Tag Archives: Jenell Covrin

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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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Jenell rapped on the door a third time, her expression growing increasingly sour, and stepped back from it. As before, there was no sound from within the room.

It was still before sunrise; the sky peeking through the windows behind her was gray, but light enough to reveal the silhouettes of trees, and the shapes of the Viridill mountains beyond. She folded her arms, tapping a foot impatiently, then stopped and corrected her posture when another woman rounded the corner of the hall, strolling her way with a pastry in hand.

She was a little older than Jenell and not as pretty (a point of data she always noticed about other women, Avenist training be damned), wearing the long but clingy robes common to this temple, with a pink lotus badge at the shoulder. The Izarites here in Adhran had their sigil embroidered directly onto their robes, rather than using the enamel pins favored by the cults in Tiraas. The priestess gave her a warm smile and a nod of greeting; Jenell snapped to attention and saluted silently.

Not that she was obligated to, under the circumstances, but one of the Legionnaires stationed to guard this temple had taught her that trick the night before, after she had been cornered three times by clerics and offered everything from hugs and candy to therapy and sex. They meant well, but it got very obnoxious, very quickly. However, they wouldn’t bother a soldier they thought was on duty. Hence the saluting.

The woman passed around the corner on the other end of the hall, and Jenell scowled, stepped forward again, and rapped on the door for the fourth time.

She gave him to the slow count of ten, then raised her gauntleted fist and began hammering viciously on the wood.

It was absolutely amazing how long that went on before getting a response; by the time the door was opened from within, she was starting to expect another priest to come see what the racket was about before the room’s occupant did. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.

Unfortunately, it immediately looked like her troubles were only beginning.

Schwartz was a wreck. The puffy bags under his eyes almost hid them, and he slumped against the door frame, apparently unable to balance on his own. He had the worst case of bed hair she had ever seen or imagined; in fact, it was almost unbelievable that he’d gotten it to stick up that much without effort and the application of some kind of product. His eyes were open unevenly, the left one barely slitted. As she took in the sight of him, he blinked, slowly, eyelids out of sync.

“Bmwlaah?” Scwhartz enunciated.

“Good morning,” she said crisply. “Time to go.”

He blinked again, more evenly this time. “Uh…bm. Carvin.”

“No, but close. You really don’t handle sleep deprivation well, do you?”

“Wha…I the…s’fin…” He paused to yawn widely enough to display molars. “Wha?”

“You’ve slept about four hours,” Jenell reported. “Based on your comments yesterday it was your second night in a row of not getting enough rest. I see we’ll have to avoid that in the future, if you’re going to be around much longer. Now get dressed, we have to go pick up the Bishop.”

“Was…saw th’elves,” he said blearily, still blinking his eyes.

“Yes,” she said patiently, “and that was the last interesting thing that happened yesterday, so I suppose I can forgive you for blurring out the subsequent details. You were half-asleep by the time we got here. You can nap in the carriage, we need to…”

She trailed off, staring. His eyes had drifted shut and he slumped against the door frame, gradually sliding forward and down. As she watched, he actually began to snore again.

Jenell sighed, gritted her teeth, and pulled off one of her gauntlets. Schwartz snorted and jerked when she thrust the tips of her forefinger and thumb into his left nostril. When she yanked out a few tiny hairs, he let out a yowl and shot upright, eyes wide and blinking.

“There,” she said. “Is that better?”

“Ow!” he protested, clutching his nose.

“Sorry,” she said, insufficiently motivated to try for a sincere tone. “It used to work on my dad when I was little. I know you’re tired and not used to it, Mr. Schwartz, but I need you to get ready and be downstairs, in the carriage, in fifteen minutes. We have to go to the Legion barracks and get Bishop Syrinx, then head back to the Abbey. And I will not be late.”

“Legion…barracks…Bishop.” Apparently marginally more alert, he peered around. “We’re not…there? She’s not here?”

“We are at the local Temple of Izara,” Jenell replied. “She left orders to pick her up by seven in the morning. That means we have to go. I would willingly break a few of your limbs to stay off Syrinx’s shit list, so believe you me I will not hesitate to drag you through the halls in whatever state of undress I find you in if you’re not down there in that carriage in fifteen. Clear?”

“Carriage,” he said, yawning hugely. “Broken limbs, yes. Fifteen. Just lemme…”

“Do,” she said curtly. “And don’t fall asleep again. You don’t want to test me on this.”

“M’kay,” he mumbled, turning to shuffle back into the room. Jenell stayed long enough to observe that he was going for the wardrobe, not the bed, before turning and striding back down the hall. She didn’t bother to shut the door. It wasn’t like anyone in this temple would be unused to the sight of a skinny man getting undressed.

On her way back to the temple’s side exit, she paused only to duck into a lavatory and thoroughly wash her hands before putting her gauntlets back on, checking her face in the mirror by habit in the process. Bags under her own eyes, though not as bad as his… She was used to functioning without much sleep, these days.

The stables were positioned around to the side of the temple, out of sight of the exquisitely manicured gardens and main courtyard out front, where guests would not have to behold such mundane trivialities as the horses that brought them—or what those horses left behind. Jenell wasn’t sure if this was due to Izarite doctrines about pleasure and relaxation, or simple old-fashioned snobbery. Likely some combination of the two. The temple did have designated parking for enchanted carriages next to its stables. Not much parking, there being only four slots, but it was something. It surprised her not in the least that some of those who frequented the Temple of Izara were wealthy enough to have such fripperies even in this district—or that the clerics would pander to them. Cults served everyone equally, in theory, but it was the rich whose donations kept things running, and the rich never let anyone forget it.

The carriage, unsurprisingly, was exactly as she had left it last night, after returning from driving the Bishop to the Legion fortress atop the hill. There was no reason it shouldn’t have been, considering the area, but Jenell had learned to assume the worst about everyone and everything, and let her life be filled with pleasant surprises. She climbed into the driver’s seat and activated the control rune, listening to the hum of the enchantments that purred to life from beneath. They were barely audible while parked.

A figure appeared in the temple door and headed toward her, waving. Jenell nodded politely back, considering repeating her salute trick for a moment, but decided against it. He was obviously coming right for her anyway, and in any case he would know her situation, having had it explained last night.

The high priest in charge of this temple had been introduced to her as Brother Nansin, no other title being given, not that she understood how Izarite rankings worked. He was a tall, slender man with broad Western features on a narrow face. Not bad-looking, but not one to turn heads. She had noticed that; it seemed the disciples of the goddess of love ought to be pretty people as a rule. This was Jenell’s first chance to spend prolonged time in their company, and found them to be generally average-looking.

“Good morning, Private Covrin,” he said politely, coming to a stop beside the idling carriage.

“Brother Nansin,” she replied. “Thank you again for your hospitality. I hope we weren’t too much of an imposition.”

“Guests are never an imposition, of any kind,” he said firmly, but with a warm smile. “The followers of Izara are here to provide for the needs of all who come to us. I appreciate Bishop Syrinx’s willingness to bring us up to date on the dangerous events unfolding. Obviously, Avei’s followers will and must take a more central role against such a threat, but it seems likely there will be many people hurting in the near future, if you are not successful in putting it to a swift end. We shall stand ready.”

Well, he was definitely a ranking priest. No one else could make a speech out of “good morning, and thanks.”

“The goddess grant it is so,” she said diplomatically. She could have tried for a solemn tone, but Izarites were supposed to be able to sense emotions and hidden motives; standing this close, he might be aware of her disinterest in the conversation. The most polite course of action seemed to be simple…politeness.

“I’m sorry you must leave us so soon,” Nansin said, still smiling. “Is your friend on the way?”

“I hope so,” Jenell said frankly. “He’s likely to be embarrassed if I have to go fetch him again.”

At that, the priest cracked a more genuine grin. It faded after as second, however, to a pleasant and calmly open look that she recognized, and she stifled a sigh. After last night, she recognized that expression.

“I feel I have to apologize for some of my brethren,” he said. “I didn’t learn until after you had retired last night that several members of the order had approached you. Obviously, they know not to bother the soldiers on duty guarding the temple, but here, a guest is a guest. I hope you weren’t made uncomfortable.”

Well. That hadn’t been quite what she was expecting.

“No harm done,” she said calmly. “I appreciate the good intentions.”

“Good,” he said, nodding, still wearing that caring almost-smile. “We have taken in Legionnaires in the past.”

Jenell went still. “Pardon?”

“Not often,” Nansin continued, “and not permanently. But situations arise from time to time in which a soldier is placed in a position that is not easily resolved through the chain of command. We have some experience in negotiating matters with the Legions to ensure they are protected from reprisal and able to return to duty. Really, it is not so difficult as one might fear. The Legions are nothing if not devoted to justice, and quick to discipline those who abuse their structure at the expense of fellow soldiers. Sometimes it just takes a little outside help to identify who is culpable, and who is a victim.”

“That’s very interesting,” she said stiffly, adopting a bored tone and turning to watch the door for Schwartz.

He followed her gaze, standing in silence for a moment. Not leaving. She repressed another sigh when he began speaking again.

“I assume you are aware of Izara’s gift to her clergy, the ability to feel the emotional needs of those around us.” Nansin hesitated for a moment before continuing, still gazing into the distance. “Of course, I mean no lack of respect to the Sisterhood or the Legions, but… It requires only being in a room with Basra Syrinx to sense that something isn’t right, there.”

He glanced up at her; Jenell stared woodenly ahead, ignoring him now.

“I was, of course, attentive to her warnings and requests when the three of you convened in my office last night,” Nansin went on. “Still, it was impossible for me not to notice, Private Covrin, the way you tense in her presence, and particularly the agitation you feel when she directs her attention at you. Obviously, that doesn’t tell me a whole story, but I have seen enough of humanity to paint a general picture—”

“Brother Nansin.” Jenell turned bodily in her seat, bending over the edge of the humming carriage and leaning down to stare flatly into his face. “Mind. Your own. Business.”

He held her gaze in silence for a long moment, then nodded. “Your privacy is sacrosanct. Anything an Izarite cleric senses in your presence will never be revealed to anyone, unless you request it. Just know, please, that we are never as trapped by circumstances as they make it seem. If you thought you had nowhere to go, Jenell, let me promise you that you can always come here.”

Jenell straightened up and stared icily at the temple’s side door, ignoring him in truth now. They were clearly past the point of politeness, and not at her instigation.

Nansin gave her another moment, then sighed very softly and bowed. “I wish you a safe journey, Private Covrin. Thank you again for the warning you brought us.”

He turned and glided away on long legs, around toward the front gardens this time, rather than back through the side door. Jenell glanced once after him, as he rounded the corner, but thereafter kept her eyes fixed on the side entrance, mentally composing herself.

Fortunately—for him—Schwartz emerged with a few minutes to spare, looking somewhat disheveled but far more functional. His hair had been wetted down and attended to, and was merely mussed rather than disastrous, and nothing was going to hide those bags under his eyes any time soon. He had managed to get into his clothes correctly, though, and was also carrying a bottle filled with dark liquid.

“Hi,” he said, clambering up beside her. “Morning. Very nice people in there, they gave me some strong tea for the trip.” He paused to yawn again. “Hope I didn’t make us late… I’d kill for a cup of coffee right now, but I expect it’s not realistic to expect that to be found outside a port city…”

“Don’t you want to ride in the back?” she said mildly, half-turning to nod at the cushioned seats behind and below.

“Oh,” he said awkwardly. “Well, uh, if it’s a problem, me being up here…?”

“I don’t care,” she said. “This bench isn’t very comfortable, though. With the lack of padding, you’ll feel every bump.”

“That’s fine, it’ll keep me awake,” he replied, managing a weak grin. “I’d just feel… Um, kind of awkward, being ferried around by myself back there, like you were my private driver. Sort of pretentious, y’know? I’ll probably hop in back when we get the Bishop.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, placing her hands on the turning wheel and thrust lever. The carriage’s hum heightened as she guided it forward.

He waited until they had exited the temple grounds and were on their way up the hill toward the fortress before speaking again.

“So… I expect you’ll find this an odd question, but…” He paused, grimacing self-consciously, and fiddled with his bottle of tea. “Why were we in the Temple of Izara?”

Jenell glanced over at him, permitting herself a small smile. “You really don’t function well without sleep, do you?”

“Well, I don’t think anyone does,” he said defensively. “It’s not just the last two days, either… I’d just finished up a research project when Sister Leraine asked me to assist the Bishop, and of course I was honored! But, you know, I’m not used to, uh, field work. Or field work and then half a night’s sleep…” Another yawn forced him to stop, and he took a long swig of tea. “Also, I could really go for some breakfast.”

“They’ll probably give us provisions at the barracks,” she said, focusing on guiding the carriage through the early morning traffic. The semi-rural townsfolk were up with the dawn, though luckily most of them weren’t on the roads yet. Other than the occasional chicken or dog, she had little trouble; the people they saw mostly wanted to stare at them. Or at the carriage, which to her amounted to the same thing.

“So, and I’m sure this was all explained last night and it just went in one ear and out the other… Uh, why were we sleeping in the Izarite temple while Bishop Syrinx went to the Legion fortress?”

“The Bishop felt it was important to inform the Izarites of the possible danger,” Jenell said, her eyes on the road ahead. “Once there, she asked Brother Nansin to put us up for the night. The reasoning, as she explained it, was that our group had clearly been targeted by our mysterious antagonist, and she was likely the primary target. In the event of an elemental attack overnight, she wanted it directed at her, in the presence of a barracks full of Legionnaires. Putting us in a separate place was a security measure, in case the worst happened; we could return to the Abbey and tell Abbess Darnassy what we discovered. The Izarite temple was ideal, since elementals are severely disadvantaged on holy ground, and Izarites in general are almost impossible to dislike, which would make such an attack less likely. At least, that was how she explained it.” She glanced over at him. “Also, where’s your rat? Did you forget her back there?”

“Oh!” Schwartz clapped a hand to his head. “Thanks for reminding me! No, she’s fine, I just dismissed her for the time being. What you were saying about elementals was true—Salyrite temples have protections for multiple kinds of magical beings, but Meesie gets very uncomfortable in other sanctified spaces. Hang on, I’ll—”

The carriage bumped on a loose cobblestone, and he had to grasp the bench for balance, nearly losing his grip on his tea bottle in the process.

“Told you,” Jenell commented.

“Ah, yes, on second thought, I believe I’ll wait to re-summon her until we’re on the way back. Don’t want to leave it too long; she gets depressed without regular attention. But the Legion barracks will be blessed, too, won’t it?”

“Probably,” she said, not bothering to remind him that their eventual destination was the Viridill Abbey, one of the most sacred places in the world.

“Anyhow,” he said, re-settling himself on the bench, “I suppose that all makes sense, when you explain it that way. I mean, honestly, I’m a little puzzled at some of the logic, there, but I’m sure the Bishop knows what she’s doing.”

“I’m sure she does,” Jenell murmured.

“It was good of her to think of protecting us,” he added after another swig of tea, sounding more cheerful. “And the Izarites! Very thoughtful…”

He seemed baffled when she burst out laughing.

“Ah, Schwartz, you are adorable, you know that?”

“Um, well, I…” He actually blushed. “Thanks?”

“Basra Syrinx is probably the only person who can lie to an Izarite priest right to his face and not be called down for it,” she said, her expression growing grim in the aftermath of her sudden mirth. “She was hoping for an attack directed on us. We’re weaker than she is, and we’d have been in the custody of a goddess weaker than hers, as she sees it. That’s what she would have done if she were targeting this group.”

He blinked twice. “I say… But that… Why?”

“She told the truth about one thing,” Jenell said, her eyes fixed on the approaching fortress. “Nobody hates Izarites. Even here in Viridill, where their religion isn’t widely approved of, it’s impossible to truly dislike them. They’re just so harmless. Downright cuddly. One of the biggest problems we face in finding the person behind the elementals is social: he’s probably a member of a community that holds itself apart. Or maybe not, I’m not sure I understand how the witches around here work. But the point is, people would rally against anyone who assaulted a temple of Izara. That would be an ideal outcome from her point of view.”

Schwartz was silent for a moment, staring straight ahead and seeming to forget his tea.

“That’s rather…cold,” he said at last. “Are you… That is, I mean, did she tell you this?”

“Didn’t need to,” Jenell said wearily. “I know how she thinks. You want some good advice, Schwartz, avoid getting on Basra Syrinx’s bad side. You have no idea what that woman is capable of. If you’re lucky, you’ll never have any idea.”

“Herschel,” he said quietly.

“Bless you.”

He grinned at that. “Hah, like I’ve never heard that one before. No, it’s… That’s me. Herschel Schwartz. Fine old Stalweiss name that nobody from Tiraas can pronounce, so I won’t take offense if you mangle it.”

She gave him a long, appraising glance, which he met with a hesitant expression. He was not at all the sort of person with whom she’d have been caught dead associating, in her life before the Legions. Still… He was nice. As banal a thing as that was, she was learning to see the value in it. It had been a long time since she’d talked with anyone who was actually, simply nice. Well, nice and not annoyingly aggressive about it, like the Izarites.

“Jenell,” she said finally, then added with a smile, “when I’m not on duty.”

“Jenell, then,” he said, smiling back. After a moment, he averted his gaze, coughing awkwardly. “Well, ah, anyhow, I appreciate the, er, heads up, as it were. I’ll keep it in mind. Though I suppose it’s to the best the Bishop’s on our side, isn’t it? I mean, sure, if you’ve got to deal with someone that cold, it’s reassuring to know they’re one of the good guys.”

Once again, he seemed confused as to why she was laughing.

 

Quentin Vex was permitted into the Imperial sitting room at his request, needing only to wait for the Imperial Guard manning the door to announce him. Once inside, he bowed deeply, tucking the newspapers he carried under his arm.

