve no shortage of complaints with that woman and her school. You’ve all heard them. I’ve argued with many of you, and I have never been shy to criticize those who needed it, be they honest Last Rock folk, the Calderaan governors, the Empire, the University, whoever! Yes, I’ve known my share of grievances. But in my eighty-six years until this night, I have never been ashamed of my neighbors.”

The silence was crushing.

Every person in Last Rock had heard Mabel Cratchley complain, and more than otherwise had felt the swat of one of her canes on their backsides while growing up, and been prodded by them many times since. But not a soul present had ever before heard her voice quavering on the edge of tears as it was tonight.

“I can’t even look at you.” The old woman drew in a deep, shaking breath, sinking back down into her customary stoop, then laboriously began turning back the way she had come. “Ms. Trissiny, if the gods have any regard for the opinion of one old woman, then by the time I’ve finished my prayers this night, Avei will know there is one soul in Last Rock who is grateful that she watches over us.”

“Here.” Trissiny sheathed her blade and stepped quickly over to Ms. Cratchley’s side. “Let me help you home, ma’am. It’s late.”

“Bless you, child, but I know my way. You’ve better to do than waste your time on the likes of me.”

“The demon’s gone.” Trissiny’s voice was low and calm, but in the silence left by Ms. Cratchley’s speech, it echoed across the square. “And a paladin is not more important than anyone else. We serve, that’s all.”

The old woman started to speak, then simply cleared her throat and nodded mutely, allowing Trissiny to take her by one arm.

Everyone watched in silence as they retreated back down the alley, till they were lost in the shadows and the soft shuffling of Ms. Cratchley’s feet faded away.

Then Ravana took advantage of her escorts’ distraction to slip between them and out into the square.

“Well, then,” she said briskly, “I understand there was some incidental damage done during Trissiny’s ride through the town? Doors, fences, the like? Why don’t we see if we can help set things straight?”

“Aw, now, you don’t need to trouble yourselves,” a man at the front of the crowd said, doffing his hat, while others shuffled and muttered awkwardly behind him.

“Nonsense,” said Sekandar, pushing his way forward with a smile. “It’s late, and everyone will be wanting to get to bed as quickly as possible; best to get these things squared away.”

“Aye!” Maureen agreed brightly, stepping forward and tugging Iris by the hand; Rook gave up on trying to hold the students back and moved aside, making a wry face. “That’s what neighbors do fer each other, after all!”

The students began shifting forward in unspoken agreement, with the exception of Shaeine, who caught Scorn’s hand and leaned up to murmur to the demon. The townsfolk continued mumbling and shuffling, but without hostility now. Their ranks opened up, letting the students move among them, where Ravana and Sekandar led the way in asking for directions to any property damaged during Trissiny’s ride.

“S-so,” Wilson said tremulously, “that’s that, then? I, uh, reckon I oughtta go apologize to the young lady. Don’t rightly know what got into me…”

“Same as always, isn’t it?” Finchley said rather archly. His expression softened when Wilson slumped his shoulders, lowering his gaze to the ground. “We on for poker as usual on Wednesday?”

“Don’t see why not!” the older man agreed quickly, nodding in eagerness. “Lemme just see if I can get the lady’s attention real quick—”

“You’ll have to do that another time, Wilson,” Moriarty said firmly. “Right now, we’re going to the Sheriff’s.”

“What?” Wilson gaped at him. “B-but she said—”

“She said she would not press charges,” Moriarty replied. “She did not direct us to rescind arrest, and there remains the matter of you interfering with a soldier of the Empire in the protection of an Imperial governor by means of physical assault.”

“Omnu’s balls, Wilson, you’re lucky we know you,” Finchley said in exasperation. “You don’t grab a soldier’s weapon. Ever.”

“Any other trooper in the Empire woulda shot your ass dead in the street,” Rook agreed, “and the inevitable inquest would’ve backed them up. Now, c’mon, let’s go explain to Sam why you’re a towering dumbass. That’s pretty much his usual Monday night, anyway.”

They led the shamefaced man off toward the town center, while the now-blended group of citizens and students dispersed through the side streets.

Behind them all, Scorn scowled heavily at nothing in particular. After a long moment of sulking, she childishly stomped one clawed foot on the ground before turning to stalk back in the direction of the University campus.

“All right,” Basra said, planting her fists on her hips. “This was not what I was expecting.”

There were two Silver Legions currently based in Viridill, the Second on constant patrol through the province and the Fourth encamped in Vrin Shai itself. Soldiers of the Fourth were now spread through the city, forming cordons around each of its multiple canals. So far, though, they were only standing there, enforcing a safe distance between what was in those canals and the citizens who had come out to gawk at it.

Water elementals were clearly visible, amorphous beings formed of the canal water itself, changing shape as they jumped about on the surface and seeming to vanish entirely when they submerged beneath it. They spent an awful lot of time up in the air, though, most splashing each other and shooting jets of water here and there, and occasionally at any people they happened to catch sight of. A few of the onlookers were still soaked from such incidents during the elementals’ first appearance, but by this point, most of those targeted were Legionnaires now standing resignedly in wet armor.

In addition to the near-constant noise of splashing, the elementals had voices which were now audible almost everywhere in the city. They were high-pitched, unearthly, and spoke in no language anyone understood, but they were also unmistakably laughing. Or, more often, giggling.

It seemed all they wanted to do was play.

Basra and her party had edged up to the perimeter enforced by the soldiers, studying the scene, with the exception of Ami, who was keeping a respectful distance and a protective grip on her guitar. A sudden squirt of water shot out of the canal, scattering against the golden shield that flashed into place around Basra and incidentally spraying Schwartz, who squealed rather girlishly and skittered backward.

“Is it possible we were mistaken about the elemental at the house?” Ildrin asked. “I mean…we started in on it almost before it could do anything. These seem harmless enough… Maybe it just wanted to talk.”

“That thing was eight feet tall and built like an ogre,” Ami said from behind them. “It clearly had the brute force to be a danger, and the subtlety to penetrate our defenses without effort. The choice of messenger was the message. Specifically, a threat.”

“Exactly,” said Basra. “Schwartz, you’re certain there are no other elementals called up in the city? Just these…things?”

“I was twenty minutes ago,” he said, wiping off his glasses on the sleeve of his robe. “My divination spread is back at the house… But no, this was what I detected arriving, this and the one specimen that, ah, visited us.”

“The situation is tentatively considered under control,” said the Legionnaire wearing a captain’s insignia who stood nearby, having been grabbed and quickly interrogated by Basra upon their arrival. “At the moment we’re awaiting the arrival of sisters from the temple; General Ralavideh has ordered something called a…frog-in-a-pot maneuver.”

“What does that mean?” Basra demanded.

“I’ve no idea, your Grace,” the captain said with long-suffering patience. This was far from the first very pointed question the Bishop had shot at her. “I’m not a cleric.”

“It’s a reference to the old metaphor,” said Schwartz, now soothingly stroking Meesie, who seemed agitated by all the wetness in the vicinity. “You know, how you can boil a living frog slowly if you increase the heat in its pot by increments, but it’ll jump out if you try to do it all at once? Same applies to using divine magic to neutralize elementals. If you just flare up at them, they’ll be able to tell you’re weakening them, and react to that. If you start very gently, though, and gradually increase the power, you can progressively weaken them until they just…fall apart.”

“Hm,” said Branwen, chewing her lower lip and frowning at the occupied canal. “Offhand I can think of several problems with that plan…”

“Yeah,” Schwartz agreed, nodding. “With all respect to the general and the Sisterhood, I don’t think that’s going to work. For one thing, these are all over the whole city. You’d need an army of priests to cover the whole space to do it all at once; if you did it sequentially, canal by canal, it’d take days. And that’s assuming the elementals stayed gone once banished—what’s happened here is there were charms evoked in the water itself, which means they’re likely to reappear once it’s not being actively channeled at.”

“You could compensate for that by blessing the canals,” Ildrin offered.

“Yes,” Schwartz agreed, “theoretically. But there’s another problem; doing this maneuver requires divine casters to call up and hold a constant stream of energy. You pretty much can’t not do that without risking serious burnout. I, uh…honestly, this sounds to me like something to do when you lack better options.”

“We have our orders,” the captain said stiffly. “I’m sure the general has everything under control.”

“The canals are full of water elementals,” Basra snapped. “Whether or not they’re presenting an active threat, this whole city is very much not under control. Schwartz, are these things as harmless as they seem?”

“You mean potentially?” He shrugged helplessly. “I mean, if they all attacked, that’d be a big problem. And I don’t see what’s stopping them… But, like, tactically speaking, if they were going to do that, wouldn’t they have done it at first, when they had the element of surprise?”

“Maybe this shaman really isn’t trying to start a fight,” Jenell mused.

“The other elemental incidents throughout the province were definitely hostile,” said Basra. “Not nearly as violent as they could have been—in fact, they did seem to specifically avoid causing unnecessary harm. But still hostile. This is a departure.”

“And, again,” Ami added, “that rock elemental was not a friendly thing to send us, whether or not it was planning to bash all our brains in.”

Before anyone could respond to that, another Legionnaire in soaking wet armor came dashing up, saluting. “Captain Veiss! New orders from the general.”

“Ah, good,” the captain said, pointedly turning her back on Basra, whose increasingly sharp questions she’d been enduring with steadily diminishing patience. “We’re ready to begin?”

“No, ma’am,” the soldier replied. “The operation is suspended; new orders will be coming shortly. You’re to hold position, keep the civilians away from the elementals. Bishop Syrinx,” she added, turning to Basra. “That’s…you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Basra replied. “Ralavideh has orders for me, as well?”

“A request, ma’am,” the messenger said diplomatically. “She would like you to join her to discuss new developments in this situation as soon as possible.”

“Excellent,” Basra said with clear satisfaction. “At the temple?”

“No, ma’am, she’s set up a field command post at a square in a more central location in the city. I’ll guide you.”

“Lead on,” the Bishop replied, glancing aside at the rest of her party with a wry lift of one eyebrow. “Well, fall in, troops. It seems we’re going visiting.”

They had gone right to the nearest canal from their house, which fortunately was, itself, not far from the center of the city. To reach General Ralavideh’s temporary headquarters, they only had to travel a few blocks and descend one tier. It was a mostly uneventful trip, though it required some navigating around rubbernecking residents. So far, no curfew had been declared, and nothing was preventing curious citizens from standing around gawking at the unusual sights; the Legionnaires seemed to mostly be keeping them away from the canals by sheer presence. Silver Legionnaires were very much respected in Vrin Shai.

There was a brief delay when they had to cross a canal and their guide warned them that anyone traversing the bridges could expect to be liberally splashed. Basra had quickly vetoed the use of divine shields, lest it agitate the elementals, but then Ami had flatly (and dramatically) refused to risk getting her guitar wet. Ultimately they had trooped across, Branwen holding a compact little shield over their bard, while the rest of them got soaked. For the remainder of the trip, Schwartz worked some of his own magic to dry them (and their grateful escort) off, while everyone rather irritably gave Ami a cold shoulder.

A market square just beyond the bridge had been overtaken by the Fourth Legion; their guide led them past an outer perimeter of soldiers into an orderly beehive of activity, making straight for a cluster of folding tables which seemed to be the center of the whole operation. As they approached, Basra lengthened her stride, passing their escort and striding right up to the General.

Ralavideh was a Tiraan woman in her fifties, short and stocky in her armor, with graying hair trimmed close to her head. She was surrounded by a dozen people, a mix of senior officers, priestesses of Avei, and off to one side a small knot of civilians in diverse attire. She turned away from a cleric upon Basra’s arrival, nodding in greeting.

“Ah, Captain Syrinx—good, I was hoping one of my messengers would find you.”

“Thank you for including me, General,” Basra replied. “I’m long since discharged, though, you needn’t address me by rank. What’s the situation?”

“At this moment,” said Ralavideh, “we have an unprecedented annoyance in Vrin Shai, but the situation appears not to be dangerous. That doesn’t mean we intend to leave it as is; the Governor agrees with me that these beings need to be removed as swiftly as possible. Right now our focus is on doing so without escalating the situation. Have you anything to contribute to our knowledge of the, for want of a better word, enemy?”

“Not of these specifically,” Basra said, nodding to Schwartz. “My elemental specialist, here, had detection wards over the city and hasn’t identified any other incursions, though we were visited by a large rock elemental at our temporary base.”

“Hm,” the General mused, frowning down at a map of Vrin Shai on the table before her. “Then I’m not the only one who knows the Abbess set you on the hunt for this elementalist. Well! In addition to wanting your perspective, we have unexpected help who also asked to see you as soon as possible.”

Indeed, as she was speaking, a man with a familiar bearded face stepped forward, trailed by the other assorted civilians who had been clustered together at one corner of Ralivedeh’s command post. “Your Grace! Good to see you again!”

“Mr. Hargrave,” Basra replied, nodding. “I confess I hadn’t expected to meet again so soon.”

“Yes, I’ve made…well, it’s a long story,” he said seriously. “These are some of the people I went to speak with. Over a dozen have come to Vrin Shai with me; Abbess Darnassy said we could find you here.”

“You brought Viridill’s witches here?” Basra asked, her eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Well, not all of them, by any means,” Hargrave clarified hastily. “You see, it’s—”

General Ralivedeh cleared her throat pointedly.

“Right,” Hargrave said quickly. “Priorities. They were going to try neutralizing the elementals with priestesses, which would have been quite risky and probably ineffective. Now that we’re here, the rest of my friends have fanned out through the city to begin laying preparations, and we’re going to deal with this matter first of all. Barring any further upsets, I believe we can have all this cleared away in a few hours. Tomorrow, though, I’d like to have a lengthy conversation about what we’ve learned.”

“Excellent,” she said emphatically. “Can you use another caster? Schwartz, make yourself useful.”

“Glad to!” the Salyrite said cheerfully, stepping forward. “Actually, I may have some fresh data to add to your findings—I had a good, solid ward network overlaying the city before all this started up, and I was able to detect…”

He melted into Hargrave’s gaggle of witches and they drifted off toward the canal in the near distance, talking among themselves.

“That’s been the theme of the evening,” Ralavedeh said with an annoyed twist of her mouth. “I’m glad they came along, but you know what it’s like working with civilians. Takes a constant effort to know what they’re doing and make sure they don’t screw up my chain of command.”

“I do know,” Basra agreed. “Well, for the time being it seems I’m a little superfluous, here…”

“Actually,” said the General, “since you brought your whole group, I wonder if I could borrow them for a bit?” She turned, nodding to the others. “I understand Bishop Snowe and a trained bard have joined you—we’ve a use for talents exactly like that.”

“Oh?” Basra raised an eyebrow. “Whatever for?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Ami asked dryly. “Or do you intend to just leave this mob to its own devices?”

Beyond the perimeter marked by the Legionnaires, a noisy and energetic crowd were circulating, talking and gesticulating eagerly. No one seemed particularly agitated, though, and while their general noise didn’t yield any specific conversational threads at this distance, it didn’t sound angry.

“I would hardly call that a mob,” Basra began.

“Well, that doesn’t mean you just ignore them,” Branwen said in mild exasperation. “This is what you wanted us for, General?”

“If you’re able and willing,” Ralavedeh replied, nodding. “Citizens of Vrin Shai are a respectful people as a rule, and they trust the Legions, but you simply cannot drop an event like this on top of thousands of civilians and expect it to stay calm indefinitely. Fortunately this happened at dusk; provided we can get it squared away before business hours begin tomorrow, we can hopefully avoid any serious unrest. For now, I would like any help possible in keeping a lid on this.”

“Hm,” Ami mused, absently tuning her guitar and frowning at the onlookers. “That’s hardly the whole population of the city. Nor even a significant percentage…”

“It’s a start, though,” Branwen said with a smile. “Come, Bas, let’s see if we can’t put people’s minds at ease.”

She glided off toward the edge of the square opposite the bridge without waiting for anyone’s approval, apparently not seeing the scowl Basra directed at her back. Ildrin, Ami, and Jenell, who had seen it, followed at a more circumspect distance.

