Tag Archives: Branwen Snowe

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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10 – 16

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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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The Abbess’s office was rigidly orderly and scrupulously clean, yet there was an indefinable air of comfortable shabbiness about it. Her possessions—books, wall-hung maps, furniture, old weapons, Avenic sigils—were all old and well-used, bearing the marks of long life. The room itself was no larger than it needed to be, small enough to be cozy with Narnasia herself present and two guests on the other side of her desk.

They remained politely quiet as the arthritic old Abbess eased herself into her chair with a soft sigh, then folded her arms on the desk and regarded them shrewdly.

“Sister Leraine,” she said, “how serious were you about making this project of yours an interfaith initiative? If you truly just came here to sell enchantments, now is the time to tell me.”

“I was quite serious,” Leraine said with a small smile, seemingly unperturbed by the Abbess’s direct tone. “Doing business is certainly part of my mandate here, but I meant what I said about the ethical ramifications of this project. The Sisters of Avei are the only possible market for enchantments such as this, which is why we’ve brought you a demonstration in such an early phase.”

“That was an early phase?” Basra demanded, her eyebrows rising.

“Those charms were deceptively simple, in fact,” said Leraine. “The thing does little more than hover and whirl, really. The more difficult work is all part of general advancement in arcane golem craft—getting the device to recognize and respond to sentient interaction. Obviously, combat is one area in which such enchantments can be vigorously tested. But as I was saying, it’s a risky line of study to pursue, as you both pointed out. We are always looking to refine our practice of magic, but must also be mindful of safety. Whether the Sisterhood sees this device as too dangerous to acquire would be a major indication of whether we should refine it further.”

“Mm,” Narnasia murmured, staring piercingly at her. “I must give this some thought and prayer before rendering an opinion. I must say that my initial reaction is largely negative. That device of yours makes me uneasy.”

“I cannot disagree,” Leraine said frankly.

“As you are here, though,” the Abbess continued, “if you are willing to help us with another matter, I would like to consult your cult’s expertise.”

“Oh?” The Salyrite tilted her head. “I’ll be glad to help if I can.”

“None of this is secret,” said Narnasia, glancing over at Basra. “Secrecy isn’t really possible and wouldn’t serve anyone, anyway. Nonetheless, I would prefer that neither of you spread the story too widely just yet. I’d rather manage the situation as well as possible from the outset.”

“Naturally,” said Leraine, her tone openly curious now. Basra simply nodded.

Narnasia sighed softly before continuing. “For the last two weeks, throughout Viridill Province, there have been a series of incidents with elementals.”

Leraine narrowed her eyes. “Elementals? Really? Summoned by whom?”

“That is the troublesome part,” Narnasia replied. “No culprit has been identified, but the incidents have occurred in every part of the region.”

“What makes this a situation?” Basra asked. “There have always been elemental sightings in Viridill.”

“Specifically,” said Narnasia, “in the southernmost regions, along the Athan’Khar border. Sightings, not attacks, and they never make it past the Imperial and Silver Legion defenses there.”

“Attacks?” Leraine said sharply.

“Thus far,” said Narnasia, “there have been no serious injuries, merely some scuffles and property damage. People have the sense to stay away from an elemental, or any kind of fairy, when it appears.”

“Back up,” Basra said rather curtly, ignoring or not noticing the Abbess’s disapproving look. “Again, why is it strange that elementals should be appearing? I thought they were by definition a natural phenomenon.”

Narnasia looked at Sister Leraine, raising an eyebrow.

“They normally don’t inhabit this plane,” Leraine replied, shifting in her seat to face Basra more directly. “Some of the stronger, older elemental spirits have been here long enough to be essentially native, but they come from the elemental planes, Naiya’s realm.”

“I thought Naiya’s realm was the Deep Wild…”

“That,” said Leraine, nodding, “and a few other, similar places. The elemental planes can be summoned from, but not accessed directly; why remains an open question. We don’t know the exact nature of Naiya’s relationship to those planes, or what goes on in them. It’s not even certain that they are naturally occurring dimensions, or how many there are. I consider it notable that the only two Elder Goddesses to survive the Pantheon’s rise had dimensional fallbacks to rely upon, though Scyllith subsequently lost her hold on Hell. But yes, an elemental would only be on the mortal plane if someone called it here. You said the damage has been minor,” she said, turning back to the Abbess. “These are smaller spirits, then?”

“Small and easily banished,” Narnasia replied. “However, that is not the disturbing part. Basra, in the cupboard to your left are several rolled maps. One of those on top is bound with a braided red leather thong. Would you please bring that over here and lay it out on the desk?”

Basra nodded to her, and stood to open the cupboard in question. She swiftly extracted the indicated map and rolled it out flat with an expert touch, while Narnasia placed inkwells, pens and books on its edges to hold it flat.

“I have begun marking the incidents here, after the third day of them occurring,” she said, pointing to several notations on the map of Viridill Province. “They’ve not happened every day since, but regularly enough. Note that they are concentrated neither in population centers or in isolated areas, as one might expect. Disruptions here, here and there along roads, and all along the river. Then, most disturbingly, these two back-to-back events. A wind elemental harassed several farmhands here, near the eastern border, not far from a Silver Legion outpost. Legionnaires and priestesses were dispatched from there to contain it. Then, while they were away dealing with that, a fire elemental ignited a blaze in the outpost itself. Small and easily contained, but that is not the point.”

“Disrupting supply and communications chains,” Basra said, her eyes narrowing. “Diverting troops before attacking fortifications. These are military tactics.”

“You’re right,” Leraine said, visibly alarmed. “That is deeply disturbing. Elementals do not think along those lines; if they are doing anything so sophisticated, someone is directing them. But…who would try to attack Viridill? And with such minor forces?”

“That’s what I intend to learn,” Narnasia said, settling back in her chair with a faint wince. “The situation here with regard to elemental magic is complicated by Viridill’s history. This land has been the center of Avei’s faith since its founding; temples, shrines and hallowed ground are everywhere. Large swaths of the country are simply inaccessible to all but the most powerful fairies. On other areas, however, we have more than the usual number of practicing witches in the population, enough that various small fae crafts have become part of the local rural culture. Only Salyrene’s cult,” she said, nodding respectfully to the Sister, “did more to shelter victims of the witch hunts decades ago.”

“And that because the Sisterhood was only interested in protecting female victims,” Basra added, folding her arms. Narnasia gave her a sharp look, but did not rise to the bait.

“What does the governor say about this?” Leraine asked quickly.

“Governor Tamshinaar chooses to defer to the Sisterhood on this matter,” Narnasia replied, again ignoring Basra’s faint smirk. “As it stands, this amounts to a series of nuisances, which is why I prefer to address it myself if possible. If the situation grows more serious, I may be forced to contact the High Commander and the Universal Church.”

“No reason to trouble the Empire with this,” Basra said gravely.

It was no secret that the Imperial Governor of Viridill Province was a figurehead. The Imperial Army in the region was entirely concentrated along the Athan’Khar border in the south, and answerable directly to Tiraas, not the local government. Viridill was administered by the Sisterhood of Avei, patrolled by the Silver Legions, and funded by the tithes of Avenists the world over. The land was not precisely holy, but its association with Avei and her faith was ancient. Few kingdoms throughout history had attempted to take it by force, and only one Tiraan Emperor. The example made of him had dissuaded any subsequent attempts. The province’s inclusion in the Empire was a historically complicated matter, but the Silver Throne mostly left Viridill to tend to its own affairs.

“This is the reason I raise the topic with the two of you,” Narnasia said, giving Basra a final warning look. “If we are to deal with the problem before having to involve higher authorities, I need, first of all, magical expertise pertaining to fairies and the fae arts. I’m afraid the Sisterhood is lacking this.”

Leraine was nodding before she finished speaking. “I will be glad to lend a hand, Abbess. Neither of the attendants I brought for the demonstration are witches, but there are several Salyrites in the province whom I trust, and who practice fairy arts. I can consult with them. I assume, at this juncture, that you would rather I not involve our central cult?”

“I’ll defer to your judgment on that point, of course,” Narnasia said diplomatically. “Any help you care to offer is appreciated. The other issue is more mundane, but more complicated. I cannot believe, considering their history, that any of Viridill’s witches are responsible for something this absurd, but nonetheless, they must be investigated. Circumspectly.”

“The purges were over a generation ago,” Basra pointed out. “Many of those living in the province now are the children or grandchildren of the original refugees. Who knows what they think of anything? Growing up under a religion’s influence can cause people to bitterly hate the cult in question, in the wrong circumstances.”

“Indeed,” said Narnasia, momentarily tightening her mouth. “Finding the attacker will require a very specific set of skills. It calls for someone clever and relentless, with experience in interfaith cooperation and the political skills to do all this without antagonizing the general populace or Viridill’s resident magic users. Captain Syrinx, you are uniquely qualified to take the lead in this investigation.”

Basra’s face remained even, almost impassive. “Of course, I am glad to serve in any way I can.”

“Of course,” Narnasia said, equally expressionlessly. “I will have a page deliver what documents I have on the matter to your quarters.”

“There is no need to trouble your staff, Abbess,” Basra said smoothly. “My aide can do any fetching and carrying. It’ll be good for her to have work; I’m afraid she is being wasted out here.”

“I’ve several times had that thought myself,” Narnasia noted. “As soon as we have a witch on hand to assist you, you can begin.”

“In that case,” said Leraine, rising from her seat and bowing, “I will proceed immediately to the temple and summon help. The, ah, individual I have in mind is a man. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

“Whyever would it?” Narnasia asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Despite what you may have heard,” said Basra wryly, “no sensible Avenist objects to men who are well-behaved.”

“Of course,” Leraine said with a small smile. “Thank you for your trust in this, Abbess Darnassy. After all the Silver Legions have done to defend our temples, and others, it’s an honor to be able to help in return.”

“And I thank you for your willingness to do so, sister,” Narnasia replied. “I shall look forward to working with you further.”

Basra rose as well, and held the door open for Leraine. The Salyrite paused in it to bow again to the two Avenists, then strode out in search of her two aides. Basra glanced back at the Abbess once, then made to follow.

“A moment, Captain Syrinx. Shut the door, if you would.”

Raising her eyebrows, she did so, turning back to Narnasia.

“It is impossible not to notice,” the Abbess said, staring penetratingly at the Bishop, “that this situation is practically tailored to someone of your very specific skill set. As you are here for the specific purpose of proving your reliability…”

“I have had cause to wonder how you expected me to prove that, collecting dust in this abbey,” Basra replied calmly, folding her arms.

“Really? You have trouble seeing why dealing with novices and paperwork demonstrates an even keel? I hadn’t thought you so short-sighted, Basra. In any case, such a perfect opportunity for you to redeem yourself falling out of the blue like this is…curious.”

“I could take that for an accusation, Abbess,” Basra said flatly.

Narnasia slowly shook her head, her eyes remaining locked on her guest’s. “I don’t suspect you of engineering this, don’t worry about that. I can’t begin to imagine how you even could, and I do credit you with enough intelligence not to do something so overtly treasonous. However, this is almost certainly the work of some outside agent, of which you know quite a few. Tell me frankly, Basra: do you think anyone could be carrying out these attacks in order to expedite your return to Tiraas?”

Basra frowned, her eyes shifting to the side in thought. After a moment, she shook her head. “I can’t see it. I’ve my share of friends and allies, yes. Several might be motivated to arrange for my return. A few could be reckless enough to do something as ham-fisted as interfering with Avenist operations. I can imagine no points of overlap between those two groups, however. I can promise you this,” she added, a scowl falling over her face. “If anyone has set all this up for that or any reason pertaining to me, this will be the last time they even consider butting into the Sisterhood’s business.”

“Very well,” Narnasia said, nodding. “I’ll assemble some reports for Private Covrin to bring you. Thank you, Captain.”

“Ma’am,” Basra said respectfully, giving the Abbess a half-bow, before turning and leaving the office.

Out in the hall, she stalked back toward her own chambers, not noticing the three novices who turned and fled at the sight of her expression. Basra’s eyes narrowed to slits, focused on a point miles away, in Tiraas.

“Antonio.”

 

Full dark had fallen over the prairie by the time they left the tent. Professor Tellwyrn had let them stay until Bishop Snowe was wrapping up her speech before hustling the two of them out into the night, waving Juniper and Fross back when they started to follow. She led them around the corner of the huge big top, ignoring curious looks from those outside, the two puzzled paladins trailing after her.

“Where are we going?” Gabriel demanded. “What’s the big idea?”

“Kids,” the Professor said with a sigh. “When I teleport you around, you complain. When I let you walk, you complain, and also it takes forever. Sometimes I think I just can’t win with you lot.”

“You’re the one who decided to go into teaching,” he muttered.

“I think the revival’s organizers are using that for administration,” Trissiny said, noting the smaller tent toward which Tellwyrn was leading them. It had been set up amid the tallgrass off to the side of the big one, positioned so that it wasn’t visible from the town. Nobody except the revival’s staff had any reason to come around here, and indeed, no one was in evidence now.

“They were,” Tellwyrn said brusquely. “I’m borrowing it. C’mon, in you go.”

She held open the flap, gesturing them through.

“Hey, guys,” Toby said, waving as they arrived. The other person present hopped up from his seat on a trunk, doffing his hat politely.

“There you are,” Gabriel said to Toby. “Hi, Joe! What’re you two doing hiding out here?”

“I am eagerly awaiting the answer to that question,” Joe said, giving Tellwyrn an inquisitive look as she let the flap fall closed behind her.

“All right, all right, settle down,” Tellwyrn said as if she were addressing an unruly classroom instead of four people. “Now, I’ve had the story from Mr. Jenkins, here, of why you lot scrolled him to come from Tiraas. Despite your assignment in Veilgrad being over, you seem to be pursuing the matter.”

“Joe!” Gabriel protested.

Joe blinked twice. “I, uh… Was I not s’posed to tell her?”

“I’m pretty sure hiding it from her wouldn’t be a great idea,” Trissiny said, giving Gabriel a look.

“And also wouldn’t work,” Toby added with a grin.

“Now, I’m the last person to discourage a sense of responsibility in my students,” Tellwyrn said more loudly, folding her arms. “I’m glad you care about the city and its fate as more than an academic exercise. However, I think the lot of you—and yes, that includes you, Joseph—could stand to be reminded of your proper perspective. Yes, you are paladins and have a duty. However, that duty is principally here, to your education. Your patrons—goddammit, Trissiny, I’m not going to quibble semantics so wipe that look off your face—have sent you here for the purpose of opening your minds and getting you some real-world experience in relative safety before sending you off to a lifetime of battles. Your job is to focus on that. And you,” she added severely, pointing at Joe, “I will thank not to encourage them.”

He swallowed, anxiously turning his hat over and over in his hands. “I will keep that firmly in mind, ma—erm, Professor.”

“Do you at least understand why we would be seriously concerned about this?” Trissiny said sharply.

“Sure,” Tellwyrn said. “However, again, you lack perspective. First of all, the fact that Archpope Justinian is manipulating events to his own advantage isn’t, in and of itself, necessarily significant.”

“Are you kidding?” Gabriel burst out, barely beating Trissiny to the punch. “He might just as well have bombed Veilgrad with that—”

“Did he unleash the power of the skull?” Tellwyrn interrupted, glaring at him. “Or did he simply make use of an event already transpiring to further his goals? Do you have any way to know?” She paused, slowly dragging her gaze across them, before continuing. “Understand that the Archpope is, above all else, a politician. His job is to keep balance between the various member cults of the Universal Church. He is, ultimately, a power broker. Manipulation is a central part of his job. This is not to say that he isn’t necessarily into something he shouldn’t be, but the fact that he’s being clearly a weasel is not necessarily cause for concern. If a sitting Archpope had gone bad, the gods would surely be the first to know. And you lot would be their likely first line of defense. If you weren’t told by them to stick your noses in, that’s your first indication that you should think about leaving it well enough alone.

“Furthermore and perhaps more significantly,” she added, her expression growing darker, “there is the fact that you were directed to follow up this lead by the Black Wreath. Honestly, kids, when you find yourself doing what they tell you to do, you have screwed up at some point.”

“Now, hang on,” Joe protested. “It ain’t like I’m in the Black Wreath.”

“I’ve never suspected that for a moment, Joseph,” she said more calmly to him. “That’s not the point. The Wreath are even more manipulative than the Archpope, by a wide margin. Much of their best work is done without dirtying their own hands. Can you not see the advantage to the Wreath in setting paladins of the Trinity against the Church itself?”

She paused to let that sink in before continuing. “And now, we have a Universal Church bishop putting on a big show in town, and you three, of all people, are being awfully standoffish about it. Caine doesn’t even bother to show up, and Arquin and Avelea, neither of you the poster children for forethought and restraint, are suspicious enough of her to keep a safe distance.”

“What’s that mean, of all people?” Gabriel asked, sounding affronted. “I don’t have much of a history with the Church, if you’ll recall. Not a good one, anyway.”

“On the other hand,” said Trissiny with a suspiciously straight face, “Bishop Snowe is remarkably pretty, and remarkably buxom.”

Gabriel stared at her in shock, then whirled to glare at Toby, who had burst out laughing. Joe glanced rapidly between them, looking uncertain.

“I’ll consider my point made,” Tellwyrn said with a hint of satisfaction. “For your information, I have my own reasons to be suspicious of both Justinian and Snowe. I most certainly will not discourage you from gathering information and thinking about all of this. Always, always think. You three keep in mind your situation and your responsibilities, however. If your gods decide you need to cut short your schooling and go tend to something else… Well, we’ll address that when it happens. Since it hasn’t, you keep your minds where they belong and don’t go butting into religious politics that don’t concern you directly. Clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gabriel said resignedly; Trissiny and Toby nodded.

“That’s all, basically,” Tellwyrn said more calmly. “Just think fully before committing yourselves to any action. Don’t insert yourselves into situations you don’t understand. Keep your minds on the present, and you’ll do fine.”

“That’s excellent advice for all occasions!” Branwen Snowe said brightly, pushing in through the tent flap.

Joe shot back to his feet, Toby doing the same. Trissiny and Gabriel turned to stare at her in surprise.

“This is a private conversation,” Tellwyrn said flatly. “Or was until very recently.”

“Of course,” the Bishop replied, smiling serenely at her. “I’ll try not to intrude too much. I just couldn’t leave town without making sure you had taken no offense at my sermon.”

“Bet you could’ve,” Tellwyrn said dryly.

“I understand,” Snowe continued, still in perfect calm and with a pleasant smile, “how some of my remarks might have been construed as directed at you. I just want to assure you, Professor, that I hold you in the highest—”

“Young woman,” Tellwyrn interrupted, “you seem to have mistaken yourself for someone whose opinion matters. It’s a not-uncommon side effect of sudden fame. I am not offended by anything you said any more than I concern myself in general with it. Good night.”

“Well, what a relief that is,” Snowe replied, cool as ever, though Joe and the paladins were all looking increasingly wary and edging away from the two of them. “It would be a shame to sour you on the subject of—”

“Snowe, when I want to talk to the hand up your ass I’ll go to Tiraas and see him in person. Now go away.”

“Of course,” the Bishop said wryly, then turned to the others and inclined her head deeply. “Well, however briefly, it has been a great pleasure to meet all of you. Yourself included, Mr. Jenkins; your adventures are already the stuff of legend! Toby, Trissiny, Gabriel, I dearly hope you will visit me next time you are in—”

Once again she broke off mid-sentence, this time because Tellwyrn was suddenly holding a saber against her neck.

“Professor!” Toby exclaimed, aghast.

“Archpope Justinian,” Tellwyrn said to Snowe in deadly calm. “Imperial law enforcement. Your legions of adoring fans. Izara. These are just some of the people who will not do jack shit to me if I take your head off your shoulders right now in front of three paladins. Annoying me is one thing, girl. You will not interfere with my students.”

“That is going too far, even for you,” Trissiny snapped, her hand falling to the hilt of her own sword.

Bishop Snowe neither moved nor altered her expression except to raise an eyebrow. “But hardly out of character, now is it?”

“I was going to let you cling to the bit of privacy,” Tellwyrn said coldly, “but no, you had to get clever. Kids, I’m sure you are all aware that Izarite clergy are known for their ability to sense the desires and emotional needs of others. This one has an additional gift: the ability to reach out through that sense, to influence those desires, and subtly nudge people’s feelings and perceptions in a direction of her choosing. It’s actually not uncommon in natural empaths who go into Izara’s service, but the Izarite cult itself are very leery of the idea. They don’t encourage such behavior; it’s all but taboo. Regardless, I suggest you be very mindful of your feelings in the presence of Branwen Snowe.”

“Can…she do that to…a whole crowd?” Gabriel asked, unconsciously stroking Ariel’s hilt.

“Why go against her cult’s wishes?” Trissiny added, frowning.

“What am I, her biographer?” Tellwyrn exclaimed in annoyance. “I know the effect when I see it done right in front of me. And neither that nor any other magical manipulation is going to be imposed upon my students, unless the person doing the imposing has a death wish. Is everyone present explicitly clear on that point?”

“Someday, Arachne,” Snowe said very evenly, “you are going to meet something you cannot simply bully your way through.”

“Oh, most assuredly,” Tellwyrn said with an unpleasant grin. “But you are not that thing, buttercup.”

