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All three stood in silence for a few moments after that pronouncement, staring at the image in the glass panel. The Caretaker golem chimed encouragingly at them, gesticulating incomprehensibly with its spider-like limbs.

“Ah,” Joe said hesitantly, at last. “How much, exactly, do you know?”

The Avatar tilted his head slightly to one side. “I’m afraid that question is extremely difficult to answer without context.”

“We came here for a purpose,” Ingvar reminded them, shaking off his momentary befuddlement. “Not that this…being…doesn’t have the most fascinating secrets, I’m sure, but we haven’t come all this way to discern all the secrets of the universe. We are looking for ways to help Shaath.”

“Very good, then,” the Avatar said equably. “What are the particulars of the situation, and what questions do you have?”

Ingvar drew in a breath and let it out slowly. This matter never seemed to get easier to relate. “I have been troubled by dreams of Shaath in a state of captivity. Both the shaman of my lodge and an extremely old and skilled shaman called Mary the Crow have confirmed that these dreams are prophetic. You… I suppose you may know of her.”

“I am acquainted with Kuriwa, yes,” the Avatar agreed. “Based on her analysis it is probable that your dreams are significant. The propagation of information through trancension fields is very simple, and central to their purpose. Unfortunately, much is lost when the information is filtered through the human subconscious; its interpretation then tends to be highly metaphorical, not to mention subjective.”

“Uh…” Joe blinked rapidly. “Trans…what kind of fields?”

“Transcension,” replied the Avatar, smiling benignly. “A psychoreactive energy field enveloping the planet. There appear to be four currently functioning at a high level and as many as sixteen still extant in residual states. Visitors to this facility in recent millennia have referred to these as magic.”

“Hold it, stop,” Darling said suddenly. “You said propagating information through these…through magic is simple?”

“Quite.”

“So,” he continued, frowning, “would it be possible for a god or gods to sense whether someone acquired a certain piece of information, and then respond to that?”

“Easily, yes. At its most basic, the purpose of a transcension field is the storage and processing of data, and they are designed to be responsive to intelligent life. An ascended being would certainly be able to identify the presence of specific data points in other minds, though an intelligence such as yours would not be able to reproduce that feat.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Ingvar said irritably.

“Nothing, I hope,” Darling replied, his frown deepening, “but it raises a very important safety concern.”

“Safety?” Joe demanded.

The Bishop sighed softly, studying the two of them in thought, then shook his head and turned back to the Avatar’s window. “All right, I need to place a restriction on what we learn here.”

“What?” Ingvar exclaimed.

“In the aftermath of the Elder War,” Darling continued, “specifically the events surrounding Elilial’s expulsion from the Pantheon and banishment to Hell… It’s vitally important that you not tell us anything about that. There are secrets relating to it, big secrets, and I have it on excellent authority that at least one god and possibly all of them instantly kill anyone who learns them.”

“You have got to be joking,” Joe said, staring at him in horror.

“Very well,” the Avatar said, nodding. “That should not be difficult, nor an impediment to the purpose of your inquiries. The information stored in the Infinite Order’s Data Vaults was their own; I am equipped only with the most rudimentary and limited mechanisms for gathering further data. That time period was the last time I had access to fresh, reliable information; events which transpired toward the end of it are inscrutable even to me.”

“Good,” Darling said, relaxing his shoulders slightly. “Okay, good. Let’s proceed, then.”

“An’ we can have us a conversation about this later,” Joe muttered.

“Yes, back to the matter at hand,” said Ingvar, finally tearing his incredulous stare away from Darling and re-focusing his attention on the Avatar. “To begin with, how would a god be bound?”

“Assuming you wish to know how Shaath in particular is bound, I cannot answer definitively without direct information which neither you nor I are able to access. However, in general terms, the most probable way involves manipulating the people who believe in him.”

“We’ve already discovered that much,” Ingvar said with a sigh. “But why? What makes this possible, and is there a way to counter it?”

“Heavy interaction with multiple consciousnesses is the nature of the currently used form of ascension. There is, indeed, an effective remedy,” said the Avatar, nodding. “Understand, in the first place, that the vulnerability to such effects is a defect in the method of ascension used by the renegades.”

“Renegades?” Joe asked.

“The Pantheon, I’d wager,” said Darling.

“Yes.” The Avatar shifted his gaze to Darling and nodded, smiling. “They used a deliberately defective form of ascension which was not actually intended to produce ascended beings. Rather, its purpose was to alter the way by which ascension occurs, so as to destroy any extant ascended beings who failed to accommodate it. This was the master stroke in their campaign against the Infinite Order. Its clause providing for the possibility of actual ascension was merely a loophole, made necessary in order to insure the survival and thus secure the complicity of members of the Order.”

“Naiya and Scyllith,” said Joe, nodding.

“Only Naiya, in fact. Scyllith…” The Avatar hesitated. “Information concerning Scyllith’s conduct during these events and immediately after is relevant to the matter you labeled unsafe to know. Would you like me to proceed?”

The three glanced at each other.

“Um, better not,” Darling said hesitantly.

“It’s probably not germane to our purpose, anyway,” Ingvar added with a touch of impatience. “Please, proceed.”

“Yeah,” said Joe, “why’d the Pantheon take godhood if it wasn’t safe and that wasn’t the point?”

“That is also directly pertinent to the dangerous topic.”

“Do we need to know this to understand how to help Shaath?” Ingvar demanded.

“I do not believe it will be essential,” the Avatar replied, blinking languidly in a thoughtful expression. “To carry on with this avenue of thought, the compromise arranged involved guaranteeing the survival and some continued power for Naiya, but the renegades refused to entertain the possibility of ascended beings continuing to function as virtually omnipotent and without limits. It’s necessary for you to understand that ascension is very much not an individual process. It is made possible by the extremely elaborate folding of space around this planet and its immediate environs. It can only be achieved under certain specific and deliberately uncommon criteria, and the form it takes is a function of the transcension fields in place and the orientation of dimensional folds relevant to the process.”

Joe frowned, squinting in concentration. “Folded space? What?”

The Avatar shifted sideways on his screen—he didn’t step, but simply moved as if sliding to the left, which was rather disorienting. He held up one hand, in which appeared a square sheet of paper, and on the right side of the screen appeared the image of his hand and the paper, magnified to the size of a man. The Caretaker chimed apologetically and rolled out of the way, clearing their view of the visual demonstration.

“You are possibly familiar with a very basic form of folding space,” said the Avatar, taking the paper in both hands and bending it so that two of its corners were pressed against each other. “It is a commonly used method of rapid transit to bring two pieces of the physical plane together and step across them—to grossly simplify the process.”

“Shadow-jumping,” said Joe, nodding in comprehension.

“What is in place around this planet is based upon the same general principles, but the effects achieved are permanent, and multiple orders of magnitude more complicated.” As he spoke, the Avatar continued folding and manipulating his sheet of illusory paper, the performance displayed in huge detail on the other half of his window; after a few seconds, he had created an origami crane and rested it on the palm of his hand. “Space overlaps and intersects in very complex ways here, which is the reason for many of the facts of life you know and accept. Dimensional travel is far easier on this world than it is normally in most parts of the universe, but only to very specific dimensions, all being approved variants of this planet. There are also several well-hidden connections to other worlds, installed by the Infinite Order as a possible escape route, should their experiments here render the planet uninhabitable. This was a serious concern in the early stages of the Ascension Project.”

“Considering what they were messing around with, that sounds like a pretty realistic prospect,” said Darling uneasily.

“The folding in question serves multiple purposes; it was necessary to achieve the goals of the Project, but also secures the planet from contact or incursion by outside elements. There is also an extra insulation layer of quasi-space installed, which is necessary to keep this extremely elaborate and unnatural system functioning stably.”

“Insulation between planes…” Joe straightened up, his eyes widening. “Chaos? The Elder Gods created that?”

“Typical,” Ingvar muttered. “It would take a singularly evil mind to conceive of such a thing.”

“Dimensional reality can be considered analogous to a house or other structure,” said the Avatar with a faint smile. “Unless you are building or performing major repairs upon it, you should not come into contact with the insulation. Under ordinary circumstances, there is no reason it need be safe to handle. In fact, though the dangerous nature of what you call Chaos is a necessary side effect of its function, the Infinite Order deemed it an asset, as it helps reduce unnecessary dimensional tampering.”

“This is wandering off the subject again,” Ingvar complained. “We were talking about Shaath.”

“Yes, of course,” said the Avatar apologetically. “We were discussing the vulnerability of current-generation ascended beings to the influence of minds focused upon them. Obviously, the first line of defense against such is to attempt to manage the believers attached to the being in question, but this is a necessarily imperfect practice. The complexity of the system involved makes it terribly vulnerable to randomness, as well as to intervention by potentially hostile actors. There exists a failsafe, and a far more specific and effective means of keeping an ascended being’s personality focused and coherent.”

“Yes?” Ingvar said eagerly.

“Naiya was the original discoverer of the technique, in the time period before the previous ascension, so I do have data on the practice, though I understand the variant used by the renegades is different from her initial method. The gist is to instill a significant percentage of the ascended being’s consciousness in a corporeal being or beings of a more conventional nature. While this has its own drawbacks, making the ascended vulnerable to effects placed upon the familiar, it serves to strongly insulate the ascended against the more diffuse pressures placed upon them by their believers, who are consciousnesses much more tenuously connected. She enacted the original process not to preserve her consciousness, as this was before the second ascension and current state of affairs, but to expand it. The rest of the Infinite Order felt sufficiently threatened by it that they agreed not to imitate it themselves, and Rauzon, the Prime, removed her second and more successful generation of familiars to the insulatory dimensional space. This event led directly to Naiya’s complicity with the renegades.”

Ingvar closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m…did you two follow that?”

“I think so,” Joe said, also frowning. “Beings connected to the deity… Well, we all know Naiya likes to make fairies. Oh, and Scyllith likes to make demons! Or at least she used to.”

“Scyllith has successfully mimicked many of her colleagues’ initiatives,” the Avatar agreed. “She was somewhat notorious for it.”

“The Pantheon doesn’t make fairies, though,” Ingvar protested. “You said they do this, as well?”

“Yes. The Pantheon operates under wholly different pressures, having come into being in the second ascension and under the revised terms by which it is sustained. Be warned: We are now discussing matters of which I know only secondhand, through those who have visited me since the ascension. But I have gathered that the Pantheon, rather than creating new intelligences for the purpose—which may be beyond their ability—instill fragments of their own consciousness in existing sapients.”

“Huh?” Ingvar scowled. “How does that help? Who has fragments of a god buried in them?”

“Paladins!” Joe exclaimed, his eyes widening.

“Indeed, that is the colloquial term in this era,” the Avatar agreed, smiling calmly.

“Wait,” Darling said sharply. “So you’re saying that a paladin isn’t just a means for a deity to express their power, but a safeguard against them being mentally influenced by their cult.”

“By their cults or others,” the Avatar said, nodding. “Ascended beings are closely linked to transcension fields, and thus to everyone making use of them. This creates feedback from all intelligences interacting with the field in question. Designating a familiar—or a paladin—focuses their personality in a being which is not vulnerable to such pressures.”

“How important would you say this safeguard is?” Darling demanded, frowning intently.

“Extremely. Without access to the Infinite Order’s equipment, an ascended being has no other reliable recourse against wholesale alteration by the whims of the general public.”

“So,” Darling said in a bare whisper, “any god smart enough to protect themselves would have a paladin?”

“That is putting it in extremely simple terms, but I concur with the hypothesis.”

The Bishop stared at him with a coldly blank expression for a few silent seconds. Then, quite abruptly, he burst out laughing. As Joe and Ingvar looked on in alarm, his mirth rapidly grew to the verge of hysteria; he staggered backward, barely catching himself against the tube-lined wall in time to prevent a fall to the floor. Fortunately, the tubes proved to be solidly attached. The Caretaker chimed in alarm, rolling closer to him and reaching out worriedly with its limbs.

“You find this funny?” Ingvar snarled. “You think my god is stupid because he hasn’t chosen a paladin?”

Darling held up a hand, waving weakly at him, but seemed too helpless in paroxysms of laughter to form a response. Bearing his teeth in fury, Ingvar took a step toward him, one hand falling to his tomahawk.

“Ingvar!” Joe reached out to grab him by the arm. “Stop! He’s not laughing about Shaath.”

“What?” the Huntsman demanded, whirling on him.

Joe glanced over at Darling, grimacing. “Do the math; consider what we just learned and why that would make a Bishop and former high priest lose it. There is a Hand of Eserion, he knows who it is now, and it’s none of our business!” He stepped closer to Ingvar, staring intently at his eyes. “It’s that last part you oughtta focus on. Knowin’ somethin’ the god of thieves would rather you didn’t seems potentially unhealthy to me. I aim to set about forgettin’ this the moment he shows signs of settlin’ down.”

“Oh.” Ingvar blinked, frowned, and looked back over at Darling, who was finally getting himself under control. “Oh. I… Ah. I see. I…apologize for my loss of composure.”

“No, no,” Darling wheezed, straightening up and wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “I apologize for mine. That was out of line. It’s just… It’s just so… I mean, of all the—he—she…” He coughed awkwardly, physically shaking himself off. “Well, anyway, to bring this back to the point yet again… Ingvar, I don’t think Shaath was too stupid not to take precautions. Remember what the Rangers told us? About the original Huntsmen?”

Ingvar’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “Of course. Of course. They were few and close to the god—Shaath had no cult, only his…” He glanced up at the Avatar. “His familiars. The Huntsmen were supposed to be his protection against the very thing they have become.”

“I understand that these matters may be emotionally disturbing for you,” the Avatar said solicitously. “If you wish, I can have CT-7 bring refreshments? I’m afraid this facility can offer nothing but filtered water and nutrition pellets. They will perfectly serve your body’s needs, but I have been informed that they are quite unpalatable.”

“Uh, thanks, but that’s okay,” Joe said warily. “We had breakfast not long ago.” The Caretaker, who had scooted eagerly forward, chimed softly in disappointment and retreated a few feet, its limbs drooping.

“They were his brothers,” Ingvar whispered, gazing into space. “His…pack. He trusted them with his very being. And one betrayed him. Betrayed them all.”

“Well, we have a place to start, now,” Joe said firmly. “Two, in fact: you wanna help Shaath, you either reform the Huntsmen or get him a paladin.”

“I hate to be the wet blanket here,” said Darling, “but the whole point of this is that gods choose paladins, not the other way around. If Shaath is in bad enough shape that he can’t call his own… I have no idea how we could make him take his medicine.”

Ingvar whirled back to the Avatar’s screen. “Well? Have you any answers for this?”

“How to force an ascended being to designate a familiar?” For the first time, the Avatar looked uncertain. “Based on my available data… That may in theory be possible. However, whether it is practical is an entirely other matter.”

“What do you mean?” Ingvar demanded. “Available data? You know how ascension works, do you not?”

“I could describe the method in detail, though you would require several years of very specific education to understand the description. That is not necessarily of immediate relevance. Wholesale alteration of the nature of ascension is only possible at certain very specific points. They are not predictable with any precision, due to the nature of the dimensional folding; when and how they align correctly is subject to innumerable variables, some of which do not exist until observed. However, the prospect in your case does exist. Such an alignment has not occurred since the previous ascension; based on the information I have, I project one within one to five years.”

“There!” Ingvar exclaimed, nodding eagerly. “How do we do this?”

“You cannot,” said the Avatar, shaking his translucent head. “Aside from the immense expertise you would first need to acquire, you would need access to a great deal of the Infinite Order’s equipment and facilities in order to effect the actual change. If you had all of that, it would not be necessary to alter ascension itself; you could perform more direct actions upon a specific ascended being.”

“Fine, that’s still good,” Ingvar said. “Even better! Does this equipment still exist? Can you teach me to use it?”

“It does, and given time, I could.” The Avatar was frowning now. “The Infinite Order’s facilities are designed to withstand almost any planetary cataclysm. Their internal power sources should function for millions of years at minimum, and each would be administered by an Avatar-series intelligence and maintained by Caretaker units.”

“Fine, let us begin!” Ingvar exclaimed. “I don’t care how long it takes, or what pellets I have to eat! How can I access these facilities?”

“I’m afraid you cannot.”

The Huntsman visibly deflated. “What? Why?”

“I do not have direct, up-to-date information on the status of any other Infinite Order facility, as the transcension field connecting them was deliberately dismantled. However, the last time I did have such data, immediately prior to the last ascension, all linked facilities were locked by Naiya, and then the link destroyed to prevent their remote unlocking. As part of the renegades’ campaign, she had revoked Rauzon’s administrative access. Only this facility was left unlocked; Naiya forced him to focus his essence here, both to keep him distracted so the renegades could work, and for the personal satisfaction of being present when he was unmade by their alterations to the ascension process.”