At the other end, the plaza terminated on a broad staircase only four steps tall. It was a short enough drop that they could plainly see the people milling around below it, built mostly for decoration and to prevent wheeled vehicles from entering the market square. Legionnaires were guarding the staircase, however, keeping the civilians isolated in the wide street below.

The crowd focused its attention on the top of the stairs as Branwen arrived, taking a position near the center between two soldiers, who looked quizzically at her and then at a nearby officer. Apparently having been told what to expect, the lieutenant gestured them away, and they shifted to the very edges of the staircase, distancing themselves from the Izarite Bishop. By that point, a few scattered cheers had broken out and people surged forward eagerly, smiling up at Branwen.

“Well, what a night this is!” she said, her light voice projecting skillfully out over the crowd, and earned a laugh from her audience. “I’m a guest here, myself, so please don’t take anything I say as an official pronouncement. General Ralavedeh has very kindly allowed me to speak to you—which works out well for everyone, as I’m sure you know how much I love to hear myself talk.”

During the laugh which followed this, Ami mused aloud, coincidentally having placed herself close enough to Basra to be audible to her, “My, she’s actually rather good at extemporizing, isn’t she? Somehow, I’d though all her speeches were the work of Church handlers.”

“What I can tell you,” Branwen continued as soon as it was quiet enough again, “is that the Sisterhood of Avei has matters well in hand. At this point, it’s not yet certain what is happening or why, but there is no indication that anyone is in any danger. And should these…peculiar visitors take a turn toward hostility… Well, in that event, I find I am still not overly concerned. This is Vrin Shai, after all!”

She beamed proudly down at them, waiting for the cheers to subside before continuing. “It’s hardly a secret that the cults of the Pantheon don’t all see eye-to-eye, and indeed, my faith has its frictions with Avei’s. If I must be surrounded by an invasion of strange elementals, though, I can honestly say there is no one among whom I would rather find myself. Yes, the Sisters of Avei are indeed fearsome in battle, and the presence of all these Legionnaires makes me feel much safer. But there’s far more to it than that! Avei is a goddess who places great trust in people. For all of the Sisterhood’s history, she has encouraged people to find their own courage, to hone their skills, and the result is what you see around you! An invincible city, filled with an unconquerable people, living under the aegis of a goddess who has led them to be the most they can be!”

More cheers, this time slower to subside. Branwen nodded and smiled encouragingly, but before she opened her mouth to speak again, there came a shout from near the front of the crowd. The speaker hadn’t waited for silence, and so most of the words were lost, but the Bishop was apparently close enough to make them out clearly. All that was clearly audible from Basra’s position behind her was “Last Rock.”

Apparently, Branwen was not the only one who’d heard the words. The crowd’s voice faltered into confusion, cheers and applause continuing from various quarters, while others who had been close enough to hear broke off their adulation, murmuring.

“It’s hardly kind to cast aspersion on the people of the frontier,” Branwen said with an artful hint of reproach. “In fact, I was in Last Rock very recently, and I found them to be a most admirable folk as well. They have had a different journey through history than you, and were shaped by different pressures, but I rather think they would cope well with a situation such as this, too. The prairie breeds hardy and adaptive folk.

“If anything, the comparison should only encourage you! For all their strengths, the folk of Last Rock lack a great gift that Avei has bestowed on you: leadership and examples which come from within, not from above. You live with and among the Sisterhood—the Legionnaires rise from within your own families, proving the potential of a whole population. No one sits high atop a mountain, grooming rogue adventurers and denying you a place among them.”

She paused for more reaction again, but this time the result was clearly not as she expected. The onlookers frowned, glancing at one another in apparent confusion—at least, some of them. Quite a few tittered, and open laughs sounded from several direction. Branwen hesitated, for the first time betraying uncertainty.

“So, your Grace,” called a male voice from near the front, the same voice which had shouted about Last Rock. “I take it you haven’t seen today’s papers?”

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“What are you doing?” Scorn demanded suspiciously, drawing back her lips to bare fangs and scowling at Rook.

He skittered back a step, eyes widening. “I—oh, uh, I was just… I mean, it’s not like they trained us for honor guard duty, I was just trying to be polite…”

“Armed man sneaking up on my behind is being not polite,” the demon snapped.

“Scorn.” Ravana’s voice was gentle and soft, but nonetheless stilled the growing confrontation. “He’s correct, that was a polite gesture. It’s a custom, here, for a man to hold a lady’s chair for her as she sits.”

“…oh.” Scorn rolled her shoulders once, then nodded curtly at Rook. “Thank you, then, for custom.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, still edging backward.

Ravana cleared her throat very softly, catching Scorn’s gaze and raising one eyebrow.

The demon drew in a deep breath, swelling menacingly, then let it out in a sigh. “I am sorry for snapping at you. I misunderstood.”

“No offense taken at all!” he said with forced cheer, retreating all the way to the wall. “Enjoy your dinner.”

“Wow,” Teal murmured. Shaeine gave her a sidelong little smile; Maureen grinned and winked.

“Is a good custom anyway,” Scorn added, seating herself. “Man showing respect to a woman. We do not have that at my home. Maybe I start it when I go back.”

“It’s actually a complicated question whether chivalrous gestures like that are respectful or just sexist,” Teal mused. “Or both.”

“Such cultural practices are often difficult to parse in such simple terms,” said Shaeine. “We have many such customs in Tar’naris, and while we largely eschew discriminatory practices that cause unnecessary strife, I must acknowledge that many of them are quite openly sexist.”

“Well, not everything discriminatory is overtly disruptive, necessarily,” Sekandar remarked.

“Indeed,” the drow replied, nodding to him. “In fact, I have had several very interesting conversations with Trissiny about this very subject.”

“If by ‘interesting’ ye mean ‘long,’ I don’t doubt it,” Maureen said cheerfully.

Sekandar hid a smile behind a discreet little cough. “By the way, where is Trissiny? I thought you were going to invite her, Ravana.”

“I did indeed,” the Duchess said serenely. “Invitations were extended to, among others, all three paladins and Princess Zaruda. Unfortunately, that forms a roster entirely of people who have no interest in dinner parties. In frankness, while I would have welcomed anyone who chose to attend, I mostly made the offer so that no one would feel excluded.”

“Ah,” the prince replied, keeping his expression even. Iris sighed softly, glancing down at her hands in her lap.

“I’m afraid the rest of the sophomore class begged off, citing prior commitments,” Ravana said calmly. “But no matter! We are here, and have the place to ourselves. It promises to be an enjoyable evening.”

The place in question was one of the closest things Last Rock had to a back alley: the space between the rear of the Ale & Wenches and the warehouse behind it, which was town property communally used by local businesses for storage. Ravana had somehow arranged for it to be not only scrupulously cleaned, but decorated with tasteful paper lanterns and bunches of hanging flowers. Their table and chairs were of the folding variety, but the tablecloth was a rich brocade. And the food was better than anything served in the A&W. They could hear (and smell) the town clearly, and had a clear view of more back buildings in one direction and the prairie in the other, but a little care had somehow transformed this spot into a peculiar kind of outdoor dining room.

“So,” Scorn said carefully, peering around, “this is a…formal occasion?”

“Oh, not particularly,” Ravana said airily, reaching for the basket of rolls. “I use the term ‘dinner party’ somewhat euphemistically. Really, more of a picnic.”

“Okay, good,” Scorn said, nodding. “I am… There are customs, yes? I don’t know them.”

“Precisely,” Ravana agreed, smiling and glancing over at Teal. “Consider it an opportunity for us to get to know one another better, without the pressure of expectations. And you can get some practice toward dining customs without any stakes.”

“I am not being laughed at,” Scorn said, dragging a scowl around the table.

“Most certainly not,” Sekandar agreed gallantly. “I’m sure no one here would dream of it.”

“Anyone who does will be asked to leave,” Ravana stated. “Which is why I was careful to invite only people who I trust not to do any such thing.”

“And notably,” Iris added, smugly pouring herself a glass of wine, “our other roommate is absent.”

“I begin to wonder if your fixation on Addiwyn isn’t making things in our room worse, with all respect,” said Szith. “I know her flaws as well as you, but she has been notably quiet since the first week of classes.”

“Well, of course,” Iris said acidly. “Since her behavior in the first week was utterly psychotic, that isn’t setting much of a bar, now is it.”

“She did save yer life in the Golden Sea trek,” Maureen pointed out.

“I’m sure that was just reflex,” Iris muttered.

“Granted, I wasn’t as close at the time,” said Sekandar, “but I never met anyone whose reflexes include grabbing a manticore by the tail to prevent it from stinging someone.”

“This roommate,” said Scorn. “I think I have met her. She is the rude elf?”

“That sums her up perfectly,” Iris agreed.

“Hm.” The demon nodded. “Why do you let her to act this way? Best to have things out, openly. If she is being mysterious and nasty, force a confrontation. Then you get the truth!”

A short silence fell.

“I quite agree,” Ravana said after a moment. “In fact, I said so at the time.”

“Aye,” Maureen added wryly. “An’ we tried that. Didn’t go so well.”

“Sometimes forcing a confrontation is the last thing you should do,” Teal said gently. “Um…on another note…are we really just gonna make the guys stand around while we eat?”

“We are on duty,” Moriarty said crisply from the other end of the alley. “Per the statutes governing use of Imperial soldiers by the Houses, our current arrangement with the Duchess constitutes a binding—”

“What he means,” Rook interrupted with a grin, “is that if her Grace wants to pay us to stand around, then stand we shall. You kids have fun, don’t worry about us. Frankly, I feel like we’re gettin’ away with something as it is. Not likely you’re in any danger in this town.”

“Why did you feel the need to hire them on as security, if you don’t mind my asking?” Shaeine inquired.

“I am not concerned for my physical safety, considering the company,” said Ravana, calmly buttering a roll. “Given the tensions in Last Rock, of late, I thought an official Imperial presence might keep things…calm.”

“Well, that’s a good thought, but maybe going a little overboard,” Iris remarked. “Nothing ever happens in this town.”

Teal and Shaeine exchanged a look, but said nothing. At the other end of the alley, Finchley turned to glance at his compatriots.

Rook leaned over and nudged Moriarty with an elbow. “Permission to mention the hellgate?”

“Oh, shut up,” Moriarty muttered.

“No trouble at all,” Tarvadegh assured him, “It’s not like there are any temple ceremonies at this hour, and I tend to stay up late reading, anyway. My time is yours. What’s on your mind, Gabe? Made a breakthrough on that shadow-casting?”

“Actually, this isn’t about training,” Gabriel said slowly, pacing down the center aisle of the underground Vidian sanctuary and finally sinking down onto a bench. “I… Well, I sort of wanted to talk. Are you available in your, y’know, priest-like capacity?”

“Absolutely,” Tarvadegh replied, sitting beside him. “Is this…something you can’t discuss with your friends?”

Gabriel sighed heavily and slumped forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Well…it’s about them, is the thing. Sort of.”

“Okay.” Tarvadegh just nodded, then waited silently for him to continue.

“What if…you knew something?” Gabriel said finally. “Something important…maybe even urgent. Something that affects the people closest to you, and…something you weren’t sure you could tell them?”

“Well, there are a lot of ‘somethings’ in that hypothetical,” the priest replied. “A whole lot depends on the situation. Gabe you don’t have to tell me any details that may be sensitive, rest assured. I’m here to help if I can, though.”

“The thing is…we’ve always been a group, y’know?” Gabriel sighed and absently drew Ariel, turning the sword over and over in his hands. “Maybe not at first, we had to learn to work together… But as things are, we’re a unit. My first instinct is always to trust the group, to bring them stuff like this so we can plan, but… I dunno, I have this feeling that it would be a bad idea in this case. The specific problem in question, I’m afraid, might provoke a, uh, fearful, ignorant reaction.”

“How so?” Tarvadegh asked mildly.

Gabriel glanced over at him. “…this is confidential, right?”

“Absolutely,” the priest said immediately. “Assume that Vidius hears anything you have to say here, but confession is sacred in all faiths I know of. I wouldn’t reveal your thoughts even to Lady Gwenfaer.”

“Well, there’s some heavy stuff going on,” Gabriel said, watching the light flicker dimly across Ariel’s blade. “The…Black Wreath is sniffing around us. Rather aggressively. And yeah, that sounds like exactly the kind of thing I should warn somebody about, right? Except… Based on what I know, I really think it’s smartest to take a step back and let them, for now. And…that would be a really, really hard sell. Even Toby probably wouldn’t go for that; Trissiny would absolutely lose her mind. Teal and Vadrieny have their own issues with the Wreath, and after what happened in Veilgrad, we’ve all got cause to be nervous about them. But I’m also thinking about Veilgrad, and the Wreath, who they are and what they want. And in this case…they are specifically not trying to hurt us. They seem to be trying to provoke a reaction.”

“That sounds like a rather hostile action in and of itself,” Tarvadegh observed.

Gabriel nodded. “But I’ve got indication their motive may actually be helpful… And there are other things. Professor Ekoi is circling them like a hawk, which I’m pretty sure means Professor Tellwyrn knows about this, too. And neither of them has done anything. What I think… I think the right thing to do would be to quietly watch and see what they do. And I think my friends will insist on going on the attack. And…I think that would be a disaster.”

“Can I ask a few questions?” Tarvadegh asked mildly.

“Sure, of course.”

“I suspect I know this already, but what source of information do you have that your classmates don’t?”

Gabriel grimaced. “Yeah, well…that’s another thing. I think certain issues may come up about the fact that I’m having valkyries spy on people. Do you… This isn’t some kind of abuse of my position, is it, Val?”

“I doubt you have to worry about that,” the cleric assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You can’t really make the reapers do anything—if they choose to help you, take it as a sign of their favor. And additionally, anything you do involving them is all but guaranteed to have the god’s attention, so be assured he would let you know if he disapproved.”

“Okay, good.” Gabriel sighed, nodding. “That’s actually quite a relief.”

“Whether it’s an abuse of anyone’s trust is another matter,” Tarvadegh continued. “A paladin’s role is a martial one more often than not, and there are circumstances in which gathering intelligence is necessary and appropriate. Especially against the Black Wreath.”

“And…” Gabriel paused to swallow. “…what about certain new priestesses of Vidius and Avei who may have moved to the town recently?”

For a long moment, Tarvadegh stared at him in silence. Finally, he leaned back, his expression growing thoughtful.

“I’ve not been in a hurry to introduce you to some of the more complex inner workings of the cult,” he said at last. “Since our earliest practice sessions, it’s seemed to me that you do better being yourself first and a Vidian second. There must be a reason Vidius called our first paladin from outside the faith. But as a general rule, Gabriel… This kind of thing is not at all unusual within our ranks. The doctrine of masks and false faces makes trust a thing that we perceive differently than most others. We don’t value it less—if anything, we value it more. But within the cult, there is an expectation that no one is going to tell you the full truth about themselves, their ambitions, or their activities. If you’re spying on a priestess of Vidius, for whatever reason… Well. Without saying anything personal about the woman in question, just by virtue of her position, she’s probably done as much to others.”

“Have you?” Gabriel asked, frowning slightly.

Tarvadegh gave him a grin. “Yes, of course. Though for future reference, that’s a question you’ll probably want to avoid asking people outright.”

“Yeah, that occurred to me as soon as I said it,” Gabriel agreed, wincing.

“And as I said, if you’re using valkyries to do this, you would be told if Vidius disapproved of your activities. If anything, I’m encouraged to see you taking some initiative with intelligence-gathering. Now, spying on a priestess of Avei is another matter. To my knowledge, the Avenists have no craft that could detect a valkyrie’s presence, but for future reference, absolutely do not try that on a Salyrite.”

“Noted.”

“And be wary of the likely repercussions if you are discovered. The only cults that actively spy on the Sisterhood are the Black Wreath and the Thieves’ Guild. You have probably heard from Trissiny what they think about that.”

“Yep,” he said ruefully.