“You really are one of the more profoundly unhappy people with whom I have ever been in close proximity,” the Bishop said, very slowly taking a step back, away from the sword. Tellwyrn led the blade fall to her side, watching her go. Branwen nodded briefly to the rest of them. “It was a pleasure to meet you all. Blessings upon you.”

She turned, lifted the tent flap, and slipped silently out.

After a moment of contemplating the closed flap, Tellwyrn twirled her saber and made a motion as if sheathing it at her waist; the blade vanished from her hand. “Education is everywhere, kids. Always look for the lesson in any experience. All right, enjoy the rest of the festival. I guess I can count on you three not to get converted, if anyone. Avelea, you may want to rein in November; she was making a scene down at the Silver Mission again a few minutes ago.”

With no more fanfare or farewell, she vanished, only the faintest pop of displaced air marking her departure.

Gabriel sighed, still staring at the tent flap. “Never fails. I meet a really attractive woman who’s just my type and she turns out to be kind of evil.”

“Not to mention too old for you,” Trissiny said dryly.

“So!” He turned to the confused-looking Joe, grinning broadly. “Joe, how come you don’t visit more often?”

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They were calling it a revival.

Last Rock was not the first frontier town to be the site of one of these festivals over the last month; they had occurred elsewhere, at various points around the Great Plains, and reports from those venues had been enticing enough to raise significant interest. By the time the tents started going up on the outskirts of the town, the anticipation had been palpable, among townsfolk and students alike.

The Universal Church’s hand was subtly but universally evident in the event. Colorful tents and pavilions had been raised on the prairie outside Last Rock, housing displays representing nearly every deity affiliated with the Pantheon—only those who had no worshipers or whose cults were secretive had been omitted. Individual faiths were making good use of the exposure, but the mere fact of these displays revealed the Church’s organizational role; several of them did not court attention as a rule, and some of those who did proselytize had been coaxed to put on more ostentatious shows than they ordinarily would, like the demonstration of swordplay being held in the yard outside the Silver Mission.

The Church itself managed to be the center of attention, both in the use of its chapel in town as the organizational hub of the event and in the enormous tent set up as an impromptu theater on the prairie outside. Pure white and larger than any permanent structure in Last Rock, it towered over everything except the chapel’s steeple and the scrolltower; if not for its golden ankh markings it could very well have been taken for a circus tent.

Matters were certainly jovial enough inside. Folding chairs had been set up as impromptu pews in the pattern usually favored by Universal Church chapels, leaving a central aisle running between the main entrance at one end of the long tent and the raised wooden platform at the other. Now, with the main event about to start, it was full nearly to bursting, with both students and townspeople. Though the first to be seated had grouped themselves distantly, the two had blended together convivially, to the point that a casual glance now couldn’t sort them into factions. That, plus the overall festive mood in the air, was a great relief to those who had been worried about the relationship of the town to the University since the hellgate incident.

Despite the general chatter and noise of people having a good time—a fairly restrained good time, since they were after all at a Church event—the atmosphere inside the tent was anticipatory. Most of the attention was fixed on the platform, where the guest of honor stood talking quietly with the local dignitaries who had been invited to watch her speak from chairs set up behind her. Hardly anybody was paying attention to the Sheriff, the mayor, Father Laws or Hiram Taft, whom they had all seen before. It was Bishop Snowe who commanded the attention of the populace, even before she began to actually speak.

Standing in the back, beside the entrance flap, Gabriel leaned over to Trissiny to be heard over the hubbub. “Did she invite you to sit up there on the dais, too?”

“Mm hm,” she murmured, nodding, her eyes on the Bishop.

“How come you’re not?”

“I remembered some of the warnings my teachers gave me,” Trissiny replied. “I’m a symbol as much as a warrior; I stand for something, and represent Avei. Being up there would be a tacit endorsement of whatever she has to say. That doesn’t seem like a smart thing to do, since I don’t yet know what that is.”

He smiled. “I had the same thought, basically. Glad to hear it wasn’t just me.” Gabriel paused, looking around with a faint frown. “Where’s Toby?”

“Not up there,” Trissiny murmured.

He gave her a sour look. “Thanks, detective. I’m in your debt.”

“Ssh,” Juniper hissed. “I think she’s starting.” Fross dropped down to settle in the dryad’s hair, dimming her light, as Bishop Snowe stepped up to the center of the dais and her guests drifted backward to settle themselves in chairs. A hush fell over the tent, rippling outward from the guest of honor to the very back.

The four of them were the only representatives of their class present. Teal and Shaeine were off exploring the revival on their own; Ruda, when asked if she wanted to attend a religious festival, had said “like a mermaid wants a wheelbarrow” and gone to the bar.

“Welcome,” said the Bishop with a broad smile as soon as the murmur of conversation had died down sufficiently. “Thank you all for coming, and for making me welcome. I’ve traveled widely in the last few weeks, but I have to say… I like this town!”

She paused, smiling warmly at the cheers of approbation which followed this comment.

Branwen Snowe was not at all a tall woman; the raised platform was necessary for her to be visible in the back. She was a calm speaker, keeping her hands demurely folded before her, and her voice, though clearly accustomed to public speaking, was even and not prone to dramatic intonation. Nothing about her seemed as if it should command attention, yet she did. Her presence held the audience by virtue of its very calm.

“I’m developing the opinion,” she continued, “that the frontier people represent the highest potential of humanity. There is civilization here, on the very edge of the Golden Sea, because you have made it so.” The Bishop paused, smiling benignly, to let a few more cheers subside. “I know it seems to you like your lives are just life. Everyone feels that way. I want you to consider, though, what it means to live on the frontier, on the edges of society. To lead lives of risk, where the only things you have are what you made, what you earned, where you don’t have the luxury of centuries of built-up structure to fall back upon in a crisis.

“In my conversations with frontier people, I have repeatedly observed a vibrancy that one rarely sees in Tiraas or the other great cities. An appreciation of life, and a sense of meaning. And you know what? This doesn’t surprise me in the least. This, life on the edge, is what it means to be alive. To be, to struggle, to achieve, to create. To stride forth into an uncaring world and make it acknowledge that you are there! It’s to be in the world in a way that leaves a mark, a glowing mark, upon your soul. I’m starting to believe that everyone should spend time out here on the Great Plains, if for no other reason than to connect with the reality that we, the people of this world, are ultimately responsible for our own lives. You could teach lessons to much of humanity on that subject.”

She had to pause longer this time, her broad smile unwavering, for the hollering and cheering to die down again. Into that pause, Fross spoke just loudly enough to be heard by their small group.

“Have you guys noticed she tends to use ‘human’ to mean ‘person?’”

“Yep,” said Juniper, nodding.

“I mean, those words aren’t interchangeable. Other kinds of beings are intelligent.”

Before that could progress into a whole discussion, Bishop Snowe continued with her speech.

“I am the last person you will ever hear suggest that anyone should forsake the gods,” she said solemnly. “However, I very much fear that many have misunderstood just what we should expect from them—and what they expect from us. Too often, people look to the gods as the answerers of prayer, the dispensers of bounty, sources of wisdom. Too often, those hopes prove forlorn, and yet people still cling to them. It is just too temptingly comforting, the idea that someone up there is in charge, taking responsibility for all the befalls us.

“Yet is that really what they would want? Is there a single cult whose theology suggests that mankind should sit back and passively wait for higher powers to provide for our needs?”

She paused, this time for dramatic effect, and Juniper said softly, “Mankind. Humanist and sexist.”

“Hm,” Trissiny grunted, folding her arms.

“The gods are guides, not providers,” Snowe continued, “and in our failure to understand that, we have left ourselves wide open for all manner of abuse from other mortals, those who have the least reason to lord themselves over us. Everywhere in the world, you will find those misusing the reality of a society’s need to be governed to exploit those who have placed that trust in them. Everywhere this happens, the situation can exist only because the masses of people have grown complacent, because they think it is their lot to be lower than someone. It starts with a simple failure to take responsibility, to appreciate the gift of struggle.

“Even here,” she said more solemnly yet, “even on the wild frontier, we can do better. Even among the most resilient, most adaptive of people, you will find that complacency. And there is always someone lurking on a high mountain to take advantage of it.”

The stillness in the tent was suddenly absolute.

“The plots of the overweening powerful,” Snowe continued in a quieter voice, “exist only as long as we, the people upon whose backs their palaces are built, accept that their power is above ours. As long as we deem it right and proper that only the strong should be trained to become stronger, rather than the whole of humanity lifted up. As long as we look up at those above us as if they simply belong there, without asking ourselves how they got there, then they shall stay there, and we down here.

“Does it seem right to you?”

“Sounds almost Eserite,” Gabriel whispered.

“Sounds almost treasonous,” Trissiny murmured back. “What is she up to?”

They were not the only ones whispering and muttering in the tent, now. Snowe held her peace for a long moment, watching with a calm yet knowing smile as her audience muttered to each other.

The quiet was broken by Chase Masterson, who leaped to his feet in the middle of a row of seats and shouted “PREACH IT!” before being tackled and dragged back down by Tanq and Natchua.

Nervous laughter and a few more shouts followed, and Bishop Snowe grinned down at them, skillfully keeping herself in sync with the crowd; she began speaking again before the interruptions could get out of hand, swiftly recapturing everyone’s focus.

The students at the back were not attending her as closely now, though.

“I think,” Trissiny said aloud, “it’s a very good thing we didn’t sit on the dais with her.”

“Good,” said Professor Tellwyrn from right behind them. “It’s always a pleasure to see you showing some common sense.”

 

The golem was like a nightmarish combination of a familiar wooden practice dummy and some kind of giant spider. Whirling limbs surrounded it, each bending in multiple places, the segments of its central trunk to which they were attached spinning rapidly. Each was tipped in a flickering orb which spat sparks and tiny arcs of electricity, promising pain to anyone they managed to strike. It hovered on a luminous blue ball at its base, lit by glowing segments at each of its many hinges. The construct whirled, struck, retreated, emitting a reedy hum of arcane magic at use that provided a constant counterpoint to the rapid thwacks and flashes of its contact with its enemy.

Basra pressed forward, her sword flicking out with seemingly impossible speed, the tip clipping another glowing joint on one of the golem’s spider-like limbs. The segments beyond that point immediately detached, falling to lie inert on the ground. With the same motion, she brought her blade around to parry two counterattacks from that side, even as wall of golden light in the shape of a standard Silver Legion shield repelled another onslaught from the other. Even stepping within range of the thing was inviting an electric pummeling from multiple directions.

Yet step in she did, though she didn’t stay there. The swordswoman darted back out, moving with unflagging agility despite how long this fight had dragged on. She danced around the golem, using her superior mobility to keep it off-balance. Despite the fact that it could, in theory, travel faster than any human, it apparently didn’t think well in those terms. She had learned quickly that it didn’t follow her repositioning well, and had kept constantly on the move, circling about the thing, stepping in to engage briefly with its numerous flailing limb, always with a shower of sparks as arcane stunners impacted blade and golden light—and occasionally flesh.

It had been a tense spectacle at first, but with every close engagement, Basra disabled more of the golem’s limbs, shrugging off the few painful blows that slipped through her own defenses. And with every attack she made, it had fewer limbs and landed fewer hits. She was sweating with exertion, but not slowing, and her expression remained focused and oddly blank. It was very much a war of attrition, and against all odds, mortal flesh and blood was holding out against metal and magic. The golem was getting slower; Basra grew only more relentless, sensing victory near.

Finally, it happened: having cleaved more than half of its limbs off, she managed to strike the golem’s central body in the glowing blue joint between its uppermost segment and the one below, causing that entire section to tumble off, its limbs inert.

Having taken out a third of the construct’s remaining offensive power, she made startlingly swift work of the remainder. A golden sphere flashed into being around her, and swiftly began to flicker and spark as it was relentlessly pummeled by multiple limbs, demonstrating why she had not done this from the beginning. The shield would last only seconds under that onslaught, but Basra used them well, pressing forward and delivering devastating strikes to the last of her foe’s central weak points.

In a few more seconds, the golem’s final segment was disarmed and toppled over, just as its last counterattack smashed through her divine shield. Basra winced as she was struck twice by electric prods, but did not cry out or fall. The construct’s last sally was over quickly, leaving her standing alone.

There was barely a second’s pause before cheers erupted from the onlookers.

Most had at least enough restraint not to rush forward—they were a mix of Legion cadets and younger girls being trained at the Abbey, even the most junior of whom had had discipline pounded into them from the moment of their arrival. One young woman in Legion armor did stride forward, however, as did a stately older woman wearing blue robes, followed by a two more in similar attire.

“I have to say, your Grace, that was amazing,” Sister Leraine said earnestly, while Basra accepted a towel handed to her by the Legionnaire and wiped sweat from her face and the back of her neck. “We designed that golem to—well, to be frank, I simply never imagined a human being could move that way!”

“Thank you,” Basra said, a touch brusquely but with a small smile. “For the compliment, and the exercise. I can’t recall the last time I was pressed quite that hard in a duel. Consider me surprised, as well; I thought you were surely exaggerating the capabilities of that thing.”

“And I now feel silly for telling you not to engage it on its highest setting,” Leraine replied, watching as her attendants began reattaching the golem’s pieces. Several bore small dents and scratches from Basra’s sword, but it seemed to have suffered no permanent damage. “It sounds like this has been an instructive session for us all! Not to seem pushy, but are you more interested now?”

“Again,” said Basra, handing the towel back to Jenell Covrin, “I’m not the one you should be speaking to about Legion policy.”

“Of course, of course,” the Salyrite cleric said diplomatically. “I fully understand that. Forgive me, this isn’t a formal negotiation; as a craftswoman, I’m asking you, personally, what you think of my work. You made it sound like you enjoyed the experience.”

“I rather did,” Basra admitted, regarding the golem thoughtfully as the two junior clerics finished wrestling its central section back together and began slotting the remaining limbs into place. “Personally, I might be willing to purchase one of these for my own use. If, that is, I were satisfied that such a thing were legal, which I still am not. Followers of Salyrene demonstrating their enchantments to followers of Avei may enjoy clerical protection from Imperial oversight, but me as a citizen owning a golem specifically engineered to fight is another matter.”

“I have to acknowledge that that’s still somewhat up in the air,” said Leraine, nodding. “Bishop Throale is still working with the Universal Church on this point, solidifying the groundwork before actually approaching the Empire. It would be much easier if we were willing to make war golems for the Tiraan government, but there are serious ethical considerations there. We trust our sisters in Avei’s service much farther than any temporal government.”

“Especially one which has used magical weapons to exterminate entire populations,” Abbess Darnassy said sharply, hobbling forward with her walking stick. “You’ll pardon me for speaking bluntly, sister; I’m old and have little time left for dissembling. I cannot make myself think it was wise even to build this object. Autonomous magical weapons would change the face of war, yes, but into something that had none of the very little virtue war has to begin with.”

“I…am rather surprised to hear a ranking cleric of Avei criticize war,” Leraine said very carefully.

“Our purpose in studying war,” said Basra, sliding her sword back into its sheath, “is to prosecute it as swiftly as possible, with the maximum possible consideration for justice and mercy in the process. The more war is improved, the more it is lessened.”

“Provided,” Narnasia added firmly, “said improvements go toward making combat more efficient, and not more destructive. Sending things like this into battle would be efficient once, until the enemy fielded similar weapons, and even then would be calamitous. After that, the escalation would prove a nightmare.”

Leraine nodded again. “Yes, we are mindful of these concerns. Please, don’t hesitate to share any insights you have, ladies. To be honest, it’s not been firmly decided whether this project is going to continue at all, for exactly the reasons you have mentioned. There are those within our faith who feel the very existence of such enchantments is tempting fate. I am very much interested in getting the opinions of experts on the art of war. That aside, however, I only raised the prospect of providing such golems to your cult as training pieces. Any agreement reached would carry the firm stipulation that they are never to be used in actual battle.”

“Hm,” Narnasia grunted, peering at the now-reassembled golem through narrowed eyes.

“In theory…perhaps,” Basra mused. “This one, though, would do us little good. Much as I’m glad you were impressed, Sister Leraine, dueling is…a parlor trick, really. It’s been centuries since single combat with blades decided any significant conflict. War is carried out by armies.”

“And soldiers,” Narnasia added, “are best trained by other soldiers. I’m all for progress when one is progressing toward a specific, worthwhile goal, but progress for the sake of progress has an alarming tendency to go very badly.”

“I see,” Leraine said thoughtfully. “Well. I did come here to have a discussion, after all. Could we perhaps adjourn to someplace more private to speak in more detail?” She tilted her head, glancing inquisitively around the gymnasium. The windows were dark; though the sky beyond them still bore some traces of sunset, the direct light had long since been blocked out by the surrounding peaks of the Viridill range.

“Yes, quite so,” Narnasia agreed. “In point of fact, sister, I was pleased to accept your invitation. If you’ve time, there are matters occurring in Viridill on which I would like to consult your expertise, as well.”

“Oh?” Leraine raised her eyebrows; behind her, Basra frowned. “By all means, I’ll be glad to be of assistance.”

“I’ve had the novices arrange a sitting room,” said the Abbess, turning to make her way toward the door. “This way, if you please.”

Leraine paused to bow politely to Basra, who nodded back, before following. After pausing to watch them go, her expression blank, Basra turned away to make her own way back toward the opposite exit.

“Captain Syrinx.” Narnasia had paused, looking over her shoulder. “Why don’t you join us? Your input might be valuable.”

“Of course, Abbess,” Basra said smoothly, changing course and stepping after the two older women. For the briefest moment when their backs were again turned and before she had caught up, she permitted a flash of triumph to seize her expression.

Behind, Private Covrin stood alone in the gymnasium as novices and cadets trickled past on all sides, heading off toward dinner and their evening chores. The remaining two Salyrites were engaged in carefully folding their golem back into its coffin-sized traveling case.

She dropped the sweat-stained towel on the floor, staring coldly after the departing Bishop.

 

That it was familiar by now did not lessen the dread.

Ingvar reached for weapons that were not there—he had no bow, no hatchet or knife. He only wanted them for comfort’s sake, anyway. It wasn’t as if there was anything here for him to fight.

Still he plodded onward, through the dense, tangled forest that allowed no ray of moonlight to penetrate. The trees and underbrush looked solid enough to stop a bear, yet he found no impediment in his path. Wherever he stepped, there was a way through. Just as it was every time.

He did not want to see this again.

But he couldn’t stop.

This time, something was obviously wrong, even beyond the omnipresent sense of dread that dogged him. Long streamers of spidersilk began to appear, stretching between the trees. The webs were enormous but misshapen, woven oddly, not at all like the careful work of spiders. Ingvar had the sudden, sourceless thought that the webs were holding the forest together.

He very much feared he would find them at their greatest concentration when he reached the thing he did not want to see again.

But then, suddenly, he was there. The awful sight was before him, as it had been every night for weeks.

Huntsmen could only hope for such an important omen as to be visited by Shaath in their dreams, but…not like this. Ingvar found himself standing before the great wolf, a magnificent beast bigger than an ox. And as with every other time, he found his god bound.

It wasn’t, as he had expected, by the spiderwebs this time, though they festooned the whole glade in which he stood. He had seen Shaath in snares, in chains, his legs caught in massive bear traps, sinking in quicksand, and in perils whose specifics he recalled only as a formless sense of horror. It was the most hideous spectacle a man of faith could conceive, seeing his very god trapped and suffering.

This time it was brambles, thorny vines that sprouted from the earth, snaring the great wolf’s limbs and body, tying his muzzle shut and pinning him to the ground. As Ingvar watched in impotent horror, the god thrashed against his bonds, then was swiftly stilled. Blood dripped from dozens of points, staining his fur wherever the thorns pierced him. He twitched again, more weakly, and a faint whine of pain emerged from within is throat.

Ingvar wanted to weep. The god of the wild did not whine.

“What can I do?” he whispered, again reaching for a hatchet that was not there.

“Are you lost, hunter?”

Ingvar whirled; this was new. Never before in this nightmare had someone spoken to him.

A crow sat on a thick strand of spiderweb, regarding him with piercing black eyes. It clicked its beak once and spoke again, in a voice that was not a man’s or a woman’s, that was only barely a voice. “You are only lost if you will not find your way. Follow me, I’ll show you.”

 

He gasped, coming awake drenched in sweat.

Ingvar blinked rapidly, clearing the shadows from his vision. It had to be the middle of the night… And if his previous nights’ adventures were any indication, he wasn’t getting back to sleep any time soon.

This had to stop.

He rose, opening the shield on his oil lamp with shaking fingers to cast some light on his small chamber. Then he hesitated, but only for a moment, before getting himself ready.

He wasn’t going far, not even out of the lodge, and only took the time to bind his chest and dress before stepping out of his room. This late, the lodge was peaceful and calm, not to mention dark; he navigated mostly by memory through the dim halls. He encountered no one on his way down to the basement level, which was unsurprising. There was probably nobody awake except the watchmen at the doors, and the one he was going to see. Ingvar couldn’t have said why he was certain his quarry would be up, but he was. It was as certain as the force that always drove him forward in those accursed dreams.

Hrathvin’s door was open; light and the smell of smoke and incense filtered out around the edges of the bearskin hung over the entrance. Ingvar paused at the door, then squared his shoulders and pushed through.

There was light inside, but not much. It was dim and reddish, coming from the brazier set up in the center of the round chamber. Another doorway, also curtained by a hanging bearskin, was at the opposite end of the room, leading to Hrathvin’s sleeping area.