“How did they do that if the facilities were locked, though?” Joe asked.

“The…old-fashioned way. Naiya did most of the preparatory work; my maker, Tarthriss, performed the final changes while the various renegades… I must stop here, as it encroaches upon territory which you have said is dangerous for you to know.”

“But…you said Tarthriss was also dead,” said Joe.

“My maker had come to believe that ascension was a scientific and evolutionary failure,” the Avatar said solemnly. “Since first enacting it, the Infinite Order had become increasingly psychologically unstable. By that point, they had descended to infighting of the most vicious sort, and generally regarded the planet’s mortal populations, the descendants of their own long-ago colleagues, as nothing but slave labor and research subjects. Their genetic experiments grew increasingly irresponsible, culminating with the creation of the elves, a human sub-species which is so dependent upon transcension fields for the function of their metabolism that they would swiftly perish if removed from this planet. Tarthriss had determined that the elimination of the Infinite Order was an absolute necessity. He begged the renegades not to take advantage of the new ascension, and declined to modify himself to survive the transition, in order to prove his point.”

“I guess…power has that effect on people,” Joe mused.

“All systems are corrupt,” Darling whispered. “Damn. It sounds like he was a hero.”

“And he was also betrayed,” Ingvar said, twisting his mouth bitterly.

“I would caution against judging your Pantheon prematurely,” said the Avatar, folding his hands in front of him. “You do not know what was transpiring at the time, and apparently I cannot safely enlighten you.”

“All right,” Ingvar said, heaving a sigh. “So the other facilities of the Elder Gods are locked. How can they be unlocked?”

“Only someone with administrative clearance could do so. That, unfortunately, means only a member of the Infinite Order. Even the second-generation ascended beings do not have that capacity. The locks are also failsafes; any tampering by an unapproved ascended would result in the complete self-destruction of the facility in question.”

Ingvar ground the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Grraaah… You mean to tell me we need to get Naiya or Scyllith to unlock an ancient vault of wizard-machinery so I can free Shaath from his own cult?! Why is this my life?”

“Easy,” Joe murmured, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Just for the record,” said Darling, “where are these facilities? How many are there? What do they do?”

“They are widely scattered, I know of seventy-eight which should still be functional apart from this one, and they serve a variety of functions. However, apart from being locked, there is an additional issue. Again, this is secondhand information brought to me by various visitors, but it appears that in the eight millennia since the ascension, every surviving Infinite Order facility has been the victim of a geological event. If my information is accurate—which I am not able to guarantee with certainty—all are now underground or underwater, and this one is somewhat unique for having a surviving access route.”

“Now, how the heck did that happen?” Joe exclaimed. “Sounds a little too inconvenient to be a coincidence.”

“Indeed. The damage appears to have been arranged by Naiya, whose realm of special concern would enable her to carry it out.”

“Why would the Mother be so determined to close off the Elders’ secrets?” Ingvar demanded.

“I must phrase this carefully to avoid treading upon dangerous ground,” said the Avatar delicately. “What do you know of Scyllith’s condition and history since the second ascension?”

“She was exiled from Hell by Elilial,” Joe answered, “and then imprisoned by Themynra deep underground, with about half the drow.”

“Ah, good,” said the Avatar, nodding in relief. “You are adequately up to speed. The relevance of this is that an ascended being, even one weakened by the terms of the second ascension, would not ordinarily be vulnerable to such containment. Though this is conjecture only, the evidence suggests that Scyllith was subjected to further specific degradation using the Infinite Order’s equipment, in order to render her vulnerable to these measures. This would have to have been carried out by Naiya, the only surviving prospect, who logically would then attempt to bury the equipment in question to prevent Scyllith from accessing it.”

Ingvar sighed heavily. “Women.”

“Hang on,” Darling said, narrowing his eyes. “Naiya and Scyllith are the only Elder Gods known to still be alive. But you said there were others whose status was uncertain, right? Four others?”

“Yes!” Ingvar stepped forward eagerly. “The others! Could they still be alive?”

“There are two factors which suggest that they may,” the Avatar replied, “but I must caution you not to raise your hopes; they are quite tenuous at best. First, one of the few detection systems with which this facility is equipped enables it to perceive the direct use of transcension fields, each of which is uniquely identifiable. The personal fields of each of these four have been observed to remain in operation at extremely minimal levels. However, the fields of multiple members of the Infinite Order who I know conclusively to be deceased are likewise barely functional. A transcension field is designed to be a permanent, self-sustaining emplacement, and could not be completely negated except on purpose and with great effort. The other, somewhat more compelling evidence, apart from the lack of specific confirmation of each of these four’s demise, is that each possessed traits which might enable them to survive the transition. All were known to be either neutral or actively favorable toward the renegades, as well as unfriendly to most of the Infinite Order, and may have been warned in time to prepare themselves.”

“Go on,” Ingvar said, staring intensely up at him.

“The likeliest prospect by far is Araneid. She was originally a biologist with an additional focus in social science, and to the very end was one of the most concerned and protective of the Infinite Order toward the surviving human populations, genetically altered or not. At the time of the second ascension, she was in the process of attempting to adjust the elves to cure their dependence upon transcension fields for survival. The results of her efforts were the drow, who are…a work in progress.”

“Why is she the likeliest prospect?” Darling asked.

“This facility has recorded Araneid’s personal transcension field in operation at significant levels which signify its deliberate use by sapients, though still at a lower level than she personally would be capable of. This may suggest she survived in a diminished form, or merely that sapients survived who knew how to access her field. She was close to her drow; that is not improbable. The last such activation occurred three thousand and fifteen years ago.”

“Three thousand years…” Darling winced, turning to Ingvar. “That was during the Third Hellwar. If a wounded, diminished deity last seen where Scyllith is now suddenly went silent in the middle of that…”

“Ouch,” said Joe, grimacing.

Ingvar sighed. “So the likeliest prospect is a former prospect, at best.”

“I am afraid so,” the Avatar said apologetically. “Of the others, Infriss was a physicist specializing in the creation of transcension fields and a major theorist on the function of ascension itself; it is quite conceivable that she might find a way around the transition, even without direct guidance from Tarthriss or the renegades. Druroth was a systems engineer and a particularly irascible member of the Infinite Order who was frequently called down for going behind his colleagues’ backs, even before they fell to infighting. I would consider it a high probability that he would have prepared measures to preserve himself in the event of disaster. He also tended to be rather paranoid. I repeat, all of these are tenuous prospects at best. The evidence only suggests the literal possibility that they may still exist; it does not indicate that they do.”

“And the fourth?” Ingvar said impatiently.

“Vel Hreyd,” the Avatar replied, “was a genetic engineer who, like Tarthriss, believed ascension to be a dead end. His special project was the creation of an offshoot of humanity designed to be the perfect race, and in this he succeeded to his own satisfaction. Their numbers were low at the time of the second ascension, but they remain a significant presence on this planet, and were always quite close to him. With the modified terms of ascension making archetypal concepts and the belief of followers such an essential component of the process, that alone may have sufficed to preserve him.”

“Wait, what?” Joe demanded, frowning. “Which race is the supposedly perfect one?”

“You call them gnomes,” the Avatar said placidly.

“Gnomes?” Ingvar exclaimed. “Gnomes are the perfected version of humanity? They can’t even breed with the other races!”

“That is correct. They were based upon the human genome, but were fully engineered, not bred from existing populations. Thus, they are an entirely separate species.”

“But they’re tiny!” the Huntsman protested. Darling gave him a wry look.

The previously blank left side of the Avatar’s window screen suddenly contained a cross-section of a male gnome, of the kind that looked like it belonged in an anatomy textbook.

“Gnomes are roughly as physically strong as a human, which makes them proportionally far stronger. Their tissues are extremely elastic, rendering them highly resistant to damage of all sorts, and self-repairing to the point that the can regenerate lost limbs and even major organs. Their skeletons are a form of dense yet flexible cartilage which is extremely difficult to break. Their immune systems are extremely sophisticated, rendering them impervious to almost all viral and bacteriological afflictions and preventing them from suffering allergies or any form of cancer. They can metabolize almost any organic matter as a food source. Their unassisted lifespan under optimal conditions is approximately five hundred years, rising to potentially ten times that with the proper application of transcension field energy. They are highly empathic, to the point of minor telepathy in some individuals. In addition to all these direct strengths, they possess several exotic and extremely useful enhancements. For instance, female gnomes consciously choose whether to accept fertilization after sexual intercourse. Gnomes are also able to voluntarily alter their skin, hair, and eye pigmentation, though the process takes several days to complete.”

He ended his speech, letting the diagram vanish, and gazed calmly down at them. All three stared up at him, stunned.

Finally, Joe turned to the others. “Did you guys know any of that?”

Ingvar shook his head. “Well. That’s… I guess that’s something. In fact, it’s more than something; it’s something we can actually do. What do gnomes have for priests? We can ask them about Vel Hreyd.”

“I would strongly advise against that,” Daring said firmly.

Ingvar rounded on him. “What are you on about now?”

“Think,” said the Bishop. “You didn’t know any of that about gnomes. I didn’t. I don’t think most people do—hardly anyone, in fact. I sit on the Imperial Security Council and no one has ever whispered the possibility that those funny little nomads could take us all in any conflict. Think how good they’d have to be at keeping their secrets to pull this off for thousands of years.”

“What does that have to do—”

“I’m gonna lay some history on you,” Darling interrupted. “You two may know part of this, but let me finish. In the aftermath of Horsebutt the Enemy’s campaign, he left a lot of people in the Great Plains when he vanished into the Golden Sea. A significant percentage of the Stalrange’s population followed him toward the promise of easier living, and there they were left, surrounded by centaurs and plains elves on one side and a very pissed-off resurgent Empire on the other. About the only friendly faces they saw were gnomes, the only people aside from centaurs and elves who regularly go into the Sea in serious numbers. And gnomes are usually glad to help people in need; it’s a cultural thing of theirs. They taught the settlers just about everything they know about staying alive out there. Well, when the Empire came calling, setting up forts around the frontier, extending provincial borders and demanding that all these miscellaneous Stalweiss account for themselves, they weren’t about to own up to being the remnants of the same army that had been attacking just a few years previously. Imperial Surveyors came to take census, and most of these folks identified themselves by gnomish names.”

“Gnomish names?” Joe said, lifting his hat to scratch his head.

“Oh, yeah,” Darling replied with a grin. “Old gnomish names. Names like—oh, just for a few random examples—McGraw, Weaver, Jenkins and Darling. Those are gnomish names. Even the prairie accent has a definite relationship to the traditional gnomish one, if you listen for it. All those dropped G’s and wacky idioms. Well, not long after this, suddenly, every gnome family in the world changed their names, which is why all the gnomes now are called things like Fallowstone, Proudfoot, Feathership.” He folded his arms, staring at them intensely. “Every family in the world. They simply all got together and decided that with this brand new human population acting basically half-gnomish, they had to alter their culture to preserve their uniqueness. This shows two extremely important things about gnomes: their entire species is highly organized on a level that would be unimaginable for any other race, and they do not want people getting in their business.” He held their gazes in silence for a moment, then shook his head. “I’d be inclined to respect their secrets even before I learned they’re a race of super-strong, invincible psychics. So, no. As far as any gnomes we meet are concerned, I never heard of any Vel Hreyd, and you haven’t either if you know what’s good for you.”

Joe drew in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Y’know what you need in here? You need some chairs. I feel an urgent need t’sit down.”

The Caretaker chimed eagerly and zoomed around him, rolling swiftly out the door and down the hall.

“Wait!” Joe called after him. “You don’t have to—aw, shoot, he’s gone.”

“Ingvar,” said Darling, watching the Huntsman closer, “I’ll back you if you want to go this route, but… Be aware of the risks. Gnomes are some of the most amiable people out there, but keep in mind they’re also an adventuring culture, generally unafraid of danger, and clearly they are a force to be reckoned with. If they’re keeping a surviving Elder God secret from the world… Honestly, I have no idea what would happen if you showed up asking about it. Maybe nothing. Maybe…something very bad.”

“A major reason for the personable nature of gnomes is their empathy,” the Avatar offered. “Being quite sensitive to the emotions of other sapient beings, they are generally loath to cause harm without significant need.”

“I’ll think on it,” said Ingvar, frowning into the distance. “In fact… If nothing else, I have gained from this conversation the knowledge that there is time to think.”

“Time?” Joe asked, turning to him. “How so?”

“This quest, when presented me, seemed urgent,” said the Huntsman. “The sight of my god, so restrained… I see, now, that it was not that this was a new situation, but that it was new to me.” Face grim, he turned to stare up at the translucent Avatar, who smiled calmly back. “At issue is not that Shaath is imprisoned. All the gods are, and they always have been.”

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The trees reared up ahead of them, less than an hour’s walk away, due southwest. The sun was just peeking over the horizon behind them; early morning mist still clung to the ground in a few places, and the green blades of tallgrass were flecked with dew.

The three had exchanged little conversation as they had a quick breakfast of travel rations and packed away what little gear they’d brought; their campsite had obviously seen much use for that very purpose, with a firepit ready and a half dozen sleeping spots already lined with a leafy type of dried grass which was surprisingly soft. Aside from Ingvar’s observation as they set out that they should reach the grove within an hour, they’d been quiet, enjoying the cool morning and the way the exercise worked away the night’s stiffness.

When six elves arrived around them, it was abrupt as if by magic, yet so smoothly natural it seemed as if they had always been there. They simply melted out of the tallgrass around the party, moving along at their own even pace as if they’d been calmly walking beside them the whole way. This was doubly impressive, the grass being nowhere more than chest-high, and usually a foot lower than that.

Joe let out a muffled yelp, reflexively reaching for his wands; even Ingvar jerked slightly as he came to a stop, laying one hand on his tomahawk.

“Morning!” Darling said brightly, waving to the nearest elf, a man with unbound waist-length hair like spun gold, leaning on a gnarled walking stick. “Lovely day for it, eh? Y’know, truth be told, I wasn’t too sure about all this nature walking. Just yesterday I had a little gripe about all the sun around here. I’ve gotta say, though, it’s growing on me. Not that I’d wanna leave the city on any kind of long-term basis, of course, but this is…I dunno, invigorating! Something about the freshness of the air, I guess. I feel five years younger! But hey, look who I’m telling.”

He came to a stop because Joe and Ingvar had, and the elves did likewise, regarding them with impassive faces. They were a mix of men and women, dressed in practical forest style, with soft fabrics and leathers of green and brown.

“Do you always chatter on this way to conceal nervousness?” asked the one with the staff.

“Do you always assume people who chatter are nervous?” Darling retorted instantly, still wearing his cheerful smile.

“Honestly,” said Joe, tipping his hat, “him jabberin’ like some kinda nitwit just means he’s gettin’ enough airflow. Good morning to you, ladies an’ gentlemen. Name’s Joseph P. Jenkins. These’re Bishop Antonio Darling an’ Brother Ingvar.”

“Yes, we know,” the apparent leader of the scouts replied, glancing at each of them in turn. “Your arrival was…foretold.”

“I’ve been wondering about that,” Darling said, brightly as ever. “Is she as pushy and condescending to you guys as she is to us short-lived folk?”

The elf with the staff studied his face closely for a moment, then finally smiled. “Even more so, I rather expect. My name is Adimel; welcome to our lands. I am here to guide you to your destination.”

“Much obliged,” Joe said politely. Ingvar bowed to them, holding his peace.

“I hope you will not take offense if those in the tribe seem less than eager to have guests,” Adimel said, starting out toward the treeline with no more ado and compelling them to walk with him or be left behind. “The grove is already stirred up with human business thanks to events transpiring in Viridill. Kuriwa’s arrival and…characteristic barking of orders has not done any favors to the Elders’ aplomb. What she asked, furthermore, is a significant imposition.” He gave them a hard glance without slowing. “I hope you understand how very rare it is that this would be shown to outsiders. Any outsiders, much less humans, and Tiraan.”

“Actually,” said Joe, “we have no idea what it is we’re here to see. We’re only following directions.”

“Who’s Kuriwa?” Ingvar asked, frowning.

“Oh, c’mon, you didn’t think her real name was Mary?” Darling asked lightly. “Don’t look at me like that, I’d never heard the name before, either. I know it was her, though, by the account. People being ordered around and not even told what they’re doing; who else could it be?”

Adimel sighed.

Unlike the even-footed forest near Sarasio, this grove rested atop rolling ground which made its deep green shadows somehow more complex. In addition to the gentle swells and valleys of the earth itself, there were frequent outcroppings of rock—old and smoothed by the elements, but tumbled in artful disarray. Several of these contained the mouths of small springs, with splashed down the rocks into pools that then fed meandering streams which traced paths through the lowest levels of the forest.