“But back to your original question,” Tarvadegh said in a more serious tone, again squeezing his shoulder. “First, let me say that I’m very glad to see you thinking carefully before acting. Honestly, Gabriel, in general I’ve observed that you thinking of yourself as thoughtless is more of a fault of yours than actually being thoughtless, though thoughtlessness is still a real issue you have. I, uh, sort of lost control of that sentence. Need me to re-phrase?”

“No, I think I got it,” Gabriel said, grinning. “And you’re pretty much not wrong.”

“Okay, good,” Tarvadegh replied with a smile. “So yes, I’m glad you’re thinking about this first. However, the main reaction I take from it is that you don’t seem to respect your friends very much.”

Gabriel straightened up, his eyes widening, and stared at Tarvadegh in mute dismay.

“Think about it,” the priest went on gently. “These are some of the most dangerous people in the world—and, as you have seen firsthand, some of the most effective. Sure, they have their foibles. Just from your own descriptions, I know of several, and yes, I can see how the information you’re withholding could generate some rather strident reactions from several of them. But ultimately, none of them are stupid, and you aren’t without flaws. Gabriel, when you decide to determine who knows what, you’re effectively trying to control what people do. And that means you’ve placed yourself at the head of the group—a group which you’re now trying not even to lead, but to manipulate.”

“But…but…” Gabriel clenched his jaw, swallowed heavily, then lowered his eyes.

“And,” Tarvadegh said kindly, “I know that isn’t what you intend. Honestly, as a Vidian paladin…well, you’re unprecedented, but if someone had told me ten years ago there would be a Vidian paladin, I’d have pictured someone doing exactly that. The problem here, as I see it, is that your actions are in conflict with your ethics and your desires. I think you’ve stumbled into this box accidentally, not out of a desire to control the situation. That, in my opinion, is the root of your problem.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel said quietly. “That’s…wow. Holy crap, I’m an asshole.”

“As we were just saying,” Tarvadegh said wryly, “you’re a little thoughtless. People make mistakes. Whether or not you’re an asshole is a function of what you do next.”

“Right. You’re right.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out explosively. “Yeah, I have to tell them everything. I should’ve just done that from the beginning…crap, this is gonna be a difficult conversation.”

“The important ones usually are.”

“Thanks, Val. This…was exactly what I needed to hear.”

“Well, that’s why they pay me the big bucks,” Tarvadegh said with a grin. “That’s a joke. They don’t actually—”

He broke off and both of them looked at the ceiling as the sound of hoofbeats thundered by overhead.

“What the…” Gabriel frowned. “It’s after dark, who’d be…” He trailed off, glancing to the side at the invisible figure which had just dived in from above. “Oh, shit. Trissiny.”

“Bishop Syrinx, may I have a word with you?”

Basra glanced over at Ildren, who had just emerged from the rear door of their borrowed townhouse, but did not pause in stretching. Against the far wall of the rear courtyard, Jenell also glanced up, then immediately resumed packing away their practice swords and surreptitiously rubbing the several bruises she’d just acquired.

The house, though its décor was purely Viridill, was built in the Tiraan style, which meant a short public garden in the front, by the street, and a walled courtyard behind. Since this particular house sat on a corner, bordered by streets on two sides, it was less private than some—they could hear the traffic outside from the courtyard, and there was no telling what anyone had thought of the sounds of two women going at each other with wooden swords for the last hour.

“Certainly,” Basra said after leaving her to stew for a calculated moment. “I’m about to head inside, though; make it quick, if you please.”

Ildrin glanced over at Jenell. “In private, please?”

“I’m willing to indulge you, but not the point of going out of my way,” Basra said brusquely. “And Covrin is my assistant; she’s likely to end up hearing anything you have to say, anyway. I have a habit of venting to her about the various time-wasters I’ve had to deal with in the course of a day.”

Ildrin clenched her jaw for a moment. “…fine. What is your problem with me? I hardly know you, but I came here to offer my assistance when asked, and you have been nothing but dismissive and hostile.”

“Very well, you want the simple truth?” Despite her claim to be on the way inside, Basra turned and strolled over to a stone bench set against the courtyard’s far wall, seating herself. “Working where I do, in the Universal Church, dealing largely with the results of Archpope Justinian’s various…agendas…I have incidentally become acquainted with a number of individuals whom he considers useful and trustworthy. Yours is a name that has repeatedly come to my attention, both in the Church itself and from sources within the Sisterhood. You have a well-established reputation, Sister Falaridjad, as someone interested in Justinian’s cause as much as Avei’s. If not more so.”

“That is a false dichotomy and you know it!” Ildrin exclaimed. “I have never been anything but loyal to Avei and the Sisterhood. But yes, I see a great deal of sense and virtue in the messages that the Archpope has put forth during his tenure, and I’d like to think that’s reflected in my actions. So why is this a problem?” She took a step forward, pointing an accusing finger at Basra. “You have the same reputation, and far more than I! I’d say anyone in the Sisterhood or the Legions would contend you’re as much Justinian’s creature as Rouvad’s. I’ve heard more than a few rumors that’s the reason you’re now out here. What, exactly, is your problem with me?”

“I have no problem with you,” Basra said in perfect calm. “I barely know you, nor have any particular interest in you. My problem is with a Universal Church element meddling in this matter. From the Sisterhood’s perspective, intervention by the Church is not appropriate unless called for. From mine…” Her voice and expression abruptly hardened considerably. “If Justinian or you have any thoughts of ‘helping’ me make a name for myself out here to restore Commander Rouvad’s high opinion of me, any attempt to do so would horribly backfire. And then I will be angry.”

“Your Grace,” Jenell said, staring at a spot in the far corner of the courtyard, where dust had begun to swirl upward in a slow spiral that had nothing to do with the very faint movements of air that drifted over the walls.

“Furthermore,” Basra barreled on, making a silencing gesture at Jenell, “Justinian, at least, is wise enough to know that any attempt by him to intervene would only worsen matters. Which means you’re either here on your own initiative, or far more likely, this is Branwen’s idea. Allow me to let you in on a secret, in case you haven’t noticed: Branwen is an idiot. Letting her graduate beyond serving Izara flat on her back has been a sad waste of the only use she has.”

Ildrin narrowed her eyes. “Whatever issues the two of you have, she has the same reputation among Church-related circles. She’s trusted, and loyal to his Holiness. So, yes, when she approached me about this, I was glad to offer my services.”

Basra snorted. “I’ll consider my point made.”

“Ma’am?” Jenell said in alarm, having put down the practice swords and picked up her metal one. The dust column had silently swelled to a height greater than a person, and was coalescing slowly into a humanoid figure.

“Fine, whatever!” Ildrin exclaimed. “You can still control the situation—it’s not like I’m going to run around trying to slay elementals behind your back! Just give the orders and I’ll follow them; that was the job I signed on for. There is no reason for you to be so hostile! I came here in good faith. Does it matter to you at all how this affects me?”

Basra stared blankly at her. Jenell started to speak again, but the Bishop made a swatting gesture in her direction. “Of course. Sure, of course your perspective matters. But not at the expense of the mission. I’ve told you already, Falaridjad, just be ready; when trouble arises, you’ll get your chance to prove yourself.”

“And in the meantime,” the priestess said bitterly, “I’m to continue being treated like a—”

“Basra!” Jenell barked.

Basra snapped her head sideways to glare at her, and in the next moment was on her feet, falling into a ready stance. Jenell threw her sheathed sword, which she deftly caught and drew, tossing the scabbard down onto the bench.

Despite being formed from dust, the massive figure’s slow movements made a soft grinding of stone against stone, and indeed it looked, now, like it was assembled from irregular chunks of rock. Towering over eight feet tall and proportioned in a way that would have been imposing even had it not been made of boulders, the elemental dwarfed both them and the courtyard itself. As Jenell backed up toward Basra, it turned to face the three women. The lower of the slabs of rock that formed its head shifted, opening up an obvious mouth, and a deep rumble sounded from within.

“Well, Falaridjad, now’s your chance,” Basra said quietly. “Don’t make any moves to agitate it, but on my signal, I want you to draw as much divine energy as you can. Weakening it is the only chance we have against that thing.”

“Will that be enough?” Jenell asked, her voice trembling.

“We are about to find out,” Basra said, apparently in total calm. “Try to circle around, slowly, toward the door. If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to run, and it can’t fit…”

She trailed off as the door to the house opened and Ami came strolling out, strumming a soft tune on her guitar and looking perfectly unconcerned. She ambled out into the courtyard, beginning to sing a lilting tune in elvish.

The rock elemental had been shifting toward the three women, its posture clearly aggressive, but suddenly it went quiet, turning to focus on the bard. Another rumble sounded from within, but this time a very soft one; it took one ponderous step toward her, then sank slowly down onto its knees, peering down at her.

Ami smiled calmly up at it, continuing to play, but the words of her song changed.

“Oh, don’t stop planning on my account,

You were really going strong!

Get an idea and please spit it out—

I can’t keep this up for long.”

“Okay…same plan applies,” Basra said. “Move toward the door, slowly so as not to agitate it. Talaari can back inside last, and it’ll be trapped out there.”

“I’m pretty sure that thing can beat down the wall and get out into the city,” Ildrin said tersely.

“And we’ll deal with that,” Basra replied. “but first we have to survive, and that means not being trapped in a box with it.”

The back door abruptly banged open again and Schwartz came skittering out, Meesie clinging to his hair. “Your Grace! Bishop Syrinx! My wards have picked up a major elemental ohhhhh, shit.”

He slid to a halt, frozen and staring up at the elemental, which had turned its head to peer at him, beginning to straighten up.

Ami’s fingers danced nimbly across her strings, and her voice glided upward into a deft arpeggio that seemed almost to fill the courtyard with light. The elemental turned back to face her, seeming to relax again, and shuffled forward a couple of grinding steps, bending closer.

“Ah, good, our specialist,” Basra said sharply. “Schwartz, do something about this.”

“Right,” Schwartz said weakly, staring up at the elemental, then physically shook himself. “Right! I can…yes, I think I can banish it. How did that thing get in here?”

“It didn’t start like that,” Jenell said. “It formed from dust.”

“Dust to stone! That’s amazing! Whoever summoned this must be—ah, yes, right, on topic. Yes, I can still banish it, provided it’s in a weakened state. Ladies, when I give the word, I’ll need you to channel as much raw divine energy at it as possible—but not until I’m prepared! That will make it very angry.”

“Covrin, go get Branwen out here,” Basra said curtly. Jenell darted through the door into the kitchen without another word.

Schwartz, meanwhile, knelt on the ground and pulled several small pouches and vials from within his sleeves, while Meesie scampered down his arm to cling to his hand. “Ami, can you keep it in that position, please? I’ll just need a couple of minutes.”

Ami didn’t even glance at him, nor allow her relaxed posture and kind smile to waver, but switched again to a stanza in Tanglish.

“I hardly have it on a leash!

Be quick about it, Schwartz.

Fine control’s outside my reach.

Nothing rhymes with Schwartz.”

“Warts?” Ildrin suggested; Basra made a slashing motion at her.

Schwartz, meanwhile, had picked Meesie up and bodily dipped her in a bag of powder, held her up to whisper into her twitching ear, then set her back down. The fire-mouse immediately dashed toward the towering elemental, leaving behind a trail of sparkling powder on the ground. Upon reaching it, she began running around it, first in a simple circle, then in more complicated patterns. Gradually, a full spell circle began to form around the elemental’s feet, positioned so that it was entirely inside it, and Ami was just barely within its outer edge.

“Don’t!” Basra said urgently when Ami took a half-step back. “It’s fixated on you, Talaari; it’ll follow you. Retreat when we’re ready to move.”

The bard made no response, continuing to play, sing, and gaze placidly up at the rock elemental.

It made another soft rumble, then reached over with one huge, clumsy hand to grab a small rose bush from nearby. This it ripped right out of the ground, and set down next to Ami.

Meesie’s powder was not running out, fortunately, but it took the tiny elemental time to weave in and out, forming the circle. Schwartz kept his eyes focused on her, expression intent; Ami played on, and Basra stood with her sword at the ready, a half-step in front of Ildrin, whose eyes darted nervously about.

Jenell ran back out the kitchen door, trailed a half-moment later by Branwen, who stared at the scene intently but without apparent alarm.

“Schwartz?” Basra said quietly.

“Almost,” he murmured, beckoning. Meesie dashed back to him, and he gave her a small handful of nuts, which she stuffed into her mouth, making her cheeks bulge comically. “Just another moment…”

Meesie ran back to the spell circle, and made a quick but halting trip around it, pausing every few feet to retrieve an acorn from within her mouth with her nimble front paws and place it in a specific spot on the circle. The whole time, Ami kept up her singing.

The effect was clearly beginning to waver, however. The elemental made another rumbling sound, shifting as if in a shrug. It began clambering back upright.

“Schwartz,” Basra said urgently. For the first time, Ami glanced aside at him, betraying nervousness.

“Done!” he said, as Meesie dashed back toward him. “Swamp it with light and I’ll do the rest!”

“On my signal,” Basra said rapidly, “you two join me at the edge of that circle, and you get out of there, Talaari. Three…two…now!”

She rushed forward, her aura flaring alight, with Branwen and Ildrin flanking her. Ami skittered backward, keeping up her strumming for good measure, but between that and the sudden wash of divine energy, the elemental’s calm was effectively shattered. It threw up one arm to shield its head from the glow, letting out a low, awful roar of displeasure.

Shifting its body around, it drew back its other arm, clearly preparing a devastating punch at Basra, Branwen and Ildrin.

“Herschel!” Jenell cried.

“Got it!” he said, planting his hand, palm-down, on the very edge of the trail Meesie had made toward the elemental, the one feeding into the circle itself.

Rather than anything rising up from the circle, a column of white light slammed down from the sky, filling the space defined by the spell circle and momentarily blotting out the elemental from sight. It let out another unearthly roar, and suddenly the light vanished.

Where it had stood, there was only dust. It didn’t hold together even for a second, collapsing to the ground and washing over them in a cloud that seemed to fill the courtyard. All six staggered backward from it, coughing and spluttering, Ami trying to hold her guitar overhead and out of reach of the tide of grit.

In seconds, however, the dust dissipated as well, seeming to melt back into thin air. Only a few swirls of powder were left on the ground, in and around the remains of Schwartz’s banishment circle. A double handful of fragrant mint leaves drifted on the air, settling gradually to the ground.

Branwen caught one. “What on earth…?”

“Oh, ah, that’s mine,” Schwartz said awkwardly. “Well, I mean, you’re welcome to have it, if you want, but that was conjured by my… That is, it’s perfectly safe! All my doing, nothing to do with whoever called that thing here.”

“Good work, all of you,” Basra said, lowering her sword to her side. “Especially you, Schwartz, and you, Talaari.”

“All in a day’s work,” he said modestly.

“Well, I do have a few uses, if I may say so,” Ami replied with a smug smile. “Don’t think of me as just the bitch with the nice ones.”

“Oh!” Scwhartz’s eyes widened. “Bishop Syrinx! I came out here to tell you—it wasn’t just here! I detected multiple elementals appearing—all over the city!”

In the sudden silence that fell over the courtyard, they finally took note of the sounds drifting in from outside. The normal mild clamor of early evening traffic had been replaced by a distant but distinct cacophony of crashing, splashes, and screams.

“Stop!” Basra barked as Ildrin whirled to dash for the courtyard’s side door. “Running out there with no plan will only make things worse. Back into the house, grab any weapons or supplies you need, and meet at the front door in two minutes. We will find what’s going on and put a stop to it, but in an organized fashion. Go!”

They all turned and moved toward the door, following the Bishop, who suited her words with action by being the first one through. Jenell paused and backtracked a moment to retrieve Basra’s scabbard from the side bench where it still lay.

“You, ah, might want to be careful with the b-word, Ami,” Schwartz said, following the bard in at the tail of their procession. “Avenists really don’t like it.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, turning to give him a coy smile. “Ildrin definitely didn’t, I could tell. But Bishop Syrinx, who is never too shy to express her displeasure about anything? Not even a hint that she’d noticed.” She turned forward again, her smile only broadening as she stepped back into the shadows of the house. “Interesting, is it not?”