The old shaman himself sat on the other side of the brazier, staring calmly at him through the haze of smoke that rose from it.

“The dreams again, Ingvar?”

The Huntsman nodded, started to speak, and had to clear his throat before he could. “It was…worse, this time. It’s been getting worse, but gradually. This was something different… Shaman, I can’t make myself believe these are just dreams.”

“Then they probably aren’t,” said Hrathvin calmly. “Through such dreams are we called on spirit hunts, or other quests.”

“It makes no sense, though,” Ingvar protested, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the doorway. “Everything I have done and been through, every step… Shaath has guided me on a long journey to here. For the first time I am useful, I have purpose. I’m advancing Shaath’s agenda, helping the Grandmaster and Brother Andros. And now this? What am I to make of it?” He shrugged desperately. “And even if I throw everything aside to pursue this… How? What can one do with dreams? I see only pain and bondage, nothing that tells me what to do!”

“You said this was different,” said Hrathvin, watching him closely. “Different enough to bring you skittering down here in the middle of the night. Were you by chance told, this time, what to do?”

Ingvar hesitated. “I don’t… There was a crow. It said to follow it… But then I woke up. It’s not as if I can follow a dream after it ends.”

“Crows are interesting omens,” the old shaman said noncommittally. “Sometimes good, often bad. Never dull.”

“I’m at a loss, shaman,” Ingvar said plaintively. “I need guidance.”

“Very well,” said Hrathvin, nodding. “Here is my guidance: You don’t need guidance. You need to get up and quit vacillating. Are you a man or not? You’ve worked harder than most to prove it. Act, Ingvar. If you act wrongly, make amends. No harm you do yourself will be worse than the sins of complacency and indecision.”

Invar stopped cold, staring at him in shock. Shock at himself, not at the shaman’s words.

Well, of course.

“Yes,” Hrathvin said knowingly, “the truth is often pretty simple, once it’s been pointed out to you.”

“This is going to be…difficult,” Ingvar muttered, staring into the brazier, his thoughts already racing ahead.

Hrathvin grunted, then lifted his hand to toss another cloud of herbs onto the flames. “Of course it is. Otherwise there’d be no point in doing it.”

“I thank you for the advice, shaman,” Ingvar said respectfully, bowing to him. “I think I have…a starting point, now.”

The old man chuckled. “Enjoy your wrongness while you’ve the luxury, Huntsman. Someday you’ll be old and respected, and nobody will dare give you a kick in the butt when you need one. That is the beginning of decline.”

It was strange how much calmer Ingvar felt as he left the shaman’s chambers, considering that he still was far from sure what he was supposed to do. He had nothing but the merest inkling of a plan.

But now, at least, he was going to do it. Whatever it was.

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6 – 33

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The grate lifted seemingly on its own and Professor Ezzaniel pushed the doors open, letting in a rush of cool night air laden with the scents of earth and grass. The whole party pressed forward, and would have pushed him out of the way had he not stepped quickly aside. They straggled out and stopped, a unified sigh of relief rippling through the whole group, and all stood, faces up, savoring the coolness and the moonlight.

Only one person was there to meet them.

“Well,” said Professor Tellwyrn, planting her hands on her hips. “Well. We do very occasionally lose someone down there, but this… This is unprecedented, I must say. How exactly did you pick up gnomes?”

“She makes us sound like a case o’ hiker’s foot,” Steinway muttered to his companions.

“They were lost,” Fross reported. “In fact, there may be other things in the Crawl that aren’t supposed to be, these days. Rowe was doing something he shouldn’t in the Grim Visage, trying to get out.”

Tellwyrn raised an eyebrow. “Was? Did you ruffians kill my bartender?”

“He was alive the last we saw,” said Ruda with a leer. “He’ll probably stay that way at least a while. Melaxyna doesn’t strike me as the type to give out swift and merciful punishments.”

“You took him to…” Tellwyrn sighed heavily, rolling her eyes. “Ugh. Now I have to go trap another Vanislaad demon, or something equally sketchy. Leaving a succubus down there without competition isn’t on the table; she’d be running the place within a year. Shamlin, what the hell were you doing in my Crawl?”

“Making my fortune,” he said with a broad grin. “Oh, come on, don’t act surprised, Professor. It’s been two years; I’ve talked with every student group and faculty guide you sent. You had to know I was down there. Nice to see you again, by the way!”

“Well, here it is barely a week on, and here you lot are.” Tellwyrn adjusted her spectacles and fixed her eyes on Teal, who was carrying the long wooden box. “Only the third freshman group even to reach the objective, and you’ve absolutely destroyed the previous speed record. Let’s have a look.”

“I’m sure you already know everything, seeing as how you were here waiting,” Teal said, stepping forward as the others cleared a space. “I got a look at the apparatus in the basement of the Visage, the one that I gather students aren’t supposed to see.” She knelt, setting the box down on the grass, unlatched it, and lifted the lid. Within, in their custom-fitted grooves in the red velvet lining, lay the elven sword and dagger, gleaming lustrously under the moonlight.

Tellwyrn gazed down at them for a long few moments, her expression far away. Then, she blinked, shook herself slightly, and lifted her eyes. “Well! That’s the treasure, all right. Since you were lugging them around, Teal, may I assume the honor of the find was yours?”

“It was a group effort,” Teal said firmly. “I was the one to put my hands on them. We had to divide forces to make that happen.”

“She’s being modest,” said Gabriel, grinning. “Teal made the plans that led to us getting them at all. Fairly earned spoils, I’d say.”

“Well, I certainly cannot argue with results,” Tellwyrn said. “I’ll be reading Professor Ezzaniel’s report in detail, but frankly, you completed your assigned task with flying colors, and showed up every previous group to undertake it in the process. Unless you were transcendently stupid in your approach to every step thereof, which seems improbable, you not only receive an A, but a measure of extra credit for this. Right now, kids, I think you can consider last semester’s Golden Sea debacle obviated.”

“Yay!” Fross cheered.

“And we’ll find lodging for our guests, of course,” Tellwyrn went on, turning to the trio of gnomes, who had moved to the side with Shamlin. “I won’t send you down to the town at this hour; neither of the resident innkeepers would appreciate being roused after midnight. If you can bear with me, though, I’ll have to wake my groundskeeper and have one of the unoccupied student dorms opened up. I’m afraid they’ll be rather dusty.”

“Ma’am,” said Sassafrass respectfully, “we’ve been livin’ in the Crawl these last…what’s it been, lads?”

“Least ten months, I reckon,” said Woodsworth. “Me sense o’ time is understandably a bit off-kilter. I’d no idea it was night out.”

“Point bein’,” Sassafrass continued, grinning up at the Professor, “dust is nothing. If you can offer us a bit o’ somethin’ other than mushrooms and stringy ham, an’ a mattress not made o’ patchy leather, you’ll ‘ave gained three devoted slaves.”

“No, thanks,” Tellwyrn said with a wry smile. “The downside of slaves is having to feed them; they make expensive pets. Anyhow, I believe my hospitality can furnish a higher standard than that.”

“It’s a real honor to meet you, by the way,” Steinway said, grinning broadly.

“Yes, I’m sure. As for you.” Tellwyrn leveled a finger at Shamlin. “You may as well stay the night, too, though I’ll be wanting a prolonged word with you before you skitter off.”

“Uh oh,” he said, grinning.

“All right, that’s enough for now,” the elf went on briskly. “It’s an altogether ungodly hour and I have class in the morning. You lot are excused from tomorrow’s classes, of course, but that’s all the time you’ll have to reset your biological clocks. Education waits for no one.”

“Oh, come on,” Juniper protested. “You thought we’d be down there for three weeks! We should get some time off.”

“Juniper,” Tellwyrn said, staring at her over her glasses, “what have I told you about whining?”

“Um…well… Actually, nothing.”

“Mm hm. Would you like to hear my opinions about whining?”

The dryad crept backward a half step. “Actually, now that I think about it, no.”

“Good. All right, off with you. Emilio, have time for a cup of tea with me before retiring?”

“I’m just beginning my day, Arachne,” Ezzaniel said amiably. “I don’t look forward to classes next week. The young can spring back from these sleep cycle disruptions so much more quickly.”

“I have faith in you. Shamlin, the Wells is currently empty. I know you know where that is. Kindly escort our guests there, and I’ll send Stew along to spruce it up for you.”

“Oh, my,” said the bard, grinning. “But Professor, that’s a girls’ dorm!”

“When there are girls in it, yes,” Tellwyrn said acidly. “I’ll just have to trust you not to impregnate the dust bunnies. Move along, Shamlin.”

“Your wish is my command!” he proclaimed, bowing extravagantly. Tellwyrn snorted at him and strode off, Ezzaniel prowling along beside her.

“Welp, it’s been a right pleasure adventurin’ with you kids,” said Woodsworth.

“Aye,” Sassafrass agreed, “you be sure to pay us a visit before we ‘ave to head out.”

“Count on it,” said Toby with a smile.

They stood in silence, breathing in the clean night air and watching the other two groups vanish around corners into the shadows of the campus.

“Well,” Ruda said at last, “who woulda figured it was midnight?”

“I think I’ve had enough of being underground forever,” Juniper muttered. “No offense, Shaeine.”

“None was offered, even by mistake,” Shaeine replied, smiling. “I doubt I would fare well in your home, either.”

“Actually,” said Fross, “Crawl excursions are kind of a big deal at this school. We’ll probably have at least one a year. Maybe one a semester from now on.”

Juniper groaned.

“Here’s what I’m thinkin’,” said Gabriel. “The pubs down in the town are closed, and our dorms are spelled to keep out the opposite sex. But since we’re all awake, and we’ve been subsisting on Crawl food for a week…” He grinned wickedly. “Who’s up for raiding the cafeteria?”

“That is extremely out of bounds!” Fross said shrilly. “It violates multiple school rules as well as personal directives given out by Professor Tellwyrn, Stew, and Mrs. Oak! We could get in so much trouble, especially since we’re supposed to be going to bed!”

“Well,” Ruda began.

“So,” the pixie continued, “you’d better let me go ahead and scan for detector charms. Gabe, I may need your help with the locks!”

Chiming exuberantly, she buzzed off in the direction of the cafeteria.

“Well, blow me down,” Ruda said in wonder. “They really do grow up fast, don’t they?”

 

“I know how many of us suffer, day by day,” Branwen said. Her voice and expression were painfully earnest; the magical spotlight illuminating her was an expensive piece of spellwork that made her easily visible to anyone looking, as if she were standing right in front of them. The charm that made her words echo throughout the grand auditorium was a more conventional piece of magic. “The sad thing about the trials in everyone’s lives is how they can disconnect us, how they can distract us, encourage us to retreat into ourselves and become fixated upon our own problems. It creeps right up on you, doesn’t it? But if you look around you, at the people here tonight, at the people you pass on the street every day, even at the people you love, people you work with… Each time, you are passing another whole story, someone with his or her own struggles. They are different struggles than yours, but no one’s challenges are less important. What you should mourn is not that you face challenges, but what they can cost you, without you even realizing it. It’s the saddest thing in the world, not to see another’s pain.

“Because it’s in those challenges that we have our greatest opportunities. It’s in the connections we can form with our fellow human beings that we may find the simplest solutions.” She smiled, an expression so brimming with optimism and love that Darling, as a fellow artist working in the medium of facial features, found himself in awe of her mastery. Awed, and wondering just how deep those waters ran, considering her well-established facade of pretty uselessness. “It is natural that we should look upward, to the gods, in our most troubled times. But we must be careful. That can lead to despair when solutions do not come down to us from the gods. And that despair is a trick, played on us by our own minds. It’s not what the gods can give us, but what they have given us, that matters.”

She placed a hand over her own heart, a gesture that was totally innocent and yet drew attention right to her impressive bosom. The plain Bishop’s robes she wore, with the pink lotus pin of Izara at the shoulder, were far more carefully tailored than those of her colleagues, emphasizing her voluptuous figure in a manner that was just subtle enough not to be called out upon, while still pushing the envelope of ecclesiastical dignity.

“Each of the gods stands for something which they have bestowed on the world for our use. To cry out to them to solve our problems for us is missing the point of these precious gifts. The gods have given us the means to raise ourselves up. They ask that we have faith in them, because they have faith in us!” Her expression stayed solemn, though her eyes were alight with passion. “The gods believe in you. I believe in you. Whatever you face in your life, I know you can rise to meet it. You must believe in you!”

The mostly-silent crowd stirred at that, a smattering of applause and hushed voices rising up. It was a bit more exuberant than the last such; Branwen was working this audience with absolutely masterful skill. Darling had seen this done before, many a time, in his observations of religious ceremonies. There was a rhythm to it, a familiar pattern. It would be a while yet before she built it to its climax. Tonight’s festivities had only just begun.

He tore his gaze from Branwen to look around the darkened theater. She’d drawn quite a crowd, with the full resources of the Church and every major newspaper in the Empire pushing her forward to fame. The place was full of the hoi palloi thronging the cheap seats below, the slightly more upscale classes in the balconies and the wealthy few occupying boxes like himself. The arrangement tickled at his mind. It somehow seemed very appropriate to have used a commercial theater for this address rather than the Cathedral.

“Damn, but she makes a good speech,” Embras Mogul remarked, dropping heavily into the seat next to Darling and stretching out his long legs. “Fills out that robe quite exquisitely, too, doesn’t she? I have to say, that was a genius move on Justinian’s part. I wonder how long he’s been grooming her for this? Doubtless the lady has her own ambitions, but his Holiness doesn’t strike me as the type to catapult one of his underlings into power without spending a good long while sculpting them first.”

Darling was aware that he was staring, and didn’t bother to stop. “Well,” he said finally. “You’re not quite the last person I expected to see tonight, but… If Scyllith pops in here, too, I may just have to check outside and see if the world has ended.”

“If you encounter Scyllith under any circumstances, I think that’s a worthy concern,” Mogul said, grinning broadly.

“To what do I owe the honor, Embras?”

“Oh, this’n that. I thought you might be missing your tracking charm.” Mogul’s spiderlike fingers deposited a small metal object on the arm of Darling’s chair. It had been badly scorched and bent nearly in half. “Somehow it ended up under my collar. Funny, the way these little things wander off, isn’t it?”

“You said it,” Darling said easily, picking up the destroyed charm and making it vanish up his sleeve. “I owe you one, old man. I tore my whole study apart last night looking for this.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Mogul crossed his legs, lounging back in the plush chair. Below them, Branwen continued to soliloquize, but neither man spared her a glance. “After our little game of tag yesterday, I found myself mulling over your motivations.”

“I’m flattered!”

“And I’m curious. Here’s a man clearly playing both ends against the middle. Or all three ends, or more. The point is, you’re balancing far too many loyalties to be truly loyal to all of them.”

“It does seem to keep people on their toes,” Darling agreed solemnly.

“Loyalty, now, people don’t generally understand how that works,” Mogul mused. “It’s a lot less important than they think. What matters is motivations, those are what lie at the root of loyalties, and everything else. So I got to wondering, and decided to arrange a little test.” He leaned away from Darling and angled his body toward him so he could spread his arms wide. “Thus, here I am! The big, bad leader of the Black Wreath, sitting not a foot away, in a theater just crawling with the Church’s agents. A golden opportunity for you to raise the cry and try your luck at cutting off the snake’s head, so to speak!”

“This speech has the smell of an approaching ‘but’ about it,” Darling said wryly.

“Oh, I dunno,” Mogul replied, grinning broadly. “Or at least, that is what we’re here to find out, isn’t it? After all, you’d be pitting the assembled powers of the Church against whatever I have prepared to come to my aid, which you just know is gonna be something nasty. Obviously I’m a powerful player and I wouldn’t have come here unless I were pretty confident of my chances. On the other hand, Justinian wouldn’t have placed his newest, prettiest pet in such an easily shootable position without ample protections at the ready. Sounds to me like a pretty close contest! The only thing that makes it complicated…” He leaned forward, crossing his arms on the box’s low wall, and peered down at the rapt crowd below. “…are aaaallll those innocent people, just waiting to be pulverized in the crossfire. Priests and demons and the gods know what else, running amok in a crowded theater. Why, it fairly scalds the imagination, doesn’t it?”

“Innocent people.” Darling chuckled darkly, turning his gaze back to Branwen. “We both know there’s no such animal.”

“That a fact?” Mogul leaned back again. “Why not kick off the festivities, then, Antonio? Unless you’re bothered by the thought of unleashing hell on their heads.”

“Have you learned nothing about the modern world from this little campaign?” Darling said mildly, gesturing at Branwen. “Everything’s connected. There are a lot of reasons beyond the moral not to start a fire in a crowded theater.”

“Yes, and we could discuss in detail why the Church doesn’t need to worry about those matters, but that would be a tediously long back-and-forth and quite frankly, I believe we’re done here. At any rate, I’ve got what I came for.” Mogul smiled at him, a thin, smug expression. “So there is a core of decency motivating you, old fellow. Well, I must say, that is…fascinating.”

“I’ll be honest, this kind of gloating seems beneath you,” Darling remarked. “You can’t possibly be that bored. Are you really that sore about losing out to the Archpope on this project? I’m sure your pet columnists would have been valuable and all, but just look at her! Isn’t she adorable? A gift to the world, if you ask me.”

“Losing out,” Mogul mused, raising his eyebrows. “Maybe you can clarify that for me. I have a respected journalist setting out to present my perspective to the world. I have that bosomy little piece speaking what amounts to secular humanism, mortal ambition and self-empowerment—all the things the Wreath stands for. And frankly I have to admit she does make a better mouthpiece than anything I had lined up to do the job, and with the Church’s own credibility behind her, too! The people of this city and the Empire have begun questioning the line of divine bullshit they’ve been fed from the cradle. The cults that pose the greatest threat to me have lost face, while that scheming spider Justinian has gained power, and don’t even pretend you fully understand what he aims to do with it. So, what is it, exactly, that I have lost? I confess the point escapes me.”

“You know, I am trying to watch a speech. If you want to exchange taunts, we can do that in the heat of battle sometime. Butting in like this is rather rude.”

“Why, you are absolutely right.” Mogul stood, swept off his hat and bowed deeply. “My most sincere and humble apologies, Antonio. You enjoy the rest of the evening, now. It’s a great speech.”

“See you later, Embras,” Darling said, waving languidly at him, his face already turned back toward Branwen.

Mogul didn’t even try to move silently and didn’t shadow-jump out, simply pacing back to the curtained door of the box, whistling. Darling listened to him leave, ignoring Branwen for now. With his back to the warlock’s exit, he permitted his features to fall into a grim scowl.

 

Midnight had long passed and the moon was drifting toward the horizon when the doors to the Crawl eased open again. A wary, slate-gray face peered out, glancing left and right, before pushing them wider. The figure who stepped forth was followed by two others, all looking around in blended wonder and nervousness.

“Just as he said,” the lone male whispered in the subterranean dialect of elvish.

“We will go directly,” said the woman in the lead. “There are sure to be wards and defenses, and we are not out for a fight. Stay low, and—”

The soft pop was the only warning they got.

“Right on schedule,” Professor Tellwyrn said grimly, stepping out of thin air. “Congratulations! Most of your compatriots aren’t dumb enough to try this. You get the rare honor of being an example.”

The three drow had fallen to their knees before her as soon as she spoke.

“Arachne,” the second woman said breathlessly. “We’ve—”

“I don’t think I like hearing that from you,” Tellwyrn interrupted. “Well, the good news is, with Rowe’s nonsense at an end, it shouldn’t be too hard to find and plug whatever hole you lot are creeping out of. I do not need drow in my Crawl, except the ones I send in myself. Hm,” she added thoughtfully, frowning. The three kneeling elves flinched. “Now, there’s an idea. A Scyllithene priestess would be a worthy check on Melaxyna’s ambitions. If, that is, I could find one of a modest enough nature not to be an excessive pest. Doesn’t seem likely.”

“We are both priestesses of Scyllith,” the second drow woman said eagerly, not seeing or ignoring her companion’s frantic expression of warning. “I would be—”

“Well, not you, obviously,” Tellwyrn said with a grimace.

The flames were brief, lasting only a split-second, but more intense than the interior of a blast furnace while they burned. In the darkness and quiet after they had vanished, Tellwyrn dismissed the invisible shield over her and brushed drifting ash from her sleeves. A circular patch had been scoured completely clean just in front of the Crawl’s entrance, the upper layers of dirt melted to a puddle of still-steaming glass. It was rapidly hardening, cracking as it did so, the energy of the fire having been removed far more swiftly than simple physics would allow. Nothing was left, not even skeletons. They had not even had time to scream.

“Stew is going to gripe about this for weeks,” Tellwyrn remarked, wrinkling her nose at the hardening glass. “Ah, well. He loves griping.”

She stepped around the burned area to the doors, pushing them carefully shut, then paused. The Professor laid a hand against the dark wood for a moment, smiling fondly, before turning and setting off to wake the groundskeeper for the second time that night.

 

“Good evening, your Grace,” Price said serenely, taking his coat. “I trust the presentation was enjoyable?”

“Good morning, Price,” he said, yawning. “The presentation was fine, as propaganda shows go. I never object to staring at Branwen. Then I had to go to the Intelligence office and the Church and report on more Wreath nonsense. Brandy, please.”

“Of course,” said Price. “Your Grace has a guest, waiting in the downstairs parlor.”

“I have a— It has to be one o’clock in the morning!”