Two very attractive young women stood at the back of the room, near the breakfast service, carefully distant from the table where the meal was laid out. Milanda Darnassy and Isolde Fraunsteldt were both youthful and of a curvaceous build, but otherwise a study in contrast: petite and dark-haired, and tall and blonde, respectively. They would be those with whom the Emperor and Empress had spent the previous night, now present to serve breakfast in the absence of servants, one of the more peculiar little customs the Imperial couple had developed. There was always at least one, though the Empress chose to sleep alone about half the time. Also present and discreetly unobtrusive against the wall was a black-coated Hand of the Emperor, this one a pale man on the shortish side.

The Emperor and Empress were having breakfast with a nobleman Vex recognized, and had not expected to find here.

“Your Majesties,” Vex said. “Lord Amfaedred. My humble apologies for intruding.”

“You are forgiven,” Eleanora said mildly. “I assume this is important, Quentin?”

“Important, your Majesties, but not necessarily urgent. I can come back…?”

“Oh, please don’t put state business off for my sake,” Amfaedred said hastily, rising and bowing to his liege. “I thank you deeply for the honor, your Majesty, but I’m sure I have taken up too much of your priceless time as it is. With your permission, I’ll withdraw so Lord Vex can carry on with what I’m sure is very important business.”

“Of course,” Sharidan said, with a knowing little smile. “Thank you for visiting us, milord.”

“The pleasure was entirely mine, your Majesty. Entirely.” With another bow and an unctuous little smile, Lord Amfaedred turned and scurried out of the sitting room with more haste than was seemly.

“My sincere apologies,” Vex repeated as soon as the door had been closed behind him. “I was not aware that you were confronting Amfaedred today.”

The hint of reproach in his tone was so faint it might almost have passed unnoticed. That was still more than virtually anyone else alive could get away with, here.

“It was a spur of the moment idea,” Eleanora said with a mischievous smile. “If we weren’t planning on having him for breakfast, just think how surprised he was to be summoned. Anyway, Quentin, our aims were accomplished. He knows his financing of House Leduc is not a secret. Now we wait.”

“If I gauge the man correctly,” said the Emperor, absently picking at his fish, “he’ll either drop the whole thing, or panic and do something rash. In either case, you will of course have him under close observation?”

“He already is, your Majesty,” Vex replied. “I’ve no doubt I’ll be informed by my assistant that he was here the moment I return to the office. A remarkably capable young lady, but she does enjoy being cheeky.”

“What brings you here so early?” Eleanora asked. “Or should I simply ask how bad it is?”

Vex cleared his throat. “I wonder if your Majesties have seen the papers yet today?”

“Actually, I can’t remember the last time I read a newspaper,” Sharidan remarked. “Being that I have an Intelligence service full of individuals who are exorbitantly paid to bring me information before the journalists get to it.”

“Sometimes the news is not newsworthy,” said Vex, taking the papers out from under his arm and approaching the table. “Or rather, it reveals more about the editors than about the world. I trust your Majesties remember the affair last year involving the Black Wreath’s attempt to place columnists in all the major papers, subverted by the Universal Church?”

“Which resulted in the Church’s first celebrity Bishop,” said Eleanora, “who spouts ideas that are eerily similar to Wreath theology. Yes, this rings a bell.”

“It would appear the Archpope’s influence with the papers is still in effect,” said Vex, laying the newspapers down on the table and fanning them out so their headlines were visible to the Imperial couple.

They stared in silence for a moment.

“Snowe vs. Tellwyrn,” Sharidan read at last. “Don’t think less of me, Eleanora, but I suddenly want to actually see that.”

“Bishop blasts adventurer University,” said the Empress, reaching out to shift the paper on top so she could fully see the headline underneath it. “Who appointed Arachne Tellwyrn? A valid question, but one with an obvious answer. She did.”

“This is remarkably one-sided coverage,” Sharidan mused. “I assume this is a representative sample?”

“It’s not every paper carrying the story,” said Vex, folding his hands behind his back, “but the others have a consistent theme. Critical essays and opinion pieces challenging the University are running all over the Empire this morning; only most of them reference the Bishop’s rather inflammatory remarks at Last Rock this weekend. The unanimity of opinion, here, suggests an organized effort.”

“Now, why on earth would Justinian try to start something up with Tellwyrn?” the Emperor wondered aloud. “I confess, Lord Vex, when you reported Snowe’s speech to me I thought you were being over-cautious.”

“You were correct, your Majesty; I was. That is, after all, my job. The improbability of this campaign is, I think, largely why I didn’t notice it gearing up. That, and it would only take an afternoon to get these things written and sent to the printers. I didn’t truly imagine that Justinian would act so aggressively against Tellwyrn. There seems to be nothing to gain.”

“The question remains,” Elenaora said sharply, “what is he trying to do? That woman couldn’t possibly care less about public opinion; the best he can hope for is to rile her up, which will have consequences for a lot of people besides him.”

“For that reason alone, your Majesty, I suggest acting against him,” said Vex. “But in addition, I believe it suits our interests to support Professor Tellwyrn.”

“Oh?” Eleanora said dangerously.

Vex cleared his throat. “For the last year, since the success of the Sarasio incident, I have been discreetly in contact with the Professor, pointing her toward trouble spots throughout the Empire. She is, as you are aware, fond of using such things as class exercises; I deemed it a wise use of resources to have her students handle issues I was already monitoring.”

“Is that so,” the Empress said very quietly. “Why is this the first I am hearing of this?”

“I did not judge it worth your Majesties’ attention,” Vex said evenly. “I will, if you command, inform your Majesties of everything I do, but the sheer volume of reports would negatively impact both my efficiency and your attention span.”

“You are on thin ice, Quentin,” Eleanora said flatly.

“To be quite honest, then,” he replied, “I knew you wouldn’t like it, your Majesty. I wanted to see if it would work before you shut down the idea.”

“Does it?” Sharidan asked in an interested tone.

“Quite well, in fact,” Vex replied, turning to him. “Their success rate has been better than my agency’s, I must admit, though they do tend to cause a great deal of disruptive ripple effects that my agents avoid; that, I think, makes all the difference. Overall they perform as would be expected from trained adventurer teams. I am speaking, of course, of the adventurers from the days of the Heroes’ Guild, not the freelancers of the last century. And it goes without saying that I suggest only lower-priority incidents to Tellwyrn; I don’t want her or her students near anything truly sensitive. I would regard this project as a great success, and one with important implications for the future.”

“Go on,” Eleanora said evenly.

“The truth, your Majesties, is that Professor Tellwyrn and her University are just not going to go away, and nothing we do can make them. For fifty years she has managed to passively coexist with the Empire, but that cannot endure forever. I would rather she be with us than against us. Using her students to solve small problems advances our goals and hers, trains the Empire’s most dangerous young citizens to act in the Empire’s benefit, and strengthens the Throne’s relationship with Professor Tellwyrn. I am sure I need not remind your Majesties who it was that removed the last Emperor of the Ravidevegh Dynasty from the Silver Throne.”

“And so,” Sharidan mused, “she is tentatively with us, and Justinian is suddenly against her. Well, this does seem very cut and dried, doesn’t it?”

“That in and of itself is suspicious,” Eleanora remarked.

“Yes, your Majesty,” Vex agreed. “I cannot guarantee that part of the Archpope’s motivation is not to act against an established ally of ours. Regardless, he has mostly evaded reprisal from the Imperial government by operating scrupulously within the law, or through sufficient proxies that we could never justify action against him without seeming to be the provocateurs. In this case, he has overreached. Whether he does not expect a response from us, or expects a mild one, I feel it is time to surprise him.”

“What are you proposing?” asked the Emperor.

Vex leaned forward to tap one of the newspapers with a fingertip. “Whatever his goal, this is about public opinion. The Church and the Empire have different ways of swaying it; ours are better. I think it’s time to make Tellwyrn a hero and her Univeristy one of the Empire’s proudest holdings.”

Eleanora rolled her eyes; Sharidan glanced at her, then returned his gaze to Vex.

“Interesting,” the Emperor said. “I’m inclined to agree with your reasoning. The good Professor has never caused problems except in retaliation, and if it is indeed impossible to continue ignoring her, she makes a far better ally than enemy.”

“I’m afraid I can’t disagree,” Eleanora said, not without reluctance.

“There are a couple of additional points,” said Vex, “which I include strictly on the basis of timing, not because I see direct connections between them and this incident. But this propaganda campaign was launched literally overnight, and I take notice of anything related to the Church which happened at the same time.”

“Such as?” Eleanora prompted.

“For one, Bishop Snowe wrapped up her revival tour in Last Rock. She is now en route to Viridill, where Bishop Syrinx has been for the last few months. I do not yet know what either of them are up to; my information suggests that Syrinx is being punished for something by Commander Rouvad, though the Sisterhood is surprisingly adept at keeping me out of their business. Regardless, Snowe and Syrinx are known confidantes of the Archpope. And there is that unfolding issue in Viridill. I was informed yesterday that Syrinx herself was sent to address it by the Abbess.”

For a fleeting moment, he glanced up at Milanda, who stood demurely with her hands folded at her waist. She did not acknowledge the conversation, though Isolde looked at her sidelong.

“Mm,” Sharidan murmured. “Keep us informed.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

“You said ‘for one,’” Eleanora prompted. “There’s more?”

Vex raised an eyebrow. “Antonio Darling has abruptly left the city.”

The Imperial couple exchanged a loaded glance.

“As I’m sure you recall,” Vex continued, “the last time he did so, it was to collar a handful of Black Wreath agents at the Archpope’s behest, in the company of his fellow Bishops. That was the incident, in fact, which brought them all to our attention. Now… I have seen no indication that he is working for the Archpope in this matter, but Darling’s motivations and loyalties are always a complex matter. He is currently in Veilgrad, in the company of Joseph Jenkins of Sarasio, and a Huntsman of Shaath named Ingvar, who may or may not be a woman. The issue is…muddy.”

“A female Huntsman?” Sharidan said, raising his eyebrows. “Is that even possible?”

“Is this perhaps a dual spirit?” Eleanora asked. “I believe the Shaathists disagree on that doctrine, but some of their sects support it.”

“Religious dogmas of that kind are outside my realm of expertise,” said Vex. “I have ordered a dossier compiled on this Ingvar character, and will be fully up to speed on the matter by tomorrow. For now, that is all I know. My policy with regard to Darling remains constant: we learn a great deal by watching what he does, and would gain little by interfering with him. If I begin to see signs that he is more strongly connected to the Archpope than I thought, however, I may revise that policy.”

“Agreed,” said the Emperor, nodding. He glanced at Eleanora, who nodded in return. “Very well, you may proceed at your discretion.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” Vex bowed again, gathered up his papers, and turned to go.

“Lord Vex,” the Emperor said quietly when he was nearly at the doors. Vex turned back to face him; he and Eleanora were both gazing at him with inscrutable expressions.

“Yes, your Majesty?”

“The fact that Justinian got this plan of his to every newspaper before you learned of it,” Sharidan said evenly. “The troubles at the south gate that very nearly derailed negotiations with the Conclave, the disaster in Veilgrad where Intelligence agents were foiled by chaos cultists, the misjudging of the threat in Desolation… I do not expect perfection from our servants; that would be insane. But this sequence of bloody noses and black eyes begins to resemble a pattern.”

“I have observed it too, your Majesty,” Vex replied in perfect calm. “I assure you, it is about to cease.”

“Are you certain?” Sharidan asked. “The will of the people is the only thing that truly supports the Church or the Empire. Justinian is now acting on that directly. The stakes…”

“With respect, your Majesty, Justinian has played this game with us successfully till now because he was very careful to operate only in his own sphere of control.” Vex smiled, thinly, and coldly. “He is now in mine. I mean to make him feel unwelcome.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And shadow elementals?” she said patiently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It had claws,” Basra pointed out.

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

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

“Precisely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two?” Covrin exclaimed in horror.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What will you do?” Adimel inquired.

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why afternoon?” Joe asked, frowning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ahem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That immediately caught the creature’s attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She grinned. “Come on, then.”

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

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

She let her shield wink out.

“Ma’am?” Covrin cried shrilly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yep,” Joe drawled, “takin’ direction from Mary tends to get like that.”

“Quite right, of course,” Darling said, turning back to him. He glanced around them, the motion of his eyes so swift Ingvar might well have missed it, had he not been accustomed to tracking the tiniest flickers of movement on the hunt. No one seemed to be paying them the slightest attention, though; their caravan hadn’t come as part of a routine stop, so there was no great throng of people embarking or disembarking. The only other individuals on the platform were clustered around a few vendors at one end and stacking boxes of freight at the other.

“I’m sure you heard about the recent…kerfuffle out here,” Darling said, pausing for Ingvar to acknowledge him.

“The Huntsman are not so insular as to have missed that,” Ingvar said dryly. “In fact, the local lodge took part in the defense of the city. Quite heroically, as I understand it. And none of them referred to it as a ‘kerfuffle.’”

“Right,” Darling said with an amused smile. “Well, Joe and I aren’t along on this thing just to make it a threesome; we’ve some business in Veilgrad pertaining to that, and I rather suspect we’re going to find that our various concerns continue to overlap wherever else this journey takes us. Dear Mary is just that much of a planner. Specifically…” He spread his arm and made an obviously mocking bow. “You’re looking at the clown who had the best chance of warding off the recent disaster here, and blew it.”

“Glad as I am to see you takin’ responsibility,” Joe remarked, “I still don’t think you were nearly as central to the whole business as you make out.”

“Taking too much responsibility is always preferable to too little,” Darling retorted. “In any case, the facts, Ingvar, are that I had warning of something major and chaos-related about to unfold, I did my best to find out where it was happening and sent trusted, capable people there to deal with it, and…I was dead wrong. Joe, here, and a few other allies, found themselves stuck in the desert hundreds of miles away, dealing with unrelated nonsense, while Veilgrad burned. All because I hared off chasing a likely trail and didn’t pay enough attention to signs that could have directed me here.”

“I see,” Ingvar said neutrally, carefully refusing to form an opinion. This was clearly just the shadow of a much bigger, very complex story. And while he agreed with Joe that it was better to see Darling accepting blame than otherwise, he remained mindful of Darling’s skill at using his positive traits to conceal the real horrors beneath the facade.

“So that’s what we’re doing here,” Darling continued. “We’ve some old business to follow up on.”

“Largely just morbid curiosity at this point,” Joe added. “Not like there’s anything to be done about it now. But I’ve recently had the details about what really happened in Veilgrad from some who were right in the thick of it, so we want to catch up with a couple of individuals who were…sort of in charge.”

“Closure,” said Darling, nodding. “And maybe some hints we can use to prevent a similar screw-up in the future.”

“That’s…laudable,” Ingvar said. “Not to sound self-centered, but with regard to my reason for being here…?”

“Ah, yes,” Darling said more briskly. “Mary’s of the opinion you’ll want to talk with a kind of Shaathist offshoot sect called the Shadow Hunters who live in the hills nearby.”

Ingvar stiffened. “The Shadow Hunters are not an offshoot of the Huntsmen. They are…a parallel. Nothing of their beliefs has to do with Shaath.”

“Well, that’s interesting to know,” Darling mused. “I guess we’ll hear more about it from them.”

“We?” Ingvar said pointedly. “You two have your business in Veilgrad, and I have mine. It seems more efficient for us to part ways here.”

“Now, I foresee this bein’ a sticking point, so lemme just throw in my two bits’ worth, if I may,” said Joe, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “Way I understand it, this is a matter of spiritual concern for you, Mr…uh, Brother. I, uh, sorry, I never actually met a Huntsman before. Dunno the properly respectful term.”

“Ingvar is fine,” he said, feeling a small rush of affection for the lad. If only more people his age were as concerned about respect.

“Ingvar, then,” Joe said, nodding. “So this is a sacred quest for you, we’re not members of your faith, an’ you’ve got no reason to trust or particularly like us. That about right?”

Ingvar glanced over at Darling, who stood placidly with a suspiciously calm and open expression. “I mean no offense, of course.”

“Of course,” Joe agreed. “It’s a reasonable position. I’ve found myself on, for want of a better term, adventures with a right strange crew of folk lately, an’ they ran the gamut from neutrally unfamiliar to seemingly deserving of a punch in the teeth on general principles.”

“You’ve gotta meet Weaver sometime,” Darling said, grinning. “Preferably when I’m there to watch.”

Joe shot him an annoyed look. “Point being, the way to get friendly with people is to stand alongside ’em through hard times.”

“I’m not certain I see the advantage to me in getting friendly with people as a rule,” Ingvar said stiffly.

“You don’t?” Darling’s expression was…hard to decipher, now. Ingvar wondered if that meant he was feeling something genuine. “Seems to me a man in your position needs all the friends he can get.”

“I reckon that’s true of anyone,” Joe said hastily. “Look… If nothing else, Mary set us out on this thing together. She’s a difficult person to like at times, but I’ll vouch she’s trustworthy, and has the best intentions. More importantly, she’s probably the wisest soul I ever met. Aside from that, it ain’t generally smart practice to split up the party. You never know what might happen.”

Ingvar drew in a breath and let it out in a huff through his nose. “I suppose there’s logic in that. This will make our visit here longer, though.”

“Are you in a hurry?” Darling asked. “Really—that’s not sass, I’m asking. If you’ve got some kind of timetable, we should be aware of it so we can try not to hold you up.”

“Not…in particular, no,” Ingvar said reluctantly. “Aside from a general desire to have all of this done with as swiftly as possible.”

“Well, that’s more than fair,” Darling said, grinning. “We’ll still try not to hold you up. I don’t think our own business should take terribly long, anyway. In general I’m inclined to agree with Joe’s reasoning—all of it. All told, I expect to be here a couple days at least; we should secure lodgings, and then chat with Mr. Grusser and Lady Malivette. We should be able to get that over with this afternoon, I should think.”

“Who?” Ingvar demanded.

“The local… Well, sort of the two governors,” Darling explained. “It’s a little complex; I’ll give you the full rundown on the way into town. But that’ll give us a fresh start tomorrow to approach your Shadow Hunters. Your mission’s the focus, here, after all. It makes sense to me to have the full day to address it without interruptions. Right?”