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“Oh, the poor darling,” Ami cooed, leaning against the railing to peer down at the passersby in the street below, and one in particular. “All that money, and yet so alone. There’s no one in her life who could tell her she accidentally left the house wearing that.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jenell replied with mock solemnity. “There’s a certain savage grandeur in dressing in the pelt of a slain foe. I wonder if she bagged that sofa herself?”

Ami giggled in wicked delight, and Jenell smiled along, folding her arms. Aside from the armor she still wore, for a little while, it was just like being back at home with the girls. Before…everything.

“You’re good at this game,” Ami acknowledged, grinning up at her. “I almost regret not having had the chance to play before we both had to embark on our very serious careers.”

Jenell raised an eyebrow, but kept her expression light and amused. “Almost?”

“Well, you know very well we’d have torn each other to shreds,” Ami replied, winking. “I can’t speak for you, but I was somewhat lacking in discretion as a girl.”

“Hm, I suspect you’re right,” Jenell said wryly. “Me too. In a way, that’s why I’m here.”

“Oh? Oh, let me guess!” Straightening up from her position, lounging on the bench against the balustrade in a way that showed off her figure (Jenell was fairly sure she wasn’t trying to flirt; anyway, showing off one’s figure tended to become a habit, and a good one in her opinion), she leaned forward, grinning eagerly. “You sharpened your tongue on the wrong person and had to join the army.”

“I’m sure it’s an old story you’ve heard before,” Jenell said, shaking her head. “Yes, that was it exactly; it’s rather humbling to learn I’m so predictable.”

“Oh, pish, tosh, and pooh,” Ami replied, waving a hand. “I know all the stories, darling; that’s both my job and my religion. Dare I ask who you clawed?”

“The princess of Puna Dara,” Jenell said, deadpan.

The bard blinked. “Oh. Oh, my. Oh, dear, forgive me for saying it, but that was considerably less than discreet.”

“Several people have made that point to me, yes.”

“What did she do?” Ami demanded with ghoulish eagerness. “I mean, here you are, alive, so it can’t have been as bad as it could have been.”

“The uncouth little thug actually threatened to stab me,” Jenell snorted, raising her nose. “At a ball! At General Panissar’s own house! Honestly, I don’t know why we have any kind of treaty with those people.”

“Punaji are indeed…charmingly brutish,” Ami said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I assume someone came to your rescue, dear. A Punaji noble would stab you over an insult—and the Princess would probably get away with it. She might have to make a formal apology to the Imperial government, but unless you’re of a very high-ranking House, that would be that.”

Jenell sighed. “Yes, yes, lesson learned. I maintain the little wharf rat had it coming. Princess, my third foot.”

“Well, that’s a good story—one you might think about embellishing a bit before you tell it next time—but I think I can do better.” Ami lounged back against the balustrade, grinning. “I went to school with two of the three paladins.”

“Really.” Jenell straightened from her own position, leaning against the door frame. “Which—oh, never mind, it would have to be the boys. Avelea grew up in a temple, and forgive me, but you don’t seem the type.”

“I am most definitely not the type, and don’t you forget it!” Ami giggled.

“What were they like?”

“Well! Toby was always such a nice lad—and quite good-looking. Good enough to have a nibble at if he weren’t one of those cloyingly sweet ones. You know the type, so nice it’s like they’ve no spark to them at all.”

“Ugh.”

“I see you do know the type! But it’s Gabriel I devoutly hope I never meet again. Honestly, I don’t even care about the demon thing; he was just one of those juvenile blockheads you couldn’t not torment. I may be in luck if we do bump into each other—I doubt he remembers my face. I don’t think the little snot ever once looked at me above the collarbone.”

“What a fine crop the gods have summoned,” Jenell said dryly, shaking her head.

“Oh, you said it, darling. The world’s going right to Hell in a handbasket.”

“There you are,” Basra said, striding onto the balcony and prompting Jenell to leap away from the door, landing at full attention with a salute. “At ease, Covrin, for heaven’s sake. It’s not as if this is any kind of base, and I’m not even enlisted. I see you’re back, Talaari,” she added pointedly, folding her arms. “That’s a bit of a surprise, considering you didn’t trouble to report in.”

“My sincere apologies, your Grace,” Ami said languidly. If anything, she shifted subtly into a more sensuous lounge, and Jenell didn’t miss the way Basra’s eyes darted fleetingly over her. She firmly repressed the several very unpleasant emotions that flickered through her, especially the faint twinge of jealousy, which revolted her to her core. “The morning’s investigations were hardly conclusive in any direction; it will take time to gather any useful results. A campaign such as this—”

“Regardless,” Basra interrupted, “in the future I want regular updates on your efforts, whether you consider them significant or not. I am starved for intel, here; I need every little scrap of information you can bring. And with regard to that, girls, come along. I’ve called the others to the library; we’ll all catch up over lunch.”

“Ah, yes, lunch,” Ami said with mild distaste, rising fluidly to her feet and following the other two women into the house. “What an…interesting…cook you have hired. I don’t mean to complain—”

“That’s a wise policy,” Basra said from the head of the line. “Have you considered not doing it?”

It was a tensely silent walk the rest of the way to the library.

Everyone else was indeed there; Schwartz sat behind the room’s huge desk, scribbling furiously on a piece of modern white paper with an anachronistically old-fashioned feather quill while Meesie ran manic laps over the books and papers cluttering the desktop. Branwen sat in the armchair by the fireplace, hands folded demurely in her lap and regarding the others with a beatific little smile; Ildrin was standing by the window, peering out onto the same street which the balcony overlooked. She whirled at the Bishop’s entrance, stiffening but not quite coming to attention. Though an ordained cleric in Avei’s faith, she had never served in the Legions, and Basra had already spoken sharply to her about mimicking military customs.

The townhouse was spacious, but the “library” deserved the term only for having bookshelves lining two of its walls, and those were only half-filled. It was really more of an expansive study, no bigger than the average bedroom or parlor. With the whole group assembled, it was rather snug.

“Falaridjad,” Basra said by way of greeting, “I thought I asked you to have a meal prepared.”

“I wasn’t sure when everyone would be gathered,” Ildrin said stiffly, “so it was hard to time the…preparation. I am not used to cooking.”

“You jest,” Ami said sweetly.

“Anyway,” the priestess added, tightening her mouth further, “that boy was adamantly against it.”

“You can’t bring food into a library,” Schwartz agreed, finally looking up from whatever he was writing and frowning at Basra in the most direct reproach he had ever shown in her presence. Meesie came to rest atop a stack of books, squeaking in indignant agreement. “Really, your Grace, everyone knows that.”

Basra sighed, momentarily pinching the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb. “All right, fine, whatever. I want a report on everyone’s activities.”

“I burned a pot of rice,” Ildrin said tightly. “Lunch will be sandwiches. Your Grace, quite apart from being insulting, you have me doing work at which I am not skilled; this is pointless.”

“We are all more or less twiddling our thumbs at his point,” Basra said, clearly unaffected by the priestess’s displeasure. “When more constructive work appears, I will put you to it. And you can always leave, if you’re not happy. Next?”

“The residence is secure, ma’am,” Jenell said when no one chimed up after a few seconds. “I’m afraid I’ve achieved little of consequence, either.”

Barsa nodded to her, then directed a distinctly sardonic look at Branwen. “Had a relaxing morning, have you, Snowe?”

“Quite, thank you,” the Izarite said pleasantly. “I have passed a few very calm hours re-acquainting myself with some of the classics. I can’t remember the last time I was able to just sit and read. And really, Basra, Herschel is correct. You can’t serve food in a library.”

“At this juncture I am still waiting to learn what it is you intend to do here,” Basra said.

“Well, for one thing,” Branwen replied calmly, “I am a divine caster of—if I may flatter myself—not insignificant skill, which will be extremely relevant considering that we expect to be battling elementals.”

“Ah, yes,” Basra said, deadpan, “and we all know the vaunted skill in battle of Izara’s clerics.”

“And,” Branwen continued in a gentler tone, “I am a people person. You’re a politician, Bas. There’s a difference. For instance, right now your frustration is causing you to try to alienate half the people working for you. We’re a small group, contending with an elusive foe. One of Izara’s clerics may be exactly what you need to keep everyone functioning and pointed in the same direction.”

Basra shook her head. “Schwartz?”

He winced. “I, uh, I’ve done what I can. There’s a Salyrite chapel in the city; they were kind enough to send me some research materials I requested. Sister Leraine’s writ of support goes a long way, it seems! But, ah, no, there just isn’t a lot I can do from here. I’ve set up some wards and spirit watchers to protect the house from fae incursion, but without more information I really can’t extend that over a wider area. And, you know, some general-purpose wards over the whole city, but frankly I can’t see our mysterious antagonist bumbling into those; it’s more just on general principles. Patrolling the perimeter, and all that. Otherwise I’m, um, sort of… Well, a lot will depend on what Mr. Hargrave comes back with.”

“You can’t do anything from here to counter elemental attacks?” she demanded, turning to him with a scowl.

“Fae magic isn’t like the divine or arcane,” he said, quickly scooping up Meesie when she puffed up menacingly, squeaking at Basra. “It’s not just a matter of pointing your thoughts at an objective. It’s all about connectedness, about sympathetic principles, ab—well, no, I’m going off into a lecture, sorry. Um.” He rubbed his chin, frowning in thought for a moment. “Any working but the very simplest spells requires rituals, reagents, and contact made with various entities. In order to know which to use, I need to know rather specifically what I am doing. In general workings, the kinds of things meant to interact with just the physical world, well, that’s pretty straightforward. But we’re dealing with, specifically, a rival fae caster. One, who, I’m afraid, is rather more powerful than myself. Without information…” He shrugged helplessly, then offered a weak grin. “Now, if you point me at a warlock, I can have them crispy-fried and in a basket for you by dinner!”

“I can crush my own warlocks, thank you,” she said curtly.

“With that said,” Schwartz hurried on, “there is something I can do, but I wanted to clear it with you before taking action, because it’ll result in me being out of commission for a while.”

Basra narrowed her eyes. “Go on.”

“It’s about the shadow elemental we fought, you see. A creation that powerful and sophisticated necessarily has a lot of its creator put into it. With time to study it, I can potentially find a link that we can use to track it back to its maker!”

“It’s a little too destroyed to study,” Jenell commented.

“Yes, exactly,” Shwartz agreed, nodding. “Unfortunately we didn’t have the chance to nail that down at the time. So! I’d like to set up a spell that’ll let me, ah, sort of reach back in time to get some of that information.”

“You can scry through time?” Basra demanded.

“Oh, goodness, no!” he said hastily. “Scrying is arcane craft—well, unless you’re a really advanced…um, sorry, that’s off the topic. No, and anyway, traveling anything through time is asking to get a visit from the Scions of Vemnesthis, which is not pleasant. But!” He tapped his temple, grinning. “I was there. And the memory, while it isn’t as good as firsthand experience, has a lot of data that I didn’t consciously note at the time. That’s just how the brain works, you know! So what I plan to do involves entering a very deep trance to explore my own mind in detail from within, to extract information from that memory and see if I can figure out anything useful. Anything that can give us more intelligence about the person responsible for all this.”

“I like it,” she said, nodding. “Sounds more concrete than anything else thus far.”

“As I said, though,” he continued soberly, “this is a major undertaking. I’ll be out of commission for…gosh, it’ll be hours at the very least. Could well be the whole day. Maybe longer. I didn’t want to just do that without getting your go-ahead. And, uh… I’d rather have the supervision of a healer, if Bishop Snowe or Sister Falaridjad would oblige?”

“Excellent,” she said in a clipped tone. “Well done, Schwartz. Get started on that as soon as you can make the arrangements, and keep me informed.”

“Will do!”

“As of this moment,” she added in a much drier tone, “Schwartz is by a substantial margin the most useful member of this group. All of us should pause and reflect upon our shortcomings.”

“Basra,” Branwen said in gentle reproof, “we are all in the same position you are. Without more information, what can we do?”

“That brings us to our last member,” Basra said, turning to Ami, “who has actually been doing something all morning. Or so I sincerely hope.”

“Yes, yes, you needn’t worry,” Ami said haughtily. “I have been out in the city, listening and learning. There are indeed stirrings of unease regarding the incidents in question, but information is scarce. In an environment such as that, rumor flourishes, which muddies the waters. Rumors, now, those I can chase down—given time. However, like Mr. Schwartz, I am only in the very beginning stages of my own campaign. These things take time. I have visited several of the city’s most upscale establishments under the pretense of seeking permission to perform; I had a productive time overhearing gossip and asking innocent questions, but of course, nothing is open at this hour. Actually getting to the gentry will have to wait till they are free from their hangovers and pursuing the next ones.”

“Never been to Viridill before, have you?” Jenell asked dryly. “You seem to be expecting more excitement than there is.”

“Upscale establishments?” Basra said sharply. “I’d prefer a broader range of investigation. Even here, are surely a variety of taverns, tea rooms, shroom farms…”

“Your Grace,” Ami said in evident horror, “I have a reputation! A method, a persona, and for a bard, all of those are interconnected! I simply cannot be loitering about in unclean hellholes—really, a person like me!”

Basra closed her eyes. “Goddess, save me. Bards, witches, glorified temple prostitutes… This is what I have to work with.”

“In any case,” Ami continued, sticking her nose in the air, “I have chosen my methods for a reason, not simply because I enjoy the finer things in life. One learns so much more from the rich and powerful; they know things that no one else does, and have a perspective that sees farther as a rule. True, one sacrifices some of the more wide-reaching viewpoints of the common folk…but where the high and mighty congregate, so too do their servants.” She winked roguishly. “And those frequently offer the best of both worlds.”

“Hang on.” Basra turned her back on the bard, frowning suddenly at Schwartz. “If you’re in as much of a waiting phase as the rest of us, Schwartz, what were you working on so furiously there? That needed materials from your cult?”

“Oh!” Schwartz cleared his throat uncomfortably, shuffling papers. “Ah, well, I did try a basic divination. The fae arts don’t give precise detail like scrying, as you probably know; oracular divinations are all but impossible to block, but, ah…how shall I put this…”

“Tactically useless,” Basra said, grimacing.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say… Okay, yes, that’s kind of a fair point. But still, I figured, what’s the harm in trying, right? Any little thing we learn, after all!”

“Since you didn’t see fit to report on your results,” she retorted, “I gather they were, in a word, useless.”

“Oh, well, um…yes, I’m afraid so.” He shrugged awkwardly. “It’s like dream imagery. All symbolism and…well. I have managed to identify the broken tree I saw!” he offered, holding up one volume whose cover labeled it a book of the mystical correspondences of plants. “But as for what it means… A lame wolf and a broken aspen, a snake that turned into a man, a crow circling overhead.” Again he shrugged. “I’ll be keeping an eye open in the coming days, needless to say, but sadly, things like this are seldom clear except after the fact.”

“Well,” Ami said archly. “That all sounds tremendously morbid.”

“All right,” Basra said curtly. “Then unless anyone has anything else?”

A chilly silence met her. Branwen sighed very softly into it.

“Fine,” said Basra. “That’s it for now, then. Snowe, Talaari, keep me appraised of your comings and goings; the rest of you, stay in the house unless I tell you otherwise. And Falaridjad… Look, just put together some sandwiches. Can you manage not to burn that?”

Outside the library window, a shadow detached itself from the wall and slid silently down it to the street below, where it vanished into a storm drain.

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10 – 22

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“I like this place!” Schwartz announced, leaning over the carved stone bannister to grin down at them.

“Oh, you do,” Basra said tonelessly, not lifting her eyes from the Governor’s folder, which she had been studying almost non-stop since receiving it. “Great. That’s a load off my mind. I was very concerned.”