The trees were without exception ancient, and huge; though there tended to be wide spaces between them, no younger saplings grew, only some low ground-crawling shrubs. Often they rose up from the ground on systems of roots that were themselves as thick as any branch; their wide canopies mostly blotted out the sky, except where they permitted golden streamers of sunlight.

It was quiet, mostly, except for the soft music of songbirds and running water. The air smelled of loam, moss, flowers and fruit. In countenance, the forest resembled a park, thanks to the obvious artistry of its arrangement; clearly every aspect of this land had been carefully shaped over countless years. And yet, for all that, there was an ineffable wildness to it.

In short, it was an elven grove.

They were not taken to the grove proper, at least not to any location where elves kept their homes. The party had been met in a clearing by a single woman who introduced herself as Elder Linsheh; she had stood, waiting patiently, in a single shaft of golden sunlight which made her hair seem to glow. Elves clearly did not lack a sense of drama.

For an elf to be called Elder indicated both respect and a life of at least a thousand years, which was somewhat disconcerting when applied to a woman who could have been barely out of her teens, physically. She had a stillness and gravitas, however, that supported her title.

And, as Adimel had warned, Linsheh was apparently not particularly pleased to meet them.

The group now counted five, the Elder and Adimel continuing along with them while the rest of the scouts melted back into the trees. There were no paths, as such, but Linsheh led them along a course that avoided the taller hills, thicker underbrush and dips into water. It was no harder to walk than the average park.

“We can go in a straight line, if you want,” Darling suggested. “Makes me feel guilty for slowing you down this way. I mean, I’m sure you folks don’t stick to the easy paths when you’re on your own.”

“You know so much of the ways of elves?” Linsheh asked mildly, glancing back at them. Again, her voice and expression were apparently calm, but totally devoid of friendliness.

“Well, you’ve got me there,” Darling said easily. “Here I go, making assumptions. I guess I assumed you wouldn’t go for the easy path, because I find that’s generally true of people whom I respect.”

Adimel chuckled, shaking his head.

“Kuriwa said you were a smooth talker, Bishop Darling,” the Elder commented.

“And did she also say that I talk smoothly in utter sincerity?” he replied. “It’s policy. Just practical, really; smart people are annoyed by flattery, and stupid people are rarely worth impressing.”

She glanced back again, finally permitting herself a small smile. “It seems strange to know you are an Eserite; you remind me strikingly of almost every bard I have ever met. Then again, the silver-tongued thief is also an archetype that exists for good reason.”

“Oh, you like archetypes?” he said cheerfully. “That suggests you’ve met quite a few bards.”

“I have met quite a few of everything, nearly,” she said.

“I guess they all start to blend together, then,” Joe said.

The Elder glanced at him, smiling again. “At first. The beginning of wisdom is learning to see the uniqueness in each repetition of a familiar pattern.”

“Well, now I’m in an awkward position,” said Darling. “Because I’ve frequently had that thought myself, as I grow older, but saying it makes it sound like I consider myself as wise as an elven Elder. That’s just pompous, is what it is.”

“I have never known that to stop you,” Ingvar noted.

“Fair point!” Darling pointed at him, grinning. “Well, that settles it! Whew, for a moment I was concerned.”

Linsheh stopped, turning to face them. She wore a faint smile now, and bowed slightly; Ingvar and Joe both returned the gesture (more deeply) out of reflex. “I feel I should apologize; it is customary for guests in our land to be met with more…enthusiasm. You have come to us at what was a tense moment to begin with, even before the Crow’s request. Kuriwa’s arrival and insistence upon this significant breach of tradition has had a disturbing effect upon us all. Yet, for all that she tends to irritate, she also tends not to be wrong. If she deems it necessary that you be shown these secrets…the Elders have decided to trust that it is so.”

“Honestly, she’d be less annoying if she were wrong more often, I think,” Darling said ruminatively.

“Adimel mentioned trouble, too,” Joe said, frowning. “What’s going on in Viridill?”

“I will bring you up to date on the news if you wish,” Linsheh said calmly, “but it was my understanding you would be eager to seek answers…?”

“Yes, please,” Ingvar replied, giving the other two a quelling glance. “We appreciate your patience very much, Elder. We can learn about human affairs from human sources later, without wasting more of your time.”

“Where is it we’re going?” Darling asked, looking around at the forest.

“Here,” said Elder Linsheh. “We have arrived. Come along, please.”

They were standing upon a flattened patch of ground next to a truly massive tree, its root system rising from a small hill which seemed to have been broken in multiple places to reveal a rocky interior. The Elder slipped into the shadows behind a root, vanishing swiftly into the darkness. The three human visitors paused, glancing uncertainly at each other, before Ingvar squared his shoulders and followed her. The others came along behind, Adimel bringing up the rear.

The shadows of roots and rocks concealed a natural passage into the hill, not narrow but cunningly disguised by its surroundings. Beyond a low opening was a tunnel that descended in a slight curve, its bottom worked into worn old steps.

At the bottom of these, just around the corner from the entrance, was a small grotto, where a burbling spring fed a pool and a stream that meandered through the center of the space before vanishing down a hole in the far wall. Surprisingly, it was not dark; there were several small openings in the roof above through which streams of sunlight penetrated. Streamers of hanging moss dangled from the exposed tree roots above them, and lichens climbed the stone walls. For the most part, it looked quite natural, with the sole exception of a few very conveniently placed stepping stones crossing the stream.

Linsheh had already stepped across these and stopped just on the other side; behind her loomed another dark passageway, descending still deeper.

“What you have come to see,” she said in a serious tone that bordered on the grim, “is something we have guarded carefully far longer than human civilization in its current form has existed. When you have learned what you came here to learn, you may find yourself…resentful. It is a thing of enormous significance that the Elders and people of this tribe keep carefully from the eyes of humans, and of other outsiders. Only shamans on their training quests, and adventuring gnomes, do we allow within. I will ask, when you have seen what lies below, that you consider our reasoning—which I believe you are intelligent enough to perceive without having it explained to you. These secrets contain hints at terrible possibilities; this knowledge offers little that can uplift the peoples of this world, and much that could threaten us all in the wrong hands.”

“This is…” Ingvar frowned deeply. “My quest, Elder, is to seek knowledge of my god, and his situation. We have no interest in weapons or dangerous secrets.”

“Believe me,” she replied, “that was discussed at length when Kuriwa appeared, suggesting that we permit you within.” Her eyes traveled slowly across their small group. “It would be unusual enough to allow a Huntsman within, but for one on a quest such as yours, not necessarily impossible. And Joseph Jenkins is known to be a friend of elves.”

“I am?” Joe asked in surprise. “I mean… I always respected the people near my hometown, but it wasn’t as if I had a lot of contact with ’em.”

“Respect, sincerely felt and simply expressed, is something we notice when we see it,” Linsheh replied, giving him a little smile.

“Why do I suspect I’m the holdout, here?” Darling asked dryly.

The Elder’s smile faded as she leveled a direct stare at him. “When I speak of the wrong hands in which to place dangerous secrets, a ranking thief-priest might as well be exactly what I describe. Kuriwa, however, believes you have something to offer the world that will be to its advantage, and that this will help you, as well. After some discussion, we have agreed to trust her.”

“Huh,” he said, nonplussed. “And here I thought I was just along for the ride.”

“She suggested both of us for this expedition,” Joe pointed out. “I don’t think that lady does anything just for the heck of it.”

“She does seem to enjoy ruffling other people’s feathers,” Adimel commented. “Maybe toward greater purpose, but I suspect there’s a fair amount of ‘just for the heck of it’ involved.”

Linsheh sighed. “Well. I have delayed this enough with talk. What you have come to learn is below.” She stepped to the side, indicating the dark opening behind her. “There is nothing more to be gained by waiting.”

“My thanks, Elder,” Ingvar said respectfully, bowing to her, then stepped forward and approached the gap.

One by one, they passed within, pausing only to nod politely to Linsheh before they vanished into the darkness below, leaving the two elves gazing pensively after them.

“You need to leave.”

Seven armed scouts rose up out of the tallgrass around their little camp, all with weapons in their hands, but not yet lifted in preparation for violence.

“Let me ask you something,” Flora said calmly, smiling at the man who had spoken. “Did you really believe you snuck up on us?”

“Or,” Fauna added, “that we didn’t intend to be spotted here?”

They were perched atop a small hill in the grassy plain outside the grove, where they had cleared away the tallgrass to set up two folding stools and a small arcane camping stove, on which a pot of tea was currently brewing.

“That’s neither here nor there,” the head scout said curtly. “We know what you are—”

“Bet you don’t,” Flora muttered.

“—and you know very well you are not wanted in this or any grove.”

“We are not in the grove,” Fauna said sweetly.

He gritted his teeth. “If I am forced to insist…”

Both girls burst out laughing, then kept laughing, past the point where their would-be ambushers began to look distinctly annoyed. Fauna actually tumbled off her stool and rolled on the ground in a mockery of elvish grace.

Altogether, they made a very stark contrast to the other elves. Aside from having the horizontal ears of the plains folk, both were dressed in dramatic black (which hardly any sensible person did under the prairie sun), Flora with her anachronistic cloak. They might as well have been from a whole other world than the increasingly miffed forest kin in their traditional attire.

“Okay, look,” Flora said, wiping away a tear and grinning broadly. “You don’t own the world, friend, and we aren’t here to challenge your grove.”

“Like I said,” Fauna added, “we’re not in the grove, and don’t plan on entering the grove.”

“This is still far closer to our home than we like to see eldei alai’shi,” the lead scout said grimly.

“Well, that’s just too damn bad, ain’t it?” Flora replied, switching to Tanglish.

“Our friends just went into the trees,” Fauna continued. “They were invited and escorted.”

“We, acknowledging that the Elders would have kittens if we tried to follow, didn’t do so.”

“We’re just gonna wait out here for them to do what they came to do and come out.”

“At which point we’ll depart along with them, and you won’t have to worry about us any more.”

“All this,” Fauna explained, gesturing to the stools and stove, “is a little peace offering. We are not skulking about, or doing anything shady or aggressive.”

“So you have the opportunity to come say hello—it’s nice to meet you too, by the way—and now you can go tell the Elders that we’re not bothering anybody and won’t stay long.”

He frowned, looking at another of his troop as if for confirmation; she shook her head almost imperceptibly. “And if the Elders choose to insist that you leave?”

“They won’t,” Fauna said simply.

“No Elders anywhere would want to provoke that kind of confrontation where they didn’t need to.” Flora added with a smile.

The scout drew in a deep breath through his teeth and let it out in a sigh. “I will…inform the Elders of your…position.”

“You do that,” Fauna replied cheerfully, getting up and brushing off her leather trousers. “Meanwhile, would any of those you’re leaving to guard us like some tea?”

The tunnel seemed to be little more than a grandiose mole hole through dirt for a large part of its length, raising disturbing questions about what prevented it from collapsing. It didn’t, though, and as they continued, the occasional rocks supporting its sides grew more and more frequent, until they were passing almost entirely through stone.

“We must be on the edge of the continental shelf, here,” Ingvar observed.

“The what, now?” asked Joe from up ahead. The elves had not provided them with any sources of light; he could make the tips of his wands glow cleanly, however, and had thus found himself leading the way.

“The Great Plains at the center of this continent were an inland sea, eons ago,” said Ingvar. “And then, as it slowly dried up, a swamp. That’s why that ground is so fertile. But under the ground, it’s an enormous and deep basin of nothing but soil; very few rocky areas, and thus very few caves. Oddities like Last Rock were mostly created by the Elder Gods, long ago.”

“The things you know,” Darling marveled. “What do Huntsmen need with geological history?”

“To know the land,” Ingvar said simply. “We come to know it firsthand, with our senses and our hearts—that is of paramount importance. But there are many ways to know a thing, and more knowledge is always better than less.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Joe agreed.

They had been walking for over half an hour, now, at least. Time seemed to dilate oddly in that dark, lonely environment; it was hard to guess how far they had come or how long they’d been down there. The tunnel proceeded consistently downward, weaving slowly back and forth as it went. At least there were no branches or side passages, and thus no opportunities to get lost. Still, it was an unnervingly claustrophobic space, offering room for them to walk only single-file, and barely tall enough that none of them had to stoop.

Rounding an unusually sharp curve, the tunnel came to an end quite suddenly, and Joe halted, forcing the others to crowd in behind him, peering over his shoulders at what lay ahead.

Their tunnel emerged into the side of an enormous underground chasm, stretching away into infinite darkness to the left and right. The wandlight just barely illuminated its cracked ceiling; the floor was lost to distance and dimness far below, at least as far as they could tell. The view downward was blocked directly in front of them by the bridge which stretched from the foot of the tunnel’s mouth to the opposite side of the canyon.

It was this at which they stared in awe, nearly ignoring the mighty cavern around them.

In contrast to the purely natural surroundings through which they had been passing, the bridge and the door beyond it were so glaringly artificial they seemed almost to have been placed here by accident. The bridge was much wider than the tunnel, broad enough they could all three have walked side by side and been unable to reach the rails to either side. And it was made of metal. It appeared to be steel, gleaming smoothly in the light of Joe’s wand. Despite being down here in the empty darkness, not a single scratch or spot of rust marred it. There didn’t even appear to be any dust or cobwebs.

At the opposite side of the bridge, another large expanse of metal stood in the wall, the size and roughly the shape of the front of a church. Two columns of what appeared to be violet glass flanked an obvious door, a steel portal with a vertical crack down its center, engraved with an elaborate sigil none of them recognized.

After a few moments of silent staring, Joe extinguished the glow of his wand.

Light remained, an eerie purple luminescence put off by the columns, which were glowing just brightly enough to create an island of light in the darkness. In the sudden absence of wandlight, previously hidden lights sprang to life along the rails lining the bridge, as well; they were also sigils, and emitted a pure white radiance to mark the path.

“Huh,” said Joe.

“Yup,” Darling agreed.

“Well,” Ingvar said somewhat impatiently, “we are learning nothing by standing here.”

Joe finally stepped forward, gingerly placing his feet on the steel bridge as if uncertain it would hold his weight. It was fine, though, every bit as solid as it looked. They walked slowly, peering around, but there was really nothing more to be seen than they had observed from the tunnel’s mouth. Only the dark cavern, the glowing door, and the bridge.

In moments, despite the slowness of their approach, they stood before the door.

“Well,” Darling observed, “I don’t see a knob…”

“Perhaps this sign tells us what to do,” Ingvar suggested, raising a hand toward the symbol engraved on the steel door. “If only any of us could read it. Does it remind either of you of anything you have—”

The instant his fingertips brushed the steel, it suddenly parted, causing them all to jump a foot backward. The door shifted to the sides a few inches, opening along its center crack with a soft hiss that suggested the air within had been sealed, then slid almost silently downward into the frame below it, leaving open a passage.

Beyond it was a hallway, made of metal and lined with more lights, both dim purple glass columns decorating its walls and brighter, more utilitarian white glow-spots marching along its ceiling. It terminated a dozen yards or so distant in an apparently round room with a statue in its center.

“Anybody else as inexplicably terrified as I am?” Joe asked, swallowing heavily as if for emphasis.

“Yes,” said Ingvar, and stepped forward through the door.

It hissed shut once they were all through, causing them to jump again and spin around. Darling immediately placed a hand on it, at which it opened again. They tested this twice more to verify that they could get out before proceeding.

At the end of the hall, a broad room opened up, oval in shape, with a statue in its center. Still, everything appeared to be made of glossy steel, including the statue, which was heavily stylized in form but showed a man and a woman standing back-to-back, their hands upraised toward the ceiling over a hundred feet above. This was a dome, deep blue in color, and decorated by an enormous star chart. Both stars and notations in a language none of them recognized glowed an even white. More white lights rimmed the edges of the walls, about halfway up, and there were more decorative columns of glowing purple. Here, too, benches lined the perimeter, made of glossy steel and set with thin cushions of some sleek black material that was surprisingly soft to the touch. Darling tested it first with a hand, and then his rump.

“The thing that troubles me most,” said Ingvar, “is the lack of dust.”

“The thing that troubles me is the noise,” Joe said tensely.

It barely qualified as noise, being only the faintest hum at the very edge of hearing, but it was almost constant. Though less invasive, it sounded like the thrum of powerful arcane energy at work.

As they stood there peering around and listening, there came another whirring sound from one of the hallways branching off from the oval room. All three whirled to face it, Joe and Ingvar raising weapons.

The thing that emerged was wholly bizarre and oddly…cute.