“I suppose so,” Ingvar said slowly. It sounded like logic, but he couldn’t escape the feeling he’d just been manipulated somehow. Traveling with Darling was going to make him thoroughly paranoid.

“Well then!” Darling said brightly, again picking up his suitcase. “If that’s settled, let’s be off! No sense dragging all this out, as we’ve established.”

Ingvar couldn’t quite hold back a sigh, but he followed the Bishop toward the steps at the end of the platform, Joe silently bringing up the rear.

The platform itself lay amid a scattering of structures that looked well-established, but not so historic as the city itself. Veilgrad in general gave the impression of a houseplant growing too large for its pot, positioned as it was on the wall-enclosed granite plateau thrusting westward from the mountains, with a network of roads branching out from it and smaller patches of city rising from the plains below, and into the hills above. The road directly ahead of them led straight to the city’s main gates, positioned on the narrow end of the huge peninsular outcropping on which Veilgrad stood.

The road up to the gates was not long, nor arduous; its slope was fairly gentle. Ingvar recalled having read that this was a Tiraan addition, replacing the original, more defensible approach. Indeed, the long ramp passed over several enormous rocky protrusions that made up part of its base, but mostly appeared to have been built of artificial stonework. Considering the height at which the gates stood, getting there on an incline mild enough not to send traffic rolling back down (like the siege engines of old were meant to) made for a very long approach.

The wide ramp was lined with towers, manned by Tiraan soldiers and some bristling with mag artillery; one larger fortress near its base had its own dedicated scrolltower. Civilian structures were also positioned along the length, mostly shops catering to travelers, with several inns and flat, level spaces where people could stop and rest. Ingvar considered suggesting one of these as a place to stay. Despite being accustomed to the island city of Tiraas, in this new country, he felt an odd but insistent reluctance to be hemmed in by the walls.

There were no complaints or signs of any difficulty from the rear of their little procession; it made sense that the famed Sarasio Kid wouldn’t balk at a long hike. Increasingly, Ingvar had the impression he and Joe were going to end up getting along well. Somewhat to his irritation, Darling was having no trouble with the distance or the incline either, despite lugging along his suitcase. That seemed downright unfair. The man was a bureaucrat and a politician; what right did he have encroaching on Ingvar’s territory by being in shape? On the other hand, he was also a thief. Apparently, he had not become a retired one simply because he’d moved into administration.

A gathering of people were standing around one of the flat resting areas, listening avidly to an older man exuberantly relating a story. An older Huntsman, still unbent and brawny despite the gray in his beard. He stood upon a bench, two younger, quieter Huntsmen nearby, watching with rather smug expressions.

Ingvar let the speech wash over him as they drew close enough to hear it, absorbing just enough to discern that it was a recitation of a hunting party into Veilgrad’s now-notorious catacombs during the recent disaster. The fellow was a good storyteller; Huntsmen had a valued oral tradition and those who cultivated the skill could put on a show to challenge any Vesker. Interesting as the story might have been, Ingvar was more concerned with watching than listening.

Darling didn’t slow, but turned his head to observe the tableau as they drew abreast of it. One of the younger Huntsmen standing by glanced over at them, then looked sharply again, this time directly at Ingvar, who managed not to tense. The man’s eyes flicked over him, peering closely at his leather headband, longbow, traditional jerkin and bearskin mantle pinned with a bronze wolf’s head, before coming to rest again on his beardless face. He moved one arm surreptitiously to nudge his companion; the other man glanced at him, followed his gaze, then narrowed his eyes in an identical expression.

Steeling himself, Ingvar nodded, once, respectfully, as one Huntsman to others.

They just stared.

He moved his eyes back ahead, ignoring the rudeness. Whatever anyone else did, he was responsible only for himself. Still, he was keenly aware of them slowly turning their heads to track him—him, specifically, not his group—until they had moved on ahead.

“So,” Darling said mildly, but loud enough to be clear without looking back. “What was that about?”

Ingvar drew in a calming breath. There were few things in the world he wanted less to discuss with Darling, of all people, but it looked like this might become a legitimate…issue. Especially if they were going to be staying in this city.

“There is a great deal of independence among the lodges,” he said carefully. They didn’t need to know any more than they absolutely needed to know; this was Shaathist business. “The Grandmaster is more an…administrator…than a spiritual leader. Different regions, and indeed different lodges, can have different interpretations of Shaath’s doctrines. The central cult intervenes only if they seriously deviate from the path, which is highly rare.” He paused, took another breath, and continued. “I was born in the upper Wyrnrage, and left. It wasn’t acceptable to the lodge there for me to be a Huntsman; I had to seek out one that would take me. And, well, here in the Stalrange, people are generally more…”

“Conservative?” Joe suggested.

“I was going to say ‘backward,’” Ingvar muttered. Behind him, the Kid laughed. He felt a moment’s annoyance, but then found himself smiling along. There seemed to be no malice in Joe.

“So,” Darling said thoughtfully, “we may not want to have a visit with the local Huntsmen, then, right?”

Ingvar nodded, mostly to himself, since Darling couldn’t see him. “That would probably be best.”

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“It is inconvenient timing, of course,” said Andros, frowning into the distance ahead of them. “I have found you a dependable assistant in my dealings with the Church and the other cults. Restraint and careful social judgment are necessary traits in my work, and I’m afraid Shaath’s way does not encourage their development. Whatever aid I find is the result of either happenstance or the god’s blessing.”

“I am sorry to leave you alone like this, and so abruptly,” Ingvar replied. “I will try not to prolong the journey, of course, but this is not going to be an easy hunt. I can’t say even where it will lead me…”

Andros stopped, turning to face him. They stood near the front of the lodge’s main hall, for the most part alone; the few other Huntsmen passing through did not pause to pay untoward attention to a private conversation. The Bishop placed a hand on the younger Huntsman’s shoulder, smiling.

“Forgive me, that was poorly spoken. I didn’t mean to lay any guilt upon you, brother. Remember, we are an order dedicated to the wild and to its god; you have been given a clearly sacred task, and it must take precedence. Being stuck in this city, handling its intrigues, I sometimes worry that I begin to lose sight of the prey for focusing on the hunt. The sacred is always of greater import than the practical.”

Ingvar smiled back, hiking his travel rucksack up onto his shoulder. “Don’t worry, brother, your point was clear. Regardless, I don’t wish to prolong this any more than absolutely necessary.”

Andros frowned slightly. “Be very wary of the Crow, Ingvar. Yes, I know, you obviously would be. She lays plans built of smaller plans, and is no friend to mankind, except perhaps in certain individual cases.”

“That is just one of the things about this matter that trouble me,” Ingvar replied. “There is no way for me to proceed that doesn’t involve becoming a playing piece in her agenda. I shall do my best not to bring any harm upon Shaath’s interests, of course, but I don’t think myself a match for her cunning.”

“That is well,” Andros said firmly, nodding. “Nothing kills faster than arrogance out in the wild. Trust your skills and your instincts, and they’ll serve you well.”

Ingvar nodded in reply. “I’d best move out. Putting this off longer would be a show of weak-heartedness. And besides, I have a caravan to catch.”

“Hunt well, brother,” Andros said, bowing. Ingvar bowed as well, then turned with no more talk and strode out through the lodge’s front doors. So it should be, between men. Too many words were a waste of air.

Andros strode back through the lodge, following its corridors to the residence of the Grandmaster near the rear. He rapped once and waited.

It was only a brief span of moments before the door opened a crack, revealing the face of a pretty young woman peeking up at him curiously. Recognizing him, she immediately bowed and pulled the door wide, stepping aside to let him in. Andros entered, nodding politely at her.

“Sir, the Bishop is here,” Auri said deferentially to her husband, who sat at a desk near the hearth not far away. A very well-mannered young woman, and a fine acquisition for the Grandmaster; Veisroi had been notably less grim in the months since marrying her. Given his position, he could have been swimming in wives, but Veisroi had only the two. He had never had more than two, and for several years since the passing of his first wife, he’d had only his Jula.

Andros heartily approved of this restraint. A woman was a significant responsibility, not a plaything; he worried, sometimes, that the younger generation of Huntsmen did not properly appreciate their women—among their other failings. But then, every generation saw those who came after them as somewhat degenerate, or so he seemed to recall from conversations with his own father. Still, such attitudes caused problems. Had that strutting young cockerel Feldren paid more attention to his Ephanie, she probably wouldn’t be back in the Legions now, finding new ways to be an embarrassment to Shaath.

“Andros,” the Grandmaster said with a hint of annoyance, slapping a sheet of parchment down atop a whole stack of them on his desk. “If you’ve brought me more paperwork, I may have you excommunicated.”

Andros raised an eyebrow at this empty grousing. “Veisroi, when was the last time you took a day to yourself to go hunting?”

“Bah! When was the last time I had time to breathe? Church business, Imperial business, that’s all just the wind in my hair. It’s these wretched lodges, Andros. What a pack of sniveling pups. Can none of these alleged men handle their own affairs? This idiot!” He picked up the letter again, shaking it. “He’s still after me to, and I quote, ‘do something’ about Arachne Tellwyrn. Do something! About Tellwyrn! All because his fool son wanted a drow wife and fell for that Masterson boy’s cruel streak. How many times must I explain this man’s stupidity to him before I have to have him removed as Lodgemaster? I’ve half a mind to call a Wild Hunt on the fool.”

“Wasn’t that Hranfoldt, from the Wyrnrange?” Andros asked. “That one’s politically minded, Veisroi. He might be jockeying to make you look bad—he hasn’t the seniority to try for your position, but I could see him planning ahead.”

“Don’t lecture me, young pup,” Veisroi grunted. “I know what he’s about. I suffer his schemes because the way the world is shaping up, I can’t afford to waste a schemer. Even one with eyes bigger than his belly. Anyway, you haven’t come here an your before lunch to listen to an old man’s griping. What do you need?”

“Merely to bring you an update,” Andros replied, folding his hands. “Ingvar just departed on his quest.”

The Grandmaster turned in his chair to face, him, twisting his thin mouth. “Another promising schemer, now out of reach. And that one is both loyal and sensible. I very much hope the boy’s not getting in over his head. Hrathvin is concerned about him.”

“As do I,” Andros replied, “but I trust Ingvar’s judgment. If he has one flaw it’s that he is too cautious and contained. He won’t be easily goaded into misstepping.”

“Well, it’s out of our hands until he comes home,” Veisroi said. “I’ll burn an offering for him; nothing else to be done from here. Surely that wasn’t all you came to tell me.”

“No, I wouldn’t interrupt your paperwork for that,” Andros replied. “I know how you enjoy it so.”

“I am this close, Andros, by Shaath’s paws!”

The Bishop grinned. “In seriousness, I just received an update by courier from the Archpope. If there’s to be a major move against him in the city, it will likely come soon, and may come here. As of this morning, of his core of trustworthy Bishops, I am the only one left in the city.”

Veisroi narrowed his eyes. “What happened to the Eserite?”

“He has just departed for points unknown. The notice he left said it was on personal business.

The Grandmaster snorted. “That’s what you and the others all said when Justinian sent you to Hamlet.”

“Indeed, and I never assume that what Antonio says has any bearing on what he’s up to. Words are just another layer of his camouflage. I don’t believe this is on the Archpope’s orders, however.”

“Another weapon, out of pocket,” Veisroi murmured, staring into the low fire and absently rubbing his forefinger and thumb together. “At least Snowe is actively working on Justinian’s orders.”

Andros curled his lip disdainfully. “That little bundle of fluff is in his Holiness’s inner circle purely on the weight of her loyalty. I’m glad she’s found some use as a propaganda tool; if not for that, she’d be wasting her calling by not warming someone’s bed.”

“I’ve come to expect a bit more perceptiveness from you, Andros,” Veisroi retorted, staring piercingly at him. “You know what kind of dangerous people Justinian keeps nearest himself. You, that mad dog Syrinx. Even the Eserite—we’ve seen that his foppish act is a smokescreen for something truly vicious. If Branwen Snowe appears useless to you, I suggest you start paying closer attention to her.”

 

Tellwyrn opened the classroom door, stepped in, shut it behind her, and paused inside, studying the room with hands on her hips. The cherry trees and ornamental screens softened up the stark angularity of the room nicely, but she hadn’t come here to admire the décor.

She descended to the dais in the front, stepping up to one of the folding screens. It was beautifully preserved, but clearly old, or at least a masterful reproduction of an old original. This style of ink-painting was no longer popular in Sifan, and newer pieces of such exquisite quality were unlikely to be produced.

“Hmm,” she mused. “Not bad, but could use a splash of color.” A brush tipped in red paint appeared in her hand, and she raised it toward the delicately inked silk. “Maybe right around—”

“All right, all right!” Professor Ekoi snatched the brush away from her from behind. “You can make your point less destructively, you absolute savage!”

“Well, I’m never quite sure with you, Kaisa,” Tellwyrn turned just in time to see the arcane-conjured paintbrush disintegrate into sparks and ashes, swept away by fae magic. The kitsune pulled a silken kerchief out of thin air and carefully wiped off her fingers, grimacing in disdain. “Now that you are here, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Bah. Schedules, command performances, discussions whenever it’s convenient. You used to be fun, Arachne.”

“I have no memory of that,” Tellwyrn said, folding her arms. “The students from the morning exercise group brought me an interesting story right before my class. Apparently as they were wrapping up, Trissiny and Scorn sensed the presence of a demon. Scorn insisted it was a child of Vanislaas. Gabriel, Toby, and November were all there and felt nothing; Gabriel’s valkyrie friend did not sense anything, either.”

“Hmm.” Kaisa tucked her hands behind her back, tilting her head and twitching her ears. Her tail began to wave, a sure sign that her interest was caught. “When is an incubus not an incubus?”

“I questioned them closely on that point,” said Tellwyrn. “Trissiny didn’t feel anything quite so distinct; it was only Scorn was thought it was a Vanislaad. And while Scorn may not be the most reliable of witnesses, since I’ve no idea what kind of training she’s had, she is clearly a highborn Rhaazke. They are powerful and perceptive creatures.”

“Perhaps it would be wise to find out what kind of training she’s had, yes?” Ekoi said with a mischievous smile. “And you trust the accounts of the others? Students do love their little pranks.”

“Not this group,” Tellwyrn said, shaking her head. “Half of them haven’t the imagination, and the others at least know better than to mess around with something like this. What gets me, Kaisa, is the differences in opinion. The paladins, at least, should have a fairly uniform perception of demonic activ—”

She abruptly whirled, a gold-hilted saber appearing in her hand, and stared around at the empty room.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ekoi said airily, “there’s not actually a rawhead here. You see, Arachne, senses can be fooled, if you know the method. That holds true for magical senses as well as mundane ones. I wouldn’t expect you to know, given your disdain for subtler tactics, but there are ways of creating the impression that highly magical creatures are present when they are not. At least, to those attuned to them.”

“Who was it who was just talking about destructive means of getting attention?” Tellwyrn muttered, vanishing her sword and turning back to the kitsune.

Kaisa tittered gleefully. “You’re right, though. It’s very interesting that little Trissiny and big old Scorn would react, when the others didn’t. Almost as if something had been…aimed at them.”

“It remains an open question who would do that, and why.”

“Well, the why is at least partially obvious,” the kitsune said. “If you wanted to rile up those paladins…honestly, which of the three is the most easily riled?”

“That’s all well and good, as far as it goes,” Tellwyrn began. “But—”

“Yes, yes.” Kaisa languidly waved a folding fan which had just appeared in her hand. “There’s a finite list of those who can employ such subtle methods. One must have power—considerable power. Not to mention mastery of the given magical art. This is not a small matter, if it is what it seems.”

“You’re suggesting that a warlock or demon of seriously high rank is playing games with my students,” Tellwyrn said, a dangerous scowl falling across her features.

Kaisa grinned broadly, displaying her elongated canines. “Oh, indeed. And do me the courtesy of not pretending this isn’t exactly why you brought this to me, Arachne. You may consider me interested. If someone wishes to play that kind of game… Well, a lady does need hobbies, no?”

 

While he didn’t generally enjoy pushing through crowds, Ingvar had learned to appreciate the lack of attention people paid him in the busy streets of Tiraas. If anyone so much as glanced his way, it was generally due to his Huntsman gear; nobody stopped and stared, and rarely did anyone seem to note any disparity in his appearance unless he actually talked to them. City living was unnatural and stressful in many ways, but the jaded disinterest of urbanites was a blessing for those who didn’t enjoy attention.

Still, the Rail station was something else again. People were crammed in here like canned sardines, somehow managing to push through one another without acknowledging each other. He kept his bow tucked against his body and his other hand on his backpack, mindful of pickpockets. Allegedly the only such in the city would be operatives of the Guild, who didn’t prey on just anyone (again, allegedly), but Ingvar had been warned that Huntsmen, in their eyes, were not just anyone. He had never personally been targeted, but Andros had had to send requests to the Thieves’ Guild several times for the return of personal objects of spiritual significance, which were often the only things of value a Huntsman carried.

He made his way through the heaving throng to Platform 6A, where Mary had directed him to meet the companions she was sending along on his journey. She had said they would be individuals who would benefit personally from being along on his quest, and not simply hired muscle, which was fine as far as it went. Ingvar did not have a good feeling about this, however. He had excellent reason to be mindful of his privacy, and wasn’t enthused about the prospect of going on a long journey with complete strangers. If he had to have anyone along for this, he’d have much preferred known and trusted Huntsmen from the lodge.

Mary, clearly, had no interest in what he preferred. And he had no option but to cater to her plans. She hadn’t even told him where he would be going, only where to meet his new companions. It was a very neat way to get him out of the city without letting him catch his balance, which didn’t bode well for this whole enterprise.