The residence granted them by the Governor was spacious, but compactly fitted in its genteel neighborhood due to is efficient layout; it came furnished, and its size and style of décor suggested a middling level of wealth. Lower nobility or a fairly prosperous merchant might own such a home. It was altogether very typical of Viridill—and thus Avenist—sensibilities, being built of simple local granite with white marble accents in the interior, its trappings of fine quality but not ostentatious in style, and running toward the faux militaristic. The walls were adorned sparingly with banners heralding no House, nation or military unit that actually existed, plus a few mounted weapons of fanciful design clearly not meant for actual battle; the corners of the main hall were guarded by stands bearing suits of Avenic-style bronze armor inlaid with silver and ivory.

Schwartz, looking a little crestfallen at Basra’s chilly reception, ducked back behind the balustrade, then continued down the stairs to rejoin the group on the ground floor.

“Well, it is a nice place,” he said somewhat defensively. “There’s plenty of room for everyone, and even a serviceable library!”

“What makes a library serviceable?” Jenell asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I mean, it’s…stocked? Just from a cursory look I gather the books were collected more for showing off than reading. It’s all classics and very fine editions of unremarkable literature. Not to sound conceited or anything, but I rather doubt I’ll learn much from browsing there!”

“You’re not here to browse books,” Basra said curtly, turning a page. “And with regard to how much room there is for everyone, Branwen, exactly how many people did you recruit for this operation?”

“Just the two, Bas,” Branwen replied with an amused little smile.

“And I’m ready to be of service in any way I can, ma’am!” the newest member of their party said stiffly. Variations on that theme had been the primary thrust of her commentary thus far—she seemed to be growing nervous at Basra’s persistent disinterest.

Ildrin Falaridjad was a woman of remarkably middling appearance; her nondescript brown hair, light brown eyes and pale brown complexion supported the mixed ancestry hinted at by her Stalweiss name and Tiraan surname. She wore the simple white robe of the Sisterhood’s civilian clergy, without even a weapon, though she seemed to be trying to mimic a military bearing. Unsuccessfully, if Basra and Covrin’s unfriendly regard were any indication.

“Any way you can?” Basra asked, finally lifting her eyes to give the priestess a very level stare.

“Absolutely, your Grace!” Ildrin said firmly, nodding.

“Good,” Basra said, returning her attention to the papers. “I’m placing you in charge of KP.”

“Um.” Ildrin glanced at the others; Schwartz and Branwen looked as nonplussed as she, while Covrin made a show of smothering a smile. “I’m sorry, what does that mean?”

“I note that the Governor did not see fit to provide us any domestic staff along with this residence,” Basra said, still reading. “That’s your job. Keep our facilities in order, see to provisions.”

“B-b-but that’s…cooking and cleaning,” Ildrin sputtered. “That’s housekeeping work!”

Branwen sighed. “Basra…”

“I know who you are, Sister Ildrin,” Basra said, looking up at her again, her face ominously expressionless. “You have a certain reputation in certain circles. I know exactly where this one dug you up,” she paused to jerk a thumb at Branwen, who made a wry face. “I have a pretty good idea what to expect from you, and only the fact that I have an actual use for a warm body to deal with domestic tasks prevents me from chasing you right out of here. Prove that you have further use and won’t cause trouble, and I’ll find more interesting work for you. Otherwise, you can leave and resume whatever you were doing before Bishop Snowe disrupted your orderly little life. It is very much all the same to me.”

A bell rang from the foyer beyond the main hall, and Branwen rose smoothly from her seat against the wall. “I think I had better answer that,” she said, giving Basra a pointed look as she passed on the way to the door. Her fellow Bishop made no acknowledgment, turning another page and resuming her study.

“I won’t disappoint you, your Grace,” Ildrin said with grim certainty, having taken advantage of the momentary distraction to compose her features.

“Not twice, you won’t,” Basra murmured.

The sound of voices echoed from the foyer, muffled by the inefficient acoustics and the heavy velvet drapes decorating the doorway, but the sound just served to highlight the chilly silence that fell across the group in the hall. Jenell stood calmly at parade rest, while Basra appeared fully engrossed in her study of the Governor’s reports. Ildrin, however, was a portrait of unhappiness, and Schwartz kept glancing around, looking increasingly awkward.

“So!” he said after a tense few moments. “I, uh, I wonder who that is at the door.”

“Mr. Schwartz,” said Basra, again not lifting her gaze from the reports, “I am a career politician; my life’s work involves listening to a lot of bloviating, lies, obfuscation and self-congratulatory noise. That, I suspect, is the only reason your last comment is not the single most pointless use of human breath I have ever heard.”

Jenell bit her lips, repressing a smile with more sincerity this time, but the look she gave the crestfallen witch was oddly sympathetic. Sitting upright in his slightly unkempt hair, Meesie puffed herself up and squeaked indignantly at Basra. Predictably and fortunately, this garnered no reaction.

Before the situation could become any more awkward, the voices from without grew louder, and Branwen and the new arrival entered the hall.

“…no disrespect, of course, your Grace, but this has been the most frustrating morning. I appreciate the message you left for me at the Rail station, but no one at the Temple of Avei had any idea what I was talking about, and the personnel at the Imperial government office were most unhelpful until I finally got in touch with ohhh no!” Coming to a stop in the doorway, the new arrival dropped the expensive carpet bag in her left hand to point melodramatically at Basra. “Absolutely not! I’ve had quite enough of this one’s antics for one lifetime, thank you! Good day.”

She was a tall, strikingly pretty young woman with waves of luxuriant black hair tumbling down her back, which she immediately showed them by turning on her heel. Branwen caught her arm before she could take another step—if, indeed, she had actually intended to, considering her bag was still on the floor.

“Now, Ms. Talaari, please wait a moment,” the Izarite urged placatingly.

“Hello, Ami,” Basra said, raising an eyebrow sardonically. “I was told you’d be coming. Is there a problem?”

“Oh, you were told, is that it?” Ami Talaari replied, half-turning again to give her a haughty stare. Her position was well-chosen, giving the group a view of her impressive profile as well as allowing her a dramatically sidelong glare at them. “How marvelous. I’m sure you’d just love another opportunity to try to have me scalped by Huntsmen of Shaath, since it didn’t take the last time.”

“Scalped?” Schwartz exclaimed. Meesie cheeped in mirrored alarm.

“Um…” Ildrin frowned. “Huntsmen don’t do that.”

“Young woman, what in the world are you talking about?” Basra asked, closing the folder and lowering it to her side.

“Oh, that’s rich,” Ami spat, tossing her head. “You offered me a task in good faith, and instead of the simple Legion training exercise you promised, I found myself waylaid by the Thieves’ Guild and informed I had come within a hair’s breadth of infuriating a party of heavily armed Huntsmen—men belligerent enough to attack a unit of the Silver Legions!”

“Wait, Huntsmen attacked Legionnaires?” Ildrin demanded. “When was this? I would have heard about that!”

“You would have,” Basra said dryly, “because no such thing took place. Ms. Talaari did indeed help me with a training exercise for a small special forces unit, and performed rather well. Better than they did, anyway. It’s also true she subsequently ran afoul of interfaith politics that I failed to anticipate—I did not actually expect the Thieves’ Guild to interfere in that. I made arrangements for you to be amply compensated for the trouble, Ami,” she added, narrowing her eyes. “I was told the Guild did not mishandle you unduly. Was that in error?”

“Oh, they were very polite,” Ami said scathingly. “As a bard, I quite admired their skill at making it clear I was one wrong move from a slit throat without actually saying anything overtly threatening. Such wordplay! It would all have been deeply educational, had I not been terrified for my life!”

“Grandstanding and bluster,” Basra sad dryly. “Ironically, you’re only at significant risk of having your throat slit by the Thieves’ Guild if you are in it.”

“Which is all well and good now,” Ami continued, glaring down her nose at the Bishop. “And they didn’t lay a finger on me, it’s true. I was rather more perturbed to learn you deliberately set me up to profane a Shaathist religious rite and antagonize a cell of Huntsmen!”

“I say,” Schwartz muttered, blinking rapidly.

“Who told you that?” Basra demanded.

Ami seemed taken aback by her suddenly sharp tone. “I… That is, the Eserites were actually quite informative while they…”

“So you’re telling me,” Basra said scornfully, “you believed a story spun for you by the armed thugs holding you prisoner?”

“Well—I— Why would they lie?”

“How is that even a question?” Basra shot back, her tone disparaging. “Ami, I truly am sorry you were caught up in that fiasco—as I said, I did my best to make sure you were compensated for your hardships. The truth is, both the Huntsmen and the Thieves’ Guild were butting in where they had no business being; the Legionnaires being trained scarcely avoided conflict with both. Honestly, I thought better of you than this based on your performance. Both cults had to begin spinning stories to make themselves look innocent of wrongdoing. By the time everyone got through filling the air with contradictions, the story was so muddled we were never able to prosecute anyone for their actions, nor even lodge a complaint with the Church that would have been taken seriously. Frankly, I missed my best chance to have investigators dig into the mess while it was fresh enough to do so because I was busy making sure my Legionnaires and you were unharmed and properly cared for. Please tell me you received the remuneration I requisitioned for you?”

“Well, yes… And that was appreciated, but…”

“But?” Basra planted her fists on her hips, bending the Governor’s folder. “You are actually holding out for more?”

“Now, see here,” Ami protested more weakly.

“You performed your duties competently, but it wasn’t as if the dramatic chops the task required were that substantial. Honestly, Talaari, I am not certain why Bishop Snowe contacted you for this task, and I am increasingly unconvinced that your help will be needed.”

“Basra, really,” Branwen said reprovingly. “That is enough. Don’t badger the girl, she’s already had a hard enough time, it seems. Ami, dear, could I talk with you for a moment?” Smiling up at the taller woman, she gently tugged her toward the side door into the dining room. “In here, if you please. I believe we can clear all this up.”

“I’m not so certain I want to clear anything up,” Ami complained, even as she was led unresistingly away. “Quite apart from the trouble I’ve already had, it doesn’t sound like…”

Branwen shut the heavy oak door behind them, cutting off sound.

Basra heaved an irritated sigh. “Well, how marvelously helpful Branwen has turned out to be.”

“Shall I ask those two to absent themselves from the mission, ma’am?” Jenell asked.

“No,” Basra said curtly, rapidly sweeping her glance across those still in the hall. “The common theme I’m detecting among the personnel available here is that each may be specifically useful in this task, if you can all control some of your more annoying habits—Snowe included. I’ve been considering strategy while perusing the Governor’s reports. So far, there’s nothing in them I didn’t already learn at the Abbey. Right now, the problem is that we are stuck waiting on others: on Hargrave to report back with his findings, and worse, on the shaman responsible for these problems to carry out more attacks, and hopefully make a mistake. This is not an acceptable state of affairs. I intend to go on the offensive.”

“I say,” Schwartz said worriedly. “That does sound rather…well, unsafe.”

“This is war, Schwartz,” Basra retorted. “It’s not meant to be safe. But this particular conflict is spread widely through a civilian-occupied area, and quite apart from the risk to life, limb and property posed by these attacks, it’s going to be necessary for us to manage the perceptions of the local populace while hunting down the perpetrator. In particular, we have to find a way to be magically aggressive in the fae realm without antagonizing Viridill’s resident witches, who can either be tremendously helpful in this, or make our tasks far more difficult. Schwartz, we need to have a long discussion about the possibilities there; I require a full briefing on certain aspects of fae magic.”

“Well, I mean, that is,” he stammered, “it really depends on what exactly you intend…”

“We’ll go over it. The other relevant concern is that the specific skills of an Izarite priestess and a bard will be exceedingly useful in the days to come. In addition to pacifying the natives, we need to be reaching out into the community and fishing up answers. I don’t mind admitting that wrangling bumpkins is not part of my skill set.”

“I can definitely help with that,” Ami announced, reemerging abruptly from the dining room with her chin held high. Between her bearing, her obviously detailed personal grooming, and her expensive taste in dresses, she managed to look positively regal, despite her recent outbursts. “People talk to a bard even if they’ve no intention of talking to anyone, including themselves.”

“I…wait, what?” Ildrin said, frowning.

“She means,” Branwen said from behind Ami, “we will both be glad to help.”

“So you’ve decided to stay on, have you?” Basra dryly asked the bard.

“Yes, well.” Ami shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, inspecting her nails. “Bishop Snowe explained what has been happening here, and the importance of the task. A true bard does not flee from hazard.”

“Wow,” Schwartz muttered, “that was fast.”

“Uh, really?” Ildrin inquired. “I think we’ve read some very different stories about bards.”

“In any case,” Ami added more loudly, “this being a worthwhile duty and not a silly training exercise, if it does prove to be dangerous, at least that will serve as an appropriate and worthy use of my talents.”

“Great,” Basra said with a long-suffering look. “Then Schwartz can lead the way to this alleged library; we all need to have a discussion. I’ve the bones of a strategy in mind, but I need a deeper understanding of the assets I’m working with before we can move.”

“I have my things in the foyer,” Ami said haughtily. “I’ll need those taken to my quarters.”

“Oh, will you,” Ildrin said, folding her arms and staring disapprovingly. “Is there a reason you can’t pick up after yourself?”

“Yes, Sister, there is,” Basra said, giving her a chilly little smile. “We happen to have someone on staff whose job that is. Hop to it, KP.”

By early afternoon, Ingvar had mostly gotten over his disgruntlement at Darling’s continued physical performance. Admitting how childish and irrational it was in the first place helped, as did assuring himself that recognizing Darling’s abilities imposed upon him no obligation to like the man. And indeed, it enabled him to be properly amused at the sight of the city-dwelling Eserite hiking through the mountains in his loud suit. No matter how uncomplaining and unwinded he was by the exertion, that remained funny.

Ingvar mostly kept his peace on their trek, aware that the Shadow Hunters—or Rangers, or whatever it pleased them to call themselves—were leading them on a wide arc into the mountains rather than a straight route across the valley ahead, the purpose for which he could not see. He wasn’t about to speak up and ask, though. Raichlin would surely have said something up front if he had intended to, and if he were up to something shifty…well, there was no sense in revealing and Ingvar had spotted it. That didn’t seem likely, though; they surely wouldn’t expect a Huntsman to be so easily misdirected in a mountain forest. Whether Joe and Darling had noticed anything he couldn’t say, though he strongly suspected not.

“Ah,” Raichlin said suddenly as they rounded a rocky outcropping and a view of the valley below opened up. “Stop here a moment, gentlemen—this is worth seeing.”

“It’s quite a vista,” Darling agreed, stepping up next to him. “You don’t see this kind of thing in—oh! Wolves!”

Ingvar and Joe pushed forward to join him, while Frind and Liesl backed away, smiling. The three men crowded together at a narrow point between pine trunks, gazing avidly down into the valley.

It wasn’t hugely far below, just distant enough that their presence would not be evident to the creatures there, but close enough that they could see the wolves clearly. They were typical Stalweiss mountain wolves, though perhaps a little larger (it was difficult to gauge the distance exactly) and with maybe a bit more brown in their coats than those Ingvar had heard and read of. Then again, he’d not seen the wolves of the Stalrange in person before. These could be utterly typical, for all he knew.

Typical or not, they truly were magnificent beasts. There were six of them, lolling about in the mountain heather; they rolled and nipped playfully at one another, seeming completely at ease, while the two smallest—doubtless the youngest—chased each other in circles around the rest of the pack.

“Beautiful creatures,” Joe whispered in a tone of awe, and Ingvar once again felt a surge of fondness for the boy. For a young man raised outside the faith, Joe had a good head on his shoulders. He was already more sensible than Tholi in a number of ways.

“Aren’t wolves nocturnal?” Darling asked after a few minutes of watching the creatures gamboling in the heather.

“Largely,” Ingvar murmured. “Their behavior varies somewhat; dusk is their favorite time to hunt. It is peculiar to see them so active this close to midday…”

“Kind of exposed out there, ain’t they?” Joe added. “Not that I’m any kind of expert. Biggest things we’ve got out where I’m from is coyotes. But I always figured wolves liked forests more than open spaces.”