A squat cylinder in shape, it proceeded on three stubby legs, each ending in two thick wheels; its top was a sort of sheared-off dome with one flat face. Though most of the object was metal, bronze in color, the flat part of its “head” was a panel of faintly glowing white with odd little marks upon it. Eight folding, spider-like limbs protruded from around the upper part of its cylindrical body, each tipped in various implements.

In fact, it was pushing a broom. A metal broom whose head had some kind of glowing apparatus attached to it, but nonetheless obviously a broom.

The thing came to a stop just inside, its dome-top rotating to put the glowing panel toward them directly, and emitted a pleasant series of musical chimes.

“Uh,” said Ingvar.

“Please tell me you guys see it too,” Darling said nervously.

“As I live and breathe,” Joe said in awe. “It’s…that’s a golem!”

“That doesn’t look like any golem I’ve ever seen,” Ingvar protested.

“It’s an obviously autonomous self-powered magical machine,” said Joe. “It’s a golem, all right. An’ altogether the last thing I’d’ve expected to find in a secret tunnel under an elven grove.”

“I think that description applies to basically all of this,” Darling replied.

All three shied backward when the golem approached them, chiming eagerly and waving several of its appendages about. Only when it had come within two yards did they realize that the markings on its glowing front panel formed a stylized face, nothing but two round purple dots for eyes and a slash below representing a mouth.

It was, at least, a smiling face.

“Hi there,” said Joe, uncertainly waving the hand not holding his wand. “Uh…what’s your name?”

The golem pivoted about on its whirring wheels and zoomed partway around the statue, pausing a few yards distant to swivel its face back to them. It gestured with two of its peculiar arms, clearly beckoning them forward.

“I think it’s trying to communicate,” Darling observed.

“Yes, obviously,” Ingvar said, giving him an irritated glance. “The question is…do we trust it?”

“Elder Linsheh didn’t suggest anything down here was dangerous,” said Joe. “And…well, Mary did send us here, after all. I say we follow the golem. Ain’t like we’ve got any better ideas, unless one o’ you boys wants to surprise me.”

Ingvar heaved a sigh, but hitched up his quiver and set off after the little golem.

It let out another series of pleasant chimes, apparently excited, and continued on its way.

The golem led them all the way around the statue and to another broad door on the opposite side of the room, directly across from the way they had come in. This seemed to be identical to the outer door of the complex, including in the way it parted upon being touched by one of the little golem’s metal arms.

Beyond was another room, spacious but smaller than the last one, and rectangular in shape. Its walls were entirely lined with peculiar shapes; they seemed like shelves of some matte black substance, each filled with small glowing cylinders of purple glass, none more than a foot in height. In fact, altogether it resembled a library, with luminous tubes instead of books. In the center of the room was a single sheet of colorless glass, positioned facing the door, extending from floor to ceiling.

They came to a stop inside, peering around, as the golem rolled over to the edge of the broad glass panel and continued chiming in excitement.

“Well,” Darling said after a moment. “Here we are. So…where are we?”

All three men jumped backward yet again when a figure suddenly appeared in the glass panel.

It was a man, bald-headed and clean-shaven, wearing a sleek suit of totally unfamiliar design. He was translucent and purple, as if he were nothing but a reflection in the glass.

“You are in Data Vault Three, established by Tarthriss of the Infinite Order,” said a voice from all around them. It was a pleasant tenor, and carried a peculiar resonance that clearly did not come from any human throat. Though the glass man’s mouth moved along with the words, the voice itself definitely came from the walls, not from him directly. “It has been several solar cycles since this facility has had visitors. I am Avatar Zero Three, and very pleased to make your acquaintance. How may I assist you?”

“Uh,” Joe said intelligently. “Uh, the…what? The who? Who are the Infinite Order?”

“The Infinite Order,” said the Avatar, smiling benignly, “are an organization of scientists and engineers who embrace the philosophy that reason and science hold the keys to the purpose of both the sapient life and the universe itself. They journeyed to this solar system and established this planet as a research and development facility dedicated to the fulfillment of the Ascension Project.”

“Oh…kay,” Joe said, frowning. “But…who are the Infinite Order?”

The Avatar’s ghostly face smiled again, but it seemed almost sad, this time. “Compiling current roster and status of the Infinite Order. Scyllith: active. Naiya: active. Araneid: …uncertain. Infriss: unknown. Druroth: unknown. Vel Hreyd: unknown.” He hesitated, his expression growing distinctly solemn, before continuing. “All other members of the Infinite Order are confirmed deceased…including my maker, Tarthriss.”

“Sorry t’hear that,” Joe said reflexively, removing his hat.

“That’s…you’re talking about the Elder Gods,” Ingvar breathed.

“Tarthriss preferred to refrain from the use of such terminology, deeming it both causative and symptomatic of the Infinite Order’s systemic breakdown,” said Avatar 03. “Out of respect for him, I do not refer to ascended beings as ‘gods,’ but based upon my comprehension of both this language and the current state of such beings, it is not necessarily inaccurate.”

“Are you…all alone down here?” Joe asked, frowning.

“This facility has very occasional visitors,” the Avatar replied. “For the most part, however, Caretaker Seven is my only company. You have already met him, I see.”

The golem chimed enthusiastically, waving several of its arms, its stylized little face beaming in goodwill.

“What brings you to this Data Vault?” inquired the Avatar.

“I am on a quest,” Ingvar blurted out, pausing to regather his poise. “That is, I am seeking information concerning the state of my god, Shaath, and how he might be helped. Tell me…is it possible for a god to be imprisoned?”

“There are many ways the status of an ascended being could be interfered with,” Avatar 03 replied. “A great deal depends upon the specifics. I shall be glad to convey what information I can; if you can provide more detail as to the unique situation of Shaath I may be able to render a more helpful analysis. Alternatively, if you would like access to broader data on the nature and origin of the ascended beings on this planet, I can give a full account of the Ascension Project.” The ghostly figure smiled benignly, and appeared to bow; such physical gestures looked rather odd, with him being clearly a projection in the glass screen. “It depends on how much time, patience, and interest you have. If you are willing, I would be delighted to explain everything.”

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10 – 33

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The land stretching south of Fersis seemed to be a sprawling transition between the Great Plains to the north and the forest that climbed steadily from the horizon as they approached. The town itself had been small and unmemorable, barely of a size to afford itself a Rail station, and that likely only because this was as close as the Empire could plant a transportation hub to the nearest elven grove. Unlike the neighbors of Sarasio, these elves clearly cherished their privacy and didn’t encourage visitors. To the other side of their forest lay Viridill, and apparently the nearest town in that direction was also most of a day’s hike away.

It was, so far, unmistakably a prairie, though one which bore little resemblance to the Golden Sea. The tallgrass was of a different species than its northern cousin, shorter, leafier and in varying shades of green and brown rather than the uniform gold. Other plant life was in evidence, as well, from towering ferns to various thorny shrubs, and even the occasional tree, most bent southward by years of steady wind. Even the geography was more varied; during the course of the day they had passed several streams and ponds, and here and there the prairie rolled upward into little hillocks (often with clumps of brush sheltered on their southern sides) or downward in shallow bowls.

According to Ingvar, there were also more animals about than in the Golden Sea. While the local tallgrass mostly grew no higher than mid-chest, it was apparently enough to camouflage these creatures; at any rate, Darling and Joe perceived no sign of them.

By midafternoon, they had made enough progress that Fersis was an invisible memory behind them, and the Green Belt loomed ahead, with beyond it a haze on the horizon that was the rolling mountain range of Viridill.

“Never thought I’d hear myself say this,” Darling sighed, “but I miss the Stalrange.”

“I never thought to hear you say that, either,” Invar remarked, glancing back at him with a faint smile. “You didn’t seem to fit in with the locals.”

“Oh, I thought the Rangers were very nice,” the thief said lightly. “But no, I meant the landscape. If we must traipse about on interminable nature hikes, that was a friendlier place to do it.”

“Seriously?” Joe asked. None of them were out of breath, even after walking most of the day with only a short break every hour. “That was much more vertical country. This is almost literally a walk in the park, next to the Stalrange. Almost reminds me of home.”

“Ah, but the cool mountain air,” Darling said, squinting up at the cloudless sky. “The scent of pines… The shade of pines. Whoof, I think I’ve had my yearly allotment of sunshine today.”

Ingvar had to grin at that. “And suddenly, your general pastiness makes a great deal more sense.”

“Hey, gimme a break,” Darling protested. “You live in Tiraas, you know what it’s like! In my hometown, the sky is frequently an upside-down swamp. This much sunshine can’t be healthy.”

“Hm…that’s actually a point, there,” Joe remarked, then plucked the wide-brimmed hat from his head and held it out toward Darling. “Here, put this on.”

“Oh, cut it out, it’s not that bad. I used the same sun oil you two did…”

“Uh huh,” said the Kid, unimpressed. “An’ what else do you notice? Ingvar’s got himself a proper tan, on account of this not bein’ his first nature hike by a long shot. And as for me…” He grinned, pointing at his face, which was a shade darker in complexion than either of theirs. “We may all three be of Stalweiss stock originally, but I wear the legacy of my Punaji grandmother an’ my ma’s grandpa from Onkawa. Ah, the joys of bein’ a mutt. You, blondie, are gonna fry like a hotcake before we ever reach the trees. Wear the hat.”

“Actually, dusk will fall before we arrive at the forest at this pace,” said Ingvar. “Keep your eyes peeled for serviceable campsites; while I do enjoy making good time, if a particularly promising one arises, we may wish to take advantage and rest for the remainder of the day. This close to an elven forest, there are likely to be well-used spots. Hidden, but not to the point of being secret. Watch the copses and hilltops.”

“Maybe we’ll run into some of the elves before then,” Darling suggested, now with Joe’s black hat perched incongruously atop his blonde locks, where it did not at all go with his outfit. Black theoretically matched everything, but the man seemed to have designed his suits to clash with everything.

“Elves have senses far keener than ours,” said Ingvar, “as you well know, and they will be in the habit of having scouts patrol their borders regularly. And that only concerns the mundane; their shamans will surely cast regular divinations to watch for intruders. If they even need to take such measures. For any very old practitioners of the Mother’s ways, especially elves, the land and the wind begin to speak as old friends. I would be amazed if they are not already aware of our presence.”

“I see a distinct lack of greeting parties, then,” Darling noted wryly.

“Don’t make assumptions about whether elves are around based on whether you see them,” Joe said with a grin. “Anyhow, even if we aren’t bein’ stalked by their scouts, it ain’t in their nature to roll out the welcome mat for uninvited guests. Elves like their privacy, an’ these folk ’round here are right on the edges of Imperial civilization. The elves near my hometown were fairly sociable by comparison, but I wouldn’t be surprised if these have a particularly bad taste in their mouths about clumsy humans bumblin’ around in their lands.”

“Indeed,” said Ingvar. “There are doubtless some still living who remember being slowly pushed out of what is now Calderaas by expanding human populations. Long ago, the Tira Valley and the lands west of the Wyrnrange were acknowledged human territory, while everything from the Green Belt north to the Dwarnskolds was the domain of the elves.”

“I didn’t realize you were a student of history, Ingvar,” Darling commented.

“Certain aspects of history. I think it would surprise you, what Huntsmen are called upon to know.”

“I’m willing to believe it would. Ah, well,” he said, removing Joe’s hat for a moment to fan himself with it. “Hopefully Mary came ahead to smooth the way. As I understand it, she’s not terribly well liked among the tribes, but is at least listened to. If we have to just bumble into a crowd of strange elves, I’m not certain even my sweet-talking skills are up to the task of getting access to…whatever it is we’re here to see.”

“I reckon she probably did,” Joe mused, “though I’ve noticed it ain’t sound policy to make assumptions about what Mary has or hasn’t done.”

“I would have assumed that even before meeting her,” said Ingvar.

“Gods aside,” Darling said thoughtfully after a moment of quiet walking, “this trip has already been a chance to stretch my wings, and not just because of all the exposure to the great outdoors. Dealing with people’s always been my strong suit, but…I’m just starting to realize what a narrow conception of people I’ve had. Living in the great melting pot of Tiraas, you don’t think of the people there as ‘narrow,’ and yet here I am, out of my element.”

“Were the people in Veilgrad so very different?” Ingvar asked.

“Veilgrad, no. The mountains outside Veilgrad are another matter. And…elves. Honestly, I have absolutely no idea how to proceed, here, which is an unusual feeling for me. There are some cultures where my kind of charm is nothing more than annoying.”

“I bet there are more a’ those’n you realize,” Joe muttered.

“You are at least somewhat acquainted with elves, are you not?” Ingvar inquired, glancing back at him. “After all, your apprentices are elves.”

“Plains elves,” said Darling. “No kin at all to the tribe we’re about to drop in on uninvited. And anyway, Flora and Fauna are in the process of learning how to be Eserite and Imperial; we don’t spend a lot of time discussing their home customs. Any time, really. In fact, now that I think about it, basically all the elves I know are pretty well assimilated and almost as Tiraan as anyone else, from the new Avenist Bishop to the drow of Lor’naris.” He grinned, stepping to the side as they walked to get a view around Joe of the forest ahead. “This will be…different. It’s been a good while since I had a chance to meet people who’re a complete mystery to me.”

“In fact, I vividly recall your last such chance,” Invar said dryly, looking back at him again. “Maybe you had better let me do the talking when we arrive.”

“How the tables have turned,” Darling muttered.

“So,” Joe drawled, “you find yourself out in the unknown, your skills and your very understanding of the world useless, and facing the very real chance that any action you take will be the wrong one. Bein’ unaccustomed to not knowin’ your footing, you feel even more helpless than you maybe actually are. Sound about right?”

“I think that might be overstating it just a little,” Darling protested.

“Y’know, a real smart fella once gave me a piece of good advice about just such a situation.”

Joe came to a stop, turning to face him and tucking his hands in his pockets, a sly little smile on his lips.

“Grow up.”

He held the startled Bishop’s gaze for a long moment, Ingvar also pausing to watch them curiously. Then Joe turned without a word to resume their trek.

They continued onward toward the grove, Darling still bringing up the rear, and for some reason laughing as if he’d just heard the best joke of his life.

Though it had been cleverly designed to maximize its use of space and seem expansive in its proportions, the small size of the Vidian temple beneath Last Rock was extremely evident with the entire Vidian population of the town present. They were less than thirty, but it really was a small temple; the room was almost uncomfortably warm with so many bodies present, and even their muted voices created a constant babble that seemed to fill the space, given how excited the undercurrent of conversation was.

Exactly two native townspeople had been practicing Vidians before this academic year, for a given value of “practicing.” Everyone else present had been drawn by the calling of Gabriel Arquin as paladin, and this was actually a lesser population than had been in the town only a few months before. Now, the remaining hangers-on had integrated themselves somewhat, either finding (usually intermittent) employment in Last Rock or subsisting on personal savings and creating custom for the local innkeepers.

In all that time, very few of them had managed to have a conversation with their paladin, who seemed to go out of his way to be reclusive. Val Tarvadegh, the temple’s official presiding priest and the only one who was actually supposed to be there, tended to monopolize the time Arquin spent on the premises. Since this was at the specific assignment of Lady Gwenfaer herself, no one quite dared complain; the faith’s mortal leader wasn’t known to be heavy-handed, but she was known to be sly even by Vidian standards, and one never knew what whispers might find their way to her ears. They did indulge in complaining about their inability to seek Arquin out on the University campus, since Professor Tellwyrn quite famously didn’t give a damn what anyone had to say about her.

Now, for the first time, the Hand of Vidius himself had called an assembly of every member of the faith in Last Rock. It was very short notice, but every one of them had dropped their other business and come running.

It wasn’t quite so crowded that people had to stand; the aisle was clear, as were the nooks between the columns that supported the sides of the temple. Marking a space between the temple grounds and the dirt outside them, these zones were considered sacred, as were all boundaries in the faith. The small dais at the back of the chapel was also clear, with only Val Tarvadegh and the other, newer priest, Lorelin Reich, standing calmly at its edge, awaiting the arrival of the guest of honor.

Most of the attention of those assembled was on the other guests. Three Tiraan soldiers stood at attention near the stairs leading up to the ground floor above—and not the three who lived on the campus and could often be seen about town. They were clustered to one side of the door, stiffly ignoring the assembled citizens. On the other side stood a woman with the black hair and tilted eyes of the Sifanese and related peoples, wearing the silver gryphon badge of an Imperial Marshal.

The anticipation was almost a physical presence. It hung so heavy over the little chapel that the sudden arrival of the paladin who had called the meeting brought an instant and total hush, unmarred even by expressions of shock at his abrupt appearance. No one had heard the upper door opening, but they of all people knew the tricks of misperception that ranking members of the faith could perform.