The platforms were clearly labeled, at least, and 6A was in a quieter end of the station. According to the sign he passed, that was because these tracks were for specifically chartered caravans, not the regularly scheduled ones. Well, the Crow probably didn’t lack for funds after however many thousands of years she had been operating. Then again, Ingvar wouldn’t put it past her to have made one of the others pay for the trip.

Hopefully she wasn’t expecting him to. He had a little money, but not the kind of money that would charter a Rail caravan. He hadn’t even been given a ticket before coming her.

The platform was positioned behind wooden privacy screens—apparently the people who chartered private caravans could not be expected to mix with the common public any longer than they absolutely must. Ingvar paused to make sure he had the right one. Yes, 6A, this was it. He stepped into the space and froze.

There were two other men present—well, a man and a boy. The youth looked to be in his mid-teens, and was wearing a hat and duster of clearly expensive make over a dark suit, with a bolo tie inset with a large piece of tigerseye. Two wands were holstered at his waist on a leather belt bulging with pockets. He was lounging against the wall with his arms folded, and looked up upon Ingvar’s arrival. The Huntsman took in the boy at a glance before fixing his startled attention on the other man present.

Dressed in a slightly scruffy suit over a loud red shirt and scuffed snakeskin boots, occupying himself by doing tricks with a doubloon, there stood Antonio Darling. He looked up, grinned broadly and exclaimed as though delighted, “Ingvar!”

Ingvar stared at him, then very carefully backed up and looked again at the sign outside the platform. Yes, 6A.

Darling laughed. “Yes, yes, not what you were expecting, I take it?”

“That…is putting it mildly,” Ingvar said very carefully. Somehow, and he had no idea how, he was going to make the Crow pay for this.

“Well, c’mon in, don’t be shy,” Darling said cheerfully. “Let me introduce everyone around. Ingvar, this is Joseph Jenkins, who you may know as the Sarasio Kid.”

“Pleasure,” said Jenkins, tipping his hat. Ingvar nodded back, mind whirling. The Sarasio Kid? Legends of frontier wandfighters were popular among Shaath’s followers; frontier folk in general were well thought of in the cult. He was definitely familiar with the name.

“Joe,” Darling went on, “this is Brother Ingvar, Huntsman of Shaath and the reason for this little outing of ours.”

Ingvar managed not to grind his teeth. Little outing. “Why would you want to come along on this journey, your Grace?” he asked somewhat curtly. “I thought you were principally a creature of the city.”

“Oh, that much is definitely true,” Darling said lightly. “Everybody needs a change of scenery once in a while, though, don’t you think?”

“If you can manage to get a straight answer out of him about anything,” said Jenkins in a distinctly dry done, “I will be immensely impressed.”

So. There was already some mistrust here. Ingvar’s opinion of Jenkins rose further.

“Now, no need to be like that, Joe,” Darling said cheerfully. “In seriousness, Ingvar, I took some convincing when Mary asked me to come along, but honestly, even aside from the case she made, I do have an interest in this. It’s past time I got out and got my own hands dirty again—too much politics is turning me soft. Besides, Joe and I both have some recent business to follow up on in our first destination. Ah, speak of the Dark Lady!”

Ingvar’s hair tried to stand up as the Rail itself began to glow a fierce arcane blue. The caravan arrived, barreling into the station at terrifying speed and decelerating similarly swiftly. In mere seconds it had hissed to a stop alongside the platform, one compartment lining up neatly with the short ramp extending from beside them. A moment later, the door hissed open with a soft sound like escaping steam.

“It just…goes?” Ingvar said doubtfully. “It doesn’t need to stop for…fuel, or maintenance, or something?”

“Nah, they fix ’em up overnight,” Darling said brightly, bending to pick up the suitcase sitting by his feet. “We can chat more on the way—no sense in wasting time! All aboard for Veilgrad!”

 

They had to leave the carriage at a farm at the end of the road. The Old Road ran out of Viridill all the way to the dwarven kingdoms in the mountains at the northernmost end of the continent, but that road quite deliberately passed between patches of forest rather than through them; going into the Green Belt meant taking a smaller road which did not go all the way there. The elves would never have tolerated that.

“Are you sure it’ll be okay?” Schwartz huffed, not for the first time. “I mean…they were nice enough, but they’re just folks. It’s not as if we were parking it in an actual garage…”

“Where, in this country, would you expect to find a garage?” Basra asked. She led the group, plowing through the fields toward the forest up ahead. The road and the farm were lost to the distance behind them; they had already passed out of cultivated fields of barley and corn and were hiking through a patch of prairie. Rather than the clean tallgrass of the Great Plans, this was a scrubby kind of prairie, filled with rocks, thorns, and hefty bushes that sometimes neared the status of trees. It wasn’t easy going, but Basra did not slow her pace despite Schwartz’s discomfort. “You saw how taken they were with the vehicle. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Well, that’s sort of it,” he panted. “I mean… Who knows what they’d…”

“They will not damage it,” she said curtly. “We made it clear it was Legion property. They wouldn’t dare.”

“Also, they’re not animals,” Covrin added. “Not a sophisticated class of people, to be sure, but even the peasants in this province are a respectful lot.”

“If you say so,” Schwartz said, then fell silent, having to concentrate on walking and breathing. Meesie had clambered up to perch atop his head, where she peered about, whiskers twitching. Now that it was clearly visible, Basra could tell the creature wasn’t quite a rat—in shape she was a bit more like a weasel, but with overlarge ears and dextrous little hands, not to mention a long, tufted tail. Actually, it was rather cute, in a garish way.

“All right there, Covrin?” she asked. “I know you weren’t planning a hike in that armor.”

“Perfectly, ma’am,” Covrin said crisply. Basra had guided her cadet experience toward more political than military training, but they didn’t graduate someone to the rank of Legionnaire unless she was in good shape. “We may want to stop, though. Mr. Schwartz is clearly not used to this kind of exercise.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry ’bout me,” Schwartz wheezed. “Onward and upward!”

Basra did come to a stop, turning to study him critically. The man was half-staggering now, clearly tired and out of breath. Useless boy… So far he’d contributed nothing to the mission. The last thing she wanted was delay, but if he collapsed out here it would slow them down a great deal further.

“It’s not quite noon, yet,” she said, carefully moderating her tone and expression. “We shouldn’t need to push ourselves to make good time. And I suppose it’s wise to give the elves time to prepare for our approach; they likely appreciate abrupt visits even less than visits in general.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I suppose,” Schwartz said gratefully, sinking down to sit on the ground right where he stood. Whether by accident or design, he ended up perched on a large rock rather than sprawled in the dirt. He slumped there, head hanging and struggling to catch his breath. Meesie hopped down to his shoulder and reared up, sniffing at his head in concern.

Basra sighed, shaking her head in disgust, and began pacing slowly in a wide circle around him. More by reflex than because she expected any kind of attack, she studied their surroundings. The scrubby plain stretched out in all directions, leading to the forest up ahead and Viridill farmland behind, with the mountains themselves rising not far to the west; insects and birds sang, but there was no sign of any large animals, much less other people. They might have been an island in the utter wilderness, rather than a few hours’ walk from civilization.

Completing a circuit, she paused next to Covrin, who was standing still and gazing at the distant forest.

“Do you think they’ve spotted us yet?” she asked quietly.

“Almost certainly,” Basra replied. “Elves are prickly about their borders. They know we’re here and that we’re headed right toward them. For all we know there are a dozen crouched in the grass all around us.”

Covrin’s eyes darted back and forth. “That’s…surely not.”

“It’s a possibility,” Basra said mildly, watching the increasing unease on the girl’s face with satisfaction. “The stories about elves are not exaggerated; they don’t need to be. If anything, popular fiction undersells them, because some of the facts simply aren’t believable.”

The Legionnaire unconsciously lowered a hand to the hilt of her sword, and Basra had to repress a grin. “Don’t worry,” she said, patting Covrin on the back of her breastplate. “Elves are persnickety, but the woodkin aren’t violent unless provoked. Whatever they’re doing or thinking, they are very unlikely to attack us.” She paused, stepping up close from behind, and leaned in, near enough that Covrin would feel her warm breath on her ear, to whisper. “You’re safe with me, Jenell.”

From that angle, she just barely caught the twitch at the corner of the girl’s eye, and she stepped back, marshaling her expression against the thrill of amusement it brought her. That had yet to get old.

Basra turned and stepped back to Schwartz, who was sitting there playing with his fire-rat and looking generally more at ease. “Feeling better?”

“Much, thanks!” he said immediately. “Just a quick spell to lighten the fatigue—uh, oh, not that I was doing particularly poorly, of course,” he added hastily. “It’s just…general principles, you know. When out on a hike. Um, if you like I could…?”

“No thanks,” she said wryly. “I believe I’m doing fine. Come on, we had better keep moving.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, groaning very faintly as he stood up. Meesie clambered back up to the top of his head, ears twitching.

They set off again, Schwartz quickly falling behind again to lag in the rear. Basra, after a quick mental debate, slowed her pace, despite her annoyance. There would be no end of trouble if she let actual harm come to him.

Glancing over her shoulder, she started to speak, but suddenly figures materialized out of the grass around them.

The five elves were arranged in a neat semi-circle between her group and the forest ahead. Those on the flank were even with Basra; they had been about to blunder right into their formation. Clearly this had been arranged ahead of time. Despite her reassurance to Covrin, all of them were armed with a mix of bows and tomahawks, and three had arrows nocked and aimed at them.

The one in the center carried a staff in one hand and two tomahawks hanging from his belt; he was the only one without a bow. He stared flatly at Basra.

“You can go no further.”

She inhaled softly, gathering her composure, and bowed. “Good day. My name is Basra Syrinx; I am Bishop of the Sisterhood of Avei.”

“Well met,” the elf said, nodding. “You can still go no further.” His companions made no move to lower their weapons.

“I’m here on a matter of importance,” she said, still speaking calmly. “Believe me, the Sisterhood respects the privacy of the elves, and we would not trouble you were it less than urgent. It was my understanding that the people of Viridill and those of the groves were on good terms. Have we offended you?”

“I know why you’ve come, Bishop Syrinx,” said the elf. “And you are welcome in our forest. What you bring with you is not.”

Slowly, Basra and Covrin turned to stare at Schwartz, whose eyes widened.

“Oh, I say,” he squeaked. “Surely you don’t mean—”

Abruptly Meesie let out a shrill squeal, puffing up her fur, and scampered down his face to dart into the collar of his shirt and hide.

Behind him, darkness itself rose up from the grass.

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The carriage bumped along the old road, the clatter of its wheels not quite obscuring a rhythmic knocking in the hum of its motive enchantments, a sign that the wheel and axle charms were in need of a fresh application of enchanting dust. It was a sturdy and serviceable vehicle, but neither new nor flashy—its charms basically sound, if aging, but the body often-repaired and showing it in patched upholstery and replacement panels that didn’t quite match the originals.

Still, this was rural Viridill, and it was an enchanted carriage. Most of the travelers in these parts relied on horses. Their passage drew curious looks whenever they encountered people along the road.

The carriage bounced hard, causing its less graceful passenger to nearly slip out of his seat; he grabbed the sidewall with a muted squeak. A tiny streak of fiery read zipped out of his coat pocket and dived into the collar of his shirt.

“Having trouble up there, Covrin?” Basra asked dryly, having braced herself in far more adeptly.

“Sorry, your Grace,” Jenell replied from the driver’s seat up ahead. “I’m dodging what I can, but this road wasn’t made with these speeds in mind. I can slow it to a horse-and-cart pace…?”

“No, keep up,” Basra said. “We want to make the best time possible. Perhaps I should write to the High Commander about the roads out here. The Empire would happily pave everything if the Abbess weren’t so hellbent on preserving the local culture. Whatever that means,” she added in a mutter, turning to stare at the passing wheat fields.

“Well,” said her other traveling companion ruefully, gingerly settling himself back into the bench opposite her, “I guess I can officially give up on that idea of catching a nap en route.”

“Sorry to have you up so early,” Basra said, giving him a very calm look. For some reason, this seemed to make him slightly nervous.

“Oh, no no, don’t worry about a thing,” Schwartz said hastily. “This is all terribly exciting, I’m having the best time! I just, ah, didn’t realize I would be having the best time yesterday, or I’d have planned ahead and not spent half the night in the library.” As if to emphasize the point, he smothered a yawn.

A tiny, triangular head poked out of his collar. Basra had only attained fleeting glimpses of his absurd pet, enough to determine that it was a rodent, it was red, it glowed faintly, and it didn’t like her.

“You’ll hear no complaints from me,” Schwartz added after a moment, clearly uncomfortable with the silence. “After I delayed us starting out, and all…”

“That was hardly your fault,” Basra said mildly.

“Yes, well, still.” He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, grimacing. “One hates to be an imposition, you know how it is. I, ah, hadn’t realized there would be a dress code for this outing! Usually my robes get me into anything that’s not invitation only…”

He trailed off, looking questioningly at her, and Basra smiled slighly.

“You’re not from around here, are you, Mr. Schwartz?”

“Oh, me? Oh, no, no, I’m from Mathenon. Well, I mean, I was born there—I’m originally of Stalweiss stock…though you could probably tell that at a glance, haha! My grandparents left the old country after Horsebutt’s campaign—”

“The person we’re going to meet,” she interrupted, “is a sort of de facto cultural leader. He holds no office, but his grandmother was a major force in organizing and settling the witches who came to Viridill from all over the Empire after Archpope Sipasian’s proclamation against the fae arts. He’s respected and listened to—and, I repeat, is the latest in a line of people who have little reason to trust authority. That is why I insisted on civilian attire for this trip. We’re engaging in a spot of theater. For the duration of this visit, we don’t want to be seen as official representatives of anything, at least not until we’re close enough to have a conversation. That’s why no clerical robes.”

“I see,” the Salyrite said, half-turning to give a pointed and questioning look at Jenell’s back.

“On the other hand,” Basra said with faint amusement, “traveling with an armored Legionnaire in Viridill generally makes everything easier. I’ll explain myself if I have to, but it’s easier and quicker to avoid having to bother. She’ll wait with the carriage and generally discourage people from impeding us with annoying questions.”

“I see,” he mused, absently scratching the top of his rodent’s head with a finger. “How very… I must say, it’s all more complicated than I’d expected! Fairies I can deal with, but it wouldn’t occur to me to manage people like that.”

“It’s called ‘diplomacy,’” she said dryly. “A whole lot of time-wasting little intrigues played around obstreperous people, all in the hope of a minor victory here and there. It’s not for everyone.”

“You don’t say,” he murmured, leaning back in his seat and gazing out at the passing fields.

Schwartz was a young man, not much older than Covrin, and looked uncomfortable in his borrowed shirt and trousers. Not that they fit him badly; perhaps she shouldn’t have told him they belonged to a Silver Legionnaire. Some men could be prickly about anything “womanly.” He didn’t seem the type, though. Skinny, with raggedly-cut sandy hair, a big nose and spectacles with dented frames, he could have been a bard’s conception of the stereotypical intellectual given flesh.

“Coming up on the town,” Covrin reported. Basra leaned to the side, sticking her head out to look ahead; Schwartz shuffled over to the opposite side of the carriage to do the same, having to twist himself awkwardly out of his rear-facing seat.

Adrhan was the northernmost outpost of organized civilization in Viridill, such as it was. Situated on an island formed where the River Althra split into two streams and then re-formed half a mile later, it was of a size that suggested a village in the process of growing into a proper town, but Adrhan was ancient and not growing into anything. It hadn’t altered appreciably in decades, except for the addition of a scrolltower a few years back. Stone houses and shops were built closely together on a hill rising up to the center of the island, surmounted by a temple of Avei, and surrounded by crenelated walls and guard towers. There had been no battle of any kind here since the Enchanter Wars, of course, but everything in Viridill was built to be defensible. The land owed its protection to the goddess of war, and followed her example.

“Left at the crossroad just before the bridge,” Basra ordered.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’re not going into the town?” Schwartz inquired, turning back around.

“Our target lives outside the walls,” she replied. “He is a practicing hedge witch, after all. I should think you’d have some notion what that’s like.”

“Well, you never can tell with people,” he said ruminatively. “I mean, it sounds like he has a similar origin, even! Refugee grandparents, practitioner of the craft, and so on. But I went into Salyrene’s faith and honestly I like it much better in cities. We’re all individuals!”

“Mm hm,” she said noncommittally.

“Shame about not seeing Adrhan itself, though,” he added contemplatively. “It’s got one of only two temples of Izara in the province, right?”

Basra raised an eyebrow. “Is there any particular reason you know that?”

“Oh, uh…I, ah, that is…”

“I’m afraid we don’t really have time for that kind of…indulgence…on this trip.”

She allowed him to blush and stammer until he babbled himself out for the remainder of the drive.

Their destination wasn’t far from Adrhan, well within sight of its walls. It was only a few more minutes of driving along the road circling the island till the witch’s house hove into view, not far from the bridge across the river itself. At the end of a narrow private drive, the old stone structure looked as if it was being reclaimed by nature, but that was no indication of decay. It had been designed thus, which had doubtless been part of its appeal to the witch of two generations ago, not to mention her descendants. Half-sunk into a small hill, and with one of its corners built onto the trunk of an enormous tree, it was well-shaded and seemed to retreat from the sight of the road, as if crouching into the earth itself to avoid notice.

Chickens scattered from the yard in front of the house at their rattling approach; a cat, perched on the low stone wall surrounding a garden, watched them with its ears laid back, but did not flee. Covrin brought the carriage to a stop most of the way up the drive, sufficiently distant from the door that the vehicle wouldn’t be threateningly close, and their approach would give the house’s occupants a chance to study them through the windows. The girl’s background was not of the type generally sought out by the Silver Legions, but her socialite’s instincts occasionally proved useful to Basra.

She dismounted from the carriage without a word, Schwartz trailing after her. He paused at the door for a moment, turning back and whispering; when she glanced back, Basra noted the fiery little shape of his rat-thing perched upon the back seat.

“Large parts of that vehicle are flammable,” she said pointedly.