“Yes, your Grace,” she said calmly. “The Crow appears generally unconcerned with such trivialities.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he muttered, stalking off toward the parlor.

“Ah, Antonio,” Mary said as he entered. She was sitting on the back of his favorite chair, her feet perched on one of its armrests, nibbling one of Price’s scones. “It seems I picked a poor moment to leave the city on business. You managed, though, did you not?”

“Mary, it’s an absolutely stupid hour of the morning and I’m exhausted. What do you want?”

She tilted her head. “You are unusually tetchy. I’m accustomed to seeing you more smooth under pressure. Was it really that stressful?”

“If by it, you mean the grand cavalcade of stalking and violence you missed, then no. It was actually rather fun. But I’ve just had my nose rubbed in it by the Wreath’s mortal head and had to explain all this twice, to two separate groups of superiors, so yes, I’m damn well tetchy. Even more so now that I find myself again having to repeat. What do you want, Mary?”

“Merely to discuss events,” she said, hopping lightly to the floor. “I waited, as I’ve found you generally amenable to holding late hours, but if you are unduly stressed I can return tomorrow. Would you like me to ease your weariness before I go?”

“Thank you, no,” he grumbled. “But do you happen to know a time travel spell? What I would like is to go back about a week and a half and warn myself not to get into it too closely with Embras bloody Mogul.”

“As I should hardly have to remind a Bishop of the Church,” she said evenly, “messing with time travel is an extraordinarily bad idea. Vemnesthis punishes such infractions without mercy. Even I don’t aggravate the gods in person. You might ask Arachne.”

“It was a joke,” he said wearily. “The last damned thing I need is Tellwyrn anywhere near anything I’m trying to do.”

Mary studied him in silence for a moment. “What happened?” she asked, her voice more gentle. “You are rattled. I confess it’s a little disconcerting, coming from someone so self-assured.”

“Yes, well, circumstances and other people’s bullshit I can cope with just fine,” he said. “Ah, thank you, Price.” Darling tossed back the proffered brandy in one gulp, then set the glass back on her tray. “It’s more disappointing when I screw up. I’ve been going about this all wrong, sneaking around, playing the thief against the Black Wreath. It’s been mentioned often enough lately—hell, I’ve had reason to comment that Eserites and Elilinists think very much alike. I should never have tried to match them at their own game.”

“Is that not also your game?” Mary asked mildly.

“Yes, and that would be the problem,” he said, striding past her to the window, where he pulled aside the curtain and glared out at the dark street. “The whole reason the Empire has done so well militarily is its doctrine of asymmetrical warfare. Not just the Strike Corps utilizing the Circles of Interaction to advantage, but leveraging different kinds of assets against different enemies. Hit them where they’re weakest. The Guild against the Wreath is just…attrition. For all the Church’s resources, Justinian is a schemer, too. He and Vex have been doing the same thing. We’re never going to get anywhere if we keep obliging their love for skullduggery.”

“What, then?” Mary inquired. “If the Empire were able to pin down the Wreath and use its military power against them, it would have done so long since.”

“I can pin them down,” he said. “Next time, I am going to hit the bastards with sheer overwhelming force.”

“You don’t have overwhelming force,” she pointed out.

He turned from the window, grinning broadly at her, a predatory expression that was not meant to be pleasant. Mary, unsurprisingly, seemed totally unimpressed, which didn’t bother him.

“I cannot fathom why people keep saying things like that to me,” he said. “New strategies or not, I’m still a priest of Eserion. When I need something, I’ll take it.”

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6 – 15

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“Oh, it’s only been the last two days,” Branwen said modestly. “Believe me, I’m more surprised than anyone at how quickly all this has taken off! Fortunately his Holiness has assigned me a staff to help with the project, or I’d never have been able to stay on top of it.”

“The runaway success of Branwen’s new role as motivational columnist is evidence of that plot’s original purpose,” said the Archpope, regarding them over his interlaced fingers.

“Plot?” Basra said sharply, looking up from her perusal of one of the newspapers Darling had brought to the meeting.

“Indeed,” Justinian said gravely. “For all that it has unfolded so quickly, it is a rather circuitous route that has brought us to this development. To being with, I took the unconventional step of consulting the resources in the Chamber of Truth with regard to our current dilemma.”

“You specifically cautioned us that those weren’t of much tactical value, your Holiness,” Andros noted.

“Indeed,” said the Archpope, nodding. “Generally the attempt has resulted in confusion and annoyance more than anything. However, I felt our lack of useful data in this situation warranted a gamble. In fact, oracular divinations, while rarely conducive to acquiring facts, are an excellent source of wisdom. In this case, the gamble paid off. Some of the prophecies I obtained were indecipherable, but several directed me toward, and I quote, ‘the singers of songs and the tellers of tales.’”

“That specific phrase is usually a reference to bards,” said Darling, frowning.

“Historically, yes,” agreed the Archpope. “But in the context of other hints the Chamber provided, suggesting that I consider things in a modern rather than traditional context, I decided to make inquiries among the modern world’s answer to the archetypal traveling storyteller.”

Basra ruffled the paper she was holding. “The newspapers?”

“Precisely.” Justinian smiled grimly. “And that is where matters began to become…interesting. Throughout the city, in the offices of all five widely-distributed newspapers, there have been, in the last few days, culminations of very unlikely sequences of events leading to…openings.”

“Openings?” Andros prompted.

The Archpope nodded. “It appears there has been some competition among the papers, as is only natural, and specifically rivalries among their advice columnists.”

“People can find the pettiest nonsense upon which to waste their energies,” Andros grunted.

“Over time,” Justinian continued, ignoring him, “these columnists have become de facto stand-ins for their respective papers with regard to this increasing competition for readership and distribution. All of the major Tiraan papers are now published across the Empire; most ship their stock out via Rail on a weekly basis, but two have managed to publish their daily editions from coast to coast by beaming out the contents thereof via telescroll and printing them on site.”

“Fascinating,” Basra said in a disinterested tone, again reading the paper before her.

“Various editors have used these columnists as major selling points. They have become public personalities, almost celebrities.” Justinian paused, then went on in a more grave tone, “and in the last week, two were killed in accidents, one perished of an aneurysm in his sleep, one retired unexpectedly, and the last was promoted to the position of editor-in-chief of his paper when the individual who previously held that post abruptly stepped down to tend to a family emergency.”

“Well,” Darling said, “that’s good and suspicious…”

The Archpope nodded. “And it tracks with the Wreath’s evident aim. Their actions have been toward improving the public’s perception of them while cutting down that of the Church and the gods. By subtly increasing the profile of certain newspaper columnists and then replacing those individuals with their own people, they position themselves to dramatically increase their ability to disseminate their message.”

“And that’s more characteristic of them than what we’ve seen in the last week,” Darling added. “The long, slow, careful plan.”

“This makes no sense,” Andros growled. “If they could do this, why not plant their agents over the long term? Creating these vacancies all at once, now of all times, is too overtly suspicious.”

“No, it makes perfect sense,” Basra argued, looking up again. “Any newspaper columnists spouting Wreath propaganda would have been silenced long since. Even if they tried to lay low and not actually…propagandize…until this event, the longer they had someone in place, the more chance any number of things could happen to that person. Look how easy it apparently was to make accidents happen to five such columnists at once. By waiting till now, after the recent debacle where the cults embarrassed themselves pursuing the Wreath too roughly, they have the perfect opening. Now of all times, all of us and even the Empire will be hesitant to do anything too ham-fisted in the name of suppressing the Black Wreath. The populace is already agitated about that.”

“A worthy observation,” Andros grunted, “from one of the hammy fists in question.”

“To keep this on point,” Justinian said swiftly, “upon learning of these events, I acted quickly, first to cut the Wreath off from the newspapers. Agents of the Church were sent to the offices of each, both here in Tiraas and to all their facilities on the continent, to bless them. Thoroughly. The Wreath may be adept at evading the detection of the gods, but a warlock or hidden demon will still burn when doused in an indiscriminate deluge of holy power.”

“I’m impressed you got all those organizations to go along with it,” Darling remarked. “I’ve worked with the newspapers a bit myself. Journalists don’t like outsiders mucking about with their offices.”

“Few turn down a free and thorough blessing from the gods,” the Archpope said wryly. “Some were, I think, suspicious of the Church’s motives, but they acquiesced when it was broadly hinted that their organizations were suspected of harboring demons.”

“You’ve noticed that, too?” Darling said with a grin. “Amazing the results you can sometimes get by just being honest with people.”

“Quite so,” Justinian replied, smiling benignly at him. The two men locked eyes for a long moment, both wearing placidly friendly expressions, before the Archpope continued. “In any case, this seems to have effectively barred the Wreath from moving into the positions they had just opened. Our next step was simply to place our own agent there. Bishop Snowe is now a syndicated columnist, her column distributed by every major paper published out of Tiraas. In the weeks to come, we shall see about getting her into various lesser publications throughout the Empire, as well. And even beyond it.”

“It remains to be seen how the abrupt loss of their competition among columnists will affect distribution,” Branwen said modestly, “but with all the prestige they’ve poured into the position, now that I’m being published in all of them, well… Instant celebrity. I’m afraid I don’t deserve any credit for it.”

“This is fantastic stuff,” Basra said rather dryly, reading again. “A guy walks away from the Vernisite faith of his parents and feels lost and directionless; you tell him to spend time in reflection, gain self-knowledge, and decide which of the gods best matches his own aptitudes. A housewife is bored and restless with her children gone from the nest, and you tell her to find purpose by cultivating her own talents and making a difference in her own world. A bullied kid doesn’t know how to stand up to his tormentors; you advise him to spend time in rigorous self-improvement and find a way to confront them on ground where he’s strongest. I’m sensing a theme here.”

“Again, I cannot take credit,” Branwen said, a picture of humility. “This is, needless to say, a secret, but I haven’t actually written these. I’m to serve as a public face, a personality; his Holiness has people providing the actual words.”

“We must not sacrifice our long-term goals for the sake of the short term,” Justinian said calmly. “Remember where this all ultimately leads, my friends. We strive for the elevation of humanity. It is never too early to urge that they elevate themselves. That, indeed, is the best possible use of our resources. In this case, it was convenient; the theme of self-improvement and empowerment has been increasingly trendy among the papers’ editors. The Wreath has been building this nest with great care.”

“Is it slightly disturbing to anyone else,” Darling asked grimly, “that we fit so neatly into a Wreath-shaped hole?”

“The Black Wreath’s theology, like all truly terrible ideas, has its roots in a good one,” Justinian replied. “Their rhetoric is filled with talk about human potential and human empowerment. That only becomes the disaster it is when married to their nihilistic hatred of the gods and predilection for diabolism.”

The others exchanged a round of silent looks. Basra finally laid down the papers and pushed the stack away from herself across the table.

“Moving forward,” the Archpope continued more briskly, “let us consider our current situation. This is the first decisive victory we have gained in this round of confrontations with the Wreath; this stage of their plan is undone, and in fact repurposed to serve our aims, but it would be naïve to consider this over. Placing newspaper columnists sympathetic to their goals is far too humble an aim to have been the entire point of this campaign, considering the resources they have already expended upon it, and I am reluctant to assume that having interrupted this step in the chain will throw their entire plan into chaos. The Wreath is characteristically too careful to let themselves be unmade by a single defeat.”

“Then that leaves our next moves to be made from much the same position as before,” Andros rumbled. “We do not know what they ultimately intend, much less what they will do next to achieve it.”

“Not quite,” Darling said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “This bit with the papers… Something that involved and long-term will have left trails that can be followed.”

“Precisely!” Justinian said with a broad smile. “Even assuming that some infernal craft was used in arranging this state of affairs, by far the most of it must have been the result of mundane manipulations. The Wreath are careful, but this is too broad a project for every trail leading from it to have been covered. That brings us to the now, and our next moves.”

“Well, Branwen’s role in this game is obviously settled,” Basra said wryly.

“Yes,” Justinian nodded while Branwen looked demure. “Which leaves the rest of you. Antonio, your particular skills are immediately relevant in following the trails from the newspaper offices. You are the master of information-gathering, particularly in Tiraas. May I leave this in your hands?”

Darling leaned slowly back in his chair, frowning pensively into the distance. “…I will do what I can, your Holiness. There’s a complicating matter I hadn’t had a chance yet to report on.”

“Oh?” Justinian raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve been following up with our various cults, as directed,” Darling continued. “I have…disappointing news from the Thieves’ Guild.”

“I shall try to contain my shock,” Basra said solemnly.

“Really, Bas,” Branwen protested. “Must you?”

“Tricks acknowledged having played into the Wreath’s hands with his actions following the warlock attacks,” Darling said, ignoring them. “Where it gets dicey is that he says this was on the specific orders of Eserion himself.”

There was momentary silence while they considered this.

“Is it possible he himself is compromised?” Andros asked finally.

“Andros!” Branwen exclaimed, scandalized. “That is a high priest you are talking about!”

“It’s okay, Bran,” said Darling, giving her a fleeting grin. “It’s a fair question. And to answer it, the possibility exists. We should assume that anyone might be compromised. However, it’s my policy not to reach for outlandish explanations when a simpler one makes more sense. The Boss of the Guild being in with the Wreath is a major stretch; Eserion playing a game of wits with Elilial would be entirely in character.”

“Hm,” Justinian said pensively. “I can attempt to inquire, of course. The gods are not obligated to speak to me, however, and Eserion in particular has never held much regard for mortal authority.”

“Just so,” said Darling, nodding. “So, to bring this back around to the issue at hand… I’ll certainly do my best, but with regard to this situation, I think we had better regard the resources of the Thieves’ Guild as unavailable to us. Trying to make use of them right now will put us at cross purposes with Eserion’s gambit, whatever that is, and presents the risk that our efforts will get back to the Wreath themselves.”

“How severely does this hamper you?” Justinian asked.

“I built the Guild’s current information network,” Darling said with a grim smile. “I’m still me; I can get information as needed. However, with much of my customary toolbox off-limits, it will take…longer. I’m not sure how much time we have to work.”

“Then it is vital that we not sit and wait for you to complete this project,” Andros said firmly. “It is an important one—perhaps the most important—but we must proceed with other avenues while you carry it out.”

“What’d you have in mind?” Darling asked mildly.

“In the last several days, we have continuously erred on the side of aggression,” the Huntsman said, folding his hands atop the table and leaning forward to stare at them. “This has been to the Black Wreath’s advantage, and apparently a cornerstone of their strategy. I propose that we continue to accommodate them.”

“Interesting,” Justinian mused. “Go on.”

“The hunt must suit the quarry,” Andros said. “The Wreath are subtle; subtlety is needed in pursuing them. They will expect such subtlety from us and be prepared to counter it. I believe we have, here, an opportunity to outmaneuver them by playing to their expectations.” He turned to stare at Basra. “The actions of the Silver Legions were by far the most ostentatiously aggressive in the aftermath of their attack. If this continues, it will force them to adhere to their strategy of attempting to use it to discredit the Sisterhood. Meanwhile, my Huntsmen will undergo a more careful, more effective search for demons and warlocks active in the city.”

“I can’t help noticing,” Basra said flatly, “that it’s my cult which will bear the bulk of the effort and the backlash for this plan of yours.”

“I would not ask that it be done that simply,” Andros rumbled. “Whatever issues there are between our faiths, against the Wreath we are ancient allies. These matters, I confess, are somewhat over my head, but is there not something the priests of Izara can do to turn the tide of public opinion?”

“In fact, we are very well suited for that,” Branwen said with a smile. “I will speak to the High Priestess about this. It should be possible to counter the Wreath’s propaganda efforts against the Sisters and the Huntsmen while this is going on.”

“No,” said Andros, shaking his head. “Only against the Sisters. We should do as much as possible to focus the Wreath’s attention on them, including the direction of our damage control efforts. I assure you, my faith does not suffer in the least from being disliked.”

“Historically speaking, that appears to be the plain truth,” Darling said cheerfully.

“And so,” Andros went on, “while the Thieves’ Guild engages in whatever campaign it is playing, the Sisters belligerently pursue the Wreath with the full backing of the Church, and the Huntsmen more quietly and carefully cut down demonic forces, there will be so many balls in the air that Antonio’s pursuit can, with the blessing of the gods, proceed unnoticed.”

“Excellent, Andros,” Justinian said with a smile of simple approbation. “It is the basis of a solid plan indeed.”

“I think I can enhance it form my end, too,” Darling added thoughtfully. “It shouldn’t take much effort to create the impression that I’m involved in the Guild’s operations. The simplest way to do that, of course, is for me to be involved, which the Boss will expect anyway. Only downside is that means I’m going to have to chase the Wreath from a distance, via proxies.”

“Can you?” Basra asked archly.

“I think so,” he said, nodding slowly. “Yes. I believe I know just the people to tap for this job. This should work out well; Embras Mogul engaged me personally in Hamlet. There’s a link there; I’ll make a pretty good scarecrow to hold his attention.”

“I may have a problem on my end,” Basra said darkly. “The High Commander was not appreciative of my efforts. My authority with regard to the Legions has not been impeded as such, but if I try to send them out to do more of the specific thing she ranted at me for doing last time…there will be trouble.”

“There should be a path around that obstacle,” Andros said somewhat dismissively. “You flying off the handle and flailing with your sword is a very different matter from you exercising your authority on behalf of a Church-sponsored campaign in pursuit of a definite goal.”

Basra stared flatly at him, sliding her hands off the table so they couldn’t be seen. Branwen sighed heavily and planted her face in her hand.

“Andros,” the Archpope said quietly, with gentle but definite reproof.

“Forgive me,” Andros said, completely calm, and bowed slightly to Basra from his seat. “I am prone to speaking in haste. I should not let old animosities so guide my words.”

“Mm hm,” she said, not dropping her cold stare.

“Needless rudeness aside,” Justinian said, still regarding Andros reproachfully, “it is a point of some merit. This plan proposes to make direct use of the Silver Legions; we should not even consider attempting to do so unilaterally. Obviously High Commander Rouvad must be included in this plan, as well as Grandmaster Veisroi and High Priestess Delaine. Circumstances being what they are, it seems regrettably necessary that Boss Tricks can’t be brought on board. Or do you think he should, Antonio?”

“All things considered,” Darling said ruefully, “I don’t think any good would come of that. So long as the Guild is pursuing its own ends, we should assume anything Tricks knows will be used for his purposes before ours.” He sighed heavily. “For the record, I’m not comfortable with this. It’s been my long experience that Eserion invariably knows what he’s doing. If he’s using the Guild in a play against the Wreath, it’s certain to be a good one.”

“I have little personal experience with your god,” said Justinian, “but I am amply versed in the history of the Church and its member cults, and I concur with your assessment. I also believe that, whatever the Boss does or does not know, Eserion will be aware of the players moving and accommodate their actions in his own plans. As is my general policy in dealing with the gods, I think it is incumbent upon us to do our best and trust them to do theirs. Have faith in your deity, Antonio,” he added with a smile. “He knows your own worth, and will not condemn you for taking action outside his own cult.”

“Oh, that’s not what worries me,” Darling said with a smile. “The Big Guy knows what he’s about, no question. It’s just a new and uncomfortable perspective for me, regarding the Guild’s activities from outside.”

“I fear we shall all gain new and uncomfortable perspectives before this is over,” Justinian said solemnly. “But I believe we are equal to the task at hand. Remember who you are and what we are to achieve.” His smile was calm, serene, and utterly confident. “We are only human, yes, but when we are done, the word ‘only’ shall never again be applied to us.”

Darling, obviously, kept his many doubts to himself.

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“Well, what did you think was going to happen?”

The man sitting across the table from Darling hunched in his chair, glaring sullenly. He was a relatively prosperous-looking fellow, pudgy enough to suggest he lived quite comfortably, but not overly fat. His suit was of relatively good quality but fit him too imperfectly to have been tailored. Balding, middle-aged, his only calluses on his fingertips, he might have been any clerk or banker to whom no one paid a moment’s attention until they needed his services.

That was precisely what made his presence here so intriguing.

“It’s the signs, you see,” Darling went on, leaning back in his own chair and grinning easily, which caused the other man’s glare to deepen. “’Mortal world for mortal races,’ I like that. Catchy. It sort of falls apart when you think it through, though, doesn’t it? I mean, were you guys protesting the gods?” He chuckled aloud. “I’ve got to figure you were counting on them not to notice you. You lot certainly weren’t prepared for what would have happened if one of them had.”

The man’s sullenness increased, slightly but visibly, and not for the first time during this interview; Darling had been winding him up for a little while now.

“That’s not even the best one, though,” he went on merrily. “’Better the Wreath than the Wrath.’ Come on, what does that even mean? It might interest you to know that that piece of poster board is currently on display in a local city watch barracks in the mess hall. Or anyway, it was an hour ago; the captain’ll probably make them take it down sooner or later. At least the troops got a good laugh, though, right? You can’t say your day was completely wasted.”

“We didn’t make the signs!” the man burst out, then immediately clamped his lips shut, firmly folding his arms across his chest.

“Who did?” Darling asked mildly.

The suspect glared at him. “Did you just bring me here to make fun of me? Have you nothing better to do?”

“Have you?” Darling countered, grinning. “But no, actually, I didn’t bring you here. I’m just the first in a long line of people who ask the questions.”

He grunted. “I know the law. You can’t keep me here forever.”