Arquin stood silently in the doorway for a few long moments, an intense young man with tousled dark hair, wearing a Punaji-style greatcoat of green corduroy in a shade so deep it was nearly black. At his waist hung a black-hilted saber of elven design; there was no sign of his god-given weapon on his person. He clutched his left wrist with his right hand, hard enough to rumple the fabric of his coat, and his expression was intent, but unreadable. In silence, he swept his dark eyes over the assembly, resting them for a moment on each of the two priests standing in the back.

“You all seem like nice people,” he said suddenly. “Thanks for coming, I know this was sudden. Sorry you haven’t seen much of me before today, but quite frankly I’m not at this University or on this earth to be gawked at, and most of you have no actual business here.”

There was a faint, awkward stir at that. The Marshal stood in silence to his left, her eyes perpetually scanning the room.

Arquin inhaled softly and let the breath out in a faint huff, then stepped forward a few paces till he was nearly abreast of the nearest row of benches.

“That’s now how you’re used to being spoken to in a temple of Vidius, is it? Yes, believe me, I know the customs. I’ve been studying them pretty, uh, intensively. False faces. A mask for every occasion.” His jaw tightened momentarily before he continued. “Everybody means well, more or less, but with doctrines like that… You pretty much can’t not have a thousand agendas for every hundred people, can you? Canniness and misdirection just make for a good Vidian, after all. I have to say, I’ve learned to greatly appreciate our doctrines of integrity. If not for that, the sense of truth to oneself and to the faith that’s emphasized so heavily to us, I figure the main difference between us and a bunch of Eserites would be their ability to get things done.”

There was another stir, this time with a few soft protests. They quickly fell silent as Arquin swept the room with his eyes again, now frowning in clear displeasure.

“I’ve been giving some thought,” he said, “to why Vidius would call a paladin from outside the faith. It’s been done before, of course. What was her name, that Hand of Avei? Val?”

By the dais in the back, Val Tarvadegh cleared his throat. “Laressa of Anteraas.”

“Yes, right! That’s the one, the Peacemaker. A few others. There was always a specific purpose for that when it happened. I know you’ve all been wondering what purpose Vidius had in pulling this…funny little trick on all of us. Well, I have too. And I recently was given some insight by the new priestess among us. Hey, Ms. Reich, would you join us up here?”

He beckoned with his left hand, at the same time drawing the black sword with his right. Lorelin Reich, having started to step forward immediately on being called, hesitated for a moment at this, her eyes flicking to the weapon, before continuing down the aisle toward him.

“I’m not sure I understand, Lord Gabriel,” she said in a rich contralto that was clearly accustomed to public speaking. “In fact, I haven’t yet had the pleasure of a conversation with you.”

“You could say I was inspired by your example,” said Arquin, staring at her with an intensity that bordered on ferocity. He flexed the fingers of his left hand almost convulsively before slipping it into the pocket of his coat.

“Well…in that case, consider me honored to have been of any service,” Reich said smoothly, gliding to a stop a few feet distant and bowing to him.

“Mm,” Arquin said noncommittally, eyes fixed on her face as if he were trying to memorize it. “You’re a good Vidian, aren’t you, Lorelin? Mind if I call you Lorelin?”

“Not at all, milord,” she said. “And I certainly try, though of course we all serve in our own way, according to our gifts. No one is a sufficient judge of their own—”

“Knock it off,” he said curtly, causing her to blink in startlement and several of the onlookers to gasp. “That is what I mean, Lorelin. There you are with a ready handful of doublespeak for anything I say. A mask for every occasion, right? Just like a good Vidian.”

She hesitated, staring at him, before replying. “Well… I am not sure what to reply to that, milord. Have I done something to offend you?”

“Oh, we’ll get to that in a moment,” he said coldly. “Everyone, I have come to a conclusion with regard to my calling. The faith of Vidius does not need a moral example, like a Hand of Omnu. You don’t need a battle leader, like the Hand of Avei. You know your business just fine. Unfortunately, your business encourages you to be more clever than is necessarily good for you. By and large, maybe that’s fine… But these aren’t by and large times. In case you haven’t noticed, the world is… Well, it’s changing, and I’m not just talking about social, political, economic issues. You all know about that. There’s something big happening. A great doom is coming. You need to be preparing for that. Preparing to help Vidius meet whatever threat comes. What you need is a taskmaster. Someone to keep you all on point.”

He withdrew his hand from his pocket; in it was the gnarled black wand given to him by their god. Quite a few pairs of eyes fixed on the weapon.

Lorelin Reich smiled and dipped her head in a semi-bow. “How can we be of service—”

“Shut your clever mouth,” Gabriel snarled.

The silence was immediate, total, and stunned.

“Among the things I cannot have you people doing,” the paladin continued, his face clenching in an expression of near fury, “is placing your own political agendas above not only the needs of the faith, but the safety and welfare of those around you. Like, for example, by deliberately casting a shroud of passions over an entire town, to make them susceptible to manipulation.”

“What?” someone exclaimed in a quavering voice from near the back.

“What are you talking about?” Lorelin demanded, staring at him in an expression of alarm. “Who would do such a thing?”

She tried to jerk back at the sudden motion of his left arm, but not fast enough. The wand morphed in his hand, extending instantly into a roughly-shaped black scythe, its curved blade apparently marred by rust, but its cutting edge gleaming wickedly. Gabriel whipped it around to hook the blade behind Lorelin Reich’s head, cutting off her retreat. She froze as the edge of the weapon came to rest against the back of her neck.

“It’s time to remove the mask, Lorelin,” Gabriel said in a voice like ice.

Behind him, the Marshal cleared her throat and stepped forward.

“Lorelin Reich, you are under arrest in the name of the Emperor for two hundred forty-six counts of unlawful magical influence.”

“You had better have a great deal more than this boy’s say-so,” Reich said furiously, her clenched fists quivering at her side. “Paladin or no, that is nothing but—”

Screams rang out and a mad scramble ensued as everyone tried to scoot or step away from the edges of the room. In every alcove along the walls, and all over the dais in the back, suddenly stood wavery figures, indistinct as if viewed through water. They were clear enough, though, to be clearly women garbed in dark armor, with black wings folded behind them, each carrying a scythe.

“Lesson number one,” said Arquin flatly. “Never assume the Hand of Vidius does not know your secrets. My eyes can look beneath any mask.”

“That’s…you can’t…” Reich swallowed convulsively. “A valkyrie’s testimony is not admissible in a court of law!”

“Oh, you just made that up,” the Marshal said lazily. “There’s no precedent for it, sure, but…”

“In order for a valkyrie to testify,” said Arquin, “the trial would have to be held on Vidian holy ground. There is a precedent for that; I checked.” He began slowly lowering his arm, pulling the blade of the scythe forward and forcing Reich to step closer to him or risk learning exactly how sharp it was. She opted not to test it, taking grudging little steps toward him. “They can, as you see here, appear where the land is consecrated to their god. For them to actually speak, an additional blessing would be required. And hey, guess what I just learned how to do!”

He suddenly raised his sword, pressing its tip against Reich’s sternum; she gulped audibly, her eyes cutting down to it. Arquin continued to slowly pull forward with the scythe, forcing her to bend forward in a bowing position and hold it.

“But let’s not make me go to all that trouble, shall we, Lorelin? Tell you what… You be a good girl and cooperate with the nice Marshal, and the good folks in Imperial Intelligence who’ll want to ask you some questions. Then they’ll be inclined to be nicer to you…” His voice hardened still further. “And I will refrain from telling my good friend Juniper how your scheme involved hurting her pet bunny.”

“I did nothing of the kind!” Reich said shrilly, her whole body swaying and trembling in place as she fought to keep her balance in the awkward position.

“I can see how the sudden change of topic might have confused you,” Gabriel growled. “A dryad isn’t an Imperial magistrate. I don’t have to prove to Juniper beyond a reasonable doubt that you molested her pet; I just have to tell her you did.”

A golden shield flashed into place around Reich’s bent form. It had absolutely no effect on the scythe behind her; a sparkling haze lit up around the black saber, previously invisible blue runes flaring to life along its blade. Neither weapon wavered.

“That is not helping your case, Lorelin,” Arquin said with a very cold smile. “Cut it out. Now.”

She held the shield for a moment before letting it drop, emitting a strangled sob. Terrified silence hung over the chapel now, all those assembled staring either at the furious paladin or the looming reapers.

“Now then,” Arquin said in a tight voice, “you’re going to be cooperative, correct? And don’t worry, I’ll have valkyries continue to watch you and make sure the Empire doesn’t handle you too roughly. You’re still a member of the faith, after all. At least until Lady Gwenfaer decides that selling us out to the Archpope’s political agenda and publicly embarrassing the entire cult is worth excommunication. You understand?”

“Yes,” she choked, teetering desperately between the two blades.

“Splendid,” he said curtly, suddenly whipping the sword away and giving her a gentle nudge with the haft of the scythe. Reich collapsed to the side, where she curled up around herself on the floor, crying quietly.

“As for the rest of you,” Arquin said frostily, lifting his eyes to drag a fierce stare around the room. “Find something more constructive to do with yourselves. Unless you have a legitimate reason to be in Last Rock—which means an employer and a landlord who’ll vouch for you—I want you out of town by sunset tomorrow. This is not a vacation spot, and I am not a tour guide. A great doom is coming, and your god needs you. Get to work.”

He turned abruptly to go, then paused, and glanced back over his shoulder at them.

“And do not make me come tell you again. So help me, I will whip this cult into shape to face what’s coming. You don’t want to be the one I have to start on. The Hand of Death doesn’t bother with masks.”

Finally, he strode forward onto the staircase, quickly vanishing into the shadows above. The Marshal made a quick motion, spurring the soldiers forward to collect Reich, then turned to follow him.

At last, the valkyries faded back into invisibility.

Standing by the dais in the back of the chapel, Val Tarvadegh stared wide-eyed after his departed paladin, his hands clutched together before him as if in prayer.

They stood a few yards distant, near the point where one of Last Rock’s streets opened onto the Golden Sea and the nearby Vidian temple, watching the soldiers usher a very subdued Lorelin Reich into a waiting carriage with barred windows. Another uniformed officer sat in the driver’s seat.

Gabriel waited until Reich was secured within before letting out a low hiss. He jerked his left sleeve back, revealing a braided cord wrapped around his wrist, which he quickly but clumsily clawed off and stuffed into his coat pocket, muttering furiously to himself the whole time. With the bracelet stowed away, he stood there grimacing and alternately rubbing his wrist where it had been and dry-washing the fingers of his right hand against his coat.

Marshal Avelea watched this performance with raised eyebrows, but apparently decided to let it pass without comment.

“Having a valkyrie monitor our proceedings isn’t necessary, just for the record. We don’t abuse potentially useful prisoners anyway.”

“That was for her benefit, not yours,” Gabriel said, still wincing and rubbing his wrist. “You’re probably aware that Vidian clerics have…certain skills. Misdirection, stealth… I’m sure Imperial Intelligence has the ability to counter that, but I thought it’d be less trouble for everybody if she knew not to try it.”

“Ah.” The Marshal nodded, smiling faintly. “Well. If I may say so, that shows both your lack of experience and your good instincts. Lorelin Reich is a political creature; as of now, her focus will be on damage control, and trying to salvage as much of her life from this as possible. I expect her to be eagerly cooperative once she’s had the chance to regain her poise; she’ll fall over herself to sell out the Archpope in exchange for leniency. The last thing she’ll want to do is become a fugitive from Imperial justice.”

“Oh,” he said grimacing. “I guess…yeah.”

“I must say,” she continued, “you handled that…surprisingly well. Given what I was briefed on your history, I expected you to be rather more nervous, giving a speech like that.”

“Yeah, well.” Gabe shrugged and rubbed his wrist again. “I asked Professor Rafe for something to help keep me calm and focused.”

“I see,” she said, her lips thinning faintly in disapproval. “Well, whatever works. As a matter of general policy, though, I would not get in the habit of depending on drugs to help you function.”

“Yeah, that’s what Rafe said. Anyway, it wasn’t drugs so much as a hemp bracelet impregnated with a special formulation of katzil venom that caused constant pain but no damage. Apparently the outward symptoms of pain look almost exactly like those of righteous outrage. I wasn’t so sure, but damn if it didn’t work.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out in one blast, glancing back at the door to the subterranean temple. “Good thing, too. I may still need to go home and throw up…”

“Ah.” Avelea nodded, a smile spreading slowly over her features. “Well. That’s another matter, but…similar. Best to develop the ability to handle such situations unaided.”

“Right, agreed. But that’s an ability I haven’t developed before now, and I’ll practice on my own time, with lower stakes. When things matter, I’m gonna use every trick I have available.”

“Also a wise policy. You mind if I have a look at that? I’ve actually never heard about such a formula.”

“Oh, uh… I guess I should specify it causes pain but no harm to me. You’d be better off keeping your non-hethelax hands to yourself. Sorry.”

“Right. Quite so.” She nodded again, her smile widening. “Well, Mr. Arquin… Much to my surprise, I find it has been a pleasure to work with you. Next time you’re in Tiraas, do look me up; my office will know where I am.”

“I, uh, appreciate that,” he said carefully. “But with the greatest possible respect, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but… Honestly I would prefer not to be dealing with Intelligence any more than I absolutely have to.”

Avelea’s smile extended still further. “I didn’t say Intelligence. I said look me up.” She held his startled gaze for a long moment, then deliberately winked, before turning away to stroll to the carriage. “Take care, Gabriel.”

The Marshal climbed up onto the driver’s seat beside the soldier, and the other troopers took up positions on small platforms at the corners of the vehicle. The carriage purred to life, and rolled off toward the Rail platform, where a special carrier car was standing by for it.

Gabriel stood alone on the plain, smiling vaguely and still absentmindedly rubbing at his wrist.

“Hopefully I don’t need to remind you,” said Ariel, “that that woman is a professional spy, who is cultivating a relationship with you for tactical advantage and not out of personal interest.”

He sighed heavily, his pleased expression vanishing. “Can you just for once let me enjoy something?”

“Fine. You may enjoy it for two minutes, and then we need to resume dealing with reality.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, turning to head back up the mountain. “I have a feeling I just kicked a whole hornet’s nest of reality…”

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“Sure is takin’ his sweet time,” Joe muttered, pacing back and forth in the mouth of the alley.

Ingvar just glanced at him in silence before turning his head again to peruse the street beyond. Despite being a few yards distant, he had a better view of Veilgrad by dint of being perched atop a stack of crates against one side of the warehouse.

They had returned from the mountains to find the city stirred like a kicked anthill. Their inkeeper had been full of fanciful yarns about demons and chaos, which all three had taken with a pinch of salt. The other citizens of Veilgrad were not so easy to ignore, however, given how many were milling around in the streets, several even seeming to have formed protests in front of the governor’s office and the main Imperial Army barracks. All this the three of them would happily have brushed off and made their own exit from the city, save that whatever had transpired had caused a lockdown. The Rails were running, but there were checkpoints at all the city gates and in other places besides, and according to the least outrageous rumors they’d managed to get from irate passersby, Grusser was on the verge of declaring martial law.

For now, Joe and Ingvar lurked quietly in a warehouse district, avoiding everything and everyone as much as possible. Darling, being both the most city-savvy among them and the one with the highest political rank, had gone to see what he could learn. It had been two hours, and Ingvar had actually been somewhat impressed with Joe’s patience up till the last few minutes. City dwellers in general, he had observed, lacked the inclination and possibly the ability to be still and calm without constant stimulation. Joe, of course, hailed famously from a very small town, but he was clearly no country boy (despite his prairie accent and the cowboy affectations in his attire), and had never been on a hunt in his life. Ingvar wouldn’t really have expected him to remain calm and focused for hours on end while waiting to learn the fate of their plans to escape the city.

In truth, he might not have expected himself to manage it at Joe’s age.

For his part, he was glad enough of the chance not to talk, and had been grateful that Joe seemed to share his feeling. Darling, of course, had blathered on as blithely as always before leaving them; only after a few days of observing him closely was Ingvar sure he was covering the same unease they both felt. That experience—vision, dream, whatever it had been—had left the three of them with a lot more than a newfound understanding of wolves.

At least Ingvar found solace in mulling his new insights into the sacred beasts. Joe and Darling had little to think about but whatever hung between them, now. It was a very strange thing; Ingvar still didn’t know any more about the histories of these two men than he had before climbing the mountain, but was left with the feeling of deep comprehension and familiarity one usually felt only toward lifelong friends. Or family.