“Oh, Meesie’s no danger,” he assured her with a grin. “She’s very well controlled. It’s just that one shouldn’t bring an elemental being into another fae practitioner’s home uninvited. Aside from the rudeness… There can be bad reactions between spirits. It’s like introducing strange cats, with a lot more potential for destruction.”

“That’s…reassuring,” she said, shaking her head, but turned her back on the carriage and headed for the door. Jenell swiveled around in her seat to peer suspiciously down at the little fire-rat.

The door to the house opened when they were still a few yards distant, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early middle years, his reddish hair beginning to recede and showing hints of gray in his bushy beard.

“Good morning!” he called to them. “You’ve got good timing! The muffins are just about cool, and I’ve got tea ready. C’mon in!”

He turned and vanished into the house, leaving the door open.

“Oh…well,” Schwarts murmured. “How hospitable!” Basra paused, frowning, then continued on her way, up the short flight of stone steps and into the house.

A door set into one wall must open onto the part of the house submerged under the hill; the area into which they stepped occupied the bulk of what was visible from outside, which formed one long, tall room. A kitchen area was nearest them, with a pitted but sturdy old table separating it from a living space with chairs and a sofa facing a huge hearth. Wooden steps rose to a platform holding a bed, dresser and desk.

Their host was in the process of laying out a platter of fragrant strawberry muffins on the table. He smiled and waved at them. “Pull the door shut behind, would you? The chickens like to wander inside.”

“Are we…expected?” Basra inquired as Schwartz did so.

“The spirits told me I’d have visitors this morning,” the man said. “And that they’d be important folk, whom I’d want to speak to. So, welcome to my humble abode! I’m Hargrave, glad to make your acquaintance. What can I do for you?”

“Thank you,” she replied. “My name is Basra Syrinx. This is Schwartz.”

At that, Hargrave straightened up from pouring tea, looking at her more sharply. “Oh, my. The Bishop? That is unexpected. Now I wish I’d brought out mother’s good china.”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” she said dryly. “I’m glad you were somewhat forewarned, then. We’re here on sensitive business. Are you aware at all of the elemental attacks recently?”

The witch stilled, gazing at her with a faint frown, then finally finished pouring a third cup of tea. “Why don’t you come have a seat?” he prompted, settling himself into one of the three places set. “I think this conversation calls for being off our feet.”

“Thanks!” Schwartz said cheerfully, sliding into one of the proffered chairs. “I’m a fellow practitioner, by the way. First rank fae specialist, with the College of Salyrene!”

“Interfaith initiative, then?” Hargrave mused. “Well. I am glad to hear this matter is being taken seriously. Yes, I’m quite aware of the problems you speak of, Bishop Syrinx. I’ve had my spirit friends keeping an eye on the situation; fortunately I had some forewarning in the form of dreams. Such accidental divinations are anything but precise, but they can let me know when something’s brewing.”

“What is brewing?” Basra demanded.

“The actual nature of the thing I can’t tell you,” Hargrave said seriously, pushing the platter of muffins toward them. Basra ignored it, but Schwartz helped himself to one and began munching happily. “At least, not beyond what you’ve already said. Elementals are stirred up and being hostile—if you’re traveling with a Salyrite specialist, I assume you already know this isn’t normal behavior for them. Only reason for elementals to act this way is if they’re being goaded to. You have any idea who’s behind it?”

“That’s what we came here to ask about,” she said. “So far, no suspects. It is clearly someone highly adept in fairy magic, however. The Sisterhood doesn’t have much direct interaction with the witches of Viridill these days, but you’re known to be a community leader.”

“That might be giving me a little too much credit,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “The visions I had warned of outside interference, your Grace. If you have in mind to start questioning the local witches… Well, nothing I have to offer would stand up in court, but what information I do have suggests we’re dealing with someone not local to the district.”

“Oh?” she prompted, staring sharply.

He nodded, his frown returning. “When the disturbances didn’t cease, I tried a more active divination. I couldn’t get far with it… Largely because what I did get directed me south. Past a certain point, magic of any kind doesn’t quite…work. Divinations are particularly vulnerable to interference.”

Basra straightened up; Schwartz blinked and swallowed a bite of muffin. “South? How far south?”

“All the way south,” Hargrave said solemnly.

Along the southern border of Viridill, past an Imperial and Silver Legion line of fortifications, lay Athan’Khar, a twisted land of wandering horrors and terrible memories.

“And it didn’t occur to you to bring this to the attention of the Sisterhood?” Basra said with a hint of asperity.

“Of course it did,” Hargrave said evenly. “And I immediately discarded the notion. I’m a man, your Grace, and a witch, in a district managed by feminist divinists. Going to the authorities with stories about my bad dreams would result in a pat on the head at the absolute best. I’ve been working to put together something more authoritative. So far, if the elementals are just wandering about causing mischief, it seems I’ve a little time yet to work.”

She drew in a breath, then let it out slowly. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. They’re showing rather sophisticated behavior, if you study the overall pattern of every attack. Attacking travel routes, executing complex maneuvers against soldiers.”

The witch scowled, laying both his hands flat on the table. “That…is much more serious than I feared. I think… I had better start talking with people. Someone must know something about this.”

“I thought you said this was an outsider’s work?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“That is my belief at this point,” he agreed, “but that doesn’t mean nobody knows anything. It will take me a little while to look in on all my various contacts in the region, but if what you say is true, I had better get started on that. For now,” he continued, drumming his fingers on the table, “I can offer you a little advice. For someone to control elementals to the extent you’re talking about… Well, our mysterious foe is quite powerful. Power in the craft is a function of time spent gaining it; there are no shortcuts in witchcraft. You’re looking for someone old.”

“Well, that should help!” Schwartz said brightly.

“I mean…old,” Hargrave said, his voice heavy with meaning. “And if it’s someone somehow connected with Athan’Khar…”

Basra closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath through her teeth, and sighed heavily.

“What?” Schwartz looked back and forth between them, confused. “What am I missing?”

“Only gnomes and elves go into Athan’Khar anymore,” she said, “and gnomes don’t practice the fae arts. It’s about a two-hour drive to the Green Belt if we carry on north. Or at least, as far as the roads will take us. We’ll have to walk into the groves proper.”

“Oh, I say,” Schwartz protested nervously. “Just…dropping in on the elves? They don’t like visitors.”

“Right now I’m not much interested in what they like,” she said curtly. “We’ll butter them up as much as possible, for whatever good it does. It sounds like they’re the best source of information we have. So that’s where we go.”

“I think you may find help there, in fact,” Hargrave said. “Business such as this would be quite upsetting to elves; even more than privacy, they like peace. And they don’t look kindly on those of their number who mess about in Athan’Khar.”

“Well.” Basra pushed back from the table and her untouched tea. “Thank you, Mr. Hargrave; you’ve been quite helpful. I’m sorry to be so curt, but it sounds as if we’ve a longer day ahead of us than planned.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, rising as well. Schwartz belatedly followed suit. “I’ve my own travel preparations to make. It’ll likely take me a few days to learn anything; can I reach you in Vrin Shai?”

“Actually, I’m staying at the Abbey while in the province,” she said. “And thank you. Anything you can turn up will be much appreciated.”

A minute later, they were walking back down the steps toward the carriage.

“Well, he was helpful!” Schwartz said brightly, clutching a handful of muffins. “And you had me all worried! The way you were talking I thought we’d have to persuade him to even speak to us.”

“That was fast,” Jenell noted as they climbed back into the carriage.

“Indeed,” said Basra, “and the news isn’t good. We head north, private. Actually, take us into the town first to pick up some provisions; this is going to be a much longer trip than originally planned.”

“Where to after that, ma’am?” Jenell asked, carefully backing the carriage down the drive.

“North to the elves.”

They reached the road and set off back the way they had come, toward the short bridge leading to Adrhan’s gates, none of them noticing the inky black shadow that slithered along the road behind them. It darted under the carriage, and there it remained.

 

After the morning he’d had, Ingvar took comfort in the familiar halls of the lodge, the casual greetings of fellow Huntsmen, trainees, attached craftsmen, and their various womenfolk. It was a calm place, and quiet at this hour of the late morning. He headed straight for his own chambers. Later—not much later—he would need to take action again, mindful of Hrathvin’s warning against complacency, but first he needed to think of some useful action to take. Seeking out the Crow had been his one idea, and Principia his one lead in that direction. Now he was forced to wait on Darling…not an enviable position.

He’d have to talk to Brother Andros about this, he realized as he pushed open his door. He was reluctant to trouble him, but it couldn’t be helped. The Bishop might or might not have anything useful to contribute, but he was clearly familiar with the Crow, both personally and from the lore. Besides, Andros was a wise man, and generous with his counsel. Even if he had no pertinent information, it was likely he would have advice.

He shut the door, turned back to his room, and froze. There had been no one here when he opened it; now he faced the very unfamiliar sight of a woman on his bed.

Not just a woman. It was his first time seeing her in this form, but the description was known. In fact, she looked rather like Principia, except for her plains tribe attire and a general stillness of being that the younger elf lacked.

“So,” said Mary the Crow. “Tell me about these visions.”

For a moment he was too startled to speak. Instinct kicked in after that moment, however; no good hunter could afford to freeze like a rabbit. Had Darling been this fast?

No. There was absolutely no way he could have been. That meant she had been following him. Why? For how long? Well, it wasn’t as if he could make her tell him anything. The best approach here was to be open and hope the infamously dangerous immortal arch-shaman before him was inclined to be helpful.

Ingvar cleared his throat, backing up against the door, and decided to follow her lead in eschewing the pleasantries. “It…began as dreams, two weeks ago. One per night. I was shown visions of Shaath… Bound.”

The Crow raised one eyebrow. “Bound?”

“In various ways,” he said, nodding. This was easier to talk about than he had expected. “With…chains, ropes, traps. Stuck in mud, or quicksand, pinned under trees or rockfalls. Always bound, injured, in pain, and I was unable to do anything to help.”

She stared piercingly at him, then slowly leaned back. “You saw that?”

Ingvar took a compulsive step forward. “Do you know what—”

He broke off at a sharp gesture from her. “Continue. Was there anything else?”

“Well… Last night, there was one change. I…saw the god bound in vines, in a scene of a forest filled with enormous spider webs. That time… There was a crow, perched on the web. It spoke in a voice I didn’t recognize, and said I should follow it to learn more.”

Mary was silent for a long moment, her eyes boring into him. Ingvar couldn’t help but feel he was being weighed, if not outright dissected. Still, he didn’t break the silence, bearing up under her scrutiny with the best grace he could manage.

“Spider…webs,” she said at last, enunciating very slowly, as if mulling each word. “What a very interesting tale this is, Huntsman. Very interesting.”

He drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders. “Have you any idea what it means?”

She tilted her head in a birdlike gesture. “Oh, I know precisely what it means. And in fact, I believe I shall help you.”

Ingvar took an eager step forward before he could restrain himself. “Thank you! What does it mean?”

She shook her head. “You surely didn’t imagine it would be that simple, Huntsman. You have been pointed in the direction of secrets that are well beyond your grasp. They can’t simply be told.”

He felt as if he’d been slapped. After all this, she wasn’t going to reveal what those accursed visions meant? “Why not?” he burst out before catching himself, aware of the petulant tone of his voice.

The Crow unfolded her legs and stood. “Tell me, Ingvar, why do you think the rites of the Huntsmen of Shaath involve such arduous tasks as sitting under waterfalls, spending nights atop trees, building shelters without tools, and the like?”

“What does that—” He broke off at her expression. In fact, her face barely shifted, but something in the nuance of her features held a warning. He swallowed and spoke again in a more measured tone. “Those skills are necessary to the path of the Huntsman.”

“Really? Skills?” The Crow actually smiled in open amusement. “Meditating under an icy waterfall for hours teaches you to do…what, exactly?” She let the silence stretch out before continuing. “It’s for much the same reason that Avenist priestesses duel a string of hardened warriors until they collapse from exhaustion, why Omnist monks court heatstroke by exposing themselves to the fiercest sun they can find, why Eserites are obligated to stalk an enemy and either draw blood or break bone, why Izarites meditate on oneness with all the universe for a night and a day… I could go on and on in this vein, and wouldn’t need to stop at the cults of the gods. None of those activities are necessary to pursue their respective faiths’ goals; none of them, in fact, are particularly smart things to do. People die, seeking initiation into the higher secrets of their orders. Nor is this a strictly human proclivity: elvish shamans endure rites you could scarcely imagine, and it boggles the mind what a gnome must suffer to be considered a true adventurer. There is is a price to be paid for knowledge, Ingvar.”

“What price do you demand?” he asked woodenly.

Mary grinned outright at him. “Oh, we have not even begun to discuss that; I am still explaining. This is wisdom, young one, clean out your ears and your mind and absorb it. What you are asking to know will shake the foundations of your understanding of the world. People fare poorly in the face of such revelations. I could quite easily tell you this secret, and within an hour you would have convinced yourself it was nothing, that I was wrong, lying or crazy. Whatever wall your mind had to throw up to protect you from that truth.”

“You give me very little credit, shaman,” he said stiffly.

“On the contrary,” she replied, her tone soft, “I know little of you, but based on the fact that you have received these visions, I expect great things from you. This is just the nature of minds, Ingvar. You will have to suffer a great deal more than you have—yes, even you—before you are willing to let go of the world you understand. That world is an illusion created by your mind to give you comfort in the face of a vast, random, uncaring universe. Your mind as it is now would sooner destroy itself than release that illusion, because it thinks that to do so would be destruction. This is a path, a journey.” She smiled. “A hunt. I will guide you on it.”

Ingvar was far from certain he understood all this talk, but there was something about the shape of it that resonated with him. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and bowed to her. “I apologize for my tone, shaman. I appreciate your wisdom. What must I do?”

“I’ll offer you a bargain,” she said, now studying him contemplatively. “I will send you on a quest, Ingvar, in such a way that when you reach the end of it, you will appreciate what you have found and not dismiss it out of hand. It will not be easy, but that’s the point. In fact, I will arrange companions who will share your journey, and the insight you gain at the end. You’d be very hard-pressed to do this alone. In exchange, when this is done, you will do something for me.”

“What…would you like me to do?” he asked warily.

“You will find out who sent you these visions,” she replied, “and why. That you have been chosen means you are likely able to get close to that person, in a way that even I could not.”

For a moment, he could only gape at her. “You…don’t know?”

“If it’s just Shaath seeking help from one of his Huntsmen, that’s fine,” she said, still studying his face. “I’ve no argument with him. No business of any kind with him, for that matter. However, it would be wildly out of character for Shaath to reveal himself in a state of weakness, particularly to someone whose opinion he valued. There are other powers in this world which can send visions, and I would very much like to know which of them has decided to nominate adventurers and send them to me.”

Ingvar held his silence after she stopped speaking, examining her face. It was a fruitless activity; she clearly had better control of her features than anyone he had ever met. Still, this entire business made him increasingly uneasy. It was not a deal to be made lightly, or on the spur of the moment.

“Wisdom and understanding, Ingvar,” she said quietly, “in exchange for mere knowledge. Even with the difficulties you will face in doing this, you are getting the better end of the deal.”

Well. Ultimately, it wasn’t as if he had any choice. There were no other options open to him.

Ingvar straightened up, nodded his head, and extended his had to her. “I accept your terms, shaman. Tell me what I must do.”

Mary reached out, clasped his wrist, and smiled in a way he didn’t like at all.

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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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8 – 26

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“I know you’re tired, that’s why we need to make another stop,” Principia said, grinning back at them. “It’ll just take a few minutes, but believe me, you’ll thank me tomorrow. I know a place that’ll be open this late—just gotta pick up the ground beans and a handpump press.”

“What the bloody hell are you on about now, you daffy knife-ear?” Merry groaned, trudging along behind her.

“Excuse you, that’s Sergeant Daffy Knife-Ear, private,” Principia said gaily. “It’s called coffee. We’ll be having it in the morning. Wonderful stuff! You’re gonna hate it.”

“Why do I have the feeling that’ll describe a great deal of my life in the near future?” Merry grumbled. Eyes on her boots, she barely came to a stop in time to avoid plowing into Principia from behind.

“This looks good,” Principia murmured, peering around. They had staggered to a halt on an arched footbridge crossing one of the city’s canals. Fairy lamps atop posts at either end kept it from being too dim, but it was still after midnight. The sounds of traffic from the bigger street half a block ahead were muted; it was completely dead in this neighborhood.

“Why are we stopping?” Casey asked blearily.

“Because I want to have a word with you ladies away from prying ears,” Principia replied, turning to face them. “Not suitable for the inn; the patrons there know how to mind their own business, but some things we can’t take the risk of being overheard. There are barely any people within the range of my hearing, here, and they’re all behind stone walls and asleep.”

“What’s so important?” Farah asked, looking more alert.

Princpia looked at each of them in turn, holding eye contact for a moment. “The truth is… This may seem rather cheap, since I was only just promoted, and that out of what we can all agree was a weird and twisty sequence of events. But in the days and weeks to come, girls, I expect you all to get thoroughly sick of me. We are going to work hard, and train hard.”

Merry raised a hand. “What if we were already sick of you?”

The elf ignored her. “The Legion’s normal course of training is one thing—we won’t be skimping on that, not because I am hugely a fan of it but because we can’t afford to. However, that will not be our focus. As was mentioned several times recently, this squad represents an intriguing balance of backgrounds and skill sets, and we are going to share them, ladies. Thieves’ Guild con artistry and street fighting, Shaathist wilderness skills, adventuring party tactics, Nemitite research methods and lore, Black Wreath spycraft… Anything and everything. Whatever you know that even might be useful to us, you are going to train your squadmates in. Much of this is religious in origin and directly applicable to our official mandate, but there’s more to it than that. We need skills—diverse, dangerous skills. We need to be the best, because we have a job to do over and above what Commander Rouvad wants from us.”

“What are you talking about?” Ephanie asked quietly.