“They are supremely versatile hunters,” said Raichlin. “Wolves prosper in an amazing variety of environments. Still, you’re correct; this isn’t exactly typical behavior for the species. We are the second party to head out from the lodge today; those who got an earlier start were out encouraging the pack to gather here.”

“Really?” Darling asked. “You herded them here on purpose?”

“You don’t herd wolves,” Raichlin said in amusement. “You can drive them, but not usually for very long. The central difference between herd animals and pack animals is whether they run from or at you. In any case, no—we don’t do anything so brutish to these, nor allow anyone else to tamper with them. This pack is special. We have a long-standing relationship with them; they know the Rangers who operate in these valleys, and we have an understanding of sorts. To an extent, they accommodate us, and vice versa. For the inconvenience of being out today for our purposes, they’ll be provided with an easy meal.”

“You brought the wolves? This is what you wanted us to see?” Ingvar demanded, refusing to let his sudden unease show on his face. Wolves were not merely sacred in Shaath’s faith—they were considered nigh-mystical creatures, mysterious, unapproachable, untameable. That these Ranger could establish such a rapport with a wild pack was a claim he had trouble crediting.

And yet…there they were, relaxed and happy, showing no signs of having been driven from their preferred habitat, despite this being the wrong time of day for them to be out.

“You don’t really bring wolves,” Raichlin murmured, watching the animals as closely as the others were, now. “But friends sometimes choose to indulge one another. Yes—these play a central role in the rite we brought you up here to observe. But this isn’t the place, gentlemen. Come along, further up and farther in! It’s not much farther now.”

They only tore their gazes away from the wolf pack with reluctance, but Raichlin had already headed off into the trees, Frind and Liesl trailing him. It was follow or be left.

He was true to his word, anyway. They hiked on for less than another half hour before the trail arrived at a ledge overlooking the valley, with a natural cave mouth behind it. A few feet in, heavy hides had been tacked over the entrance, indicating that this place saw regular use. Their arrival was clearly awaited; another woman in Ranger gear sat on an improvised stool consisting of an uprooted stump, stirring a pot of something. Ingvar noted with disapproval that she wasn’t using a proper fire, but an arcane camp stove. Well, on the other hand, it produced no smoke or scent, which might be an issue if they were trying not to alarm the wolves below.

“There you are,” she said softly, smiling up at them.

“What’s that supposed to mean, there we are?” Raichlin demanded in mock offense. “I know you haven’t been waiting that long, Tabitha.”

“On the contrary,” she said, winking. “I expected to be up here longer. You three and Brother Ingvar would have no trouble in the mountains, of course, but you were bringing a couple of city boys…”

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss,” said Joe, tipping his hat, “but I’m a small town boy, personally. Makes a difference.”

“I stand corrected,” she said gravely. “Liesl, the mugs are inside the waystation, there, if you would.”

“Oh, yes, I see,” Liesl said, nodding. “You can’t fetch them because your legs are broken. I’m so sorry, Tabs.”

“Yours could end up that way if you sass me, youngling!”

“Ladies,” Raichlin said reprovingly. “We’re here on spiritual business. Flirt on your own time.”

Liesl stuck her tongue out at him, but turned and flounced into the cave, shoving the hanging bear pelt aside.

Frind snorted a soft laugh. “C’mon over here, boys, your journey is at an end.”

“This is a lovely spot,” Darling said, following him toward the protruding edge of the flat outcropping. “Is this natural, or did you carve it out?”

“A little of both,” said Frind, seating himself on a rounded, flattish rock set into the ground and pointing at a few others nearby. There were eight of them, arranged in a semicircle and clearly having been placed there deliberately. “The ledge and the cave were just here, but we’ve made some improvements for our purposes. Now, pick a rock and pop a squat, elven style.” He demonstrated by crossing his legs under him. “About face, Joe, you’ll wanna be looking out at the valley.”

“Oh, sorry ’bout that,” Joe said quickly turning himself around somewhat awkwardly without getting up. Ingvar had already seated himself, and Darling was in the process of folding his legs under him. Oddly enough, he seemed slightly uncomfortable with the position—the first time in this trip Ingvar had seen him so.

“Not at all, don’t worry about a thing,” Frind said easily.

“There are no mistakes here,” Raichlin added, joining himself and taking a seat on the other side of the group from his fellow Ranger. “It would be very hard to mess this up—any personal touches you add to the rite will only serve to make it more meaningful to you. We don’t go in for a lot of needless ceremony.”

“This rite,” Ingvar said carefully, settling his palms on his knees. “What, exactly, does this entail?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll guide you through it,” Raichlin assured him. “In a moment Liesl will be back with—and there she is. No, don’t worry about them, gentlemen; we’ll arrange everything. For now, keep your eyes on the wolves.”

“What am I looking for?” Darling asked curiously, though he obeyed, leaning forward slightly to peer down at the great hunters below. The wolves seemed less playful and more sleepy now, a couple of the younger ones still bouncing about but the others mostly curled up together in the heather.

“Just the wolves,” Raichlin said. “This is the beginning. We’ll have something for you to drink momentarily—just sip at it, it’ll help calm the mind and invigorate the spirit after that hike. But keep your attention on the wolves themselves. Don’t worry about any particular aspect, just focus on whatever seems most interesting to you. Consider them, wonder about what you don’t know, ponder what you do. Imagine the sensation of that fur under your hands, the sound of their howling. If you’ve never heard or felt the like, don’t stress yourself. Let your mind supply whatever images it finds most relateable.”

As he droned on, Liesl appeared silently, bearing cups of the steaming brew Tabitha had apparently spent the morning preparing. Its scent was mild, a savory herbal aroma with earthy undertones, but matched what had wafted from the pot. Ingvar accepted a mug, lifting it to his nose to sniff at it before taking a tiny sip. The taste wasn’t exactly pleasing, but…not bad.

But then, taste wasn’t the point. This wasn’t exactly like any rite of Shaath that he knew, but parts formed a pattern that was familiar. The warm drink, Raichlin’s softly droning voice serving to keep them on the subject. For a fleeting moment, suspicion and unease flared up again, but he quickly let them go. He was here. This was what he had come for. The trail was before him; he walked it willingly.

It was not hard at all to follow directions; the peculiar tea was indeed calming, seeming to help his mind focus. He studied the great predators lolling in the heather below, taking in every detail his eyes could discern at that distance. The pattern of their pelts, the way they moved, they way they interacted with each other…

As he watched, taking occasional sips and listening to Raichlin drone on, it seemed that more details came to him, flashes of insight and perceptions that should have been beyond him. The warmth of the canines’ breath, the sounds they made to one another. Thick, coarse fur beneath his fingers, rubbing against his skin. The wild scent of them. Golden eyes, clear and piercing in the daylight. Golden eyes, glowing in the dark.

Howls echoing from the hills, as the pack called to one another. Panting and the quick pumping of legs as they raced through the darkened forest, the eagerness of the hunt, the scent of prey guiding them.

Trust in the brothers and sisters running alongside, the pack a single organism. The night, the hunt, hot breath, warm blood.

Trust, hunger, joy, freedom.

When the mug slipped from his fingers, he didn’t even notice.

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10 – 19

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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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“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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“You can make an elemental of anything, really,” Schwartz explained with the reedy enthusiasm of an intellectual holding forth on his topic of special interest. “For starters, they come in the basic elements I’m sure you’ve heard of: fire, water, air, earth. But you almost have to add some structure to them, otherwise… Well, they don’t do much except, um…burn, be wet, sit there… I mean, elementals in their pure state are really the most extraordinarily laid-back creatures—all they want to do is just be one with the elements! Meesie, here, is a fire elemental, as you may have guessed.”

He held up one hand, and the little red weasel-rat darted down his arm as if on command to sit upright on his palm, twitching her whiskers at the audience. The surrounding elves leaned forward obligingly, which was a purely social gesture, considering they could probably see individual strands of the creature’s fur.

“So…that was a formless spirit,” Basra said skeptically, “and it looks like that because…you decided it should?”

“I think she’s cute,” Covrin remarked. Basra pointedly did not acknowledge that asinine comment.

“Thank you!” Schwartz beamed. “Yes, she is cute, isn’t she? A good companion as well as a useful familiar. But yes, your Grace, an elemental’s form is the creation of its summoner. Like those we saw earlier! Most impressive—two forms, bear and dog, and that most intriguing shade of blue flame, with the orange bits as flourish! Points for style!”

He grinned broadly at Adimel, the elvish shaman who had led the group sent to intercept them; the shaman smiled back, more reservedly but apparently sincerely, and nodded in acknowledgement.

“But yes, anyway,” Schwartz continued, “beyond form, there’s…well, you can alter the substance of an elemental. It’s not just will and mathematics like arcane magic—in truth, it’s more like magical chemistry, or alchemy. Turning one substance into another substance is a matter of making it interact with other substances until you get the one you wanted as a result. It can be quite complex! Why, my friend Aislen made this sort of dual-substance earth elemental, all white marble, but with silver joints for flexibility! Remarkable work, she still has it back at the temple. Very good for heavy lifting. Oh, and the things you can do with air elementals! Air is tricky to work with, but for purely practical reasons; in terms of its magical resonances it operates actually quite predictably and simply, and that means you can make an elemental spirit of virtually any gaseous substance you can imagine! Well, I mean, virtually. Hah, back in my apprentice days, I recall the lads and I got this idea from sniffing whiskey fumes—you see, we’d just been reading about a vodka elemental that got summoned in the Imperial Palace once…”

Basra did not lunge across the fire and throttle him. People were watching.

“And shadow elementals?” she said patiently.

Equidistant between them around the fire pit, Elder Linsheh gave her a look accompanied by a conspirational little smile of amusement.

Basra forced herself to mirror it perfectly. Ha ha, look at the time-wasting nincompoop boy, what a funny joke they were sharing. Trying to throttle the elf was an even worse idea. Also, it wouldn’t work.

“Shadow, yes, right. Shadow.” It took an almost visible effort for Schwartz to gather his focus. “Yes, well… I was speaking of how you can indulge your creativity in shaping elementals. Why, if you know your physics and chemistry and have a good handle on the principles of sympathetic magic, the sky’s the limit! But, yes, back on point… There are certain standards, some basic forms that everyone can do because they are well-known, documented, and widely used. Ranging from your very basic dust devils that students create for exercises to some extremely complex entities. The shadow elemental is one of those. It’s… Hmm, how to put it… I suppose you could consider it the elemental counterpart to a Vanislaad demon.”

“A Vanislaad?” Basra exclaimed, increasingly sure that this dithering fool hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.

“Perhaps, Mr. Schwartz, you wouldn’t mind if I interjected?” Elder Linsheh said mildly.

“Oh!” Schwartz blinked at the Elder. “Oh, I mean, of course, ma’am, my apologies… I mean, that is, obviously this is your home and I’m sure you know far more than I about—well, I should expect almost everything!”

“Thank you,” the Elder said with a smile before turning back to Basra. “I wouldn’t consider constructs of that nature comparable to a child of Vanislaas in capability, but there are parallels in purpose. Shadow elementals have a number of useful traits that were not displayed during your encounter. They can assume any form, though their ability to mimic people persuasively is limited—they are not actually highly intelligent. In addition to the shape-changing, they can also be invisible, and not merely conventionally so; they have a gift for evading magical wards and senses, as well. However, as you discovered, they are very weak in combat. Those false shadowbolts, like the infernal originals, cause pain and numbness, but unlike the real thing can do no serious damage, and they are its only weapon.”

“It had claws,” Basra pointed out.

“Yes,” Linsheh agreed, nodding. “But those were protrusions of the same kind of energy.”

Basra frowned. “You describe this as…basically a scouting servitor. Useful for espionage, not combat.”

“Precisely.”

“But…it charged right at us. Quite aggressively.”

Elder Linsheh glanced at Adimel, who looked grave, before turning back to Basra and nodding again. “So I understand. And that, Bishop Syrinx, adds a troubling new dimension to this matter.”

“The creation of a shadow elemental is not a simple task,” said Adimel. “It requires reagents and resources in considerable quantities and of great rarity to perform the crafting. The power needed is also well beyond what the average witch would willingly devote to the creation of a servant. The relatively few human witches who possess such things treasure them greatly, and would not risk one in an open confrontation such as we saw today.”

“Human witches?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“I would like to say that elves to not work such craft,” he said with a distasteful grimace, “but in truth, all I could tell you in certainty is that no one in our grove does. I would think it unlikely that any wood elf would do so. The means necessary to create a shadow elemental… Well. Your Mr. Schwartz could probably elaborate, later, if you are truly curious.”

Schwartz wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, that was troubling me as well. I really can’t picture the average elf doing such a thing.”

“The average wood elf,” Linsheh clarified. “Our nomadic cousins on the plains are more pragmatic in many respects…but that poses its own counterpoints. They rarely find the resources, nor the time spent in one place, necessary for such a working.”

“Also, there are no plains elves here,” Covrin pointed out.

“Indeed,” Adimel said gravely. “They have avoided Imperial territory most assiduously since word of the Cobalt Dawn’s disaster spread. It has been years since I have seen any this far south.”

“Not humans and not elves,” Basra said, drumming her fingers on her thigh. “What does that leave?”

“We have only ruled out the possibility of these cultures, in any organized fashion, doing such a thing,” Linsheh said.. “Individuals are just that. I believe, based on the evidence, that our culprit is a lone individual, and apparently one separated from her or his people. Moreover, it is someone dangerous, and extremely powerful.”

“Well, that sort of goes without saying, doesn’t it?” Schwartz remarked.

“Not just powerful magically,” said Basra, glancing at him. “What we faced today wasn’t an attack—it was a message. The person behind that elemental was making it plain that they can squander rare, valuable servants on tasks not suited to them just to make a point.”

“And,” Covrin said quietly, “that they know who we are and what we’re doing, almost as soon as we started doing it. The story hasn’t even had time to spread.”

“Unless that Mr. Hargrave was behind it,” Schwartz mused.

“I find that hard to credit,” said Elder Linsheh. “Hamelin Hargrave is known to us—he is without apparent malice, and too invested in the society of Viridill to disrupt it in this manner.”

“The drow,” Covrin said suddenly. “The entrance to Tar’naris is in Viridill.”

Linsheh shook her head. “For many thousands of years, the Narisians made convenient specters to blame whenever something mysterious befell this land. No more, though. Now, they are more closely tied to the Empire than we. And Queen Arkasia has no sense of humor toward those who disrupt her dealings.”

“Besides,” Adimel added, “they don’t practice the fae arts.”

“Don’t,” Covrin said pointedly, “or can’t?”

“Don’t,” he replied, nodding to her with a smile. “Narisians field Themynrite priestesses and the very occasional mage. They abhor warlocks as Scyllithene monsters, and disdain the way of the shaman for its association with us. It is just like the human witches, or the other elves. This could be a Narisian drow, for all we know. Or anyone else. But Tar’naris is no more behind this than our grove, or a plains tribe, or the loose collective of witches in Viridill.”

“And now we are exactly where we were to begin with,” Basra said, staring into the fire. “Speculating.”

A silence fell, each of them occupied with their own thoughts.

Until the conversation had turned to business, it had been a quite pleasant lunch. The hospitality of the grove could not be criticized; they’d been fed well with fresh fruit and game in an outdoor meeting space between three massive trees festooned with rope bridges and snug little treehouses. Ostensibly the entire circle of this grove’s Elders had come to meet with them, but only Elder Linsheh had actually participated in the discussion. That was standard; elves preferred to keep themselves aloof, designating specific individuals to interface with visitors on behalf of the tribe. Basra had never had occasion to visit a grove before, but she had been well briefed on their habits. What was known of their habits, anyway.

“Well,” said Schwartz at last, “it seems to me we’ve made a little progress. We know whoever is behind the elemental attacks is aware of and targeting us, and has tremendous assets they can afford to throw away!” He seemed to wilt, shrinking inward and wrapping his arms around himself; Meesie clambered up onto his shoulder, patting his cheek and squeaking in concern. “So…not encouraging progress. But it’s not nothing.”