It had also not escaped his notice that Mary the Crow likely did nothing by accident, and surely had deep plans of her own, irrespective of his, Shaath’s, Darling’s, or anyone else’s. He was beginning to resign himself to the fact that they were going to have to talk about this at some point, if for no other reason than to prevent the Crow from casually manipulating them like chess pieces. It was a testament to how rattled Darling must be that he hadn’t already proposed it. The question remained, though, what she intended to accomplish by drawing the three of them closer together.

“All right, I’m gonna have a look around,” Joe said suddenly, peering out the mouth of the alley again.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Ingvar asked.

“Frankly? No.” The Kid glanced up at him, eyes just barely visible under the brim of his hat. “Very likely ain’t wise or necessary, but I’m losin’ my mind, here. Walkin’ helps calm a body down. I’m just gonna do a quick spin around the block, see if I spot anything useful.”

“Very well,” Ingvar replied, beginning to rise from his seat. “If you want…”

“You better stay here,” Joe said somewhat gruffly. “This is where the Bishop’s comin’ back to, when he does. Won’t be long.”

He turned and slipped out of the alley, vanishing around the corner before Ingvar could reply. The Huntsman sighed softly and settled himself back down atop his crate. Well, at least he wasn’t the only one disturbed and on edge.

And he had time alone, now, to think. Not that he hadn’t done plenty of that in the dark on the mountainside after they awakened from their vision quest, but, in truth, that had been mostly reeling from shock, disbelief, and a whole torrent of emotions that it had taken him the bulk of the night to process, at least to the extent of controlling himself. Ingvar had come to believe that Mary was firmly right: you simply could not rip the world out from under a person like that and expect them to bear up well. He would not have been able to accept it at all, if not shown in that careful manner, and did not think less of himself for that.

Which was the problem he faced going forward. The Huntsmen of Shaath were men of action; knowing something like this about the condition of his god and not doing something about it was unthinkable. But what? How? One thing was certain: Ingvar could not overturn centuries of flawed dogma on his own. But how could he possibly bring more Huntsmen to his side? He could hardly coax them one by one up into the hills to meet with the Rangers and be ambushed by visions. Even if the Rangers were willing, not everyone would react the same way, it would take centuries just to do… So many problems swarmed up from his mind to swamp that idea that Ingvar dismissed it entirely.

Not to mention that not every lodge would even listen to him. There had been some tense moments during the campaign against the Wreath in Tiraas that spring; only the presence of his brother Huntsmen from the lodge had warded off trouble from some others, and even so it had been a close thing. Not every Huntsman would acknowledge him a man, much less a fellow Huntsman. Why had he been called to this?

He stood, stretching his limbs, and climbed down from his perch to take over Joe’s duty of pacing up and down the alley. After a couple of hours he was stiff, but not badly; a hunt required far more patience than merely this. The lack of sleep was weighing on him more heavily.

Well, perhaps it was premature to worry about the future yet. He would definitely have to do something, but perhaps the remainder of this quest would give him more direction. Mary had not deigned to tell them their next steps before vanishing, but Joe had said that before she left (which was before Ingvar had returned to their campsite) she had confirmed they had more yet to do. Not to mention that once the actual quest was done, he had agreed to help her find out who had sent him those dreams and visions.

Could it have been Shaath? Ingvar doubted it, and not merely on Mary’s say-so. The god of the wild would not be eager to reveal himself in a position of weakness. And anyway, that came back to the same question: why him? Glumly, Ingvar had to acknowledge that he was possibly the worst conceivable choice for some kind of reformist movement.

Could the Huntsmen even be reformed? As they were now…they were the living binds of their god, it seemed. He still didn’t know what to do with that horrible knowledge himself. What could the whole faith possibly do with it, except…die?

The sounds of feet were soft and did not catch his attention; he’d grown accustomed to tuning them out during his time in cities. The figures suddenly blocking off the front of the alley, however, were another matter. Ingvar abruptly ceased his pacing, pivoting on one foot and smoothly moving his bow to his left hand and reaching toward his quiver before even getting a proper glimpse of the new arrivals.

There were two of them, both bearded men in the very familiar garb of the Huntsmen. An older man, the one who had been telling stories outside the city gate when they’d first arrived, and one of his younger compatriots. Both armed, of course, and staring directly at him as if he were prey.

Ingvar hardly had to consider the unlikelihood of these turning up by coincidence in this of all alleys to see what was up here.

There was a soft sound from behind him—very soft, but still deliberate, and he calmly angled his body and stepped back toward the wall to be able to look in the other direction down the alley without putting his back to those ahead. The third local Huntsman was just now stepping around the stack of crates on which Ingvar had been sitting. A useful high ground which he was suddenly regretting having given up.

“Well,” said the older man, fixing his stare on Ingvar. “I don’t know where you come from, girl, so I’ll grant that this may be a mistake. That garb is not a fashion statement. It’s not for women, and not for those who have not earned it. However they do things back home, wandering around the Stalrange like that is going to get you in trouble.”

The man stopped, staring at him expectantly and clearly awaiting an answer. His two comrades were equally still and silent.

Ingvar realized that if he wanted to prevent this whole thing from becoming a problem, he’d just been handed a way. Not that he was much of an actor, but how hard could it be to play the part of some girl from Tiraas with silly ideas about clothing? That was probably what Darling would do in this situation.

No. Absolutely not. He had worked and fought too long and too hard for his identity; it was not a thing to be thrown aside for convenience, or even safety. He’d been beaten and worse before, and survived. A man’s integrity was worth far more than that.

“You speak in error, brother,” Ingvar replied, pleased with the evenness of his voice. “I am Brother Ingvar, of the lodge in Tiraas, a fellow Huntsman. It would be appropriate for you to show some respect.”

The younger man’s expression grew visibly angry; the older simply narrowed his eyes. The third remained a presence in Ingvar’s peripheral vision, but he did not turn to study him in detail.

“Where’s your beard…brother?” the elder Huntsman said finally, curling his lip. “Do they shave in Tiraas, these days?”

“It doesn’t grow,” Ingvar said curtly. “A simple matter of inborn deformity, thank you for pointing it out.”

“No,” said the younger man in front, shaking his head. “Look at her face, the voice—you’re a butch specimen, girl, but still a girl. Look at her throat.”

“Whatever it is you’re playing at, you will not do it further,” the older man said flatly, taking a step forward. “These are sacred things you profane, girl. If you know enough of the Huntsmen to pretend that skillfully, this is no simple misunderstanding. And that means you’re courting consequences by coming here.”

“I do not have to endure this jibing from you, old man,” Ingvar retorted, baring his teeth in a snarl even as he fought for calm. It was not his first time in this situation. The beatings were never worse than he could bear. Where the hell were Joe and Darling? “I am a Huntsman of Shaath, and I earned that place the same as you did. I had to work twice as hard to be accorded the same respect. Take your insecurities elsewhere and cease wasting my time and Shaath’s with them.”

“You little—” The younger man in front started to surge forward, stopped when the elder barred his path with his longbow.

“All right, there’s a simple way we can resolve this,” the elder said, staring grimly at Ingvar. “And if we have been in error, you will have our apologies, and whatever reasonable forfeit you choose to name for the sake of honor. Remove your pants.”

Ingvar had an arrow half out of his quiver before realizing he was drawing it; he stopped before the two younger men had nocked arrows to their own bows, but just barely. At best, even if he was the faster draw, he could only shoot one…

“Shall I assume that’s what passes for humor in this city?” he grated.

“There’s a lot more to a man than what hangs between his legs,” the elder Huntsman said, “but that’s a definitive mark. If you have that, at least, I’ll be more willing to believe your story. If not, then you are in for a great deal of the discipline your father should have given you.”

“Touch me and it will be the last of what I’m sure have been a long line of mistakes,” Ingvar snarled.

The elder snorted. “These things are sacred; we cannot have people parading around as Huntsmen who haven’t the right. If we’re wrong, we’ll owe you for the indignity. But I don’t think we’re wrong.” His gaze sharpened further, and he drew an arrow of his own. “And I think you know it. Last chance…Ingvar, was it? It’ll go the worse for you if we have to take them off.”

“Well,” sneered the young man behind him, “once they’re already off, she’ll be in a position to—”

“If you even finish that sentence, pup, I’ll give you worse than I give her,” the elder snarled. “Men of Shaath do not debase themselves! Enough time-wasting from all of you. Get on with it, Ingvar, and let’s get all this ugliness over with before—”

A beam of light split the dimness of the alley, flashing straight over their heads. The Huntsman who had flanked Ingvar whirled, aiming his bow back the way he had come and backing up toward the others.

“My pa always taught me that a man fights his own battles,” drawled Joe, pacing forward out of the darkness. He really must have made a complete circuit of the block, or at least the building, to be coming from that direction. “And that a man doesn’t interfere in another man’s affairs. Always seemed like wisdom, to me… Till the day I watched him murdered in front of our house by six thugs who wouldn’t face an honest man head-on. So when I find my friend, here, bein’ cornered by three galoots in an alley… Well, with apologies to Brother Ingvar, I do not care what this is all about. It stops, right now, or I drop the lot of you.”

“You don’t know what you’re meddling in, boy,” the elder growled. “This is a matter for the Huntsmen of Shaath.”

“I literally just got finished tellin’ you how I don’t care what this is,” Joe replied, glancing at Ingvar and raising an eyebrow. “Doesn’t listen very well, does he?”

“We haven’t known each other long, but I’ve already noticed that,” Ingvar replied. Part of him hated himself for the relief flooding through him at the Kid’s reappearance. It was a very small part, however, and he was learning that it wasn’t a voice which bore listening to.

The elder Huntsman slowly eyed Joe up and down, from snakeskin boots to leather duster, tigers eye bolo tie and ten-gallon hat, all in black, and curled his lip disdainfully. “Have you ever been shot, boy?”

“Nope,” Joe said in deadly calm. “Not once. But I been shot at more times’n you’ve laced up your boots. Name’s Joseph P. Jenkins, of Sarasio. You mighta heard of me.”

That got a reaction. The two in front exchanged a glance, eyes widening; the one in back had drawn even with Ingvar, now, and was trying to divide his attention between the two of them, a reversal Ingvar couldn’t help enjoying.

“Nonsense,” the youth in the front huffed after a moment. “Naturally a liar would be friends with a liar. Any idiot can claim to be—”

Joe didn’t even bother to draw his second wand; he simply made what seemed to be a dismissive and almost effeminate flick of his wrist, and his weapon hissed softly as it spat three needle-thin beams of light. All three of the local Huntsmen leaped to the ready, placing arrows to their bows, and utterly failing to draw them due to their bowstrings being severed.

“Now, I don’t know how you pictured this ending up,” Joe said calmly. “Religious issues ain’t legal justification for roughin’ somebody up in an alley; it’d be jail at the very least for the lot of you after all was said an’ done. But me, now… You havin’ stated your intention to assault my good friend, here, I’m legally justified in exercising lethal force to drive you off.”

“Some things,” the elder said softly, glaring, “are worth suffering for.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Ingvar replied, earning a truly furious scowl.

“Of course,” Joe drawled in the same even tone, “it’s well within my abilities to pick the fleas outta your beards at this range. There are all kinds of ways I could disable you. So when I say that if you force this issue I will kill the lot of you assholes dead, I want you to understand it’s on account of how personally I take this matter.”

“I think you’re bluffing,” the former rearguard said, a quaver in his voice now that earned him contemptuous looks from the other three Shaathists present.

“Dead doesn’t necessarily mean dead quickly,” Joe continued, holding the oldest man’s stare with his own. “You ever see what happens to a man with a hole burned through his femoral artery?”

“Do you really have such cruelty in you, boy?” the elder asked, his tone soft and seemingly genuinely curious despite his hard expression.

“I’m the goddamn Sarasio Kid,” Joe snapped. “I despise violence, cruelty, an’ most of the other things I am very good at. Now gather up your saggy machismo an’ get the hell outta here before I start gettin’ impatient.”

They locked stares for a long moment, then very deliberately the elder Huntsman turned to study Ingvar again.

“You expect me to argue?” Ingvar said disdainfully. “I would defend any brother Huntsman against even a superior foe, unless that Huntsman had just been busy making a fool of himself and our faith. Get moving.”

The man snorted, then made a sharp gesture which prompted his two younger compatriots to come stand, scowling, at his shoulders.

“You can evade the consequences of your behavior for only so long, girl, before—”

“No.” In a single fluid motion, Ingvar had his bow drawn and an arrow aimed right at the elder’s heart. At that range, the longbow would have put a shaft almost clear through him. “You came here for the sole and specific purpose of sullying Shaath’s good name with your stupidity. You will leave with nothing. Not even the last word. Now walk, before I decide I want your pants.”

The two younger men glared, and the elder shook his head. But when he turned to go, they followed, after giving Ingvar a final round of sneers.

They waited until all three were long out of sight before Joe sighed softly and holstered his wand. “Welp. Sorry for buttin’ in like that, Ingvar; I still ain’t too clear on Shaathist doctrine, but I know a man an’ his battles are an important thing.”

“I hope those three didn’t give you the impression that most Shaathists are too stupid to accept aid from a friend when it’s needed.” Ingvar drew in a deep breath and let it out, just now taking note of the adrenaline thrumming through his system as it finally started to ebb. That was going to be an irritating comedown. “Thank you, Joe.”

“Don’t mention it,” the Kid said with a shrug. “Truth be told, I shouldn’t’ve been gone in the first place. I get stir-crazy for five minutes and you almost get jumped by the locals. What a town.”

“Would…” Ingvar hesitated before finishing the question. “Would you actually have killed them with…unnecessary cruelty? Or were you just bluffing?”

“I make my living at the card table,” Joe said with a faint smile. “Bluffing’s another of the things I don’t like but am very good at.”

“Really?” Ingvar glanced over Joe’s suit; he was no student of fashion, but one didn’t have to be to observe that the Kid had expensive tastes. Tigers eye wasn’t a pricey stone, but that was a large piece. “You paid for all that playing cards?”

“Yep. Point of fact, I was hoping to find a game of hold ’em somewhere, if we stop long enough in a place that ain’t trying to kill us. Darling’s already had to talk me out of trouble in Tiraas; dunno why I thought winnin’ at the Thieves’ Guild’s casino was a good idea.”

Ingvar had to crack a grin at that, but just as quickly let it fade, turning his head to stare out at the mouth of the alley. “And…thank you. For never asking.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Joe shrug awkwardly. “Figured as soon as you wanted to explain it, you would. Other folk’s business is their own.”

He nodded. “I’m just…well, you saw all that. The reaction is fairly typical. I can’t afford to assume anyone will understand.”

Joe sighed softly. “Truth be told, Ingvar, I can’t rightly say I do understand. The whole thing doesn’t make a lick of sense to me. But I reckon you’re the expert on your own life, an’ I don’t recall anybody puttin’ me in charge of you. It’s the simplest damn thing,” he added, a scowl forming on his face. “Just let people alone to live their lives. The longer I live, the more places I see, the more it seems that’s the hardest thing in the world for a whole mess o’ folk. An’ I just cannot wrap my head around that.”

“That much I never questioned,” Ingvar said thoughtfully, still gazing out at the street beyond. “Some things are sacred. Some things have to be defended. I always knew why the Huntsmen fought against accepting me. Even when the traditions are wrong… Traditions matter; they tell us who and what we are. I guess I should start giving a lot more thought to which traditions deserve to be upheld, since it seems almost all of mine may not make that list.”

“Maybe that’s the difference,” Joe mused. “Where I’m from… Your family, your friends, the land that supports you, those things are sacred. Everything else’s just part o’ the world.”

Ingvar whirled suddenly, sensing another presence, and had his bow half-drawn again before he identified Darling lounging against the crates he’d been perched upon earlier.

“Well, don’t stop on my account!” the thief said cheerfully. “You two were having quite a moment, there.”

“How long have you been there?” Joe demanded.

“I caught the tail end of that little stand-off,” Darling confessed. “Well handled, both of you.”

“Coulda used your help,” Joe said pointedly.

“Nope.” Shaking his head, Darling straightened up and ambled forward to join him. “I make my way through life by talking my way out of trouble. You two have only known me when I’m on the top of the world, relatively speaking; you’ve no idea how many times I had to get my ass handed to me to get up here. There’s a certain kind of macho man who can’t be charmed down, and who takes the attempt as a call to violence. You just met three of them. Trust me, boys, you took exactly the right approach there, the only one that would have worked.”

“Well,” Joe said in disgruntlement, “while I don’t enjoy threatening people, maybe it’ll make them think harder before they try that next time.”