Principia glanced around fleetingly, but was apparently satisfied with the lack of prying ears. She stared at her squad, her jaw set, and stated flatly, “We are going to destroy Basra Syrinx.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I’ve pointed out already that she will be coming for us,” Principia went on, “so it’s not as if we even have a choice. But that isn’t enough, ladies. I refuse to remain in the trap of defensive thinking. More than the need to fend her off, more even than the fact that that need alone will force us, eventually, to take an aggressive tack… She has to go. That woman is a monster. She’s broken in the head, has no feeling heart, and is in a position of considerable power. It cannot stand. For us, for Jenell Covrin, for everyone else that we damn well know she’s mauled even if we don’t know who they are. This needs to be done. Circumstances have decreed that we’ll be the ones to do it, so damn it, we’re going to do it well.”

“Hell yes,” Casey whispered, eyes sharp and alert now.

“We’ve got four months,” Principia stated. “After that point… Best behavior or not, Syrinx will be wanting a rematch, and she will get it. Whipping ourselves into shape will be good enough for our careers and standing generally that I expect us to be in a stronger position by then, but even if not… It doesn’t matter. What it comes down to is this: Either she is going down, or we are.”

All four of them stared right back at her, and one by one, nodded their agreement.

 

“Regardless,” Ravana said, leading the way as usual on the path back from class, “I do regret dragging you all into this. Needless to say, I fully intend to make it up to you. We are unfortunately stranded in the environs of Last Rock for the duration of the semester, but I would be delighted to host a vacation when class lets out this winter. Someplace pleasant, and relaxing! I’ve several ideas. In the meantime, perhaps the dorm can be made more comfortable by—”

“Ravana,” Maureen interrupted, her tone quiet but firm, “quit it.”

The group came to a stop, Ravana turning to regard the gnome with confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“Quit taking responsibility,” Maureen said, gazing up at her. “We don’t none of us answer to you; we make our own choices, as we did last night, an’ it’s frankly insulting the way you assume you’re the decider around here. And fer the luvva courage, quit tryin’ to buy us.”

The Duchess stared at her, mouth slightly open.

“Look,” Maureen said with a sigh. “I like you, don’t think otherwise. But you’re goin’ about this all wrong. You wanna make friends, be part o’ the group? Then be part of it. You might find that easier than bein’ in charge all the time, I bet. At the very least, it’s gotta be more relaxing. But that’s how you get people ta like you, not by showering them in shinies.”

Ravana finally shut her mouth, then shook her head ruefully. “Well, I am…appropriately chastened. It seems we’ve had this conversation once before, haven’t we?”

“An’ likely will again,” Maureen said in a more cheerful tone. “C’mon, the habits of a lifetime don’t just up an’ change. I expect you all t’let me know when I’m bein’ a dink, an’ I’ll do the same fer you. Without makin’ it personal.”

“That is, after all, what friends do,” Szith added with one of her private little smiles.

“And yay! We get to bond over cleaning rooms full of evil sludge!” Iris said with a forced, manic smile.

Ravana sighed softly. “I really do feel bad about that, though. Not that I intend to denigrate your own agency, girls, but… Well, it was my idea, wasn’t it?”

“Water under the bridge,” Iris said dismissively, waving her hand. “What I want to know is what we’re going to do if Addiwyn starts up again.”

“She never came back to the room last night,” Szith observed. “Whatever Professor Tellwyrn said or did, let us hope for the time being that it finally made an impression.”

Iris pursed her lips skeptically. “And if it didn’t? Because between you, me and the trees, I can’t see that unbalanced twit getting the point no matter what’s done to her.”

“Don’t underestimate Tellwyrn,” Ravana cautioned. “But in any case… If she resumes her campaign, we will consider at that time how to deal with it.” She paused, then smiled wryly. “With, ah…a bit more restraint, perhaps.”

 

“This is so you,” Mary mused, pacing in a circle around the frozen form of Aspen. “One cannot contest that it does the job. And all it cost was a staggering expense of power and the complete reordering of a small patch of reality.”

“It’s such a shame we don’t get the chance to catch up more often, Mary,” Tellwyrn said, deadpan. “How did you enjoy the Rail trip?”

“All right, enough!” Sheyann exclaimed. “We are going to have to work closely together to accomplish this, if indeed it can be accomplished. Let us establish up front that if we are to be successful, the personal barbs will need to be kept to an absolute minimum.”

“Quite right,” the Crow said pleasantly. “Oh, but Arachne! On the subject of personal history, I understand the young Aldarasi prince is currently enrolled in your institution.”

A ball of blue fire burst alight in Tellwyrn’s hand. “Now see here—”

Before she could get any further, Sheyann streaked across the room and slapped Mary hard across the face.

The fireball fizzled out; Tellwyrn and the Crow both stared at her in shock.

“We are not doing this,” Sheyann declared furiously. “I will not have it! Kuriwa, if you cannot manage to act your age I will treat you accordingly. Is that understood?”

The Crow blinked twice, then took a step back and bowed, first to her, and then to Tellwyrn. “You are, of course, entirely correct. Forgive me, Arachne, that was a jest in very poor taste. I assure you, I have no intention of interfering with any of your students in any way.”

“’Interfere’ is an interesting choice of word,” Tellwyrn said, twisting her lips sourly. “Elilial pulled that one on me recently. Leaves you room to be aggravatingly helpful.”

“Well,” Mary said with a placid smile, “I do have an interest by blood. And as we just established, blood, however dilute, is a connection to be respected.”

The Professor snorted. “Oh, I am not worried about Trissiny. If you want to go toe-to-toe with Avei, be my guest. Anyway, back to the matter at hand, because I do need to head off to class pretty soon. What do you think?”

Mary turned back to study Aspen, her expression growing pensive. “Tricky, as I am sure you know. I can prepare the rituals that will allow us to touch her mind. Sheyann, if you could contribute toward the general emotional contact with which our magic is good, to encourage calm and healing, that will grant me space and some flexibility to set up the far more advanced mental workings.”

“Of course,” Sheyann said, nodding.

“The hard part is going to be bridging the difference between her time frame and ours,” said Tellwyrn. “Eventually, I hope to establish a passive effect in the room that will enable us to do the work without me constantly having to ride herd on that. For the first few sessions, though, it will require a personal touch. I never automate anything until I am absolutely confident of its function.”

“Wise,” Mary said approvingly.

“And of course, the real kicker will be integrating that into your fae spells.”

“Indeed,” the Crow said, slowly rubbing her chin with a finger as she studied the immobilized dryad. “All right, I will take some time to prepare and confer with Sheyann while you attend to your students, Arachne. Before you go, however, I have some thoughts on the methodology we will need to use. To begin…”

 

Finally escaping the tense, empty conversation with her mother, Jenell practically leaped up the stairs and strode down the hall double time. Beholding the door of her room standing open, she picked up her pace even further, the long coattails of her dress uniform flying behind her, and whipped around the corner.

Her satchel was on the bed, open. Her father stood beside it, and in his hands was one of her books.

“Can I help you find something?” Jenell grated.

Colonel Covrin slowly raised his eyes, giving her a very flat stare, then hefted the old volume. He handled it gently, of course, despite his obvious displeasure with it; the Colonel was an established bibliophile who collected rare volumes himself. He often said that he would have been a Nemitite had he not gone into the Army.

“Athwart the Gods,” he said, glancing down at the book’s title. “Treatises on diverting and manipulating the attention of deities. Isn’t this volume banned, Jenell?”

“Depends on who you ask,” she shot back. His brows lowered menacingly, and she hastened to add, “It’s suppressed, not banned. The Universal Church doesn’t have the authority to outlaw books in the Empire.”

“And how did you manage to obtain a copy of a volume suppressed by the Church?”

She folded her arms, meeting his stare challengingly. “I can’t think of any reason you would need to know that.”

“Jenell,” he said quietly, “you would tell me if you were in some kind of trouble, wouldn’t you?”

She startled them both by laughing. “Are you serious, Dad? Since when do we have that kind of relationship?”

His mouth thinned to a line of pure disapproval. “What have you gotten involved in?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she said curtly. “I am handling it.”

“Jenell…”

“As someone keeps reminding me,” she stated, “despite how generally disappointing you may find me, Dad, I’m still a Covrin. We don’t whine about problems. We end them.” Imperiously, she held out a hand, wordlessly demanding the book’s return.

The Colonel ignored that for the moment, lowering his eyes to study its battered old cover. “What problem?”

“One,” she replied quietly, “that I am going to look in the eyes when it realizes that I’m the thing that destroyed it.”

She could see him processing, and silently willed him not to come to the correct conclusion. Colonel Covrin was anything but stupid. If he figured out what was going on, no power in the Empire would prevent him from trying to rescue her. And his trying would ruin everything.

“This problem,” he said at last, lifting his eyes to stare piercingly into hers, “isn’t Avei, is it?”

It was all she could do not to sigh in relief. “No. Gods, give me a little credit. No, Avei will be the solution. It’ll just take some work on my part, that’s all.”

He stared at her for a long, silent moment, then nodded slowly and finally handed the book back. She immediately stepped past him, gently placing it back in her satchel, and slung that over her shoulder. “I’m heading out. I need to get to the Rail station and embark for Viridill. My sponsor is keeping me on as an attendant while on a mission.”

“Jenell,” he said as she started for the door. She turned to look back at him, and found herself unsure what to make of his expression. “I’m proud of you.”

Despite herself, despite everything, Jenell couldn’t hold back a smile. “That’s… I don’t think you’ve ever said that to me before.”

“Yes, well,” he replied with an awkward shrug. “I guess it wasn’t the case before.”

And just like that, the smile evaporated from her features. “Thanks for lunch, Dad,” she said with a sigh, then turned and strode from the room before he could respond.

She practically flew down the stairs, through the hall and out of the house, fearing her mother would catch and ensnare her in another of her empty conversations. She didn’t stop until she was at the corner, two full blocks down from the Covrin residence. There, she stood, waiting until a black carriage with the red and yellow stripes of the municipal taxi service approached, and flagged it down.

“Western Rail terminal south,” she said curtly to the cabbie as she climbed into the back.

“Right away, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat deferentially, then immediately faced forward again, palming the control runes and bringing the carriage back into motion.

She still wasn’t used to that. Jenell was long accustomed to being pretty and well-dressed, which commanded a certain kind of attention. Part of her regretted that men never flirted with her anymore, since she’d started wearing Legionnaire armor, but another part was finding the new treatment somehow sweeter. It was still an unfamiliar experience, being addressed with respect.

After glancing up to double-check that the cabbie’s eyes were on the road where they belonged, she carefully opened her satchel and studied its contents. Her father didn’t seem to have disturbed any of the books apart from the one… Even her personal reading was untouched, which she’d have more than half expected him to remark on. Ashner Foxpaw’s Exploits was so far outside both her previously established sphere of interest and the preferences of Avei’s Legions that it practically demanded comment. Perhaps he’d caught sight of the old copy of Athwart the Gods and hadn’t noticed. Luckily he’d not seen some of the other volumes she had in there.

That had been risky, and sloppy, and she could not afford to be either. Obviously her old room at home was not a secure fortress, and it was pure sentimentality that had made her assume so. She had to tighten up her game. If anybody else found the kinds of things she was studying… Gods, if Syrinx found them. She would invest in a bag of holding at the first opportunity, and never have these materials away from her person again.

Finally relaxing back into the seat, Jenell carefully pulled out the Exploits and opened it at her bookmark. There was time to get through maybe another chapter; traffic was dense at this hour.

Rather than the spot where she had left off, her eyes cut automatically to an increasingly familiar phrase, one Foxpaw was fond of using—it was the closest thing he had to a personal motto, it seemed. Jenell always found herself pausing a moment to let it sit in the forefront of her mind whenever she came across it. Due to her recent experiences, the idea resonated with her powerfully.

Not for the first time, she found herself silently mouthing the words.

“All systems are corrupt.”

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8 – 23

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High Commander Rouvad made the lot of them wait in the hall outside her office for ten minutes while she conferred with Captain Dijanerad, doubtless about the documents the captain had just received from the Eserites. It was, to say the least, a tense handful of minutes.

Squad Thirteen held themselves at attention, which wasn’t comfortable, but was not especially onerous given their training. Far worse was the attention of the other two present, who stood off to the other side of Rouvad’s door. Private Covrin stood at ease, glaring suspiciously at everyone from behind Syrinx’s shoulder. The Bishop, for her part, seemed not particularly stressed. In fact, she regarded the assembled privates with a faintly smug expression. She did not taunt or try to provoke them, nor speak to them at all, but kept panning her stare slowly across the group.

Eventually, Principia turned her head slightly to catch Basra’s eye, and winked.

The Bishop’s stare hardened noticeably, and remained on Prin for the rest of their wait. The elf gave her no further reaction.

Fortunately, the door opened before this could progress further. Captain Dijanerad stepped out, her hand still on the knob, and jerked her head expressively toward the open doorway.

Syrinx nodded to her, expression faintly amused, and strode through, Covrin still on her heels.

“Do you need something, Private Covrin?” Dijanerad said pointedly.

Covrin slammed to a stop, eyes widening, and swallowed. “Ah, no, ma’am,” she stammered, glancing through the door at the Bishop.

“Then I’m sure you can find something to do,” Dijanerad said firmly.

“Wait for me in the hall, Covrin,” Syrinx said from within.

“Yes, ma’am,” Covring replied with evident relief, backing up to the far wall. Dijanerad watched her expressionlessly while Squad Thirteen filed past her into the office, then finally followed, shutting the door behind them.

High Commander Rouvad was leafing slowly through the contents of the Thieves’ Guild folder, and continued to do so, apparently ignoring her guests while they situated themselves. Basra planted herself in one corner, folding her arms; Dijanerad stood in front of the door, and Squad Thirteen arrayed themselves in a line on the opposite side of the room.

“I confess there’s an element of relief in this,” the Commander said at last, still reading. “It’s always disappointing, having to call down soldiers from whom I don’t expect misbehavior. But now, here’s almost the entire roster of everyone I fully anticipated having to chew out this week, right on schedule. It’s very nearly…gratifying.”

She finally shut the folder, pushed it aside, and raised her eyes. Her face was calm, but those eyes were iron-hard.

“Bishop Syrinx,” she said, “do you understand why you’re here?”

“Not precisely,” Syrinx replied, her tone unconcerned. “From the presence of this tragically underperforming squad I gather you have an objection to my handling of them?”

“Well, that’s as good a starting point as any,” said Rouvad, her eyes boring into the Bishop. “You have been given enormous leeway with the handling of the Ninth Cohort, above the objections of its Captain, and as of this moment I am bitterly disappointed with almost every aspect of your management, beginning with Squad Thirteen. Before we even discuss your handling of them, I want to hear an explanation for its formation and composition, which was entirely by your design. Not only is this squad unacceptably under strength, it is stacked entirely with undesirable recruits in defiance of all regulation and policy.”

“I was told,” Syrinx said flatly, “that I would be encouraged to produce agents from this cohort to train for interfaith and political operations. Everything I have done here has been in pursuit of that goal.”

“And so,” Rouvad replied, “when Legion policy is and has always been to disperse potentially disruptive elements through the ranks, so that their fellow soldiers could provide an example at best and at the least a counterpoint to any trouble they might cause, you not only clustered every yellow-flagged name on the roster into one unit, you then bent regulations even further in order to deprive them of positive influences. This looks very much like it was calculated to cause this squad to entirely self-destruct.”

“The use of pressure as a teaching tool is hardly my own invention,” Syrinx said, raising an eyebrow. “I understand there is some slight precedent in the history of military training.”

“Pressure,” Rouvad said flatly, pointing a finger at Merry. “And to pressure this group, you started with our resident ex-convict, here, and surrounded her…” She slowly moved her finger, indicating Principia, Farah, Ephanie and Casey in sequence. “…with refugees from the cults of Eserion, Nemitoth, Shaath—”

“Ma’am, please,” Casey whispered.

“—and Elilial,” Rouvad finished inexorably. A slight but distinct shudder rippled through the rank of Squad Thirteen, Farah, Ephanie and Merry all turning their heads to stare at Casey, who dropped her own gaze to the floor. Principia just raised one eyebrow.

“Attention,” Captain Dijanerad said curtly. The five of them instantly snapped back into position.

“Why them, your Grace?” Rouvad asked, her tone deceptively mild.

“I am surprised it even needs to be explained,” Syrinx retorted. “Their backgrounds have clearly predisposed the group toward maneuvering of the sort—”

“Two of them,” Rouvad snapped, “at most. The former would-be adventurer convicted of civil disturbance, vandalism and assault? The former Shaathist housewife? The librarian?”

“In my judgment—”

“Your judgment is very much on trial here,” Rouvad interrupted. “Let’s discuss what you did after gathering these miscellaneous reprobates into one apparently doomed unit. You spent an absurd amount of time chasing down Locke, even going so far as to try to put her loyalties in conflict, and frankly I can see no point to any of that except trying to get a rise out of her, which ought to be so far beneath you as to be beyond consideration. That is merely troubling.” She pulled the folder back in front of herself, placing a hand upon it, and stared coldly at the Bishop. “What I’ve just learned about the methods you were using to stalk Locke and the rest of this squad is a whole level beyond—and yes, Basra, I was aware of your borderline insubordinate manipulation of the Legion’s bureaucracy to move regulations and paperwork around. And now come the events of tonight.”

Rouvad drummed her fingers once on the folder, her stare growing ever more angry. “There is nothing—nothing—which excuses you sending Squad Thirteen into deliberate conflict with a group of Huntsmen of Shaath. You endangered everyone involved, beginning with a squad of soldiers whose safety was your responsibility. You intentionally disrupted an approved religious ceremony of another cult of the Pantheon. You employed a Vesker apprentice to do this, also placing her in danger—and without informing her of said danger. You abused your position in the Universal Church to first learn where the Shaathists would be operating and then do all of the above. And your eventual goal here was…what? To embarrass Private Avelea? I can’t imagine you actually thought I would allow her to be court martialed over this, any more than Locke would have been because of your similar antics toward her.”