“Hargrave,” said Basra, “mentioned that his own attempts to track this lead toward Athan’Khar.”

Adimel’s expression grew even grimmer. Linsheh sighed, shaking her head.

“This is not characteristic of an eldei alai’shi,” she said. “However… If it happened that one could drum up enough restraint, it is not impossible. One of those could have the means. At issue is that they never last long enough to enact such complex plans, nor have they the evenness of mind for such subtlety. They are mad, and swiftly destroy themselves in their desire to destroy their enemies.”

“Do you know of any currently active, though? Basra demanded.

Again, Linsheh shook her head. “Our grove was visited by two some years ago, bringing us refugees from the plains. Those we took in, but we did not allow the headhunters to linger.”

“Two?” Covrin exclaimed in horror.

“Most unusual,” Linsheh mused. “But as I said, that has been several years. They are undoubtedly dead by now.”

“I say,” Schwartz protested. “I don’t recall hearing about two headhunters being killed!”

“Nor would you,” Adimel said wryly, “nor would we. The Empire officially denies that they exist—as it does with almost everything pertaining to Athan’Khar. Eldei alai’shi are dealt with by strike teams, usually at the cost of several lives, and the matter is then firmly covered by Imperial Intelligence, who are wise enough to muddy the waters with conflicting rumors rather than trying to squash rumors. If you went looking for headhunters, all you would find would be Imperial spies very curious what you were up to.”

“I am glad to see Abbess Darnassy responding to this,” Linsheh said, gazing at Basra, “and taking it seriously enough to have sent you, your Grace, as well as help from the College.” She nodded to Schwartz, who grinned back. “I hope that the Sisterhood will continue to remain in contact. For now, I fear we have little to offer you directly, but I want it clearly understood that the grove stands behind you in this. It affects us directly to have fae casters assaulting Avei’s faithful, to say nothing of the harm to bystanders.”

“We have seen events like this spiral out of hand before,” Adimel added. “Let it be known from the outset that the elves of this tribe condemn any action against the people of Viridill.”

“If, as the situation develops, we can aid you directly, you need only ask,” said Linsheh. “The most direct assistance I can offer is help in pacifying or controlling elemental attacks, but we lack the numbers to patrol Viridill. That task is better suited to the Legions. If you can find a more specific target, however, we shall be glad to help.”

“I’ll make sure to tell the Abbess that your grove is behind us,” Basra said evenly, then stood, the elves following suit. Schwartz and Covrin were the last to rise, she a little stiffly in her armor, he nearly falling over in the process. “For now, I must thank you for your hospitality and be off. You’ve helped me determine my next move.”

“What will you do?” Adimel inquired.

“Well,” Basra said with a cold smile, “it seems that our mysterious elementalist is aware of, and targeting, our little group. That means we know who he’s going after next. All that remains is to place his target, us, in a location of my choosing…and wait.”

“Oh, now, I’m not so sure I like the sound of that,” Schwartz said nervously. “You’re… You want to use us—all of us—as bait?”

“We are the bait and the trap,” Basra replied, then paused and eyed him up and down. “Well. Some more than others.”

 

“Well, dunno how useful that was,” Joe mused, “but it sure was a more pleasant way to pass the time than I’d expected. Shame he couldn’t tell us any more about what the University gang did…”

“I am amazed that the de factor ruler of this province would make time to sit down to a meal with three vagabonds who just showed up at his door,” Ingvar said.

Joe chuckled. “It makes a difference when one of the vagabonds in question is a Bishop of the Universal Church an’ former cult leader.”

Ingvar glanced skeptically at Darling, who was still in a suit that looked like it was serving the latest of three color-blind owners. The thief glanced back, grinning.

“Then again,” said Darling, “it was lunch. Taking the man out of an actual meeting was out of the question, but people are inclined to be hospitable if you catch them sitting down to eat. Or at least, those who’re inclined to be hospitable anyway. The others may throw crockery at you.”

“You did that on purpose?” Ingvar said disapprovingly. “It’s hardly kind to interrupt a man’s meal.”

Darling shrugged, looking exactly as repentant as Ingvar would have expected, which involved a singularly relaxed smile and an insouciant spring in his step. “I figured the odds were about fifty-fifty he’d take a message and send word to our inn about an appointment tomorrow. Besides, that wasn’t the only piece of timing I’m working on. We’ll want to be into the afternoon when we approach Lady Malivette.”

“The vampire,” Ingvar muttered, still scarcely willing to believe it.

“Why afternoon?” Joe asked, frowning.

“It’s a socially acceptable hour for unexpected visits,” said Darling. “And with dark coming on, it makes it clear we’re not hostile. Visiting a vampire in the morning is a cautious move, shows you don’t want to be near her except when her powers are inhibited.”

“I do not want to be near her except when her powers are inhibited,” Ingvar growled.

“Malivette Dufresne is a thoroughly civilized individual who’s had a hell of a hard life,” Darling said calmly, turning a corner. “She’s lived up there for years, harming no one—even when she had ample reason to, such as when some of the locals tried to mob her house not too long ago. That pretty much tells you what you need to know.”

“What I need to know is how hungry she is!”

“The story being put around,” said Darling quietly, eyes on the street ahead, “was that the vampire who attacked and turned her slaughtered her family at the same time. That would be…uncharacteristic, however. Turning someone is a process, and for whatever reason, they rarely feed too close to it. However… A vampire newly turned almost always awakens in such a mad state of hunger that they’re little more than animals. They will kill and drain anyone, anything, they can get their hands on, until sated.” He let the silence stretch out for a long moment. Ingvar swallowed heavily and glanced over at Joe, who looked pale and shocked. “Make no mistake, lads,” Darling continued finally, “we are going to visit a monster. But she’s a monster who’s managed to be a decent person under pressures we could hardly imagine, which frankly makes her a better person than we can claim to be. And who does not need any more stress from the likes of us. So when we get there, if she has time to chat with us, you be respectful, and be kind.”

“Won’t be a problem,” Joe said quickly. “I’m gettin’ good practice at addressing high-born ladies, I believe.”

“You are unlikely to receive the same reception as at Grusser’s residence,” Ingvar noted with the ghost of a smile. “Miss Feathership clearly has a gnome’s priorities; a vampire will be much less smitten with the legend of the Sarasio Kid.”

“It was one autograph,” Joe muttered, hunching in his coat. “She was so excited… What was I supposed to do?”

“Sometimes,” Darling said solemnly, “you’ve gotta bite the belt and give your traveling companions an anecdote to hold over your head for weeks. Here we are, Volk Street.”

He made another right turn and continued a few more paces before slowing to a stop. Up ahead were the open side gates to the city, a much smaller aperture than the front one through which they had entered. This street was all but deserted; the road here was lined with houses, not businesses, and past the gate led to only one destination. The road continued onward and upward, winding back and forth deep into the forested hills. More than a mile distant, visible above the towering city wall, were the gabled roofs of what had to be Dufresne Manor.

“Not too late to reconsider that carriage,” Darling remarked. “Just sayin’.”

Ingvar sighed and stepped past him. “Let’s just go. I feel more comfortable trusting my own feet.”

“Yours aren’t the only pair of feet at stake here!” Darling protested. Joe passed him, grinning, and the Bishop finally sighed dramatically and trudged along after them.

They had passed a good fifty yards up the street, nearing the gate, when three more men rounded the same corner behind them in silence. All three were bearded, dressed in rugged leathers, and armed with hunting knives, tomahawks and bows. The trio, an older man with gray in his beard flanked by two younger ones, strode forward on silent moccasins, eyes fixed on the diminishing party up ahead.

“Ahem.”

The Huntsman halted abruptly, whirling to face the alley whose mouth they were passing. Just inside, incongruously in that setting, stood two strikingly lovely young women in extravagant evening gowns, one in green, one blue.

The woman in green smiled and wagged a finger at them. “Uh uh.”

Both the younger Huntsmen glowered; one took a menacing step toward the women.

The elder held out an arm to block him, turning his head to give him a very flat stare. They locked eyes for a long second, then finally, the younger man snorted softly and stepped back. His elder turned back to the women and bowed politely.

“Ladies,” he rumbled, then turned on his heel and walked back the way they had come. The other two paused to stare at the women a moment longer, one eying them up and down approvingly, before following.

“Creeps,” Sapphire muttered. “Still. They were downright heroic during the battle. Do you think we should have warned them? Considering who they’re stalking…”

“We don’t know who they’re stalking,” Jade countered. “With the exception of Sweet. He’s the one Vette was warned about. Any thoughts about the other two?”

Sapphire shrugged, stepping forward to lean out of the alley. Both groups of men were out of sight now, the Huntsmen back around the corner, the travelers beyond the gate. “Some rich kid who thinks he’s a wandfighter, and… I could swear that was a woman dressed as a Huntsman of Shaath. Which, I suppose, would explain what set those three off. I’m looking forward to learning what their story is.”

Jade shook her head. “And that’s the point: we don’t know the story. Come on, we’ll see what Lars and Eleny have to say. And we will definitely wait to hear Vette’s opinion before acting.”

She stepped out into the street, Sapphire falling into step beside her, and they followed after the departing Huntsmen toward the center of the city and Lars Grusser’s home and office.

“I suspect they’re bringing trouble, whoever they are,” Sapphire murmured.

Jade laughed. “Saff, honey, that’s Sweet. He was Boss of the Guild for years. They’re not bringing trouble; trouble’s bringing them.”

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10 – 7

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Schwartz, to the surprise of probably no one but himself, was the last to notice.

“What?” he said nervously. “I’m sure I don’t—”

“Move!” Basra barked, gesturing to one side and drawing her sword.

Schwartz finally followed everyone’s gaze, looking over his shoulder, then let out a yelp and spun, backpedaling so quickly he nearly tumbled to the ground.

The thing was darkness without feature, though at a glance at first it resembled a cloud of black smoke. It rose to about twice the height of a person, spreading roughly half that in width. Unlike smoke, though, the center of its mass lacked texture or any features, while its edges rippled more transparently.

“What the hell?” Covrin muttered, sword and shield already in hand.

Basra seized the divine light, a spherical shield flashing into place around her.

That immediately caught the creature’s attention.

Darkness rippled outward from it, and a shadow fell over the prairie. Literally, a dimming of the sunlight, as though heavy clouds had obscured the sun, though none were in evidence. The shape swelled further, now looming over them, and its edges rippled in a silent motion that she interpreted as anger. Within the center of its mass, two points appeared—spots of a strange nullification. Even in the absolute blackness of its body, they were dark. Basra was familiar with magical effects, and knew the sensation of her eyes trying to make sense of something simply not sensible. This was a creature whose gaze it was not healthy to meet.

She bared her teeth at it in a grin, not flinching, and took a step forward. Light flowed down her arm, blazing forth from her blade.

“Don’t stare at it!” Schwartz yelped. “Back up, everybody, I’ve got this!”

Basra didn’t glance over at him, but from her left there suddenly came a burst of pure golden light. Not divine, she couldn’t feel anything—in fact, it looked exactly like morning sunbeams streaming through the temple windows back home. The light struck the shadow being directly, and it reared back, emitting a ferocious hiss.

“Hah!” Schwartz crowed. “I use this for reading at night—never thought it’d have a combat applic—”

The cloud sprouted two very distinct arms, ending in broad, clawed hands, and hurled an unmistakeable shadowbolt at him. Interesting—that was infernal craft, but she didn’t sense the presence of that kind of magic, either.

Schwartz squawked and his sunbeams winked out, but Basra didn’t spare him a glance. Arrows whipped past her, sinking into the bulk of the creature and making it break off its attack, writing in apparent pain. She paid them no mind either, closing to sword range with Covrin stepping swiftly up on her left, covering Basra’s unarmed flank with her shield. Standard Legion field practice with regard to elves was to assume they knew what they were doing, whether fighting with or against them.

As her glowing shield neared the creature, it fixed its impossible glare on her again. Covrin halted, visibly quailing; something about that stare was meant to be disturbing to mortal perceptions.

“Steady,” Basra said in a low tone. “When it engages again, step behind me.”

Then Schwart’s sunbeams resumed, slightly weaker than before, but rapidly growing in intensity. This time, an identical glowing effect flashed forward from her and Covrin’s other side. They did not strike the shadow directly, but formed barriers to both sides, pinning it in a corridor with the two swordswomen.

“We will control the field,” said the elf with the staff from behind them, his voice calm. “Wait till the fire elementals circle around to cut off its retreat, then engage with your divine light, Bishop. It must not escape; we destroy it here.”

“Good,” she said curtly, keeping her stare fixed on the shadow’s. Covrin swallowed so hard Basra could hear it, but held her position.

Fire elementals in this prairie sounded like a fantastically bad idea to her. Nonetheless, two immediately circled around from each side, taking the forms of coyotes made of pure blue flame, flickering a hotter orange at their edges. They didn’t spark so much as a smolder from the grasses around them; clearly the shaman had them under tight control. As soon as the two creatures got behind the shadow, they swelled and shifted, growing into the shapes of a pair of enormous grizzly bears; she could just make them out through the haze at the edges of the shadow. Their flames seemed more visible through it than the scenery beyond.

The black being twisted, its unearthly eyes rotating oddly in its amorphous mass, and made as if to lunge at the flame-bears. They held their ground, one pantomiming a roar that spat a gout of blue fire at it, sending the creature surging back toward Basra. It tried to duck to the side, but ran straight into the stronger beam of sunlight, presumably the one cast by the elvish shaman. Two more arrows whistled into it, passing straight through but disrupting its shadowy body on the way and forcing it back to the center of the trap. Doubtless those shafts were blessed in some way.

“So,” she murmured, “it fears light. How fitting.”

Basra strode forward again, Covrin moving a second later. The shadow whirled, again fixing its stare on her, and rippled furiously. Its hiss of rage echoed straight through her brain. Here, at last, was something it could attack.

She grinned. “Come on, then.”

A shadowbolt impacted her shield, followed by a second; both disintegrated without diminishing its integrity in the least. Not infernal craft, then; some kind of fae energy that resembled it. She pressed forward, closing nearly to melee range, her blazing aura seeming to physically push the shadow back. It swiped desperately at her with one claw, then the other, which had no more effect than the shadowbolts had.

It turned, trying to flee again, and this time stood its ground against the menacing of the fire-bears. Two of the elven archers had also circled around, however, and fired another pair of charmed shafts straight between the shadow and the elementals, forcing it back. Basra paused, rapidly contemplating. It seemed to fear her light more than the fire; if she pushed like this, it would surely panic and force its way past the elementals.

She let her shield wink out.

“Ma’am?” Covrin cried shrilly.

Basra didn’t acknowledge her. Sword still blazing with light, she charged straight at the creature. It whirled to face her, emboldened by her lack of glowing shield. Both clawed arms came down on her as she ran.

The sensation was like being doused in ice water. Her body went numb, cold enough to hurt, first at the touch of those claws, and second all over when she plunged straight into its center of shadowy mass. Basra had been struck by shadowbolts before; it was part of advanced Legion training. The experience was nasty and, at higher levels of power, could cause nerve damage, but most of the pain was illusory. This wasn’t as bad as what the Church summoner who’d tested her had done, either, for all that it was all over rather than in a concentrated blast. Despite her lack of a shield, the divine light glowed in her core, rendering the damage of the shadows only superficial. She didn’t even slow.

Basra had to jump to drive her sword into one of the creature’s unnatural not-eyes, but she struck it unerringly.

Its cry of agony was like a blast of frigid wind ripping across the prairie. Fully half the creature’s mass abruptly dissolved, and the shadow across the land vanished, leaving them bathed in bright sunlight. Something about the remainder of its body seemed more solid, too; not solid like flesh, but as if she had her sword driven through a giant, squirming slug.

It collapsed to the ground, thrashing and swiping at her with rapidly shrinking claws; she ignored the pain, bodily forcing it downward.

“Excellent!” cried the shaman. “Hold it still—we will finish it off!”