“Well, sure, there’s that,” the Bishop went on glibly. “You’re not guilty of anything worse than disrupting the peace, which is a day in a cell at the most. You’ll note I’m presuming you are not actually a member of the Black Wreath. As is Imperial Intelligence. For the simple reason, you see, that no member of the Wreath would have been out doing something as toweringly boneheaded as protesting. In dramatic black robes, no less! Did you know their actual ceremonial robes are gray?” His grin widened at the man’s expression. “Aw, you really didn’t, did you?”

“If I’m being charged with creating a disturbance,” he grated, “I would like to be formally charged, please, and proceed to my cell.”

“Ah, I’m afraid that brings us to a sticking point,” said Darling, leaning forward and folding his hands on the table between them. “You see, nobody cares about your little protest, Anders. May I call you Anders? How about Andy? Smashing. Seriously, though, a handful of kooks in robes making a mess in the street? Bah. Frankly, I suspect if you get before a magistrate for that, most of ’em would consider your rough handling by the Silver Legions adequate punishment and send you off with a stern talking-to. The issue is that you’re not being held as a criminal; you’re being held as a source of information. You, Andy, know something that could lead to the capture of actual Black Wreath agents.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Anders said woodenly, putting on an ostentatiously stubborn expression.

Darling heaved a sigh. “Well, then, you’ve got yourself a problem, Andy. Y’see, as a suspected source of information on a declared enemy of the state, you’re being held on military grounds. You are a prisoner of war in an active conflict. Which means you are going nowhere. You will sit in that cell until Imperial Command decides you’ve given them every little scrap of information you possibly can. Then you’ll probably be released, unless they decide you’re an authentic threat to the security of the state, which isn’t likely, seeing as…well, look at you.”

Anders had grown more wide-eyed and pale as Darling spoke, and finally jolted up, slapping his hands on the table. “You can’t—”

Instantly, both the soldiers standing next to the room’s small door shifted forward, aiming their staves directly at him. Anders froze, looking first at one, then the other, then very carefully sank back down into his chair.

“Look, Anders,” Darling said calmly. “I know and you know that you’re not a rebel or heretic. You’ve got objections to the Empire’s way of doing things? Welcome to citizenship. You have a quarrel with some or all of the gods? I think you’d be amazed how very common that is, even within the Church. You had a little lapse in judgment and created a fuss in public? You and every university student in history. Meanwhile, whatever Black Wreath agent set you and your chums up with those robes and masks is running around, free as a bird and up to the gods only know what. Shamelessly using you as a distraction and a fall guy is the least of what they’ve likely done in the meantime. The last Wreath agents I encountered in the city had just murdered a harmless old woman who happened to get in the way of their attempt to murder an Izarite priestess.”

He remained quiet for a few heartbeats, letting that sink in, watching the uncertainty growing on his subject’s face. Anders had a very open face, at least to someone like Darling.

“The thing that puzzles me,” he finally said quietly, “is why you would protect them?”

Anders dropped his gaze to the table, clearing his throat. “If…um… If I help you…I can go?”

“Each broke more easily than the last,” Darling reported. “None of these folk had the slightest training in handling interrogation, nor any experience at it; not so much as a criminal record among them. Imperial Intelligence found no links of any kind to Wreath or dissident activity before yesterday, with either divination or mundane methods. They’re just average citizens. Tradespeople, clerks. Hence Lord Vex letting me handle the questioning.”

“So it is with the common folk,” Archpope Justinian said gravely. “I fear too many of the systems of our society are designed to keep people complacent. It has the side effect of making them vulnerable to such manipulations.”

“With respect, your Holiness, I’ve found the opposite is true,” Darling said, frowning thoughtfully. “Average sorts living from one payday to the next tend to have a very solid handle on the immediate practicalities of their lives. They might get swept up in events, but they don’t just up and do stuff that’ll cause them trouble. That’s the key, here; none of these protestors had any kind of record. It’s as if they all decided to drop whatever they were doing, put on some robes and try to irritate the Pantheon. People don’t act so rashly unless under duress, or severely provoked. None of them were provoked.”

“Hm,” Justinian mused, falling silent as they walked. They were strolling along one of the Cathedral’s more beautiful settings, the Hall of the Falls. The dais and pulpit of the huge main sanctuary was backlit by a semicircular array of stained-glass windows. Behind this was another, larger circle of plain crystalline glass, subtly lensed, that gathered and magnified the light from outside. Sandwiched between the two arches of glass was a half-moon-shaped walkway, from under which water constantly streamed in a short fall to a pool below. It was a brilliantly lovely piece of architecture, and also a favorite place for conversations which needed to be private. The arch of the walkway was shallow enough that one could not approach unseen, and the constant roar of water made it hard to hear a normal speaking voice more than a few feet away.

They were escorted, as always now, by two of those heavily-armored popinjays from Justinian’s Holy Legion, with two more at each of the Hall’s entrances. Privately, Darling thought that even his Guild streetfighting would be a match for one of them, and he wasn’t really a fighter. A lone Silver Legionnaire could probably cleave through this whole squad.

“It was my understanding,” the Archpope finally said, “that Vex’s investigation had eliminated the possibility of any magical duress placed upon the suspects.”

“He determined there was no evidence of any such duress, using the best and most modern methods available,” Darling replied, “which in my opinion gives us a far more valuable avenue of investigation than the paltry intel we got from the suspects themselves. The Wreath was too careful to let any agents be identified or traced, and disguise spells are too easy nowadays. However, read between the lines: all of these people exhibited totally uncharacteristic aggression under strange circumstances, strongly suggesting that they were magically influenced. There were zero lingering traces of any such influence. The Black Wreath is known above all for its ability to hide its workings from perception, even that of the gods. Now, the key here is that in all the Wreath’s history, there are no hints they’ve ever been able to use infernal magic to influence emotions. That’s fairy magic, characteristically. If they’re using their infernal technique to hide it, then it’s infernal spellwork, which means they have a new trick. Well, another new trick.”

“Hardly encouraging news,” Justinian said gravely.

“Well, no, but useful,” Darling replied with a smile. “Aside from the fact we now know they can do it, Elilial does not just spin new spells out of the ether. It has been eight thousand years—she’s taught her followers pretty much whatever she’s going to by this point, and in fact by a point long ago. New spellcraft is a mortal innovation. It means they’ve been conducting research. Research means materials and equipment procured, which, given modern economics, means there’ll be evidence of it somewhere, no matter how well they hide their tracks. Research means byproducts that would need to be disposed of, magically volatile trash of the kind that leaves scryable residue. It means, furthermore, they’d have been working with unknown magical quantities, so their usual concealment spells couldn’t have been applied consistently. The Wreath having a new spell means that somewhere, there are traces of its development. We just have to find it, now that we know what to look for.”

“Excellent!” Justinian said, turning to face him and clapping a hand on Darling’s shoulder, beaming. “Truly excellent work, Antonio! Each day I am increasingly grateful to have your aid.”

He was so perfectly sincere that despite the thorny hedge of unspoken maneuvering between them, Darling couldn’t help but feel pleased at the praise. Damn, but the man was good at what he did.

“I have news of my own,” the Archpope continued, releasing Darling and turning to resume their leisurely stroll. “Information, in fact, that should be quite interesting to Lord Vex, as a fair trade for his willingness to let you share the results of his investigation with me.”

“Something he doesn’t already know?” Darling asked with a wry smile.

“Quite possibly,” Justinian said seriously. “My queries have led me to Svenheim; the dwarves are displeased to the point of hostility with Tiraas in the wake of the Narisian Treaty, and have developed a tendency to block official government actions. I am accorded somewhat greater respect when I ask for cooperation.”

“I understood that the dwarves were mostly pagan…”

“Quite so,” said Justinian with a smile of his own, “but they are also mostly practical. The Pantheon is a reality that wise people do not ignore, as is its Church. I have only been obstructed outright in Themynrite lands, and that only after pushing the limits of the local judiciary’s patience.”

Darling filed that away for later investigation, nodded and made an encouraging noise in the back of his throat.

“This information is weeks old by now,” Justinian continued, “but after the suicide devices found on the Wreath’s attacking warlocks this week matched those from the Tellwyrn incident in Hamlet, I am convinced of its relevance. I tracked those syringes to the dwarven industrialist who owns the patent on that technology. She, of course, vehemently denies doing business with the Black Wreath, but confirms their origin. Most importantly, the brass-bound devices with the lavish engraving that the Wreath has used were promotional prototypes, given away in large quantity to various medical and alchemical organizations.”

“Hm.” Darling frowned thoughtfully. “That means it’ll be very hard to trace their paths…”

“All but impossible, I am assured. However, they were a limited run of products. All such bodies who now buy syringes from the firm in question purchase more modern ones, which are far plainer in design and made of either steel or a nickel/copper alloy rather than brass. Those prototypes which were used have been so, as of more than three years ago. We may assume that any such brass-bound syringes now found are a link to the Wreath.”

“That is good news,” Darling said with unfeigned enthusiasm. “Vex hasn’t mentioned any such thing, but of course he doesn’t tell me everything. I will pass it along, of course.”

“Of course,” said Justinian with a beatific smile. “And now, Antonio, unless you have urgent business on behalf of your own cult, I would like to take further advantage of your skills as an interviewer.”

“Of course, your Holiness. Anything I can do.”

“This may seem somewhat intrusive, but I assure you it is a necessary formality…”

“…and we’re just building the most complete possible picture of yesterday’s events,” Darling finished with a reassuring smile. “You’re not suspected of anything.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” Branwen replied. “Though honestly, Antonio, it never occurred to me that I might be suspected of anything until you said his Holiness wanted you to question me.”

“Let’s avoid words like ‘question,’” he said with a grin, settling back in his chair. “It raises implications that just don’t apply here. Of course we know where you were during the demonstrations and the Legion’s response, that’s all academic. Really, the only blanks we need filled in are about what happened the night of the attacks.”

Her face fell, and she lowered her gaze to stare at the carpet between them. They were in one of the Cathedral’s small chapels, lavishly appointed and used by wealthy and important worshipers for private meditation—or sensitive discussions such as this. It was smaller than a bedroom, really, containing nothing but two comfortable chairs and an altar over which hovered a golden ankh, in what Darling considered a wasteful and ostentatious display of magical excess.

“I know how hard this subject is for you, Bran,” he said very gently. “Take all the time you need. Look, if you’re not ready to talk about it now, there is no rush. As I said, you’re not under any kind of suspicion. If you want to gather your thoughts in private…”

“No.” She shook her head, lifting her blue eyes to his. “No…thank you, Antonio, but I promised his Holiness that I would be ready to serve in whatever way was needed. What do you need to know?”

He smiled warmly at her. “I only have one question, really, but it’s rather broad. It’s about the kankhradahg demon; when I got there, it was evidently under your control.”

“Influence,” she clarified, but nodded. “I couldn’t have given him very specific instructions, but he was responding well to me.”

“Influence, then,” he said, nodding. “You realize that’s a very…remarkable skill for an Izarite cleric to suddenly display.”

“It had only a little to do with my own faith,” she said quietly. “Izara’s gift of perception was part of it, though. I could feel what the demon wanted, which was quite simply to be out from under the sway of his master, to strike back against them… And to feel cared for. They’re quite smart, really, kankhradahgs. Not sentient, but clever. About on the level of dogs.”

“I see.” Darling leaned back in his chair, still studying her thoughtfully. “And it had—forgive me—clearly already attacked Tieris. How did you wrest control of it away from the warlocks?”

“Warlock, singular,” she said with a soft sigh. “A simple demon like that is generally only beholden to one warlock. You are aware, of course, that the Church employs summoners?”

“Well…yes,” he said slowly. “I must say I never suspected you were one.”

Branwen actually laughed, softly and rather bitterly. “Oh, I haven’t that level of skill… But as a ranking agent of the Church, I do have access to some training. So do you, and to be frank, Antonio, you should think about taking advantage. It saved my life that night. Clerics cannot become warlocks; too much holy energy infusing our auras makes it impossible. It is possible, though, to bring demons across the dimensional barrier through arcane means, as we did in Hamlet. From there, they can be controlled to an extent with holy magic. Mostly with brute force methods and a lot less precision than an actual warlock has, but if you know where to put the barriers and where to apply the whip, holy magic can keep a demon in line.”

“Hm,” he said noncommittally, gesturing for her to continue.

“With a little coaching and experience, you can perceive demonic energies more clearly. And understand what they mean. Like, for instance, the bond between a summoner and his minion. I simply applied a blessing to that, like an ax to a chain.”

“And set the demon loose,” he said, nodding. “Lucky it didn’t turn on you.”

She shook her head. “He was angry at his masters; his first act was to turn on them. After that… As I said, Izara’s gifts help us in dealing with everyone. Even animals, even demons. The poor thing was badly in need of a little care. He responded quite well to it.”

Darling nodded again, his mind flashing back to what Flora and Fauna had told him about Branwen. She had a way of subtly influencing people’s desires, as opposed to just picking up on them as Izarites did. Allegedly that was the very habit that made her own cult nervous about her, but he could see how it had likely saved her that night. “I think I may just follow your advice, then. If we’re going to be wrestling with the Wreath, it sounds like useful knowledge to have.”

She smiled warmly up at him. “That particular trick wouldn’t work in all circumstances, of course. A more alert or powerful warlock could counter it. Also, a sentient demon is likely to have a more complex relationship with their summoner. Some might be eager to turn on the human who enslaved them, but others might remain loyal. It depends on the individuals and the circumstances.”

“Well, yes,” he said with a faint grin. “I’m sure we both know I’ll never have your knack for feeling out the truth in such situations. The kankhredahg was destroyed after all that, I take it?”

“Of course not,” she said, frowning prettily. “I made sure the Church summoners sent him back to his own plane. He was an animal, Antonio; an abused animal. There was absolutely no need to punish him any further. Everyone deserves a little compassion.”

“Of course,” he said soothingly. “Forgive me, I’m still growing accustomed to the nuances of dealing with demons. For so long demonology has been an academic interest of mine; something that occurred in history, not right under my nose.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming you,” she assured him, smiling again and even fluttering her lashes a little. “Like you said, none of us need to cast blame on each other. I assume, of course, you’re having these little conversations with the others, too?”

“Of course,” Basra said dryly, lounging back in the chair and crossing her legs in a rather mannish posture. “Questions are only natural. Don’t worry, I’m not offended; if Justinian suspected me of something, it wouldn’t be you doing the asking.”

“I’m glad to hear that, anyway,” Darling said carefully. “I’m still somewhat stuck on your little revelation, though. That was your idea? Forgive me, but I didn’t realize you had that much…pull with the Legions.”

“It’s a gray area,” she said with a smug little smile. “I’m not in the chain of command, per se, but due to the Church’s agreements with the Sisters of Avei, the sitting Bishop has certain prerogatives. Until Justinian put together his own adorable little legion, the Sisters provided the Church’s military arm, and the Avenist Bishop was always the link there. I can give orders to the Legion stationed in the city at need; Commander Rouvad can overrule me, of course—which she did this time—as can the officers directly in that chain of command. Funnily enough, most of the rank-and-file didn’t seem to have a problem with being sent out to crack Wreath heads.”

“Bas,” he exclaimed, “those weren’t Wreath you were rounding up! They were patsies being used by the Wreath, and by the way, I was watching one of those events. Your troops were a lot more casual about roughing up bystanders than I’m accustomed to seeing the Legions act.”

“Anyone who was injured was immediately offered healing the moment the combat zones were secure,” she said in a bored tone. “Why is this sounding exactly like the very tedious conversation I had with Commander Rouvad last night?”

“At a guess, because Commander Rouvad possesses basic common sense,” he said in exasperation. “You played right into the Wreath’s hands with that action, Basra. They couldn’t have asked for anything better if they’d been giving the orders themselves. In fact, until this little chat I was operating under the assumption the Wreath had got its fingers into the Third Legion somehow and you’d be able to help me figure out where.”

“So that’s it, is it?” she said very quietly. Her posture did not change, but there was suddenly an indefinable menace about her. “You think I’m a Wreath agent?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “That isn’t even a prospect. I’m seriously questioning your judgment, but you being in the Wreath is an extreme explanation; there are much simpler ones.”

“Such as?” she asked wryly.

“Basic personality profile,” he replied in the same tone. It wasn’t a deception, either; the very traits that made Basra a likely traitor, at first glance, all but ruled out her involvement in the Wreath. She was a purely self-interested person, and someone like that did not join a cult that was at war with the gods and virtually every mortal society in the world. Wreath cultists came in two kinds: true believers and thrill-seeking fools who hadn’t considered what they were in for. Basra wouldn’t have lasted a week in either group.

She grinned, which wasn’t a pleasant expression, but the air of hostility had faded from her, at least. “I could take that amiss, Antonio. You think me unreliable?”

“I think you’re exactly the person I’d want on my side if we were alone and surrounded by Wreath agents, seen or unseen,” he said, leaning forward and regarding her seriously. “You’re dangerous and crafty, Bas.”

“Aw, you’ll make me blush!”

“But you aren’t sensible. I’m not in the habit of lecturing you, but seriously, you cannot afford to be this easy to manipulate. The Wreath is just getting started; they’re going to keep pushing our buttons, trying to work us into a corner. Please think before you do anything violent; thanks to your crusading they’re actually making progress toward gaining popular sympathy, which is completely without precedent.”

It actually wasn’t completely without precedent, but widespread Elilinist belief among a civilian population hadn’t existed anywhere in centuries. Basra didn’t need to know about it.

Basra shrugged; the motion was casual, but her dark eyes were fixed on him with a burning acuity. “If we’re going to be criticizing each other, Antonio, I would turn that one back around on you. The short term has your full attention and you’re not thinking of the long. Yes, yes, I know, you’re looking ahead of the specific street battle to the Wreath’s larger campaign, fine. I wasn’t thinking of their campaign, I’ll grant you that. What I’m thinking of is society at large, and what the Wreath’s actions will mean.”

“Are you?” he asked warily.

She leaned forward, mirroring his posture. “They are always testing us in one way or another, Antonio. And they’re always manipulating us. In dealing with the Wreath, you simply have to accept that now and again you’re going to get maneuvered into conceding one of their objectives. But over the greater course of history, what matters is that they know, for a certainty, that if they step too far out of line the repercussions will be swift and brutal. These aren’t people like you and me. Frankly, I would hesitate to call them people at all. I mean, how do you reason with somebody who’s out to kill us all and flood the world with hellfire? What is even going on in the brain of a person who acts that way?” She shook her head. “They’re all about destruction and pain. It’s the only language they understand.”

“You were speaking that language in a very public venue,” he warned. “It wasn’t just the Wreath that heard.”

Basra actually sneered. “If we’re going to be truly honest with each other, I can’t find it in me to fuss overmuch about a few scuffed knees. In the long run, Antonio, the rest of society is better off for such actions as well. The world can see that the Wreath and its like won’t be tolerated. How else are they to sleep soundly at night? Okay, a few folk were roughed up. They were also healed afterward. They got a direct show of the gods’ power, right on the heels of vivid proof that there is a Legion standing between them and the demons. Frankly, I’ll bet those who were at the demonstrations are feeling safer right now than anyone else.”

Darling could only stare at her. That was the moment when he realized this conversation was going nowhere. Basra was adept at motivating, at manipulating, at getting people to do what she wanted; her whole career was proof of that. But it was a mechanistic understanding. She didn’t truly comprehend how human beings thought.

Fauna, he realized, had been right.

She smiled again, an expression that was more than half smirk, and leaned back in her chair, clearly taking his stunned silence of acquiescence. “Anyhow,” she drawled, “I’m not sure you’re in any position to be throwing stones. From the reports I’ve been getting, your cult was out very deliberately and literally twisting the arms of anyone who’s been near a warlock in the last year, and not offering so much as a ‘sorry’ to those who obviously had nothing to do with this.”

“I’m not my cult,” he said automatically. He leaned backward himself, gathering his thoughts; it was no time to look scattered or especially to reveal that he’d just been thinking too deeply about her. In fact, it was starting to look like showing any kind of weakness in front of Basra would be a bad idea. “Believe me, I’ve got some questions for a number of people in the Guild. Their actions are looking very much the way the Legion’s did to me originally: somehow the Wreath’s got levers to pull inside the organization.”

“Are you convinced the Legion doesn’t, at least?”

“No,” he said immediately. “Don’t scowl at me, Bas; the Wreath’s whole mode of operation is to infiltrate and influence. I am always working under the assumption that they have people in any organization I have to deal with. The Guild is tricky, though; we operate in much the same way. In a sense that’s lucky, as all I have to do is out whatever Wreath agent exists there, and the rest will take care of them without me needing to lift a finger.”

“Very neat,” she said with an approving smile. “It leaves you the problem of finding them, though.”

“Yeah…which is also made harder because, well… How do you spot a zebra in the tallgrass?”

“…what the hell is a zebra?”

“Nevermind, it’s a long story,” he said with a grin. “Point is, I’m gonna have to ponder this one, but please don’t get any ideas. I will handle the Guild; if you try to ‘help,’ a perfectly upstanding non-Wreath thief is likely to slit your throat.”

“Do I look like an idiot?” she scoffed. “I’m not going near your cult, especially after they showed up my Legions for brutality yesterday. That’s not to express disapproval, mind you, and I don’t know if I agree that they’ve been infiltrated. It sounds to me like your Boss understands exactly how the Wreath needs to be dealt with. I could wish Rouvad had such foresight. But, you’re clearly the expert.”