“As I said,” Syrinx replied with some annoyance, “everything I have done with this squad was intended to train them toward the stated goals of this cohort. Despite their insubordination, they’ve done fairly well. I think some credit is due my methods, Commander.”

“Some credit is due to the fact that I now owe apologies to my two least favorite cults,” Rouvad snapped, “not to mention the Veskers. That is the sum total of your accomplishment with this squad. And honestly, Basra, you’ve been leaving a trail of destruction for the last week. Did you think I wouldn’t notice you manipulating the bureaucracy toward your own ends? Or that I was allowing it because I approved of this nonsense?”

Syrinx raised her eyebrows. “Of course. Why else would you allow it, Commander? Silence gives assent.”

“You watch your sly tongue, Basra,” Rouvad said icily. “For your information, I have been monitoring you since you first formed this cockamamie squad. You have been under examination as much as they. Do you imagine I am in any way pleased with what I’ve learned?”

“The Shaathists and Eserites will get over it,” Syrinx said with a shrug. “I don’t know why you’re concerned with their opinions anyway; we’re speaking of a gaggle of religious thugs. Squad Thirteen has learned quickly, thanks to the pressure I put on them, how to handle themselves in various crises. This looks like a successful series of tests to me.”

“I’ll tell you what’s been a successful test. Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that I accept you were actually trying to train these women and not squeeze them out of the Legion as every piece of evidence indicates. What I have learned from watching this unfold is that you, Syrinx, will sink your teeth into any foe who successfully resists your machinations and worry at them like a dog until you manage to break them. In so doing you completely lose sight of all surrounding considerations: regulations, ethics, you own well-being. Your penchant for obsessive behavior has been remarked on by everyone who’s worked with or trained you starting from your own first enlistment, but you began your career by making good progress at self-control. It seems too much power and privilege has undone all that work, Basra. And that leaves me needing to do something about it.”

“You could leave me to do my job,” Syrinx suggested sarcastically.

“The whole point of trying experimental training methods with this cohort was to produce women who can help the Sisterhood deal with the ever-escalating intrigues in this city, and beyond,” Rouvad said. “The situation grows more tense and more complex all the time. In this political environment, I cannot have my top operative acting like a rabid dog. It’s clear to me you need some remedial training of your own.”

The Commander folded her arms atop the desk, staring flatly at the Bishop. “There is a situation in Viridill with which I require your unique talents, Bishop Syrinx. You will report to Abbess Darnassy as soon as you can make travel arrangements, and remain at the Abbey for the duration of the problem.”

“What problem?” Syrinx demanded, her own stare sharpening.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Rouvad said with a tiny, humorless smile. “I will think of something by the time the paperwork needs to be filed. For the moment, I am assigning Captain Shahai to administer your duties to the Church in your absence.”

“You can’t do that,” Syrinx snapped. “Bishops can’t just be replaced on a whim. The Archpope has to approve—”

“Yes, and if I were demoting you, that would be a problem,” Rouvad said, still smiling. “Interestingly, Church law provides for situations where a Bishop is incapacitated, on leave, or otherwise engaged. Cult leaders may unilaterally appoint an interim Bishop, who does not require the Archpope’s or anyone else’s approval, for up to one hundred and twenty days. That is how long, Basra, you have to convince Abbess Darnassy that you’re still a good soldier who can do her job without haring off on a sadistic personal crusade. If, at the end of this period, Narnasia is satisfied with your progress…” Her smile widened slightly. “And if his Holiness hasn’t decided he likes your replacement just fine, you may return here and resume your duties. I suggest you put your nose to the grindstone, Basra. Narnasia does not share my lenient attitude toward unconventional behavior.”

Basra was fairly vibrating with tension now, fists clenched at her sides and her face a thunderhead. Commander Rouvad held her stare for a long, silent moment, then abruptly turned to regard the wide-eyed members of Squad Thirteen.

“With that addressed, let’s talk to the other individuals who have added to my headaches recently. I understand that was quite a performance you put on down in the courtyard, Private Locke. Now, under most circumstances, a raw recruit reaming out the Bishop would be headed right for the stockade, but I’m interested in the details of this situation. It defies belief that the great Principia Locke, master thief of two centuries’ experience, who doesn’t so much as twitch an eyebrow except in pursuit of three separate plans, would lose composure that way. I would like to hear exactly, in detail, what you were trying to accomplish with that little speech.” She narrowed her eyes slightly. “This is a good time for you to be honest, Locke, not clever. I advise you not to make any assumptions concerning what I do or do not understand, either.”

Principia cleared her throat. “Yes, ma’am. It was first a diversionary tactic. As I explained to Bishop Syrinx at some length, I am not particularly concerned with anything she attempts to do to me, but she was going for Avelea. I will not have her sinking her teeth into my squad.”

“How interesting,” Rouvad said expressionlessly. “Go on.”

“Additionally,” Principia continued obediently, keeping her own face blank, “there were multiple representatives present of the two cults who had been severely antagonized by the Bishop’s actions. I ordinarily would not show Legion internal division to outsiders, but in that situation where Bishop Syrinx’s affronts were unavoidably obvious, a display of opposition to her from within the ranks was necessary for the Legion to regain face. My words were calculated to appeal to Eserite and Shaathist sensibilities as much as possible, and leave those representatives to understand that Syrinx’s abuses were not acceptable to us and would not be tolerated. I apologize for overstepping my prerogatives, Commander. Aside from the benefit of taking that action immediately, I believe it gained considerable credibility coming as it was from a low-ranking soldier who was clearly taking a risk by speaking out, rather than a high-ranking one whose reassurances could be dismissed as politics.”

Rouvad gazed at her in silence for a long moment after she finished speaking. “Is that all, Private Locke?”

Principia drew in a short breath. “In…addition…there was the consideration that any public punishment which befell me after the fact would have undercut the credibility I regained on behalf of the Legion by speaking out.”

“Oh, you noticed that too, did you,” Rouvad said, deadpan. “Well, Private, that’s a lot of complex effects to have achieved with a two-minute speech. Quite impressive by the priorities of Eserites, I would presume. As it happens, I concur with your assessments. I’m even a little impressed with your results. Considering the training aims of your cohort, I’m actually somewhat pleased, and inclined to let the matter stand so as to be further leveraged in the future. So no, in this case, you have not forced my hand.” Abruptly, her tone was hard and cold as a polar ice sheet, and her stare furious. “And if you ever attempt to do so again, Locke, as Avei is my witness you will beg for treatment as gentle as exile to Viridill before I am done with you. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly, Commander. It won’t happen again.”

Rouvad held her stare for a long moment before relaxing slightly and speaking again. “Needless to say, Bishop Syrinx’s role in this cohort’s management is over, and the experiment in question scrapped. Captain Dijanerad, how much damage do you believe has been done to your cohort by all this?”

“Minimal, Commander,” the captain said immediately, “and fixable. I’ll need officers and a schedule of more reasonable duty shifts, but it’s only been a week. That much more time without this nonsense going on should straighten out any problems. Not many have had time to form properly, yet.”

“Good,” said Rouvad, nodding. “I’ll assign you three more lieutenants to lighten Vriss’s workload. I won’t transfer anyone against their will, but you may have your pick of any candidates willing to take the job. Have their names on my desk in forty-eight hours, or I’ll pick some for you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Will you need additional sergeants?”

“My squads were promised promotion from within, ma’am. No squads, in my opinion, lack a suitable officer candidate. I believe depriving them of that on top of this week’s events would be a serious blow to morale.”

“Very well, put forward your own choices’ names along with the lieutenants’.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“With regard to this group,” Rouvad continued, returning her stare to the assembled privates, “whether by accident or design, Bishop Syrinx’s campaign of ‘educational’ pressure has yielded some results. The five of you do appear to function well as a unit. You even show some promise in the direction toward which your training theoretically aimed. As such, I’m not willing to discard the only possibly successful result of this debacle out of hand.”

She leaned back in her chair, which creaked with the motion. The High Commander’s expression was impassive now, her eyes slowly moving across the squad.

“Squad Thirteen is hereby disbanded,” she said abruptly. “It will be re-formed to bring your cohort up to full strength in the days ahead, Captain. You will be assigned new graduates from the cadet program, as well as several more seasoned soldiers, just so you have a few to work with.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Dijanerad said crisply.

“These five women,” Rouvad continued, “are to be re-assigned together under the designation of Squad One.”

Despite their being ordered to stand at attention, there came a sharp indrawn breath from the privates.

In the Silver Legions, “One” was the designation of irregulars and special forces. Depending on the unit in question, it could be a great honor, or a punishment duty. The Second Legion’s First Cohort consisted entirely of magic users of a variety of specializations—all except warlocks, in fact. Its Squad One actually had three holy summoners, and was overall considered equivalent to an Imperial strike team in versatility and combat effectiveness. The Third Legion’s First Cohort were scouts and rangers of great renown, and the only part of the Legion that had remained fully intact during its recent reorganization. By contrast, the Fifth Legion’s First Cohort consisted of diplomats, statisticians and other paper jockeys. Though these were necessary functions (or they wouldn’t have been kept around), it was widely understood that that unit was a dumping ground for women who had nominally useful skills which did not include forming a competent phalanx.

Officially, there was no First Silver Legion. Rumors had abounded for years that such an organization existed off the books, working Avei’s will in places where the Sisterhood could not openly show its hand.

“It’s for good and specific reason I permitted you girls to witness the dressing down of the Bishop,” Rouvad continued calmly. “Considering what’s in store for you, I want you to understand some things. There is room for all sorts in Avei’s service. Basra Syrinx is a mean, vindictive, duplicitous snake, and we all know it. So long as she’s one who acts in accordance with Avei’s aims, I can work with that. I can even extend some tolerance toward antics which strain tradition and procedure. There is, however, a limit: go off on your own with that kind of behavior and I will shut it down. You keep both of those things firmly in mind.”

“Yes, ma’am!” they chorused.

“And with apologies to Captain Dijanerad for usurping her prerogative,” Rouvad continued, quirking an eyebrow, “I am going to go ahead and make the obvious choice for your new squad’s leader. Congratulations, Sergeant Locke.”

There was a beat of silence, in which Basra’s right eyelid began twitching uncontrollably.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Principia said respectfully, “but it’s pronounced ‘Avelea.’ Common mistake.”

Rouvad held her gaze, blank-faced. “Locke, have I ever told you how much I enjoy your sense of humor?”

A few more seconds of silence stretched out before Principia was certain the Commander actually wanted a response to this.

“I don’t believe so, ma’am.”

“There is a reason for that.”

“Understood, Commander.”

“This is because you are the most appropriate candidate for the job,” Rouvad continued coldly, “which says more about the available talent pool than about your abilities. Let me be frank, Locke: you are not being rewarded. I am giving you the opportunity to fail, and I more than half expect you to take full advantage. In that event, I can rid my Legions of five disruptive losers and be done with it. Or, alternatively, you might surprise me and prove that this squad can be a considerable asset. I win either way; only the five of you have a stake in the outcome.

“Because, make no mistake, after the events of this week, you girls have proved not only your potential in the political and diplomatic arts, but your willingness to play fast and loose with regulations to achieve it. Much like the good Bishop, here. The difference is that she has given Avei years of dedicated and effective service, and you lot have done nothing to earn a fraction of that regard. If any of you went as badly off the Rail as she just did, I’d have you flogged. Am I clear?”

“Yes, ma’am!” all five shouted.

“Those are your alternatives, Squad One. You will either succeed beyond anyone’s expectations and prove your utility to the Silver Legions, or be drummed out of them. Mediocrity is not an option available to you. Clear?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Rouvad studied them silently for a few moments more, then turned her head and nodded to Captain Dijanerad. “All right. Make me proud, ladies. That is an order. Dismissed, all of you.”

Once again, Basra was first out of the office, this time stalking like an offended cat and still practically quivering with fury. The rest followed her in stupefied silence, with the exception of Captain Dijanerad, who actually looked vaguely amused.

Covrin was still waiting in the hall, as ordered; she took one look at Basra’s expression and paled. The Bishop strode past her, snapping her fingers and pointing to the floor at her side. Covrin swallowed and came to heel like a well-trained dog.

Just as the Captain pulled the office door shut behind them, Principia paused, holding up a hand to halt her squad, and spoke.

“Just a moment, Covrin.”

“I don’t have time for you, Locke.”

“That’s Sergeant Locke,” the elf shot back. “Do not walk away from me, Private.”

Covrin came to a halt, as did Syrinx just ahead of her. Slowly, the private turned, staring at Principia for just a moment too long. Then she came to attention and saluted.

“My squad has the assigned duty of politics and diplomacy,” Principia said, staring into Covrin’s eyes. “And we’re under strength. I need clever, motivated women who possess a certain aptitude for, shall we say, lateral thinking. I’d like you to join up.”

Covrin stared at her for a moment, then half-turned her head, glancing at Bishop Syrinx out of the corner of her eye. The Bishop was watching without expression.

“She just got her butt served up on a platter and is being shipped off to cool her heels in Viridill,” Principia said quietly, still gazing hard at Covrin. “Basra Syrinx is in as weak a position as you have ever seen her, Jenell. Right now, she can’t touch you if you choose not to allow it. This is the best chance you’ll have to get away from her.”

“Permission to speak freely, Sergeant?” Covrin said stiffly.

Slowly, Principia nodded. “Granted.”

“I still don’t have time for you, Locke. May I be dismissed?”

Prin sighed softly. “Dismissed.”

Covrin turned on her heel and stalked back toward Basra. The Bishop paused only to smile coldly at Principia before continuing on her own way with Covrin trailing after her. They were gone around the corner in moments.

Captain Dijanerad clasped Principia on the shoulder as she passed down the hall in the opposite direction. “Good try, Locke, but you can’t do a thing for someone who won’t be helped. Get some rest, ladies.”

Moments later, she, too, was gone, leaving Squad One standing alone in the hallway.

“What just happened?” Ephanie asked of no one in particular.

“Dunno, but I do believe,” Merry said thoughtfully, “that I have never been this tired.”

“Never thought I’d miss that little dump of a cottage,” Farah agreed, “but I wanna go back there right now and make love to my pillow.”

“Gross,” Casey muttered.

“Well, that’s too bad, girls,” said Principia, rolling her shoulders and straightening her spine, “because we’ve a ways to go yet before we sleep. Fall in, Squad One; there’s one more thing we need to do tonight.”

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Everything slowed down at night, but Tiraas never truly slept, nor slackened its pace to any great degree. Different kinds of business were done after dark in the Imperial city, but not much less business. Obviously, the more rural areas surrounding the city were a great deal sleepier once the sun was down, removed as they were from the capital’s omnipresent modern lights, but even there, human activity continued at all hours.

Consequently, while there wasn’t a great deal of traffic through the city gates at the late hour at which the mixed party of Huntsmen and Legionnaires finally reached them, the gates themselves were opened and manned. That, in fact, caused them a very minor delay.

The soldier standing on the right side of the road at the huge outer gate stepped forward, lowering his staff casually to extend in front of him—not blocking their way, but tacitly signaling for a stop. “Everything all right, ladies?” he inquired politely, pointedly ignoring the ring of Huntsmen and directing himself to Ephanie, who was the nearest Legionnaire to him.

“Everything is fine, soldier,” Andros rumbled, pausing and folding his arms. The uniformed man glanced at him momentarily, then returned his gaze to Ephanie. It was indeed a peculiar mix of people to the eyes of anyone who knew anything about either cult, but there was also the unmistakable fact that the Huntsmen had arranged themselves in an escort formation around the Legionnaires. In the absence of other cues, that could be taken as a sign of honor, or one of hostility. Altogether they made a strange enough sight to invite comment.

“Couldn’t be better!” Principia chirped. “These gentlemen were just guiding us back from a field exercise. You can’t ask for a better escort in the woods than a Huntsman, after all.”

The soldier eased back, slight but noticeable tension fading from him. “All right, then, Blessings, ladies, gentlemen.”

They passed through the gates into the wide square beyond, several nodding to the guards as they went.

“Arrogant pup,” Tholi grumbled. “You should’ve just told him who you were, Brother Andros.”

“Throwing force around is seldom the smart solution to a problem, Tholi,” the Bishop replied. “That is true socially as well as physically.”

The little towns at the foot of each bridge to the city were clustered around a fortification protecting the road itself. Inside the walls was a broad square, lined with shops and offices (now closed), and beyond that, the foot of the bridge itself.

Their mixed party had to reorganize itself somewhat upon reaching the bridge; most of its width was marked off for vehicles, and though there was comparatively little traffic at this hour, spilling out of the pedestrian lanes would have been grounds for a citation even if nobody was run over. In any case, there were stone barriers between the two, and the foot lanes were raised a good three feet higher, looking over the edges of the bridge itself. The view this afforded of the huge canyon with its churning river far below was both stunning and terrifying. They were protected from the drop by low stone walls surmounted by much taller iron fencing; people did still fall off, occasionally, but not by accident, and indeed it took some doing. The soldiers who regularly patrolled the bridges were on the lookout for would-be jumpers more than any criminals or threat to the city itself. Somehow, after reshuffling themselves into a space where no more than five could walk abreast, Principia wound up in the front rank with Andros and Ingvar, with Tholi and the rest of Squad Thirteen right behind, the remainder of the Huntsmen bringing up the rear.

Tiraas, approached this way, was a sight worthy to compete with the view over the chasm. Its walls were lit deliberately, powerful directed lights illuminating every inch of their exterior, their towers blazing from every window. Beyond that, structures rose into the distance, many also alight, with the crackling of factory antennae and pulsing of scrolltower orbs topping off the ambient glow of the city itself. As the group proceeded, a Rail caravan flashed past them down the fenced-off center lane of the bridge with a roar and a wash of blue radiance. It vanished into a tunnel leading below the main level of the bridge above, where the Rail line would come out in the terminal a few streets removed from the main gate.