First one shaft of sunbeams moved, then the other, Schwartz clearly following the elf’s lead. They pivoted and angled as both men stepped up closer, changing their aim to bathe the shadow in the full strength of the beams.

It howled, thrashed, wailed, and began to steam as if the sunlight was burning it away to nothing. Indeed, the whole rest of the process took no more than a few seconds. The glowing sword seared away a chunk at the center of its remaining mass before it was finished, freeing it to move, but by that point the thing was too damaged to resist. It broke apart into smaller fragments, which hissed and smoked until they, one by one, dissolved into nothingness.

Then it was gone.

“Well done,” said the shaman, lowering his staff. His shaft of sunlight winked out, followed by the other.

“I say, how exciting!” Schwartz cried. “An actual shadow elemental! I never thought to see such a thing—nor hoped to, I must say.”

“What?” Basra exclaimed, rounding on him. “A shadow elemental? I never heard of—did you just make that up?”

“Oh, no, no, I assure you, your Grace,” he said hastily. “It’s a known practice, but rare and rather difficult. You see, in the art of elemental magic—”

The shaman cleared his throat pointedly. “With that out of the way, all of you are more than welcome to come to the grove. In fact, the elders will be quite eager to discuss these events.” He glanced between Basra and Schwartz, and smiled with apparent amusement. “I think, also, we can provide a more comfortable place to hold the remainder of this conversation.”

 

Ingvar had been the last onto the caravan and was the last one out. He was pleased to find the experience nowhere near as grueling as many had claimed, but still. It was a small, enclosed space shared with a stranger and Antonio Darling; nothing would have made that a comfortable ride.

“I say,” Darling exclaimed, hopping out after him. “That was a downright comfortable ride! It’s amazing, the effort they’ve put into improving these things.”

“You should’ve tried it a few months ago,” Joe said, stepping out after him. “This is a whole other world. Safety belts, comfortable seats, an’ you can’t even feel the acceleration or curves anymore. McGraw’s got a theory about how an’ why the Rails are bein’ upgraded… Actually, it’s a little eerie, whatever they used to soften the ride. Messin’ with fundamental forces like inertia makes me nervous.”

“Isn’t all of magic messing with fundamental forces, really?” Darling asked him. The question could have been chiding or condescending, asked of a teenager by a man nearing his middle years, but his tone was simply curious, as if he honestly sought Joe’s insight. Ingvar watched their conversation sidelong, taking careful note of Darling’s ability to communicate subtleties without words. The man was every bit as dangerous as he remembered.

Joe merely shrugged. “Magic follows rules, jus’ like conventional physics. Different rules, more subjective ones, but still… Reckon I’m just in a peculiar position, is all. I know enough of the art to know when something’s difficult an’ dangerous, but not enough in this case t’see how it was done.”

“That makes sense,” Darling replied, nodding, and turned to study the Veilgrad platform. “After all, the Empire wouldn’t be running the things if they didn’t work.”

Ingvar continued to withhold comment, instead turning to examine their new surroundings himself.

The walled city of Veilgrad was famous, of course, for its historic and culturally important position between the plains and the mountains. Here, Tiraas mixed with the Stalrange; in this city, both were equally represented in architecture, ethnicity, and tradition. The city was also very much on the Empire’s mind lately, due to the events that had transpired here a few weeks prior. From the Rail platform outside the walls, no signs of an undead apocalypse were visible; the city wasn’t visibly damaged, not even to the extent of lingering scaffolding, materials or other repair work being in evidence.

There was, however, a greater Army presence than seemed generally likely for an interior area of the Empire. Soldiers patrolled the platform, the city walls and the roads between them in noteworthy numbers; there was a zeppelin hovering above the city itself, and a second docked on the plain itself adjacent to the Rail platform. Its enormous copper-accented gray shape loomed over the area like a castle, but based on the lack of reaction to it by most of those coming and going, this wasn’t an usual sight these days.

Despite all this, Ingvar’s eyes were drawn to the towering peaks of the Stalrange itself, rising abruptly out of the plains without intervening foothills, as if Shaath himself had planted them there in defiance of the gentler land to the west. Here, beyond that mighty wall and deeper into the mountains, was the heart of Shaathist culture and worship.

For him, in particular, this land held significance, great promise, and considerable risk.

“Welp,” Darling said brightly, “we’re not getting anywhere by holding down the platform! Onward and upward, gentlemen. I think we can charter a carriage at that office up there into the city…”

“Is there something wrong with our feet?” Ingvar asked mildly.

Darling looked over at him and blinked twice; Joe ducked his head, hiding a smile behind his hand.

“Well, now you mention it, I suppose not,” the Eserite said, his apparent good cheer undiminished. “A nice walk would be just the thing to loosen up after that Rail ride.”

Picking up his suitcase, he started for the steps at the far end of the platform, but Ingvar spoke again, making no move to follow.

“And where, exactly, are we going? I note that despite this being my quest, I’m the last to know what, specifically, we are doing here, in this city. At least, I hope that one of you were brought into the loop when you were recruited for this.”

“Yep,” Joe drawled, “takin’ direction from Mary tends to get like that.”

“Quite right, of course,” Darling said, turning back to him. He glanced around them, the motion of his eyes so swift Ingvar might well have missed it, had he not been accustomed to tracking the tiniest flickers of movement on the hunt. No one seemed to be paying them the slightest attention, though; their caravan hadn’t come as part of a routine stop, so there was no great throng of people embarking or disembarking. The only other individuals on the platform were clustered around a few vendors at one end and stacking boxes of freight at the other.

“I’m sure you heard about the recent…kerfuffle out here,” Darling said, pausing for Ingvar to acknowledge him.

“The Huntsman are not so insular as to have missed that,” Ingvar said dryly. “In fact, the local lodge took part in the defense of the city. Quite heroically, as I understand it. And none of them referred to it as a ‘kerfuffle.’”

“Right,” Darling said with an amused smile. “Well, Joe and I aren’t along on this thing just to make it a threesome; we’ve some business in Veilgrad pertaining to that, and I rather suspect we’re going to find that our various concerns continue to overlap wherever else this journey takes us. Dear Mary is just that much of a planner. Specifically…” He spread his arm and made an obviously mocking bow. “You’re looking at the clown who had the best chance of warding off the recent disaster here, and blew it.”

“Glad as I am to see you takin’ responsibility,” Joe remarked, “I still don’t think you were nearly as central to the whole business as you make out.”

“Taking too much responsibility is always preferable to too little,” Darling retorted. “In any case, the facts, Ingvar, are that I had warning of something major and chaos-related about to unfold, I did my best to find out where it was happening and sent trusted, capable people there to deal with it, and…I was dead wrong. Joe, here, and a few other allies, found themselves stuck in the desert hundreds of miles away, dealing with unrelated nonsense, while Veilgrad burned. All because I hared off chasing a likely trail and didn’t pay enough attention to signs that could have directed me here.”

“I see,” Ingvar said neutrally, carefully refusing to form an opinion. This was clearly just the shadow of a much bigger, very complex story. And while he agreed with Joe that it was better to see Darling accepting blame than otherwise, he remained mindful of Darling’s skill at using his positive traits to conceal the real horrors beneath the facade.

“So that’s what we’re doing here,” Darling continued. “We’ve some old business to follow up on.”

“Largely just morbid curiosity at this point,” Joe added. “Not like there’s anything to be done about it now. But I’ve recently had the details about what really happened in Veilgrad from some who were right in the thick of it, so we want to catch up with a couple of individuals who were…sort of in charge.”

“Closure,” said Darling, nodding. “And maybe some hints we can use to prevent a similar screw-up in the future.”

“That’s…laudable,” Ingvar said. “Not to sound self-centered, but with regard to my reason for being here…?”

“Ah, yes,” Darling said more briskly. “Mary’s of the opinion you’ll want to talk with a kind of Shaathist offshoot sect called the Shadow Hunters who live in the hills nearby.”

Ingvar stiffened. “The Shadow Hunters are not an offshoot of the Huntsmen. They are…a parallel. Nothing of their beliefs has to do with Shaath.”

“Well, that’s interesting to know,” Darling mused. “I guess we’ll hear more about it from them.”

“We?” Ingvar said pointedly. “You two have your business in Veilgrad, and I have mine. It seems more efficient for us to part ways here.”

“Now, I foresee this bein’ a sticking point, so lemme just throw in my two bits’ worth, if I may,” said Joe, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “Way I understand it, this is a matter of spiritual concern for you, Mr…uh, Brother. I, uh, sorry, I never actually met a Huntsman before. Dunno the properly respectful term.”

“Ingvar is fine,” he said, feeling a small rush of affection for the lad. If only more people his age were as concerned about respect.

“Ingvar, then,” Joe said, nodding. “So this is a sacred quest for you, we’re not members of your faith, an’ you’ve got no reason to trust or particularly like us. That about right?”

Ingvar glanced over at Darling, who stood placidly with a suspiciously calm and open expression. “I mean no offense, of course.”

“Of course,” Joe agreed. “It’s a reasonable position. I’ve found myself on, for want of a better term, adventures with a right strange crew of folk lately, an’ they ran the gamut from neutrally unfamiliar to seemingly deserving of a punch in the teeth on general principles.”

“You’ve gotta meet Weaver sometime,” Darling said, grinning. “Preferably when I’m there to watch.”

Joe shot him an annoyed look. “Point being, the way to get friendly with people is to stand alongside ’em through hard times.”

“I’m not certain I see the advantage to me in getting friendly with people as a rule,” Ingvar said stiffly.

“You don’t?” Darling’s expression was…hard to decipher, now. Ingvar wondered if that meant he was feeling something genuine. “Seems to me a man in your position needs all the friends he can get.”

“I reckon that’s true of anyone,” Joe said hastily. “Look… If nothing else, Mary set us out on this thing together. She’s a difficult person to like at times, but I’ll vouch she’s trustworthy, and has the best intentions. More importantly, she’s probably the wisest soul I ever met. Aside from that, it ain’t generally smart practice to split up the party. You never know what might happen.”

Ingvar drew in a breath and let it out in a huff through his nose. “I suppose there’s logic in that. This will make our visit here longer, though.”

“Are you in a hurry?” Darling asked. “Really—that’s not sass, I’m asking. If you’ve got some kind of timetable, we should be aware of it so we can try not to hold you up.”

“Not…in particular, no,” Ingvar said reluctantly. “Aside from a general desire to have all of this done with as swiftly as possible.”

“Well, that’s more than fair,” Darling said, grinning. “We’ll still try not to hold you up. I don’t think our own business should take terribly long, anyway. In general I’m inclined to agree with Joe’s reasoning—all of it. All told, I expect to be here a couple days at least; we should secure lodgings, and then chat with Mr. Grusser and Lady Malivette. We should be able to get that over with this afternoon, I should think.”

“Who?” Ingvar demanded.

“The local… Well, sort of the two governors,” Darling explained. “It’s a little complex; I’ll give you the full rundown on the way into town. But that’ll give us a fresh start tomorrow to approach your Shadow Hunters. Your mission’s the focus, here, after all. It makes sense to me to have the full day to address it without interruptions. Right?”

“I suppose so,” Ingvar said slowly. It sounded like logic, but he couldn’t escape the feeling he’d just been manipulated somehow. Traveling with Darling was going to make him thoroughly paranoid.

“Well then!” Darling said brightly, again picking up his suitcase. “If that’s settled, let’s be off! No sense dragging all this out, as we’ve established.”

Ingvar couldn’t quite hold back a sigh, but he followed the Bishop toward the steps at the end of the platform, Joe silently bringing up the rear.

The platform itself lay amid a scattering of structures that looked well-established, but not so historic as the city itself. Veilgrad in general gave the impression of a houseplant growing too large for its pot, positioned as it was on the wall-enclosed granite plateau thrusting westward from the mountains, with a network of roads branching out from it and smaller patches of city rising from the plains below, and into the hills above. The road directly ahead of them led straight to the city’s main gates, positioned on the narrow end of the huge peninsular outcropping on which Veilgrad stood.

The road up to the gates was not long, nor arduous; its slope was fairly gentle. Ingvar recalled having read that this was a Tiraan addition, replacing the original, more defensible approach. Indeed, the long ramp passed over several enormous rocky protrusions that made up part of its base, but mostly appeared to have been built of artificial stonework. Considering the height at which the gates stood, getting there on an incline mild enough not to send traffic rolling back down (like the siege engines of old were meant to) made for a very long approach.

The wide ramp was lined with towers, manned by Tiraan soldiers and some bristling with mag artillery; one larger fortress near its base had its own dedicated scrolltower. Civilian structures were also positioned along the length, mostly shops catering to travelers, with several inns and flat, level spaces where people could stop and rest. Ingvar considered suggesting one of these as a place to stay. Despite being accustomed to the island city of Tiraas, in this new country, he felt an odd but insistent reluctance to be hemmed in by the walls.

There were no complaints or signs of any difficulty from the rear of their little procession; it made sense that the famed Sarasio Kid wouldn’t balk at a long hike. Increasingly, Ingvar had the impression he and Joe were going to end up getting along well. Somewhat to his irritation, Darling was having no trouble with the distance or the incline either, despite lugging along his suitcase. That seemed downright unfair. The man was a bureaucrat and a politician; what right did he have encroaching on Ingvar’s territory by being in shape? On the other hand, he was also a thief. Apparently, he had not become a retired one simply because he’d moved into administration.

A gathering of people were standing around one of the flat resting areas, listening avidly to an older man exuberantly relating a story. An older Huntsman, still unbent and brawny despite the gray in his beard. He stood upon a bench, two younger, quieter Huntsmen nearby, watching with rather smug expressions.

Ingvar let the speech wash over him as they drew close enough to hear it, absorbing just enough to discern that it was a recitation of a hunting party into Veilgrad’s now-notorious catacombs during the recent disaster. The fellow was a good storyteller; Huntsmen had a valued oral tradition and those who cultivated the skill could put on a show to challenge any Vesker. Interesting as the story might have been, Ingvar was more concerned with watching than listening.

Darling didn’t slow, but turned his head to observe the tableau as they drew abreast of it. One of the younger Huntsmen standing by glanced over at them, then looked sharply again, this time directly at Ingvar, who managed not to tense. The man’s eyes flicked over him, peering closely at his leather headband, longbow, traditional jerkin and bearskin mantle pinned with a bronze wolf’s head, before coming to rest again on his beardless face. He moved one arm surreptitiously to nudge his companion; the other man glanced at him, followed his gaze, then narrowed his eyes in an identical expression.

Steeling himself, Ingvar nodded, once, respectfully, as one Huntsman to others.

They just stared.

He moved his eyes back ahead, ignoring the rudeness. Whatever anyone else did, he was responsible only for himself. Still, he was keenly aware of them slowly turning their heads to track him—him, specifically, not his group—until they had moved on ahead.

“So,” Darling said mildly, but loud enough to be clear without looking back. “What was that about?”

Ingvar drew in a calming breath. There were few things in the world he wanted less to discuss with Darling, of all people, but it looked like this might become a legitimate…issue. Especially if they were going to be staying in this city.

“There is a great deal of independence among the lodges,” he said carefully. They didn’t need to know any more than they absolutely needed to know; this was Shaathist business. “The Grandmaster is more an…administrator…than a spiritual leader. Different regions, and indeed different lodges, can have different interpretations of Shaath’s doctrines. The central cult intervenes only if they seriously deviate from the path, which is highly rare.” He paused, took another breath, and continued. “I was born in the upper Wyrnrage, and left. It wasn’t acceptable to the lodge there for me to be a Huntsman; I had to seek out one that would take me. And, well, here in the Stalrange, people are generally more…”

“Conservative?” Joe suggested.

“I was going to say ‘backward,’” Ingvar muttered. Behind him, the Kid laughed. He felt a moment’s annoyance, but then found himself smiling along. There seemed to be no malice in Joe.

“So,” Darling said thoughtfully, “we may not want to have a visit with the local Huntsmen, then, right?”

Ingvar nodded, mostly to himself, since Darling couldn’t see him. “That would probably be best.”

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