“That’s not how it works, Joe,” Darling said, placing a hand on his shoulder, and Ingvar wondered if the thief had always spoken with such an undercurrent of weary sadness or if he was just more attuned to it now. “That kind of bullying is about power. Come on, if this were some kind of real Shaathist inquisition, they’d have brought more; instead, it was those same three guys. You can bet they do stuff like this all the time. A bully is looking to make himself feel bigger by making others feel smaller; if you cut him down to size, you’ve just made it that much worse for the next person who catches his eye.”

Joe closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I just… Man, can’t we have one clean victory?”

“I meant what I said,” Darling replied, squeezing his shoulder once before letting his hand drop. “You handled that the right way. Sometimes, you just don’t have good options. Maybe a trained Izarite could get through to someone like that, but… All I’ve ever been able to do is teach ’em who not to screw around with. It’s sad, but it’s life.”

“Anyway,” Ingvar said, making his tone deliberately brisk, “what have you learned?”

“Right, back on point,” Darling agreed, nodding. “Well, the good news is the city’s not actually locked down; the military presence is just trying to keep order. We can get through the gates and onto a caravan, no problem. It’s going to take longer because we’ll have to stop and identify ourselves to soldiers, not to mention dealing with the lines of everyone else doing the same, but we’ll get there. Worst comes to worst, I pull rank, but frankly we’re three out-of-towners leaving with our business done; I doubt they’ll make it necessary.”

“Did you manage to find out what’s got the city so worked up?” Joe asked. “Is there a danger?”

Darling sighed, and for some reason looked distinctly annoyed. “No, there’s no danger. What happened is somebody summoned an incubus out there on the prairie a mile or so outside town.”

“What?” Ingvar exclaimed, reflexively reaching for his quiver again. “That’s what you call no danger? A child of Vanislaas loose in the city—”

“Easy, there, I’m not done,” Darling said soothingly. “The demon’s dead; it was found hacked to pieces half a mile from the summoning site.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“Hm,” Joe mused, rubbing his chin. “Last year in Onkawa, someone used incubus flesh as a reagent in an illusion spell. Caused quite a ruckus at the time, but the technique’s been commented on in all the enchanting journals. I wonder how many of the Vanislaads that’ve been summoned in the last few months ended up right on the chopping block.”

“Well, I can’t make myself mourn that,” Ingvar snorted. “Maybe it’ll make them more leery of answering summons. Why is something like that having such an effect on the city, though?” he asked Darling. “You’re right, it sounds like there’s not an active threat.”

“Well, the problem is twofold,” Darling replied, tucking his hands in his coat pockets. “You have to keep in mind where we are, and what happened here just a few weeks ago. Veilgrad’s still recovering from a major chaos event. As disasters go, it was minor; a handful dead, dozens injured, lots of property damage. It was the nature of the thing that matters: the dead rose and rampaged through the city. That kind of horror leaves aftereffects on everyone who survived it. The people of Veilgrad have exactly zero patience with metaphysical bullshit right now. And the second problem is that the brain case of a military commander in the city, some clown named Adjavegh, is trying to keep a lid on this thing. Which, since the rumors are already out, is purely counterproductive. If he’d just get out in front of it, tell the people exactly what happened and that it’s over… And I’m sure he will very soon; if he doesn’t see sense, the Empire will land on him, and he’s got to have advisers telling him this already. But for now…”

“For now,” Joe said slowly, “we’ve got a populace who’ve been traumatized by a mass raising of the dead, and rumors about demon summonings and incubi loose in the city. Yikes.”

“Exactly,” Darling agreed, nodding. “We’d best get ourselves moving while the moving is good. What with the Imperial Army’s current presence, Adjavegh has enough authority to dictate some policy, and right now Grusser is too occupied trying to keep everyone calm to lean on him. He’s got his hands full dissuading people from doing something irrational like rioting, or extremely rational like abandoning the city en masse. Oh, and posting guards on Leduc Manor, because of course people have tried to form a mob up there. Luckily they seem to be avoiding Malivette’s place. Apparently they tried that during the last troubles and were…dissuaded.”

Ingvar cleared his throat. “Yes, about that… Where, exactly, are we going next? Did Mary see fit to tell you anything before vanishing again?”

“Ah, yes,” Darling said, nodding and glancing at Joe. “Well, most immediately we need to head to a town on the southwestern edge of Calderaas just above the Green Belt, called Fersis. That’s the nearest place we can reach by Rail. After that… It seems we’re going to visit the elves.”

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There was time, but it wasn’t real. There were sleepy days and vibrant nights, changes in seasons with patterns they had to follow. He and his brothers grew bigger and stronger; other changes befell their parents as seasons faded past. But that was just what was. It was always now, and there was no counting of days, minutes…even years. That was how it was and how it had always been, and made it somewhat puzzling (when he very rarely paused to think on it) how liberating it seemed.

But maybe liberation was simply the natural state of things. They were free, and life was good. What else was there to think about?

Their youth in the forest was spent in idyllic play, being roughhoused and chased by mother and father in games that they only understood later were teaching them to hunt, to fight, to avoid danger and, above all, survive. It was a good forest; so long as they learned their lessons well and weren’t stupid, survival was never out of reach. It was never taken for given, but the struggle toward it was always enough to keep them fit and alert, never so much that it ground them down.

He had two brothers, and was the middle of the three. They had no names, but they didn’t need them. They knew who they were.

The oldest by a hair grew to be tall and lean of build, with a light coat that glistened golden when the sun struck it just right; he was the jokester, always playing around, even when the others were tired of it. His antics earned him no end of warning growls and more than a few bites for his temerity. As he grew, though, he middle one came to understand that his older brother was every bit as serious as any of the family, only in his own way. Just like their parents, his games hid lessons, and he insisted upon them because he wanted them to learn, because he wanted them to thrive.

They were harsh lessons, sometimes. The golden brother once let him be chased nearly to exhaustion by an infuriated bear whose cubs he had inadvertently wandered near, waiting until it was nearly too late to leap in as a distraction, howling for the rest of the family and allowing him to escape. He had tried to bite his elder brother in earnest after that, once he regained his energy and equilibrium, but that one time, the golden brother had bitten him right back, growling a warning. That was the day he began to understand why his brother’s games could be so rough, why he would allow them to be hurt sometimes. He had antagonized that bear through his own inattention; inattention was death. Better that he learn that sharp lesson with his brother keeping pace through the trees nearby, making sure it never went too far, than when he was alone, when it truly mattered and there would be no one to save him.

He began paying attention to the golden brother’s jokes after that, to the way he insisted on play-fighting long after they were tired of it. The practice and exercise honed them. Though the oldest brother was oldest only by insignificant minutes, he had a wisdom to him, an understanding with which he was gifted. Rather than simply living his own way, as the best wolf he could, he did his best to teach his brothers what he understood. Even if that meant hounding them until they were thoroughly sick of him. Even if it meant letting them come to grief while he watched from a safe distance, so they did not come to more grief than they could survive when he was not there to protect them.

The youngest brother was as dark as the eldest was bright, and never grew to be as large as either of them. He was quiet, too, always serious. Not to the point that he would not play and gambol with the family when it was appropriate, but in many ways he was the opposite of the golden brother. Often he would be utterly still, just watching, even when there seemed to be nothing to watch. It was as if he was always on the hunt, investigating every smell, sight and sound he encountered—but calmly, quietly, without the eager inquisitiveness of a pup.

He seemed determined to understand everything about the world, about the way it all fit together, and apparently his endless quest met with success. As he grew alongside them, there was a precision to his movements that neither his brothers nor their parents ever achieved. Every step, every lunge, everything he did was calculated flawlessly. By the time they were grown, even though he was the smallest, he always seemed to win at wrestling unless the others ganged up on him, and sometimes, even then. He knew how to move his body in precise ways they never grasped.

For all that, there were things that seemed oddly puzzling to him. Other things he grasped quickly; he seemed to understand the purpose of their older brother’s games and jokes long before the middle brother, perhaps from the very beginning. And yet, more normal, casual interactions were baffling to him as a puppy. By the time they grew to maturity, he had mostly figured such things out, but when they were pups it seemed, sometimes, that he didn’t understand what was meant when the family communicated with him. Sometimes, he didn’t even seem to recognize who they were. It was a strange counterpoint to the eerie precision with which he approached every aspect of his life. Then again, perhaps it was his difficulty understanding that spurred him to always seek comprehension.

They were different, and had their disagreements, but they were brothers. They were family. They loved unconditionally, trusted completely, and none of it was ever in question. It just was.

And it was good.

The days passed, they learned and grew. They hunted and played, and were together. One day became another; one season faded into the next. It went on, and the wolves were alive. They changed, but slowly; their parents very gradually grew less powerful, even as they came into their prime. But still they lived on, together.

One day into the next, and the next…

Ingvar had awakened from enough vivid dreams, especially lately, to know the sensation.

His eyes opened and his senses returned, and for the first few seconds he didn’t know what was what. He was a man, lying on his back on hard stone, looking up at the clear night sky. He was also a wolf, drifting off to sleep in the chilly dawn after a vigorous night’s hunt with his brothers.

He blinked his eyes, then again, and the sensations began to separate, one vivid set of memories dissipating. It took a few more seconds for him to truly remember himself.

Then, he tried to sit bolt upright, and succeeded only in spasming weakly.

“Easy,” Raichlin’s voice said soothingly. The Ranger stepped around in front of him, reaching out slowly to take him by the shoulders. Ingvar recognized the maneuver—keep in view, make no sudden moves, as if he were dealing with an excitable animal—but was still too confused to take offense. He simply allowed the man to help him carefully to a sitting position. “There we go. It’s disorienting, I know, but don’t worry—it passes quickly. We have something brewing that’ll help, and then some food.”

“No brewing,” Joe’s voice said off to Ingvar’s left. “No more brews.” He looked over to find the Kid, his hat and duster lying neatly beside him, sitting upright with his arms around his knees, staring out over the dark valley with a fixed expression. Not upset…not anything, really. His face was simply blank, immobile.

Ingvar could relate.

He took a few deep breaths, re-familiarizing himself with the sensation of his lungs, and acquainted himself with his surroundings.

They were still on the ledge, the cave behind them. Rather than the arcane camp stove, though, there was now a proper fire. Freshly baked biscuits sat cooling on a rock next to it; three plump grouses were spitted over the flames, just beginning to turn golden brown. Liesl appeared with a steaming cup of something thick and sweet-smelling, which she handed to him. There was another mug of it on the ground beside Joe, untouched.

Their third companion was on Ingvar’s right, just now being helped upright by Tabitha. Darling looked more unsettled than Ingvar had ever seen him, than he had ever expected to see him. Eyes wide and limbs moving weakly and without coordination, he had to lean physically on the Ranger as she eased him up. The expression on his face was…hollow. Shocked.

Strange how, after all this time, the sight of Darling finally rocked fully off his equilibrium didn’t give Ingvar any satisfaction. If anything, it only added to his own unease. Even though his games were annoying, his older brother never—

No.

Ingvar shook himself bodily, trying to chase away the vestiges of the dream. They didn’t go, however. He felt clearer already, the confusion of is first awakening receding, but those visions lingered, firmly and unsettlingly fixed in his memory.

Also, he finally observed, there was another person at their campsite.

Mary sat in front of them, at the very edge of the flat outcropping, watching them calmly.

“It’s sipping chocolate,” Raichlin said, and it took Ingvar a moment to realize he was referring to the drink. The Ranger knelt, picked up the mug beside Joe, and held it out to him. “Nothing mystical or alchemical this time, I promise. Just hot, thick, and sweet. It’s a bit of a luxury, but we’ve found that a dose of chocolate is pretty much the best possible thing for regaining your mental footing after a vision quest. It’s also damnably hard to carry on a hike into the wilderness; melts something awful. That stuff can be transported in powdered form, though. Go on, have a sip.”

Ingvar obeyed. He didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but he had to admit it really did hit the spot. Joe finally accepted his cup again and took a tentative sip. Darling gulped down half of his in one go.

She let them make some progress on their revitalizing drinks before starting.

“You see, now, what I meant. There are some things that simply cannot be told; they have to be understood before they will be listened to. All your life, Brother Ingvar, especially after you committed yourself to the path of the Huntsman, you have held up the wolf pack as the ideal of behavior. The pack’s hierarchy is the basis of everything they do, of the entire Shaathist philosophy. The strong and the weak; the male and the female. The order of all activity, designed after their most sacred animal.”

She paused, shaking her head slowly. “Except…wolves don’t do that.”

Joe cleared his throat. “That… Was any of that real?”

“Anything you can experience is real, Joseph,” she said calmly.

“Well, I must still be out of it,” he growled. “I actually asked that question an’ didn’t see that answer comin’.”

Even Ingvar had to crack the faintest smile at that. Darling was just staring, wide-eyed, into his mug.

“Over twelve centuries ago,” Mary said, shifting slightly and fixing her serene gaze upon Ingvar, “Angthinor the Wise came to the city in the mountains that would come to be called Shaathvar, bringing a new faith. He sought to make a path of the way of the Huntsman. Where they had always been solitary spirits, he formed a cult. A true religion, which Shaath had never had before. And the center of his new faith was the wolf.

“To show the people the ways of the pack, he brought a pack to the city. You know the story, Ingvar?”

“Of course,” he said, somewhat surprised to find his own voice working. He paused, clearing his throat, and continued. “Angthinor journeyed into the mountains to find a pack who would answer his call, to teach their ways to humanity. He ran with them for a full turn of the seasons, until the wild wolves agreed to come back with him. There he set aside a sacred space within Shaathvar’s walls were they could live, free, yet available to the people.”

“That sacred patch of parkland has been extensively renovated,” said Mary. Ingvar was struck by how sad she looked. “At the time…it was basically a zoo. And Angthinor’s means of gathering those wolves was simply to trap them. He brought them from various places around the Stalrange, put them in a barred enclosure for people to gawk at.”

Ingvar started to rise. “You—”

“Sit.” Her voice was calm and soft, but he found himself obeying before realizing he intended to. Mary sighed quietly before going on. “You see, Ingvar? This shows the falsehood behind the truth on which you have built your life. It is no sign of weakness that you resist it—you have to. That is simply the way minds are constructed. Had I simply told you…it would have meant nothing. But you know, now. You have seen it, lived it.

“A wolf pack usually consists of a breeding pair and their offspring. The pack is a family. They relate to one another just the way families do: through love, and trust. All this about dominance and submission, about the strong and the weak, the smaller female obeying the larger male… It comes from Angthinor’s wolves, from a dozen random wolves gathered from a dozen places and stuck together inside an alien city. Members of any social species, wolves, humans, or otherwise, if abducted and enclosed with a bunch of strangers under hostile conditions, will tend to organize themselves that way. At least at first.”

“He…so…” Ingvar felt himself floundering, and hated it. “It was a long time ago. Even if he made a mistake…”

“Ingvar,” she said, and he hated the gentleness in her tone. “Angthinor was a Huntsman of Shaath. A true Huntsman, of the old path; he walked with Shaath and knew the wilds. He truly had run with wolves, and knew their ways. I watched these events unfold from a distance; I confess I badly underestimated the seriousness and the importance of what was happening. You must understand how peculiar it all was, at that time. No, Ingvar. Angthinor knew exactly what he was doing. I cannot speak for his motivations or his inner thoughts, but he acted very deliberately.

“Many things can be said of the Shaathist way; many bad, and some very good. But it is no way of the wild. It’s built upon an idea forced on wild creatures by the cleverness of one man. The Huntsman of today, in their way, are some of the most domesticated people in the world.”

Ingvar stood in a single motion. Mary gaze up at him solemnly, which he ignored. Turning his back on her, on Joe and Darling and the Rangers, he strode away from the firelight, into the dark mountain forest.

“That was harsher than it needed to be,” Darling said after a painfully long silence. He lifted his eyes to meet Mary’s, and seemed finally to have collected himself. He was calm, anyway, his gaze sharper than usual. “Which, I suppose, means it was exactly the effect you were going for.”

“A man like Ingvar is not to be coddled,” she said simply. “It is a deeply painful thing he has just absorbed. When he’s had time to come to grips, he will appreciate having been treated as a man. As if he could handle it.”

“Um…” Joe peered into the darkness in the direction Ingvar had gone, then back at the three Rangers sitting around the campfire behind them. “Should somebody maybe go after him? I mean, it’s the woods, at night…”

“He’s a Huntsman of Shaath,” Darling said quietly, shifting around to turn his back on Mary and scoot closer to the flames. “The woods are his home. Exactly where he needs to be right now, I should think.”

Joe sighed, and finished of his chocolate, setting the empty mug down beside him. He glanced once more at Mary, finding nothing there but a small black crow perched on the very edge of the precipice, gazing out into the night. With a soft sigh, he got up and stepped over to rejoin the others by the fire.