The bridges themselves arched over a hundred yards of empty space, supported by nothing. Modern architecture and enchantment could reproduce such a feat, but when they had first been built, the bridges of Tiraas had been a wonder of the world. Their modification to accommodate present-day traffic had been a major project.

“What exactly is the plan, your Grace, if I might ask?” Principia inquired as they set out on the long bridge.

“I intend to speak with High Commander Rouvad about this day’s events immediately upon reaching the Temple of Avei,” Andros rumbled.

“Think she’ll see you?” Ingvar asked mildly.

“In the old days, clerics of Shaath and Avei might have refused to speak to one another. Not so long ago, they might conceivably have insisted any such contact go through the Church. It is too political an age now, however. The High Commander will not snub a Bishop. This one will not, at least; she is more intelligent than some of her predecessors. Insisting upon an audience with her will not gain the Huntsmen any sympathy with the Sisterhood, but I cannot imagine she would refuse outright.”

“Hard to imagine the Huntsmen gaining any sympathy with the Sisterhood anyway,” Tholi muttered. “Or caring.”

“You think Rouvad will call down Syrinx based on your say-so alone?” Ingvar asked. “With respect to our guests, here, we have only their assertion that Syrinx is even responsible for this.”

“First of all,” Andros said, turning his head to glance over his shoulder at the group and raising his voice, “that is not to be repeated in front of the Avenists or anyone else. Brother Ingvar is correct; it is an unproven claim, the repetition of which could be taken as slander. Do not add any arrows to Syrinx’s quiver. With that said, the point is not to have her punished for this on the spot, but to register our complaint immediately and personally, as far over her head as can be reached.”

“Seems the Archpope is even higher,” said Tholi, “not to mention more accessible to you.”

“I will be speaking to him as well,” Andros rumbled. “Consider, Tholi, the fact that I am taking these girls at their word, despite not knowing them, nor having any reason to trust them. When I am told that a snake has been hissing and slithering, I feel no need to be skeptical. Apart from the fact that Basra Syrinx is vicious, underhanded termagant who is more than capable of such as this, there are the facts of the situation. The forests around Tiraas are used by multiple cults for a variety of purposes, and one of the tasks of the Universal Church is to prevent embarrassing and possibly dangerous encounters such as occurred today. Such outings are arranged through the Church, as was your rite, Tholi.”

“I should’ve thought of that,” Principia said, grimacing. “Of course a Bishop would know where we could be sent to stumble across Huntsmen.”

“Apart from that,” Andros added, scowling darkly, “a Bishop would know what the Huntsmen were doing in that region. Even assuming these ‘reports’ of wife-stealing actually occurred, a quick check with the Church, via your cult’s Bishop, would have been the Sisterhood’s first action. It would have ruled out the specific area you were sent to search.”

“Finally,” Merry growled. “Got her dead to rights.”

“I doubt it’ll be that simple, somehow,” Principia murmured.

“It will not,” Andros agreed. “The Syrinx woman is clever enough to have prepared counters to the obvious means by which she would be caught, which is why I am proceeding directly to Rouvad. Those means relate to the Church bureaucracy; I will be very surprised if Syrinx has managed to arrange for interference to be run with her own High Commander. Also, my presence and Ingvar’s will have been a surprise to her. No one outside our lodge was informed of our hunt.”

“How did you happen across us, Brother Andros?” Tholi asked.

“It did not just happen,” Andros rumbled, glancing aside at Principia. “It seems you have an ally against Syrinx, girl. A little black bird led us to your rescue.”

“You have got to be shitting me,” Principia growled.

“What?” Farah asked. “Black bird? What’s he talking about?”

“It is the nature of family to look out for one another,” Andros intoned, looking down his nose at Prin. “Do not spit upon necessary help, whatever tension there is between you.”

“And why does he only talk to Locke?” Farah muttered.

“According to Shaathist dogma,” Ephanie said quietly, “the fae races are of different stock and the laws of the Wild not as applicable to them. We are borderline unholy, being women soldiers, but Locke can do whatever she likes.”

“Story of her life,” Merry said fatalistically.

More soldiers were on duty at the inner gate, of course, but while they gave the peculiar party odd looks (as did everyone they passed), they did not move to impede them. The group crossed into the city proper at a brisk walk; the broad street rose ahead, climbing gently toward the city center, where stood their destination, the Temple of Avei. It was a reminder to all of how tired they were. Legionnaires and Huntsmen alike were in excellent shape, but all of them had been out all day. Of course, none were willing to display the slightest weakness in front of the other group. There were no sighs or complaints, but it was hardly a jovial party.

They also didn’t get far before being ambushed.

Barely were they out of sight of the gate guards when half a dozen armed people in nondescript dark clothing materialized around the group. Their appearance was swift and professional—they stepped smoothly out of alleys before and behind the party, two hopping out of a carriage parked alongside the curb and one even jumping down from a second-story window.

Immediately, Huntsmen and Legionnaires alike dropped into ready stances, hefting weapons. The street around them was hardly deserted, even at this hour; at the obvious signs of an armed clash about to break out, people yelped and bolted, while some less intelligent others stopped to watch avidly.

“Whoah, whoah, keep ’em in your pants,” said a hatchet-faced blonde woman, holding up her hands in a peaceable gesture, but grinning fiendishly. She was the one who’d bounded down from above, and now swaggered forward to plant herself right in front of Andros and Principia. “We’re all friends here, aye? Let’s have a quick chat. You can call me Grip.”

“Speak your piece, woman,” Andros growled.

“You’re Grip?” Principia asked, raising her eyebrows. “Damn. By your rep, I’d picture someone twice the size, with a lot more scars.”

“And by yours I’d picture someone less armored and more smug, Keys,” Grip replied, lowering her hands and adopting a cocky posture. “Anyhow, we’re not here to interfere with you.”

“Then you’ve chosen a strange way to introduce yourselves,” Andros snorted.

“Well, you know how it is. We each have our little dramas to keep up.” Grip produced a shiny new doubloon from inside her sleeve and began rolling it across the backs of her fingers. “In fact, you might say we’ve come to join your hunt.”

“No way,” Principia breathed. “That fast? It’s barely been a day.”

“That fast,” Grip replied, raising an eyebrow. “Apparently Tricks places a high value upon rescuing your perky little butt. Hell if I know why; last I heard, the orders were to haul you back to explain the shit you’ve been up to, posthaste. But what do I know? I’m just a grunt; I go where I’m kicked.”

“We can relate,” Merry remarked.

“You speak in riddles and nonsense,” Andros barked. “Explain yourself!”

Grip eyed him up and down, then pointedly turned to Principia. “Are we explaining ourselves to this guy?”

“This is Bishop Varanus of the Universal Church,” Prin replied. “He is helping us out; kindly be nice.”

“Ah. Good to meet you, your Grace,” the enforcer said, turning back to Andros with just the faintest whiff of respect now in her expression. “I’ll give you the short version, then: when Bishop Darling learned what Bishop Syinx has been doing to this little squad, here, he passed the word along to the Boss, who then demanded to know which followers of Eserion had been helping her do it. One guy came forward immediately; Link is an information man, a professional fixer-upper and greaser of wheels. He identified the back-alley mage Syrinx had employed to scry on this group. We only just got our hands on him, as he’d been out of the city until this afternoon, but that worked out as what he was out doing was setting up the trap you fell into today.”

“A mage decided to accommodate a bunch of ruffians?” Tholi asked scornfully.

“A mage, like anyone sensible, does not want to be the object of the Thieves’ Guild’s ire,” said Ingvar. “Nor should you. Hush.”

“So,” Grip continued with an unpleasant grin, “we’ve got that guy, and subsequently we have a certain Ami Talaari, a Vesker apprentice who was under the impression she’d been hired to participate in a Silver Legion training exercise. She was quite alarmed to learn she had instead been used to goad your squad into a trap.”

A burly man standing silently behind Grip’s shoulder held out a thick leather folder, which she accepted, and produced a sheet of parchment from within, extending it forward. Andros moved to take it; Grip pointedly jerked it out of his reach, handing it to Principia. Prin, with a sigh, accepted and glanced over the letter before handing it off to the Bishop.

“That looks authentic enough as far as I can see,” she said. “Forgery’s not really my thing, but I bet it is. I don’t recognize this officer’s signature, though. I wouldn’t necessarily know whoever would hire a bard, but…”

“Syrinx is not daft enough to place her own seal upon any such document,” Andros growled, handing the letter back to Grip.

“And by the way,” Principia added sharply, “I trust you’re not being too rough with Miss Talaari.”

“Ms,” Casey murmured. Everyone ignored her.

“Oh, she’s being treated like a princess, I assure you,” Grip said dryly. “Annoying one bard is good fun; annoying all the bards leads to unending nightmares. We’re not about to get rough with a Vesker apprentice. No, once we explained to Miss Talaari why it’s in her best interests to cooperate, she’s been an absolute dream to work with. We’ve got signed testimonials from her and the mage, receipts for work done, and,” she added with relish, hefting the folder, “a strongly-worded letter from Boss Tricks to High Commander Rouvad concerning this mess. Our boy in robes already had your scent, Keys…or whatever the magical equivalent is…so we’ve been watching for you to re-enter the city. Scrying doesn’t provide sound on the level he does it, so we weren’t sure what was going on, with all this.” She raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly around at the Huntsmen.

“Had my Huntsmen been the ones to catch that girl desecrating a wilderbag, she might not have fared so well,” Tholi said, scowling.

“Indeed,” Andros nodded. “Syrinx’s actions placed an apprentice of Vesk in immediate danger. That makes three cults she has abused her position within the Church to mortally offend in the space of one day.”

“Holy hell,” Merry breathed. “If we can actually stick this to her, her ass is grass.”

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Casey advised.

“She’s a slimy one,” Principia mused, “but she lacks foresight. Bishop Varanus and the Guild are two factors I doubt she expected to intervene, here. His Grace is right; if we take all of this to Rouvad now, Syrinx won’t have much time to weasel out of it.”

“Then time is of the essence,” Andros declared. “Onward we go.”

The Guild enforcers fell into step alongside them as they set off again for the Temple, making the party even odder yet. The Guild had no uniform as such, but six heavily-armed, expensively-dressed thugs prowling along with the leonine grace of professional knuckledusters made a distinctive sight that most in the city would recognize. Their inclusion in a mixed group of Huntsmen and Silver Legionnaires made possibly the oddest religious procession that had ever passed through the streets of Tiraas.

Odd, but apparently not overtly suspicious; at least, they weren’t directly challenged by any of the city patrol soldiers they passed, even the two who arrived at the tail end of their conversation, no doubt in response to reports from some of the civilians who had fled the enforcers’ initial arrival.

It was a mostly silent walk the rest of the way to the temple. They were less than a block from the rear annex of the Silver Legion complex attached to the temple itself when Grip spoke again.

“By the way,” she said lightly, once again playing with a doubloon, “we had Syrinx’s pet mage carry on reporting as usual—with a few provisos. Expect to be greeted when we get there.”

“What does she know?” Andros growled.

Grip grinned unpleasantly. “That Squad Thirteen will be returning in the company of Huntsmen. The presence of Enforcers and Bishops will be news to her.”

“Oh, I am almost looking forward to this,” Merry said. Ephanie just shook her head.

The towering battlements of the fortress hove into view above them. For the third time that evening, they approached an armed checkpoint, this one staffed by Silver Legionnaires. The armored women guarding the rearmost gate into the compound’s parade grounds straightened up at their approach, their expressions mostly hidden behind their helmets. That was probably fortunate.

Principia stepped into the lead as the group reached the gates, saluting. “Squad Thirteen of the Ninth Cohort returning from maneuvers, with guests.”

“Guests,” said the guard, her helmet moving slowly as she studied the assembled group. “Right. And what business do they have here?”

“This is Bishop Varanus of the Universal Church,” Principia reported impassively, “and an emissary from Boss Tricks of the Thieves’ Guild, with their respective entourages. Both have urgent messages for High Commander Rouvad.”

“Well,” the gate guard said slowly, “you’d better go on through, then.”

Principia saluted again, then led the way through.

It was nearing midnight; there were Legionnaires patrolling the walls, but the parade ground of the Camp itself was all but deserted, illuminated only by a few fairy lights attached to the cabins. True to Grip’s predictions, a familiar dark-haired figure was cutting across the courtyard toward them even as the disparate group reached the middle of the parade ground, the armored form of Private Covrin right on her heels.

“I trust there is an incredible explanation for this,” Bishop Syrinx stated, stomping to a halt in front of the party. Her gaze panned across the assembled Legionnaires, Huntsmen and enforcers; if she was at all surprised by the group’s composition, no sign of it showed on her face.

Andros folded his brawny arms across his chest. “I will speak with High Commander Rouvad, Basra. Now.”

“About what, Andros?” she demanded.

“That I will discuss with her.”

“You’re a Bishop; you can make arrangements through the Church,” she retorted. “If you intend to bypass the bureaucracy, that can probably be arranged, but I’m going to need more than your say-so first.”

He stepped forward once, glaring down at her; she met his gaze coolly.

“I will speak to the High Commander,” he growled, “about the squad of Silver Legionnaires that was sent bumbling into a holy rite of the Huntsmen of Shaath today.”

Basra pursed her lips, turning after a moment to fix the fives Legionnaires with a flat stare. “And what, exactly, were you girls supposed to be doing?”

“Investigating reports of Shaathist activity, ma’am,” Ephanie said crisply.

Basra scowled. “And you couldn’t do that without interfering with their religious practices? If I’m not mistaken, this cohort is supposed to be training to handle relations with other faiths. Would anyone care to explain this staggering failure?”

“I have little patience for your internal quibbles,” Andros growled. “Are you going to take me to Rouvad, or am I going to wait right here with my Huntsmen until someone more competent comes to address us?”

“We know very well this was all your doing!” Tholi added with a sneer.

Ingvar sighed and shook his head.

“Tholi!” Andros barked. “Silence.”

“Oh, really,” Basra said, her voice deadly quiet. Slowly, she panned her gaze over Squad Thirteen again, this time fixing it upon Ephanie. “And so, having caused an interfaith embarrassment, you decided to weasel out of trouble by pinning the blame on your Bishop? That’s very interesting.” She took a step forward, her eyes boring into Ephanie’s. “And I don’t have to ask which of you little twerps would have the bright idea of siding with the Huntsmen against your own Legion, now do I. Not when there’s someone present with a history of that.”

“That is not what happened, your Grace,” Ephanie said evenly.

“You can explain yourself fully at your court martial, Private Avelea,” Basra shot back.

“Leave her alone,” Principia said quietly.

“Shut up, Locke,” the Bishop spat. “For once, your nonsense is not the center of attention. Avelea, you are to hand over your gear and report to the stockade—”

“You will look me in the eye when I am speaking to you!” Principia roared, stalking forward until Basra had to physically step back from her to avoid being stepped on.

“How dare you—”

“Shut the hell up, you pathetic little bully,” the elf snarled, ripping off her helmet and tossing it aside. “I have had exactly as much of your bullshit as I intend to tolerate, Syrinx. This is over. You are done, is that clear?”

“I’ll have you—”

“Button it!” Principia stepped forward again, physically bumping into Basra and jostling her backward. “You have absolutely no comprehension what you are messing with, Basra. Do you think I let you push me around and talk down to me because there’s something forcing my hand? I tolerate you, y’little punk, because I choose to. Because you are so far from being a threat that your pretensions in that direction are a constant source of amusement to me. I was playing this game when your grandparents were in swaddling, and I’ll be playing when everyone who remembered you is dust. I am so far out of your league your only hope of anything resembling success in the long run is if you manage to annoy me enough to warrant a footnote in my memoirs, and I have to tell you, Bas, you’re not there yet. The fact that you are inconveniencing me yet again is a cosmic insult.

“And let me spell this situation out for you,” she went on in a hiss, pressing forward again; Syrinx gave ground, staring at her with wide, expressionless eyes. “You have utterly failed to understand the long-term consequences of your horseshit, Basra. Nothing you have the capacity to dish out is a serious threat to my well-being. To get rid of me, you’d have to kill me, and you’re simply too weak, too slow, and too stupid to make that happen. You best-case scenario is to get me booted out of the Legions, and believe me, you don’t want that. Because the moment I no longer have to play nicely, the hourglass begins running out for you. Is that perfectly clear? Now pipe down, grow up and start picking on someone your own size, you insignificant little bitch.”

Dead silence fell. The other four members of Squad Thirteen gaped with identical expressions of shock. By contrast, the Huntsmen and Guild enforcers all wore huge grins.

Then, after a long moment, a slow smile crept across Basra’s face.

“I dearly hope you enjoyed that, private,” she whispered.

“Bishop Syrinx.”

Everyone turned at Captain Dijanerad’s voice. She stood off to one side; Grip was next to her, and the folder of Guild papers was in the captain’s hands. She kept her expressionless gaze fixed on Basra.

“You and Squad Thirteen are to report to the High Commander’s office immediately. She wants a word with all of you.”

“I require a few minutes of her time, as well,” Andros rumbled.

Dijanerad looked up at him, her expression not altering. “This may take some time, your Grace. I’m sure she would be glad to set up an appointment for you first thing tomorrow.”

“I will speak with her as soon as she is finished with these,” he declared. “I can wait.”

“Very well,” the captain said noncommittally. “Private Covrin, see that some accommodations are found for our guests, along with whatever they require. Within reason.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Covrin said crisply.

“I believe you can count us out,” Grip said lazily, already strolling back toward the gate. “Just get that stuff into her hands, and our job here is done. The Boss will be eagerly awaiting the Commander’s response. Toodleoo, boys and girls.”

The rest of the enforcers fell into step behind her, making their way languidly out of the courtyard.

“As for the rest of you,” Dijanerad said grimly, dragging her stare across Squad Thirteen to fix it on Basra, “forward march.”

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