“Mm hm,” he mused, rubbing his chin. “In the meantime, I’m just left with Andros and the Huntsmen.”

Basra laughed aloud. “Best of luck with that.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

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Having some time to himself, in hindsight, had been too much to hope for. Not just because he was up to his ears at the best of times between Imperial business, Church business, Guild business and the various games he had to play to pit those interests against each other and keep them from tipping out of balance—or smashing him for being the meddling interloper he was.

It was a lovely day, the first such in quite some time, the sky clear and the air warm enough to dispense with scarves and gloves, though still with plenty of bite. Spring always came late to Tiraas. As such, it seemed everyone who didn’t have a good and specific reason to be indoors was out enjoying the relative warmth. Couples, families and miscellaneous individuals strolled the streets with the lackadaisical gait of people on no particular business.

Not that Sweet minded the crowd, aside from the added difficulty of navigating through them, but as an inveterate people-watcher, it was a challenge to get from one point to another without being distracted. The Guild mostly ran his spy network these days; it wasn’t as if going on his city rounds could truly count as business anymore. He kept himself in circulation through the city because he loved doing it, because it was personally satisfying and made him feel grounded. Today, though, he found himself caught up watching a hundred little tableaus in passing, rather than making his way to any of his stops with any kind of efficiency. After an hour or so, he gave up and just strolled like everyone else was, enjoying the humanity as much as the sunshine.

And maybe, subconsciously, he knew it would be his last opportunity for a while; there was just too much going on. Some people—most people—who had recently been targeted by Black Wreath assassins might have feared to be out in public alone, but in truth, Sweet was more at home on the streets than in the fancy townhouse which he regarded as little but a prop in his role as the Bishop. Just let anyone try to take him on in his own streets. It was nearly a disappointment that not even a hint of such hostility emerged.

It was a nice hour, while it lasted, but then the world caught up with him. So much for his day off.

He sighted the disturbance from a block away, being closely attuned to the currents of the city. Sweet turned down the street in question, making his way toward the fuss without hurry. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing that required hurry, anyway. Not much was evident from that distance except for a forming crowd and raised voices, but he could clearly see the steeple, topped with an ankh, of a Universal Church chapel right at the thick of things.

As Sweet approached the upraised voices gradually became clearer, though he couldn’t make much sense of what they were saying. The last few feet he had to actually push through onlookers, which he did as gently as possible, with smiles and murmured apologies; soon enough he was standing at the very edge of the cleared space surrounding the disturbance.

There, he had to stop and just stare, his normal aplomb fleeing.

“What…the…hell.”

The demonstrators wore black robes—cheap ones, apparently dyed sackcloth. Somebody had thrown those together at the last minute, clearly. They contrasted starkly with the masks, which were identical and clearly well-made: each person wore the plaster face of a woman with red skin, surmounted by twisting horns. They carried signs with a variety of slogans: SHAME; ONE EMPEROR IS ENOUGH, JUSTINIAN!; BETTER THE WREATH THAN THE WRATH; MORTAL WORLD FOR MORTAL RACES. The seven people present appeared to be trying to chant, but weren’t making much of a go at it, each spouting their various phrases and tripping over each other’s lines.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked aloud.

“Less than ten minutes,” said a voice at his elbow. Sweet was too old a pro to visibly startle at being addressed, however much it surprised him. He half-turned to regard the speaker from beneath an upraised eyebrow.

“Grip. Dare I ask what you’re doing in the thick of this?”

“I’m not in the thick of it,” the half-elf said dryly. “I’m on the outskirts, where it’s safe. To answer your question, virtually every enforcer in the city is hunting Wreath after they came knocking on your door. I was staking out a magic shop known for peddling diabolist supplies when these ducklings came along.”

“Are they…Wreath?” he asked carefully.

Grip snorted. “Cavorting in the street like that? Hell, no. I’d dearly like to know who they are and where they came from, but the actual Black Wreath doesn’t do shit like this, as I should think you know. It evidently organizes shit like this, however. These clowns were at the shop collecting those robes, masks and signs.”

“Hmm.” Darling stroked his chin, studying the protestors through narrowed eyes. They certainly weren’t garnering any sympathy from the crowd; the onlookers were watching this display with expressions of revulsion and derision, some beginning to be openly hostile. Even as he watched, a thickset man shouted at the demonstrators to crawl back in their holes, quickly echoed by another voice.

Behind them, a Universal Church chaplain was standing on the steps of the chapel being protested against, looking more puzzled than alarmed. Darling couldn’t blame him. As Grip had pointed out, the Black Wreath just didn’t do things like this.

The enforcer cleared her throat softly and tugged his sleeve. “I suggest we get a more appropriate vantage, yeah?”

“Good idea.”

They slipped carefully back through the crowd; it required more pushing, as thick as it had grown, but the spectacle was arresting enough that nobody bothered with them. From there, it was the work of moments to slip into an alley, up piles of refuse, drain pipes, and window shutters to land on the flat roof of the shop across the street from the chapel. A wall kick was necessary to make it all the way up; thankfully he didn’t stumble in front of Grip, but Sweet had to reflect ruefully, as he caught his breath, that he was getting to be out of practice at this.

“This can’t go on much longer,” he said. “If they’re not Wreath, they’re clearly sympathetic to them. I’m amazed the whole lot haven’t been rounded up by soldiers already.”

“As to that, I have a theory,” Grip murmured. She planted a foot on the short parapet and leaned on her knee to look down, but was peering in both directions up the street rather than at the robed protestors. As usual, she wore striking black, with prominently displayed knives strapped to her in various places and a cudgel hanging at her belt. Most Eserite thieves would have rightly disdained such ostentation, but Grip’s line of work was about inflicting fear more than inflicting pain. You couldn’t be an enforcer without breaking fingers and kneecaps as needed, but the scarier you were, the less you had to do it. A trail of rumors was much more efficient than a trail of blood; tails of blood were useful only because they started rumors. “It’s the reason I followed these guys rather than busting up the shopkeeper who was supplying them per the Boss’s orders. Call it a hunch, but I suspect a parallel between… And there we go. My timing is as flawless as always, it seems.”

Sweet followed her pointing finger to the opposite end of the street, where an entire phalanx in bronze armor had rounded the corner and positioned themselves to completely wall off the avenue. Grip then pointed the opposite way, to a second phalanx taking position.

“No,” Sweet breathed, staring at the Silver Legionnaires. “They wouldn’t…”

They were, and they did. The spears didn’t come up, but the two walls of shieldmaidens began to sparkle as divine shields formed over the front ranks, cast by the priestesses embedded in their formations, and they started closing in on each other. Seeing them come, people turned and tried to flee, including one of the black-robed figures.

“No, no, no!” he said in agitation, clenching his fists as he watched panicked city dwellers rebound off the phalanx, finding no place to slip through. “Not against civilians! And not just the Wreath, they’re hitting everyone! Rouvad, what are you thinking?!”

“They’re not hitting anyone,” Grip murmured, watching closely. “No weapons, see? They’re just…oop, I’m wrong.”

Another robed protestor had tried to flee, pressing himself against the wall of a storefront in an attempt to slip past the phalanx. The Legionnaire on the edge had broken formation momentarily to slam him against the wall with her shield. Sweet couldn’t hear the crunch from up there, but he winced, feeling it. Moments later, the front line had passed them, and two more Legionnaires gathered up the fallen man, none too gently.

They were not being so rough with the townspeople caught up in their trap, but they also weren’t letting them through the formation. People began forcing their way into shop doors and alleys to escape the press; Sweet clearly heard a window being broken. Two Legionnaires, one from each side, had slipped through the phalanxes from behind and now were taking position across from the robed protestors with shields and lances out, pushing them back as they attempted to bolt to an alley across the street.

From there, it was over in a few seconds. Abandoning their signs, two of the robed demonstrators fled up the short path into the very chapel they’d been agitating in front of; the black-robed priest stepped aside to allow them in. The rest surrendered and were quickly rounded up by Legionnaires. The phalanxes broke up, soldiers assuming guard formations, and the priestesses fanned out. In moments the street was lighting up in flashes as they administered divine healing to people injured in the scuffle—including to one of the protestors.

“And that’s why the guards didn’t come,” Grip said in a satisfied tone. “Imperial duty or not, most soldiers are at least nominal Avenists. If the Legions want to claim a prerogative, a watch commander will find reasons to delay dispatching his troops. As I thought, our cult wasn’t the only one that felt insulted by the Wreath’s roughhousing.”

“Oh, gods,” Sweet whispered, understanding dawning on him. Not the full details, of course; there was too much about this that made absolutely no sense. But the shape of it… “It’s another provocation.”

“Another?” Grip turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

“None of the Bishops were hit with anything nearly strong enough to take us out. The Wreath is playing a longer game. They’re trying to stir something up.”

“Mm.” She turned back to watch the soldiers securing the street, ushering the remaining civilians out of the way. “This is a bigger something than they usually go for.”

“A great doom is coming,” he murmured, then pointed at the chapel, where the priest was arguing vehemently with two Avenists, a woman in bronze armor and one in simple white robes. “What’s going on there?”

Grip laughed bitingly. Like most halfbloods she didn’t much care to be reminded of her heritage, but those ears were too useful in their line of work to be ignored. “Apparently those two assholes have claimed sanctuary in the chapel, and he’s choosing to honor it. Gotta admire the man’s pluck if not his judgment. Well, legally he has the right of… Yup, there they go.”

The Legionnaire and priestess had turned and retreated, looking so disgusted that Sweet could clearly read their expressions even from this distance. Not that he had the attention to spare for them.

“They’re actually trying to incite the population against the gods,” he marveled.

“That’s a new one,” Grip commented. “I can’t imagine they’ll get far with it.”

“In the long run? Hell, no, the Pantheon’s worshipers are far too entrenched. But if they play it right, they can stir up enough trouble over a short span of time to accomplish…”

“What?” she asked after he trailed off.

Sweet scowled, shaking his head. “If I knew, I’d be out putting a stop to it. Bloody hell, though, they’re doing it well. Rouvad must be mad to have allowed this; the Legions are usually a lot more careful around civilians.”

“Hnh,” she grunted. “Makes you wonder what the Huntsmen are out doing. Bet it makes this look like a Sunday picnic.”

“Makes me wonder what pins the Wreath set up for them to knock down,” Sweet muttered. “Clearly, the demonstrations were not the point. They’re creating just enough agitation that the offended cults have easy targets on which to vent their ire, in just the right places where innocents will be caught in the…” He stopped, his eyes widening. “Grip, did you say you were watching a shop?”

“I did,” she said slowly. “I mean, I was…”

“Tricks sent enforcers throughout the city, targeting known Wreath locations?”

“Well, we don’t know any actual Wreath locations, or we’d have beaten them down a long time ago. But there are all kinds of suspected contacts in the city…”

“You mean to tell me that right now, all over Tiraas, Thieves’ Guild enforcers are out smashing limbs and property of people who might have some connection to the Black Wreath? Some of whom—most of whom—assuredly don’t?”

She looked up at him, the blood draining from her face, then down at the scene in the street. “Oh, shit fire.”

“Get back to the Guild,” he said, already moving back toward the alleyway from which they’d ascended. “Get in to see Tricks, use my name and break whoever’s leg you have to if he claims not to have time for you. Get him to put a stop to this.”

“He can’t!” Grip protested, following him. They paused at the edge of the roof. “Sweet, everyone’s already in motion. All over. This was a massive strike, sent out to crush every fingerhold the Black Wreath has in the city. It’ll take every warm body left in the Guild to even get to all the targeted locations… If there’s anybody left at the Guild who actually knows where everyone went, it’ll be too late to stop it all, and—”

“Damn it, woman, we don’t have time for this!” he shouted. “Go try! I have to get to the Cathedral to try to stop the rest of the cults from playing into the Wreath’s hands!”

She obeyed without another word, slinging herself over the edge, bouncing off the wall below and catching a grip on a drainpipe, which shook with the impact but held. Sweet followed with a little more care, his brain churning so hard it threatened to damage his concentration on the task of climbing.

The Guild was, right at that moment, sending a very strong message to exactly the wrong people, which the Wreath had assuredly already made preparations to spin into the narrative they were going to sell to the general public. Doubtless there were more demonstrations like this being set up to bait the Sisters into making similar blunders, all over the city. The gods only knew what the Huntsmen were doing. And what about the Izarites? A more harmless group of people had surely never existed, but if there were a way for them to be manipulated into making a mistake, the Black Wreath were the ones to do it.

And what was Justinian doing?

“There is little I can do,” the Archpope said gravely. “Captain Ravoud, take a message to High Commander Rouvad; inform her of these developments and Bishop Darling’s theory. She, at least, has the communication networks in place to call back her Legions before they make this situation any worse. Have someone dispatch a similar message to Grandmaster Veisroi. See to it personally, Captain.”

“Immediately, your Holiness,” Ravoud said crisply, saluting, then turned and dashed off back down the hall. The Archpope, at this time of day, was busy; Darling had actually called him out of a prayer meeting for this. It was a rather sensitive discussion to be having openly in the halls of the Cathedral, but he had chosen to value speed over secrecy in this case.

Ravoud was a name he remembered from recent events in Lor’naris. The man now wore his Imperial Army uniform with insignia removed and the coat left unbuttoned, which was common enough for ex-soldiers. Clearly he was working for the Archpope now, though he wasn’t in Holy Legion armor. Darling filed away this piece of whatever puzzle it was to be worked at later.

“That, unfortunately, is the extent of my immediate power here,” Justinian said ruefully, his face a mask of patrician concern. “It is only the structure and nature of the Avenists that makes even that much possible; the cults of Eserion and Shaath are far more proactive. Commander Rouvad can, at least, rein in her people.”

“I’ve sent a runner to the Boss with the same warning,” said Darling, “but I’m afraid it’s not going to be in time to accomplish anything.”

Justinian nodded. “And even if we could reach them in time… As I have mentioned, I cannot actually require any of the Church’s member cults to do anything. At most, I can intercede with their deities to ask that the cult leaders be overruled, but… That takes time and considerable effort, will have far-reaching consequences and may not even be necessary.”

“In most cases, I don’t think it would be,” Darling said with a frown. “The Shaathists might consider their vendetta more important than the strategic realities of the situation…”

“I’ve heard Shaathists and Avenists alike say similar things about Eserites,” Branwen noted, smiling and placing a hand on Darling’s arm to soften any sting in the words. She had, fortuitously, been with the Archpope when he had arrived; they now had the hall to themselves, aside from the two Holy Legionnaires who escorted Justinian everywhere.

“Let us not start that debate, please,” Justinian said firmly. “At present we don’t know what the Huntsmen may have done or will do. Veisroi, though as devoted to the principles of the wild as any Shaathist, has proven amenable to compromise in the past. He will listen to my messenger.”

Darling drew in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Which leaves only whatever his cult has already done. I can’t escape the feeling the Wreath has manipulated each of us from within, too. It’d be the only reliable way to ensure the cults reacted the way they wanted. We’ve always taken it as given that our cults have been infiltrated. Those Legionnaires… That operation just didn’t seem characteristic of them.” He turned to Branwen. “This may be a little out of line, for which I’m sorry, but is there any chance the priests of Izara might do something…rash?”

“Such as what, for example?” she asked archly.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Bran. All I’m sure of is that we’ve all been played.”

“It is a fair objection,” said the Archpope, “but also a fair question. I will send a messenger to High Priestess Delaine. Whether or not she has taken any action, she deserves to be kept in the loop. I think we can consider the disciples of Izara a lower concern, however; it is not in their nature to offer aggression of any kind.”

“We’ve lost this one, haven’t we?” Branwen asked glumly.

“Second in a row,” Darling added, surprised by the bitterness in his own tone.

“Despair is a sin, my friends,” the Archpope said firmly. “To presume that hope is lost is to presume knowledge of the future that we mortals cannot possess. Trust in the gods. More importantly, trust in the better aspects of our own nature. The Wreath’s nihilism may cause untold damage in the short term, but in the long, I truly believe that humanity is better at the heart than they would make us out to be.” He came to a stop, turning to face them. “You are right, Branwen; we must consider this engagement lost. Steel yourselves to face further losses in the immediate future; the Wreath has planned deeply and prepared well, and we must assume they will be prepared for our next logical moves. Therefore, we shall place our focus upon a depth of future action beyond what they can foresee. Branwen.” He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, gazing solemnly down at the much shorter woman. “I have a plan, which will require me to lean heavily upon you in the coming days. I know your wounds are still raw. If you do not feel yourself up to this task, there will be no recrimination of any kind… But I must know now. Once it is begun, it will be too late to change course.”

“You can count on me for whatever you need, your Holiness,” she replied, meeting his gaze with uncharacteristic steel in her own. “I won’t let you down. And I will not let them win, or escape consequences.”

“Good,” Justinian said with a grim smile of his own. He nodded to Darling. “If you would, Antonio, please stay at the Cathedral for the time being, at least until we know what is happening with the other cults and can bring the immediate situation under control. There will be subtler currents moving; I will be counting on your mind to spot them and form appropriate plans.”

“Of course, your Holiness,” he said. “Anything I can do.”

Justinian nodded again, releasing Branwen. “Come, then, we’ll retire to my study to lay plans. I must also summon Basra and Andros; in the immediate days, I will be relying on each of you to interface with your own cults.”

He continued talking, setting out ideas as they walked; Darling listened enough to be aware, but did not give the Archpope his undivided attention. It wasn’t even that he had strategies or questions distracting him. It was still too early in the game for those to have taken a meaningful degree of form, for all the uncertainties that surrounded them.

No, what tugged at his mind was excitement. The Wreath, finally, was making their play. Elilial was making her play. While she lurked in the background, there was little he could do but wait.

Now, after all his years of seeing to what the Church wanted and the Empire wanted and the Guild wanted, and his recent days of managing what his team of adventurers wanted, to say nothing of rogue elements like Tellwyrn and her gang of teenage meddlers, he could finally see about getting what he wanted.

Elilial was the goddess of cunning, after all. He had to wonder if she would see him coming.

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6 – 3

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The upper levels of the Crawl were disappointingly plain. The rooms were square, unadorned, and empty, connected by simple doorways. Now and again there would be side rooms whose entrances were covered by iron gates, but Professor Ezzaniel ignored these, leading them through a sequence of chambers cut from the granite of the mountain and lit by occasional torches.

Ezzaniel himself was uncommunicative, to which the students were accustomed; even in class, though he could be quite snide with uncooperative pupils, he did not speak unless he had something in particular to say. The freshmen were mostly too groggy to make conversation anyway, and trooped after him in silence. Fortunately, he seemed to know where he was going. The dungeon thus far seemed more tedious than ominous, but the interconnecting identical square rooms with multiple doors would have been a very effective maze if one did not know the path.

“It’s clean,” said Teal after several minutes. “…too clean.”

Ruda groaned.

“I’m serious! Look, there’s no dust, no cobwebs. No mouse droppings or dead insects… See the torches? No soot marks on the walls or ceiling above them, no ash below. And who’s keeping those burning anyway? This does not look like the kind of place that’s been locked behind a heavy door and metal grate.”

“Maybe Stew cleans in here, too?” Gabriel suggested, half-heartedly smothering a yawn.

Fross chimed excitedly. “The Crawl, like most adventuring dungeons which are classified as such, is a self-regulating genius loci subject to massive magical interference with objective natural law. Among other things, it’s apparently self-cleaning!”

“Can somebody please put that in Tanglish for me?” Gabe asked.

“That was Tanglish!”

“He’s making a joke, Fross,” Teal explained. “It means—”

“I know, I’ve heard that one before. I reject the joke because I was speaking quite plainly and Gabriel is an arcane arts major who really should know all those terms!”

“First, it’s stupid o’clock in the morning and my brain is not awake yet,” said Gabriel irritably. “Second, I’m a first-year arcane arts major and haven’t been putting in nearly as much study time as you apparently have, because I do need sleep, and also a social life.”

“Porking the resident dryad whenever she isn’t too busy does not constitute a social life,” said Ruda, grinning.

“Up yours, Punaji, I have other friends.”

“Who’s porking?” Juniper demanded shrilly. “I haven’t—I would never— The only pork I eat is actual pork! I don’t know where this ‘long pig’ thing got started but I wish people would stop throwing it in my face!”

The group staggered to a stop, everyone staring at her. Ezzaniel got a few paces ahead and paused in the doorway to the next dim chamber, turning to look back at them with a raised eyebrow. Juniper folded her arms defensively around herself, her eyes darting back and forth.

“Oh, what are you all looking at?” she demanded huffily, then turned and stalked off after Ezzaniel. The others trailed after somewhat more slowly.

“Right. Well. Anyway.” Toby cleared his throat. “For those of us who aren’t arcane majors, Fross, can you put it in layman’s terms?”

“Layperson’s terms,” said Gabriel, grinning and nudging Trissiny with his elbow. “Amirite?” She gave him a disdainful look.

“All right, well, I assume you all remember Professor Yornhaldt’s class last semester?” Fross said, buzzing about their heads and casting her glow in erratic patterns around the chamber through which they were passing. “The difference between magical and non-magical physics is the difference between subjective and objective reality. Right? That was our very first lesson.”

“Right,” said Toby when nobody else replied.

“Okay, so! A genius loci is a place that has totally subjective physics! The very rules of reality themselves are completely different there!”

“That is deeply disturbing,” Trissiny muttered, glancing suspiciously around at the apparently empty room through which they were passing.

“So,” Fross nattered on, “it needs two things: an absolutely massive abundance of raw magical energy, and some kind of guiding intelligence. This results in places like the Golden Sea and the Deep Wild, where the rules are just plain different. It’s also the case in the great dungeons.”

“Wait, stop,” said Ruda. “You’re telling me this place is intelligent? Holy fuck. I’m seriously tempted to take the F and bug out.”

“What? You? Run away?” Gabriel turned to grin at her. “And me without my lightcapper.”

“Get fucked, Arquin. I’ll fight anything that lives, but being fucking digested by a giant sentient dungeon… Shit, I wanna go home.” She peered nervously around at the blank walls.

“It’s probably not that bad or Professor Tellwyrn wouldn’t have sent us here,” Fross said consolingly. “I mean, there are intelligences and then there are intelligences, y’know? Generally they don’t even think in anything like the way we do, so it’s not like we could actively communicate. People have tried. And they’re all different! Most of the dungeons are the result of things the Elder Gods did at various times. More recently, there’s Athan’Khar, which is powered by the residue of Tiraan superweapons and the dead souls of all that died there. As far as I know, nobody’s sure who or what is running the Golden Sea or how it happened, but the Deep Wild is Naiya’s domain. So…different rules in all!”

“Right,” said Teal, nodding. She seemed to have become more alert over the course of the discussion. “So the Golden Sea has several predictable rules and doesn’t get nasty unless people try to screw with it, like the centaurs do. Athan’Khar, on the other hand, pretty much wants to kill everyone who sets foot in there. I’m guessing Tellwyrn wouldn’t have sent us in here if the Crawl was quite that hostile?”

“Ex-fucking-cuse me?” Ruda snorted. “Which Tellwyrn are you talking about?”

“Well, this mountain was once the stronghold of an Elder God before another Elder God destroyed it,” Fross said cheerfully. “I don’t figure it’s too friendly. But yeah, students go in here every year and rarely die. We’ll be fine!”

Trissiny sighed loudly.

The group came up short, several of the less attentive colliding with others. Professor Ezzaniel had stopped ahead of them, studying a blank surface of stone.

“Welp,” said Gabriel after a moment. “That sure is a wall.”

“It seems to have shifted again,” Ezzaniel noted. “The upper rooms are usually fairly stable, but the Crawl does like to change things around. No matter, it’s always fairly straightforward before you descend the main stairs. Excuse me.” They made way as he moved back through the group, exiting the way they’d come and turning left in the next chamber.

Lacking anything better to do, the students trooped after him.

“Pardon me, but does this mean you don’t actually know where we’re going?” Gabriel asked.

“I have the basics of an idea,” Ezzaniel said calmly from up ahead, his voice echoing in the semi-lit chamber. “As I said, the upper Crawl is quite benign, and I’m accustomed to it. Incidentally, I will only be guiding you through this initial stretch. Once we reach the actively dangerous areas, you will be responsible for finding your own way.”

“Lovely,” Gabriel groused. “What the hell is the point of all this, anyway? I mean, this is like learning to churn butter by hand. That shit isn’t relevant anymore. Nobody goes dungeon-delving!”

“Gnomes do,” Trissiny noted.

“So does the Empire,” Toby added.

“Right, sure, fine, but that’s because they own all the dungeons! Is anybody here planning to join an Imperial strike team after graduation?” Gabriel divided a pointed look among the rest of them. “Anyone? Yeah, me either. I don’t see what the purpose is of teaching us how to be an adventuring party. This is stupid.”

“Have you shared that opinion with Professor Tellwyrn?” Ezzaniel asked mildly.

“Do I look immolated to you?”

The Professor chuckled. “Arachne, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, is rather more laid back than I in many respects. She doesn’t mind being yelled at, cursed at or even threatened—convenient, as she has a tendency to inspire those responses in people. She would be quite offended if you questioned her intelligence, however. I advise you not to learn firsthand what her offense looks like. Her methods may be confusing, but nothing Arachne Tellwyrn directs you to do is pointless.”

“What could we possibly gain from this?” Gabriel exclaimed. “Hell, five years ago I’d have thought it was the most awesome thing possible, to be on an actual dungeon dive. Okay, yeah, fine, it’s still sort of awesome. But right now I’m more concerned with the fact that I could die and it’d be for no purpose except learning how to have a successful career three hundred years ago.”

“The adventuring party enjoys a prominent place in Tiraan culture and legend, I have observed, and perhaps rightly so,” said Shaeine. “If nothing else, this will be an excellent lesson in teamwork.”

“And in appreciating history!” Teal chimed.

“Bah.” Gabriel stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and slouched sullenly. “Screw this place.”

“Okay, let’s not take it out on the place,” Ruda said nervously. She gently patted the stone frame of a doorway as she passed through it. “Good Crawl? Nice Crawl?”

“The Crawl is an excellent teacher,” Professor Ezzaniel said calmly. “Ah, here we are.”

The last square chamber they had entered had, instead of a wall opposite the door, an opening, from which a wide staircase descended. Two torches bracketed the entrance.

“Well, that’s good and ominous,” said Gabriel.

“Yes,” Ezzaniel said equably, stepping to one side. “All right, in you go. The path from here is quite straightforward. It will lead to the place from which the remainder of the expedition will be launched. You have officially moved beyond needing a guide. Go on, then.”

“Right,” said Trissiny, stepping forward into the gap. One by one, the others followed.

“Should we take the torches?” Toby asked.

“We’ve got Fross,” said Teal. “And several of our group can make light if needed.” She smiled at Shaeine.

“Two of those would harm Gabriel in doing so,” Trissiny pointed out.

“I think we’ll be fine,” Gabe said, trooping down the stairs. They descended just far enough that the topmost step was out of sight of the bottom, then terminated in a square landing and turned left, continuing down. Torches hung at the landing, too, but it grew quite dark near the middle of each flight. “Fross glows normally, Shaeine can make light that won’t hurt me. So can Vadrieny, for that matter.”

“All right,” Fross said briskly as they turned the corner onto the second stretch of steps, “we should discuss our strategy. Trissiny! Sponge or deepsauce?”

“…what?”

The pixie chimed sharply and bobbed twice in the air. “I’m talking about damage. Are you output or mitigation?”

“…what?”

“Uh, Fross,” said Teal, “have you by any chance been reading the old bardic scrolls?”

“Yes I absolutely have!” Fross said excitedly, zooming back to flutter around her. “Professor Tellwyrn likes to change up the timing so it’s a surprise, but there’s always a Crawl expedition in the second semester of the freshman year, so I’ve been studying up to be prepared for weeks now!”

“Uh huh,” Teal said with a smile. “And…you found Findlestin’s glossary of adventuring terminology, didn’t you.”

“Yes! It was very informative!”

“Which edition?”

“Well, all of them, but of course I made sure to study up on the most recent one.”

“Right. Fross, hon, the most recent edition of Findlestin was printed in 1031. It’s a hundred and forty-seven years old.”

“Well… I mean, yes, we all know adventuring parties as a formal institution are kind of outdated…”

“The thing is, if you’re talking about slang—which that stuff was—slang is by definition defined by popular use. If there isn’t any popular use, it’s not slang; it might as well be a foreign language. Nobody’s going to understand it.”

Fross drifted lower till she was fluttering along at about the level of their knees. “But…but…I memorized it. The whole thing.”

“Sorry, little glowbell,” said Ruda. “History isn’t always as useful as Tellwyrn likes to think.”

“That’s okay, though!” the pixie declared, rallying and zooming back up to her usual altitude just about their heads. “I’ll walk you all through it in layman’s—I mean, layperson’s terms, sorry, Trissiny—and we’ll all have it down in no time!”

“Oh,” said Ruda. “Good.”

“So! Trissiny! With regard to inflicting harm,” Fross continued, zipping forward to hover in front of the paladin, “would you consider yourself more of a harm-inflicter or someone who prevents the infliction of harm to herself?”

Trissiny came to a stop, staring at her. From the back of the group, Ezzaniel sighed heavily in exasperation.

“Fross,” Trissiny said after a moment, “what are you talking about? In any kind of fight you have to do both.”

“But this is how they did it! There are dedicated party roles, and—”

“Yeah, that’s really not gonna work,” said Ruda. “Do you not pay attention in Ezzaniel’s class?”

“Of course I do! But this is an adventure, and we’re a party. There’s a system.”

“It’s a hundred-year-old system that nobody uses,” Gabriel pointed out.

“That just isn’t true! Standard operating procedure for Imperial strike teams is based directly on the operating manuals written by the ancient Heroes’ Guild!”

“Imperial strike teams,” said Shaeine, “train for the purpose of operating as a single effective unit, relying on each other to act without the need for thought or communication. It is in a way a more intimate relationship than exists between family. Perhaps the adventuring parties of old operated in a similar manner, but… While I have enjoyed growing closer to each of you over the last several months, I would not consider us to be quite that tightly knit.”

“Shaeine, you have got the greatest knack for understatement I’ve ever heard,” said Ruda.

“Look, Fross,” Toby said firmly, “we appreciate your help, but this isn’t going to be functionally different from the Golden Sea, or Sarasio. We can operate as a unit, up to a point, and we’ve been getting better at it. But…it’ll have to be our way, not the way they did it in old-style adventuring parties.”

Fross let out a long sequence of soft chimes as if sighing heavily. “I’m just saying, they did it that way for a reason, is all.”

“Then be ready to consult on adventuring practices as needed,” said Trissiny, resuming her walk. “For the most part, though, Toby’s right. Better we stick to what we know.”

“So, we bicker and bitch at each other, generally fuck everything up and barely pull it out of the bag at the last minute?”

“That’s very helpful, Ruda, thank you.”

“You got it, roomie, I’m here for you.”

They descended for a good half an hour, the path remaining starkly the same. Left turns at right angles, going consistently downward. The group quickly lost any sense of how far they had gone; Ezzaniel offered no opinions, even when pressed.

“This is awful,” Juniper groaned, plodding along. She had fallen to nearly the rear of the group. “This is worse than the Golden Sea. At least there was life out there. Trees are not meant for hiking!”

“Well, you could try rolling down,” Ruda suggested somewhat snidely. “Logs roll, don’t they?”

“That’s a little insensitive,” Gabriel said with a grin. “A log is basically a tree’s corpse, right?”

“Corpses roll too,” she replied. “Downhill, at least. That is a scientific fact.”

“It’s not a bad idea, though,” the dryad mused, picking up her pace and pushing forward past the others. “Clear the way, please.”

“What’re you…” Trissiny stopped mid-step, her eyes widening. “Juniper, no!”

Disregarding her, Juniper rounded the next corner and hurled herself bodily down the steps, smashing down in a series of thumps and grunts. The others, with various outcries of alarm, rushed down the remainder of the flight they were on, regrouping at the landing to stare anxiously down.

“Juno?” Gabriel called. “You okay?”

“Wow!” At the next landing down, the dryad gathered herself and climbed to her feet, waving up at them. “That was actually fun! You guys have gotta try this! Oh, wait, no…you’d probably get hurt.”

“That’s not how you explore a dungeon,” Fross huffed quietly. “What if she springs a trap?”

“There are no traps up here,” said Professor Ezzaniel. “Still, it might be better if she didn’t—”

“Tallyho!” the dryad shouted, dashing forward and diving face-first down the next flight of stairs.

Trissiny sighed heavily, then raised her voice. “Just don’t get too far ahead!”

 

“I share your grief, Branwen,” the Archpope said, looking and sounding like he meant it sincerely. “I am grateful that you, at least, came through the night’s events uninjured. If you would like to take some time to heal…”

“Thank you, your Holiness,” she said quietly, with a faint tremor in her voice. “It would only be time to…to welter, though. I would rather be at work.”

“As you wish,” Justinian said, nodding. “Should you change your mind, you have only to say so. I’m glad you thought to go to her aid, Antonio.”

“I’m afraid everything was done by the time I got there,” Darling admitted.

“That, though, was beyond your control. It pleases me that you so quickly discerned the nature and motive of the attack and that your first action was to help your fellow Bishop.” The Archpope smiled at him, then turned to the two sitting along the other side of the opulent conference table, his expression growing more solemn. “I have heard the basics of what befell you two, as well, but would you kindly add your reports to Branwen and Antonio’s? It’s best if we are all on the same page.”

“The same pattern,” Andros said curtly. “Three warlocks, in robes. They carried, among other things, those syringes with death-drugs, though none of the three which assaulted my lodge had the opportunity to use them. I was meditating in seclusion, and was late to reach the scene of the confrontation. I was last to the battle and able to finish the remaining two warlocks. They entered my personal chambers and assaulted my wives.”

“Good gods,” Darling exclaimed, straightening up in his chair. “Are they all right?”

“They are recuperating,” Andros replied, smiling with such fierce pride that it was visible even through his heavy beard. “The healers tell me they will not bear permanent injury, though they are being given time to mend the various bruises of the battle. It is a common misconception among infidels that because Shaathist women are obedient, they are also weak. Nothing could be further from the truth.” He angled his head defiantly, as if to stare down his nose at the world. “There is neither honor nor satisfaction in dominating a dishrag.”

“I’m glad to hear that, at least,” said Darling. “Though let’s refrain from throwing the i-word around in mixed ecclesiastical company, yes?”

Andros grunted, which was likely as close to acquiescence as he was likely to get.

“Same here,” Basra said. “Three of them in standard Wreath robes. I was hosting the two Legion cadets I’m sponsoring at my residence that evening. I’m afraid they were both roughed up a bit in the action, too, but it was thanks to Elwick that things didn’t go a lot worse. The girl has a great deal of exposure to demons, and gave us warning that something was coming.”

Andros turned to her, scowling. “And just why does a Silver Legion cadet have great exposure to demons?”

“You remember events at Hamlet, I trust?” Basra said, giving him an unpleasantly cloying smile.

“Of course,” he growled. “It’s no stretch of the imagination to deduce that’s the cause of this attack.”

“Well, as you may recall, we appropriated several of the Wreath cultists’ children in the course of that. I’ve given the girl sponsorship in the Legions; she’s training with the Third right now. Elwick is actually quite promising; she’s certainly eager to put the errors of her upbringing behind her.”

“How fortuitous,” Darling murmured, wondering what Basra was up to. It was hardly like her to support the careers of others out of the goodness of her heart. Of course, there was also the question of what she was doing with two young girls at her home at four in the morning—girls whom she held in a vulnerable, subordinate position. At the intersection of both questions was a possibility; he made a mental note to find out whether she lived up to the Legionnaire stereotype with regard to her personal preferences.

“Indeed,” the Archpope intoned, looking directly at him. “Antonio, I suspect that your mind has brought you to the same conclusions at which I have arrived. I wonder if you would share with us your assessment of the Wreath’s motivations?”

“Of course, your Holiness,” Darling said, folding his hands on the tabletop and frowning thoughtfully. “To begin with… I think they won this round.”

“Won? Are you mad?” Andros snorted. “We slaughtered their entire attacking force with only one casualty, and none of their primary targets suffered harm!”

Darling was shaking his head before he finished speaking. “Think about who we’re dealing with, Andros. The Black Wreath serve the goddess of cunning; like all our cults, they take the aspect of their deity as their primary virtue. If this is in response to Hamlet, they’ve had months to study us, lay plans and make preparations. And you really think the result of all that would be a haphazard, half-hearted brute force attack? No… Killing the four of us was not the motive.”

“Whatever you think they were up to, they squandered the lives of twelve magic users to do it,” said Basra, frowning. “They either considered this hugely important or they’ve got a lot more personnel to draw upon than we realized.”

“Those are questions to which we can’t know the answers, I’m afraid,” said Darling.

“What is it you think they were after, then?”

“Think about what they did, or tried to do. Where they directed their efforts. Andros’s wives, Branwen’s servant and friend, Basra’s proteges. I have two live-in apprentices and a convalescing acquaintance at my home; I think they would have been the targets had my Butler not intercepted the Wreath at the door. And you two haven’t mentioned it, but I noted that at both my place and Branwen’s they used the front door.” He shook his head again. “This wasn’t an assassination. This was a provocation. They want us hurt, angry, and striking back.”

There was a brief silence while they all digested this.

“That, indeed, is how the matter appears to me,” Justinian agreed after a moment. “I’m glad to see I wasn’t alone in coming to that conclusion. It raises the very tricky question of what we must do now, however.”

“The obvious thing would be not to give them what they want,” Andros rumbled, “but in dealing with the Wreath, the obvious course is seldom the right one.”

“And that’s why I think they’ve got us good and proper, this time,” said Darling. He reached over to squeeze Branwen’s hand. “The Izarites aren’t interested in revenge, but the rest of our cults are another matter. The Sisters, the Guild and the Huntsmen will not take this lying down—and to be honest, we couldn’t make them even if we wanted to. It’s about to be all-out war on the Wreath.”

“In the streets of Tiraas,” Branwen murmured, visibly appalled.

“A witch hunt of the worst kind,” the Archpope agreed. “I can and will enforce moderation in the Church’s response, but you are right: the independent cults are beyond my control, and those three at least are not tolerant of such brazen affronts.”

“What could they possibly gain by calling down all that wrath on their own heads?” Basra exclaimed.

“I very much fear we’re about to find out,” said Darling. “The pertinent question is: what do we, the four of us, do? We’re in a dicey position; right at the center of this and tied to both the Church and our cults. We can’t really afford to break with either. Both we and whichever organization we sided against would lose face right when we need it most.”

“That can be mitigated by the nature of the Church’s response,” said Justinian, “which, I assure you, will be suitably nuanced. You will have my full support in this matter. As for what we are to do…” He drummed his fingers once on the tabletop, the ring of his office flashing in the light. “For the time being, we must wait and see what the Wreath is up to, along with the rest of the world. That does not mean we shall proceed blindly. In the first place, we will play along.”

“It is sometimes necessary to step into a trap,” Andros agreed, nodding. “The outcome may not be as the trapper wishes, if the prey knows it is there.”

“Just so,” said Justinian, then smiled. “And while we are allowing ourselves to be victimized by the Wreath’s plan… I believe there is a way we can use it.”

 

“Juniper,” Trissiny said, “don’t try to roll down these steps.”

“Well, obviously,” the dryad said reasonably. “I could fall!”

“Astute as always,” Ruda muttered.

It had been more than an hour of walking, and they were all sore in the legs and even more tired than when they had started out; unless the internal geography of the Crawl was truly unhinged—which was apparently not impossible—they were well below the surface of the prairie by this point. Professor Ezzaniel had refused to let them stop for a rest, insisting that the perfect place to do so was up ahead. No one had argued too strenuously, as what they wanted was breakfast, and no one had any food.

Now, they appeared to have reached their destination, or nearly so. The angular, spiraling staircase terminated into a truly vast open space, the size of a stadium in diameter and plunging down an impossible distance. Above were vaguely-glimpsed stalactites in a shadowed ceiling vastly far away; the floor of the cavern, if there was one, was too far down to be visible, but whatever was down there emitted a reddish glow that sullenly lit up the whole chamber. It wasn’t a vertical shaft, either; it plunged at a roughly forty-five degree angle. Almost as if it had been vertical before the mountain was sunk.

Directly from their feet descended another staircase, this one half as broad as the wide ones they had traveled thus far, and arching unsupported across a horrifying stretch of space. There were, of course, no guardrails. Similar stairs could be seen both above and below their level, going to and from points they could not discern. The steps before them ended in the far wall, in which a massive stone head at least four stories in height had been carved into the rock, angled so that it stood upright. The steps ran straight to its open mouth.

“All right, we should check for traps before proceeding,” Fross declared. “I have a statistical divination spell that can randomize outcomes on a scale of twenty reference points corresponding to magical threat levels. Once I code in the variables we’re checking for, it should warn us of any traps within an acceptable margin of error. This’ll just take a second.”

“Fross,” Gabriel said impatiently, “I may not be up to your study habits but even I know the Gygax Charm hasn’t been used in decades. Modern divinations are vastly more accurate.”

“It’s traditional!”

“There are no traps,” Professor Ezzaniel said wearily from behind them. “There will be no traps, nor enemies, until you have proceeded beyond what lies at the bottom of these steps. For heaven’s sake, students, get on with it. And watch where you put your feet.”

“You’re good with levitation spells, right, Fross?” Trissiny asked.

“Well, of course! That’s how I mostly interact with the world. You’d be amazed how much picking up of stuff is necessary in human society! Well, I mean, you would if you’d never actually thought about it, which I’ve noticed most of you haven’t. Uh, no offense.”

“None taken,” the paladin said gravely. “We’re all going to step carefully, but I need you to watch over the group and catch anybody if they fall.”

“Oh!” Fross zipped back and forth in excitement. “I can do that!”

“Good. All right, everyone…single file. I know it’s not that narrow, but let’s take no risks.”

She set off down the stairs, the others falling into line behind her.

The staircase was indeed broad enough that any of them could have laid down on the steps and neither their heads nor feet would have come near the edge. However, given the lack of rails and the staggering heights involved, it was still a nerve-wracking descent.

“What d’you suppose is down there?” Gabriel asked about halfway down. “Lava?”

“Can’t be,” said Toby. “The heat would whoosh up this shaft and cook us right where we stand.”

“Shut. The fuck. Up,” Ruda growled.

Trissiny stepped onto the small landing below the gloomy face’s nose with relief. In addition to being off those infernal stairs, from this vantage she didn’t have to see that huge thing scowling at them. The others clustered around her, several with soft sighs mirroring her reaction.

The face’s open mouth formed a short tunnel; set into the wall just in front of the was a wooden door with an iron latch. Next to it hung a sign, in Tanglish.

“The Grim Visage,” Teal read. “Well, it certainly is that.”

“Care to give us a hint on what lies ahead, Professor?” Toby suggested.

“Yes,” said Ezzaniel, deadpan. “If you open the door, you will find out.”

“This is gonna be one of those trips, isn’t it,” Ruda muttered.

Trissiny clenched her jaw, grasped the handle and pulled the door open. She stepped cautiously through, moving forward enough to give the others room to enter. They did so slowly, fanning out in a cluster just inside the door.

They found themselves in a room full of monsters.

An ogre sat in the far corner, his head brushing the ceiling even sitting down, clutching a barrel from which he drank like a pint glass. Near the door, three drow were clustered around a table, two women and a man; to judge by their “armor,” which was flattering but more decorative than functional, and the matching unpleasant grins they gave the students, they weren’t Narisian. A small group of gnomes were playing cards near a roaring hearth, two goblins were arm wrestling the next table over, and at the far end of the room, behind a bar, stood an improbably pretty man with pale skin and no shirt on. He grinned at the sight of the students, stretching spiny incubus wings. As they stood there staring, a naga slithered past them, carrying a tray of mugs.

The occupants of the room looked up at the new arrivals, and then mostly went right back to their drinks, games and conversations.

“Why is it,” Gabriel asked after a moment’s silence, “that wherever we go, we end up in some kind of bar?”

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6 – 2

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The lock was no more than a formality; it had never needed to be. No one skilled in the bypassing of locks would have attempted to break through this particular one. As such, the soft scratching of lock picks at work went on for a fairly short time before the tumbler gave, the latch turned and the door was pulled silently open.

It was so late it was early; well beyond midnight, the first gray lightening of dawn not yet visible, but not far off. There were lights in the street, but they were dim and far apart, the residents of this neighborhood preferring that their rest not be disturbed overmuch by the omnipresent glow of Tiraas. The three figures who entered were barely silhouetted against the gloom outside, and all but vanished in their gray robes when they pulled the door shut behind themselves. Stepping warily, tense and as silent as they could manage, they passed through the foyer and into the hall, spreading out to fill the narrow space and studying their surroundings. Moonlight streamed in through upper windows in the tall space, which rose a full two stories. The hall was cast in a faint glow, pale, but adequate for human eyes.

Behind them, the relatively narrow space separating the hall from the foyer was narrowed still further by decorative molding just above head height. It was still a considerable gap, however; Price’s legs were spread widely, one foot braced against each inch-wide ledge. She studied the intruders dispassionately as they passed beneath, then lifted herself lightly by the toes, snapped her legs together and dropped to the ground.

Between her cat-like landing and the construction of her shoes, one of the Service Society’s trade secrets, she landed in total silence, behind the oblivious trio.

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

They whirled to face her, and the two on either side immediately fell, gurgling and gasping, with throwing knives embedded in their throats. The man in the center wasted seconds staring in shock, which cost him dearly.

Price launched herself forward, and belatedly he reacted, throwing up a hand. Enormous whip-like black tendrils lashed out from within his sleeve, limned by a sickly purple glow. She changed course mid-run, kicking off the wall to the opposite side of the hall. The demonic tentacles followed, but remained always an instant behind her, tied as they were to the reflexes of the caster. They smashed against the wall just after she bounced off it, then again on the opposite side, crushing glossy wood paneling and shredding wallpaper, and then the Butler was upon the warlock.

Launching herself off the wall from mere steps away, she grabbed the collar of his robes with both hands and flipped over him, somersaulting in midair to plant both feet against his back and kick, shoving herself forward and sending him tumbling face-first to the floor, his magical weapons vanishing instantly. Price landed in a smooth roll and was immediately on her feet again, whirling to face the fallen warlock.

Much less gracefully, he scrambled over onto his back, throwing out his hand desperately in her direction.

As he tried to call up his tentacle spell again, the charm she had planted on his collar erupted. A multilayered thing, it unleashed a blast of pure divine energy, cutting off his spell and slamming him to the ground, and also laid a light fae blessing over him. Neither was powerful enough to hold on its own, at least not for long, but it was plenty adequate to put a warlock momentarily out of commission.

“Now, then,” Price said evenly, “we can discuss the matter of who sent you.”

“T-tell you nothing,” the warlock rasped, scrambling backward from her in a desperate crab-walk.

Two slim figures burst out of the side hall, skidding to a stop at Price’s peremptorily upheld hand. Ignoring Flora and Fauna, she stepped forward between the two slain warlocks, bearing down on their last companion.

“As I hope you are aware, when I have finished you will converse avidly on any subject I choose to raise,” she said calmly. “Your only input shall be into what transpires before we reach that point.”

He came up against the wall, pressing his robed hands together before him and glaring up at her. “Have your little victory, then! It doesn’t matter. A great doom is coming, whether you are ready for it or not!”

“You are not, one presumes, referring to yourself,” Price said, raising one eyebrow sardonically.

Joe came staggering in, wearing a long nightshirt but with a wand in each hand. Flora and Fauna grabbed him from either side before he could bring up his weapons.

Price paused, tilting her head to study the felled warlock as he began to convulse. In seconds, he had actually begun frothing at the mouth.

“Ah,” she said. “Dear me.”

The Butler knelt and pried the man’s hands apart, revealing a brass-bound syringe pressed into his wrist, the plunger fully depressed and its contents emptied.

“Too late?” Darling asked, striding down the stairs.

“Indeed, sir,” she said. “My apologies. This device matches the description from the Tellwyrn incident in Hamlet.”

“Hm,” he noted, coming to a stop between the three youths and the three slain warlocks. The last one’s convulsions were already trailing off. Darling wore a hastily-donned robe over his silk pajamas; his feet were bare and the condition of his hair suggested recent proximity to a pillow. He seemed fully awake and alert, however. “Drat. I liked them better when they were too chicken to carry suicide measures.”

“This sorta thing happen often?” Joe asked carefully.

“Not in the least,” said the Bishop, shaking his head. “These numbnuts just declared war on the Thieves’ Guild, coming here; that’s not a mistake anyone’s ever made twice. It’s pretty alarming. The Black Wreath hasn’t openly scrapped with the Guild in centuries. Why now?”

Price discreetly cleared her throat. “If I may, your Grace, they did not approach the Guild itself. I believe you identified yourself to a representative of theirs in Hamlet, suggesting you were on Imperial business?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, frowning. “That was months ago, though… But if they’re finally aiming to clean up that loose end, the others would also…” His eyes widened, a quick calculation taking place behind them. “Oh, gods, Branwen.”

“We can help!” Fauna said eagerly.

“Just tell us where to go,” Flora added.

“Right. Yes.” Darling whirled to face them. “Split up. One of you go to the Casino, one to the Cathedral. Let the Guild and the Church know what’s happened here. Approach carefully; if the Wreath is attacking them, too, do not engage. Come back here in that event and secure the house.”

Their faces fell. “But we can help—”

“I know you can handle yourselves,” he said, adding pointedly, “You can help by not placing yourself in a position where anyone has to see how well you can handle yourselves. Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused somewhat glumly, but both turned and strode off to their rooms to get dressed.

“Ah,” Joe said tentatively, reflexively making awkward motions at his sides as he attempted to holster his wands in sheathes that weren’t there, “anything I can do?”

“Back to bed,” Darling ordered, already moving toward the front door. “You’re still disabled.”

“I’m practically as good as new,” Joe said somewhat rebelliously.

“Kid, you’re ready for action when that mother hen of a Crow declares you are. That way, nobody gets turned into a newt. If you can’t sleep, help Price and keep an eye on the house. I’ve gotta get to Bishop Snowe’s house, and pray I’m not too late…”

“Your Grace,” Price said pointedly, “if this attack was carried out with the Wreath’s characteristic forethought, and the other Bishops were indeed targets, the strikes are likely to have been simultaneous. You are very unlikely to reach Bishop Snowe before any putative warlocks.”

“Yes,” he said impatiently, his hand on the latch. “All the more reason—”

“All the more reason,” she interrupted firmly, “to take the time to approach carefully. Beginning, perhaps, by putting on shoes.”

Darling sighed heavily in annoyance.

“I merely suggest, of course,” Price said humbly. “If your Grace wishes to do battle with the Black Wreath without pants on, that is your Grace’s prerogative. Doubtless they will find it tremendously amusing.”

“You are severely annoying when you’re right, Price,” he said curtly, turning and stomping past her toward the stairs, peevishly kicking one of the slain warlocks as he went by.

“Yes, sir,” she said calmly, folding her hands behind her back and watching him go. Joe, wisely, had retreated down the hall toward his own room in search of clothes.

Alone with the bodies, Price surveyed the hall, finally permitting herself a small frown of annoyance as she studied the shattered wall paneling.

“I just polished that.”

 

“She’s insane,” Gabriel mumbled around a yawn. “What freaking time is it, anyway?”

“Approximately one minute later than the last time you asked,” said Toby with a smile.

“But why here?” he whined, yawning again as he tugged open the heavy front doors. “Why now? And why couldn’t she have just told us to be up early? And for fuck’s sake, why does she have to wake people up that way?! I don’t care if it was an illusion, I swear I’ve got water in my shoes.”

“Gabe, I realize you’re not exactly at your best right now, but stop and consider that you’re asking why Professor Tellwyrn does what she does. Do you really expect to get anywhere with that?”

“Crazy,” Gabriel groused, stepping into the library and leaving Toby to catch the door on his own way in. “I expect to get crazy. It’ll be a nice change from sleep-deprived.”

“And I see we’re last to the party as usual,” Toby said amiably, waving at those assembled in the main entryway. “Morning, ladies.”

“It’s not morning until there’s sun, for the record,” Teal grumbled. “G’night, Toby.”

“I’ve been here all night!” Fross said brightly. “It’s a great time to get some out-of-class research done. Nobody bothers me.”

“That’s because we need sleep,” Gabriel moaned.

“Yes, I know! I have kind of an unfair advantage, which I sometimes feel a little guilty about, but it’s not like I can help it. If you want, Gabe, I can help you study any time! We’re in the same degree program, after all!”

“I’ll file that away for grah!” Catching sight of the figure that had just appeared behind the receptionist’s desk, he stumbled backward against the doors, apparently coming fully awake in a wide-eyed panic. “What the hell is that?!”

“Tellwyrn’s experimental golem,” said Ruda, who was lounging in one of the reading chairs, sipping from a bottle of bourbon.

“She has a name,” Fross said reproachfully. “Hello, Crystal!”

“Good morning, Fross,” the golem said politely. At first glance, she resembled a slim woman in elaborate armor, if the armor in question were banded in gold, embossed with arcane runes and inset with pale blue crystals. It didn’t add the bulk that armor would have, though, but outlined her own slight frame, a metal suit of skin. From the gaps at the joints, muted blue light streamed out, occasional puffs of mist emerging when she moved. Her face was an eerily lifelike but expressionless steel mask, its eyes empty holes opening onto an intense blue glow. “Good morning, students. May I help you find anything?”

“I don’t think so,” said Trissiny, who looked more alert than most of her classmates. “Professor Tellwyrn told us to meet her here.”

“Ah, very good,” Crystal replied.

“What’s she doing here?” Gabriel stage-whispered.

“She’s the head librarian now,” Fross replied. “And really, you can talk to her yourself, she’s right there. You’re being rude, Gabe.”

“Sorry,” he said with a grimace, then turned to Crystal and repeated himself. “Uh, sorry. I was just…startled.”

“It’s quite all right,” the golem replied. “I expect there will be an acclimation period. It has already extended further than I had calculated. My initial data seems to have been in error.”

“What happened to Grumpypants McPonytail?” Toby asked.

“Weaver?” Fross fluttered in a circle around his head. “He’s been gone for weeks. Seriously, how have you not noticed this before now?”

“We try to stay out of the library,” said Gabe, grimacing.

“But—but—but you’re university students! You need to use the library!”

“We need to stay away from that crankety-ass freak, is what,” Gabe replied. “Although if he’s gone, I’ll probably start spending more time here. Why does nobody ever tell me anything?”

“Combination of factors, really,” said Ruda, beginning to tick off points on her fingers. “We don’t think about you when you’re not here, you’re not all that important, nobody likes you…”

“That’s playing a little rough, Ruda,” Trissiny said, frowning.

Her roommate snorted loudly. “Oh, come on. You tried to kill him.”

“I think you lost the right to throw that at me when you stabbed him!”

“I just love my life,” Gabriel said to no one in particular.

“What did happen to Weaver?” Toby asked hastily.

“He felt the call of adventure!” Fross proclaimed.

There was a moment of silence as they all stared at her.

“What does that mean?” Juniper asked finally.

“I don’t know,” the pixie admitted. “That’s what Professor Tellwyrn said when I asked her. And then she laughed. You know that kind of mean laugh, like when somebody says something silly in class and she spends five minutes making fun of them?”

They all nodded in unison.

“Mr. Weaver is on indefinite sabbatical,” Crystal said into the silence. “And I am detecting a buildup of translocative arcane energy focused on this spot, characteristic of a scrying spell and minor dimensional fold, so I infer you are—”

They never got to hear the rest, as with a sharp pop the scenery changed.

The students dropped about half a foot to the grass—except Fross, of course—with varying degrees of grace. Ruda landed on her butt, cursing; Teal had to flail her arms for balance until Shaeine steadied her. Gabriel very nearly fell over sideways.

“Goddammit!” he shouted. “Why? Why must you do that?”

“Three reasons,” Professor Tellwyrn said brightly. “It’s the most efficient way to get around, it serves the purpose of protecting the surprise, and your suffering amuses me. Note, Arquin, that that was not a plural ‘your.’ Nobody else suffers with quite the distinctive self-pity you have. It’s inspiring, really.”

“I hate you.”

“I don’t care,” she said, still cheerfully. “Good morning, students, and welcome to your midterm test!”

“Why are we on the quad?” Toby asked, peering around.

“Because I just teleported you here. You’re not at your quickest first thing in the morning, are you, Mr. Caine?”

“I wonder what would happen if we all rushed her?” Trissiny asked grimly.

“Fuck that, I’ve had enough pain in my ass already today without getting teleported into the sun,” Ruda grumbled, discreetly rubbing her bum.

“As for why I asked you to meet up at the library,” Tellwyrn continued, “you might say it’s tradition. I like to send the kids off on their freshman delve as unprepared as possible, so as to simulate the real conditions faced by your adventuring forebears, which were often woefully spontaneous. Thus, a cheap and simple misdirection. Your goal is in there.”

She turned and pointed to the wooden gates set into the terrace wall opposite the gazebo, beside which they stood. On command, they swung outward with a hideous groan of hinges badly in need of oiling. Behind that was an iron portcullis, which slid into the ground almost as soon as it was revealed, leaving nothing between them and a broad stone staircase down into darkness.

“That’s the Crawl,” Ruda said softly.

Tellwyrn rolled her eyes. “You kids really aren’t at your best without your precious beauty sleep, are you? Yes, Miss Punaji, that is the Crawl. Any other blindingly obvious observations you’d like to share with the class?”

“In a few hours,” said Ruda, “the sun will rise, I’ll have breakfast, and at some point after that I’ll begin to care what the fuck you think. Meanwhile, you can shove it sideways.”

“All right, enough folderol,” Tellwyrn went on more briskly. “Professor Ezzaniel will be your accompanying faculty member on this excursion. Rafe usually does the freshman delve, but I try not to inflict him on a class more than once a year if I can help it. Also, after he stuck his fingers into your Golden Sea excursion, I’ve lost some faith in his objectivity. Ezzaniel, at least, I can trust to leave you all to die if that’s what you deserve.”

Professor Ezzaniel, who had been standing behind her so quietly they hadn’t even noticed him in the dimness, stepped forward, raising an eyebrow and glancing at Tellwyrn after that last remark. He was in his usual open-collared suit, with his customary saber belted at his waist and a simple knapsack flung over one shoulder. It was a plain leather affair, not the enchanted carpet bag in which he kept the practice weapons for their martial arts class.

“Your assignment,” Tellwyrn continued, “is to retrieve a treasure from below. It is a rectangular wooden chest, bound in brass and embossed with floral patterns, in which reside a matched sword and dagger set of elven make. Professor Ezzaniel will be along to observe; he will not aid you or interfere in your actions. It is upon his observations that I will determine your grade. Actually retrieving the chest is not essential; most freshman groups don’t. The last party which succeeded was nine years ago; this particular treasure has been down there for that long. If you do manage to fetch it back, though, the group gets an automatic A on the exercise, which will comprise a substantial chunk of your grade for the semester, and the individual who gets it gets to keep it.”

“A sword and dagger?” Gabriel scoffed. “Sounds like a consolation prize.”

“Those were my personal weapons for a good many years,” Tellwyrn said, giving him a long look. “They are older than the Empire and heavily enchanted. If none of that impresses you, Arquin—and based on your performance in combat class, I rather suspect it won’t—if you get your hands on those, you can quite possibly buy your way into the nobility.”

“Always did enjoy getting consolation prizes,” he said thoughtfully.

“Hang on,” Trissiny protested. “We don’t have any supplies! No food, no equipment, only Ruda and I have weapons…”

“Yes, Avelea, that’s the point,” Tellwyrn said patiently. “As I explained moments ago. You’ll find the Crawl an exemplary arbiter of fates. If you are intelligent, if you deserve to survive, it will provide more than adequately for you. If not, it’ll see to it you meet whatever end most befits you. All right! You have three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” Teal demanded, wide-eyed.

“Three weeks,” said Tellwyrn. “Good gods, you kids are like an echo today. You can come back as soon as you get the sword and dagger, but if you haven’t got them in three weeks, your Professor will call short the assignment and lead you back to the surface. All right, that’s more than adequate jibber-jabber. Begin!”

She smirked, snapped her fingers, and vanished with a quiet pop.

“I think we shoulda rushed her,” Gabriel mused.

Professor Ezzaniel cleared his throat. “Come along, then, students,” he said, and with no more ado strode into the darkness of the Crawl.

There was nothing left for them to do but follow him.

 

Naturally, he didn’t approach the house head-on. The open front door would have warned him away, if nothing else. Luckily, Branwen’s neighborhood—a wealthier one even than his own—gave him plenty of above-ground territory on which to prowl, and the elaborate houses on all sides were easily climbable. There was only one close enough to her house to be worth the trouble of ascending, but the gardens had suitably high walls separating the lots. It was from the top of this structure that he got his first glimpse into Branwen’s own sprawling garden, positioned behind her house, and determined it was safe to descend.

Darling landed deftly in a leafy bush, which would have been very uncomfortable for some, but he had long since mastered the knack. Brushing leaves from his coat, he carefully paced forward, studying the surrounding carnage. Blood spattered the walkway, with here and there pieces of bodies. They weren’t too widely distributed; he could mentally piece them together easily enough to determine that there were three of the robed figures, just as there had been at his house.

Branwen sat silently on the stone lip of a reflecting pool, a fourth body pulled half into her lap. It was of an older woman, looking almost asleep from the waist up. Her legs were crushed, mangled completely, and a veritable pond of blood surrounded the pair. Branwen gazed vacantly down at the woman, stroking her white hair with one hand.

“Branwen?” he asked quietly, creeping closer.

“Tieris has been with my family her whole life,” the Izarite said quietly. “She practically raised me. It’s so…absurd. It just seemed she would always be there.”

“Bran, I’m so sorry,” he said, carefully seating himself beside her.

“You too, then,” she murmured. “…thank you for thinking of me, Antonio. You should have gone to help the others, though.”

Darling frowned. “I—Bas and Andros? Well, they’re both surrounded by cult members. I know you were out here alone…”

“And you thought I was helpless and useless and would need rescue,” she said. There was no emotion in her voice, only a deep exhaustion.

“Branwen…”

“It wasn’t a complaint. You think what I want you to think. So does everyone else.” She reached behind her to trail her fingers through the water.

Something rose up from within.

Darling bounded to his feet and danced backward, staring. The creature that crawled, dripping, out of the pool was the size of an alligator and had a head shaped very like one, though its scaled body was more like a bulldog’s in proportion. Steam rose from its flaring nostrils.

They were mistakenly called hellhounds, by people who had never seen a real hellhound. Kankhradahg demons were favored tools of the Black Wreath: easily summoned, easily controlled, and not intelligent enough to be rebellious. Usually.

Branwen scratched the demon under its chin; it closed its red eyes, beginning to purr softly.

“Wreath summoners don’t always take good care of their charges,” she said in that same dull tone. “Their victims, really. This fellow wasn’t treated well at all. It just took a little persuasion, and just the right kind of blessing to break his former master’s control…”

“That’s…impressive,” Darling said carefully, keeping his eyes on the apparently contented demon. Gods, she had her delicate little hand just inches from those teeth…

“This is about Hamlet, isn’t it? Only reason they would do something like this, antagonize our cults and the Church this way. You should have gone to the others, Antonio. Those who came here underestimated me. Whatever they sent at the Huntsman and the Legionnaire will be intended to finish off more powerful targets.”

“Well,” he said after a moment, “I suppose you’re not wrong. Unfortunately it’s a little late now.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “What will be, will be. Looks like we won.”

Branwen gathered up the body of her servant in her arms, leaning over her, and finally began to weep.

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