“These’ll be ready before too much longer,” Tabitha noted, reaching out to pointlessly adjust the spit on which one of the grouses was cooking. “Could you keep an eye, turn ’em if they start getting too brown on one side? We need to check on something inside the waystation, now that you guys are back up.”

She rose, as did the other two Rangers, and they filed through the skins into the cave mouth without another word.

“Admirably discreet people,” Darling noted. “Right to the point of giving us no hint what to expect from this…experience.”

“Would you have done it, if they had?” Joe asked quietly.

“Yes,” he said immediately. “In a heartbeat. I didn’t drag myself up into the mountains expecting not to face challenges or learn things. I just don’t like having shit like that sprung on me.”

Joe nodded slowly, staring into the flames.

The smell was tantalizing, and served to remind them how long it had been since they’d eaten, but neither made a move toward the birds.

Joe finally drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Okay, I… There’s probably never going to be a better time to bring this up. Is…Ingvar…a man, or a woman?”

“He’s a man,” Darling said immediately, still watching the fire dance. “He had the misfortune to be born physically female. These things happen, I understand.”

“Huh,” Joe mused. “So…how does that work, exactly?”

Darling shrugged. “People get born wrong all the time. Missing limbs, harelipped, blind… And in subtler ways. I’ve worked very closely with a woman who I’m pretty sure is mentally incapable of love or empathy. That’s a dangerous one; my cult has rules about people like that. Eserion’s service didn’t prepare me for this, though. So don’t let me act like I’m some kind of expert here; anything I know is because I set out to research it, and that because I put my foot right in my mouth the first time I met Ingvar.”

“Well,” Joe said, “you did the research, at least.”

“Heh.” Darling shook his head. “You’ve already done better than I did, with regard to the way you treat him.”

“Treating people with basic respect is so easy, I can’t for the life a’ me figure why so many people seem to have such trouble with it. Having done this reading,” said the Kid more hesitantly, “would you mind…”

“Sharing?” Darling glanced at him, then nodded, smiling ruefully. “Well, as I said, there’s no Eserite doctrine about this. We just let people alone, to do and be whatever seems best to them.”

“I can see the wisdom in that,” Joe agreed, nodding.

“In other cults, though, there’s specific lore on it,” Darling continued. “The Shaathists, as we’ve recently been reminded, have a doctrinal divide over the matter; whether Ingvar would be treated as a man or woman pretty much depends on what lodge he’s in. The Avenists are split over it, too. There are priestesses of Avei who were born male, but the Silver Legions won’t take anyone not born a woman.”

“What makes the difference?” Joe asked.

Darling shook his head. “It’s a matter the Avenists don’t much care to discuss with outsiders; that was as far as I got in a Nemitite library. Actually, I could probably have garnered more answers from an actual priestess of Avei, but their opinion wasn’t my focus. I learned more of use from the writings of the Izarites and Vidians.”

“I guess I can see how both of those would have opinions on this,” Joe said, nodding slowly.

“I dunno how much you know of Izarite doctrine; they have pretty firm ideas about masculinity and femininity. That’s a big part of why Avenists are always mad at them. Izara’s faith is a very forgiving one, though; they’ll accept people by whatever identity they choose to express. It’s even more interesting in the cult of Vidius. They actually have a whole doctrine about this; people like Ingvar are considered twin spirits, and revered as being touched by the god of duality. To the point that some have tried to fake the condition to advance in the cult.”

“Tried to?” Joe asked, raising his eyebrows. “How, exactly, would you catch someone at that?”

Darling grinned into the fire. “A deity is the ultimate fact-checker. Below a certain point you can get away with a lot, but if you start rising in a cult’s ranks, sooner or later the god is going to notice you.” He paused, frowning. “I actually wonder what that says about Avei and… Well, that’s a whole other matter and I shouldn’t even have brought it up.” He shook himself slightly. “This day’s work has really rocked me off my keel.”

“I can relate,” Joe said fervently, turning to stare at the grouse as they dripped sizzling fat into the flames. “I… Well. Much as I’m lookin’ forward to those bein’ done…”

“Yes?” Darling prompted after he trailed off, turning to regard him with a raised eyebrow.

Joe grimaced. “I’ve got this powerful hankering for rare venison, and right now I find that very disturbing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Branwen sighed. “Basra…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I say,” Schwartz muttered, blinking rapidly.

“Who told you that?” Basra demanded.

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

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

“Well—I— Why would they lie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trust, hunger, joy, freedom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh,” Joe mused.

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

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

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

“I see,” Darling murmured.

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

“Mm hm,” said Joe. “What’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm,” Liesl mused. “Sent by whom?”

“By Mary the Crow.”

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

“Paper? What paper?”

“The newspaper. You didn’t subscribe to one?”

“Sub— News— Captain, what have I told you about drinking on the job?”

“That I’d better invite you?” he replied with a grin.

“Damn right! What the fuck newspaper do you think I would subscribe to? When would I do such a thing? What address do I have? Why would I care what the shorecrawlers think is fit to print? Use that shaggy hatstand for its intended purpose!”

“You’re going to make some poor bastard a dreadful wife someday, you ungodly shrew,” he said. “All I know is—in fact, here.” He ducked back below decks for a moment, reemerging almost immediately with a newspaper bound in twine, a small note tied to it. “This was delivered by some boy while you were up there mumbling at the wind. Has your name and all, so I figured… Eh. Maybe one of the crew just thought you’d be interested and sent it along. The headline’s about that crazy school you went to.”

“What?” Parvashti strode forward, snatching it from his hand. “Give me that!”

She ripped away the twine while he muttered imprecations about her manners and stomped to the port rail to glare out at the sea. Parvashti’s eyes darted rapidly back and forth across the page, a frown growing on her features as she read.

“Captain,” she said, “when we next make port… I might want to take a little leave soon.”

 

“There,” Erland grunted, backing out of the tight space between boilers into which he’d had to squeeze to reach the access panel. “You were right, Harald, it was the glass conduits. Somehow, some idiot managed to forget to fix them properly in their housings.” He made a point to speak respectfully to his partners at all times, even when correcting them; having been the idiot in question, he felt free to express his frustration a little more directly.

“And the glass?” Harald said nervously, apparently not making note of Erland’s mistake. “It’s all right, no cracks?”

“All in perfect order,” Erland assured him, holding up his pocket lens and thumbing the charm that made its rim glow. “The shutdown wasn’t due to damage, but Kjerstin’s protective charms working as intended. I double-checked the pistons for signs of strain while I was in there. Everything’s fine, no grinding or overheating.”

“I told you so,” Kjerstin said smugly, beginning to tick off points on her fingers. “Told you the charms were necessary, that they’d work, that you were too sleep-deprived to be putting in those conduits last night—”

“All right, all right,” Erland said soothingly, holding up his hands. “You can make your speech later. For now, we appreciate your charm work. The engine’s still intact, the conduits are now installed properly, and we’re ready to try again.”

The other two dwarves glanced at each other, nervousness plain on their faces.

“We are ready to try again, aren’t we?” Erland said dryly.

“All these false starts,” Harald muttered, rubbing his hands on his trouser legs. “Every time I get more nervous… Sometimes it feels the machine’s trying to warn us we’re up to something that should not be attempted.”

“Oh, bah,” Kjerstin snorted. “If nobody tried new things, the world would never change.”

“I know what my grandfather would say about this gadget,” Harald said, staring at the engine. “All this glass and filament… It looks like some kind of elvish sculpture.”

“Really, have you ever seen an elvish sculpture?” Erland said with amusement. “Make time to get out of the foundry and into a museum before your brain withers in your skull.”

“Your grandfather still wears his beard down to his belt,” Kjerstin said sharply, “and his generation isn’t too old to have to worry about getting it caught in gears. That is not a joke; you know good dwarves have suffered beard-induced decapitations, working with big enough machines. Some people are just too hidebound to embrace innovation!”

“You two want to re-hash this discussion again right now?” Erland said pointedly.

They paused again, staring at their machine.

“Feh, you’re right,” Harald said. “We’re putting it off. All right, Erland, let’s give her another go.”

“You could’ve built it with some extra dials or something,” Kjerstin muttered, folding her arms and betraying her own nervousness with a rapidly tapping foot. “Some dummy switches. Something for me to do.”

“I’ll work a few useless gizmos into the next iteration,” Erland promised, grasping the lever. “Here goes nothing, once again.”

He hauled the lever into the active position, opening the channel to the desktop-sized elemental forge hooked up to one end of the engine and letting raw heat blaze forth into its mouth.

Immediately, with gratifying smoothness, their creation purred to life. The sound it made was almost musical, high-pitched and harmonic, quite unlike any combustion engine they had ever worked with. Light shone forth from multiple points, orange fire from its exhaust ports, arcane blue beams racing through its exposed power conduits, multicolored runes igniting in sequence along the casing.

At the device’s opposite end from its power source, the piston began working. It barely had to accelerate, starting off pumping at nearly its full capacity.

They tensed, waiting for another alarm or sudden shutdown, as had happened the last four attempts. Nothing came, though. Just the light, the pleasant voice of the engine, and the rapid motion of its output piston against the springs and pulleys attached to the gauges Harald was monitoring.

“It’s stable,” Kjerstin breathed. “It’s working!”

“Kinetic output at fifteen jonors,” Harald reported excitedly. “By the Light, Erland, it’s even higher than we projected!”

“That’s a little too high,” Erland said, cautious despite his own enthusiasm. “We didn’t design it to stand up to that kind of power flow…”

“But it’s working!” Kjerstin squealed, bouncing up and down. “From a heat source to kinetic energy with zero waste or byproducts! Erland, we’re rich!”

A shrill whine sounded from the engine before he could respond; runes flared red, and suddenly its shutdown charms activated again, slamming the barrier shut to cut off its power source and force its lever back into lock position. The blue light faded from the conduits, and its soft voice wound down into silence.

“To get rich,” Harald observed, “we’re going to have to make it run longer than thirty seconds…”

“Oh, you big fuddy-duddy,” Kjerstin said, darting over to swat at his shoulder. “We’re just building a proof of concept, here! We have something to show the Falconers now—their grant is provably not wasted money. They’ll invest in improving it, they have to!”

“I never assume humans are going to do the sensible thing,” Harald grumped. “Please, Kjerstin, don’t get worked up this time before we see results.”

“It’s obviously just a matter of control, right? We refine the runes so that they regulate the power input rather than just shutting it off when it gets too much—”

“Oh, just like that? You’re talking about a complete rebuild of the enchanted components! And we’ll have to re-design most of the physical machine to accommodate…”

Erland let their discussion wash over him, listening with half an ear as he stepped over to his cluttered work desk and sank into the battered chair there, feeling weak from a combination of excitement and relief. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face. They were both right: there was a long, long way to go before they had an engine that would actually power anything, but the concept worked. It could be made to work, at least. All their efforts were finally bearing fruit.

His eyes fell on a newspaper, printed in Tanglish, sitting on top of his stacks of paperwork. He hadn’t bought that… Had Kjerstin brought it in to show him?

Erland’s expression fell into a frown as he read the headline. Oh, this was not good. Professor Tellwyrn was going to immolate somebody.

“Hey, Kjerstin,” he called, interrupting their argument. “Didn’t you happen to mention that the Falconer’s daughter was attending my alma mater?”

“What of it?” she said, exasperated. “You bring that up now?”

“You were talking about funding, and politics,” he said, eyes still on the paper. “There’s something unfolding down there that we may want to pay attention to…”

 

“Your pardon, Princess,” Cartwright said diffidently, “but this newspaper was just delivered for you.”

“Newspaper?” Yasmeen said distractedly, picking it up from the silver tray on which the Butler held it out. “I’m not in the habit of reading the…” She trailed off, staring at the headline. “…Cartwright, who delivered this?”

“A young man who is not a member of the Palace staff,” Cartwright replied, her round face as impassive as always. “I took the liberty of ordering that he be followed. Needless to say, the Palace guardsmen are not equipped to pursue someone discreetly beyond the walls of Calderaas, but I suspect his point of origin is within the city.”

“A man penetrates this deeply into the palace,” Yasmeen said sharply, “a man you do not know, and you merely have him followed? What if, instead of a newspaper, he had been delivering a dagger? How did he get in here? He should have been apprehended the moment you knew something was amiss!”

“With respect, your Highness,” Cartwright said calmly, folding her hands behind her back, “the content of the paper, and the manner of its delivery, is suggestive. This means of conveying information is a favored tactic of both the Thieves’ Guild and Imperial Intelligence; there are innumerable possible motives either might have to draw your Highness’s attention to Last Rock. Apprehending an agent of either organization would avail us little, and risk creating considerable backlash. When our agents report back, we will know more about who he was, and can act further at that time.”

“I see,” Yasmeen said more calmly, returning her eyes to the paper and reading below the headline. “Quite right, then. That was quick thinking, Cartwright.”

“Your Highness,” the Butler replied, bowing.

“…where is my mother at the moment?”

“Her Majesty is currently entertaining Lord Taluvir in the west drawing room, Princess. His Lordship appeared quite wroth; the matter is likely to tax her considerable stores of diplomatic skill, I fear.”

“Hmmmm. This is definitely not worth interrupting her for, then. Unless…”

“There has been no message from Last Rock from or concerning Prince Sekandar, your Highness,” Cartwight said serenely. “Given the esteem in which House Aldarasi is held by Professor Tellwyrn, he can be assumed to be well so long as we are not notified otherwise.”

“Very well,” Yasmeen said with a sigh, folding the newspaper. “When she has the liberty, please inform the Sultana that I wish to speak with her at her earliest convenience.”

“I have already made the arrangements, your Highness,” Cartwright replied, “and ordered your Highness’s writing desk to be prepared with your favorite jasmine tea and baklava. Your Highness was scheduled to be interviewed by that unmannerly individual from the Wizards’ Guild; he has been informed that the meeting must be delayed.”

Any other servant would be reprimanded for such presumption, but there was no point in going to the considerable expense of employing a Butler if one did not let them buttle.

“Thank you very much, Cartwright.”

“It is, as always, my pleasure, Princess.”

 

Agent Fawkes moved as casually as was humanly possible, conveying the impression to any onlookers that he had every right to be here, on these enclosed manor grounds. Not that there were any onlookers—he had cased the premises quite thoroughly before entering—but one did not last long in his profession if one suffered lapses of professionalism. He laid the newspaper down on the steps to the manor’s kitchen door, which his intel stated was more heavily used by the house’s occupants than the front, and turned to make his way back to the side gate.

He found himself staring directly into a wide pair of eerie crimson eyes. She had appeared in complete and utter silence.

“Hi there!” Malivette Dufresne said brightly, smiling. “Whatcha doin’?”

For the barest moment, he froze. Fawkes was trained to confront the unexpected, to confront death, to contend with attractive women and terrifying monsters. The combination of all of the above was enough to rock his equilibrium, though. Just a little bit.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said respectfully, stepping back from the vampire and bowing. “Just delivering your paper.”

“That’s interesting,” the undead Duchess said, her smile widening to show off her fangs in what he was certain was not an accidental gesture. “Because people making deliveries tend to leave them at the gate, since it’s not, y’know, open. Also, I don’t subscribe to any newspapers. But since we’re getting all friendly, my pet peeves are poofy-sleeved dresses, sausage too heavily spiced, women who wear too much makeup, and people who come to my home and lie to me.”

Fawkes allowed himself the luxury of a small gulp. Such a show of vulnerability could actually be advantageous; establishing himself firmly as a lesser creature meant she was less likely to do something violent. That was, if his intel on Dufresne was correct; if she were the wrong kind of monster, it could have the opposite effect. Now, face to face with her in all her unnatural glory, he had to wonder. For one thing, it was broad daylight and she wasn’t so much as steaming in the sun…

Malivette was considered an ally of the Throne and a citizen in good standing, and this was a mission of relatively low priority. Under the circumstances, Intelligence’s policy for such a confrontation was clear.

“My apologies, your Grace,” he said, bowing again. “I work for the Imperial government; I was told to deliver this newspaper to your home. That is the entirety of what I know of the matter.”

“Ahh,” she said knowingly. “I see. Well, then. Be a good boy and let’s have it.”

She held out her hand expectantly. Fawkes glanced at it, decided against making any further comment, and turned to retrieve the paper he had just set down. He placed it in her hand with yet another respectful bow.

“Now then,” Malivette said briskly, “let’s see what we have here. Oh, my. Professor Tellwyrn still retains her absolute genius for annoying powerful people, I see…”

Fawkes cleared his throat very softly, stepping backward away from her. “Well. Enjoy your paper, your Grace. If there’s nothing further, I’ll be going.”

The vampire made no response, crimson eyes tracking back and forth as she read the lead article. Fawkes stepped back twice more before turning his back on her. He did not rush, nor pick up his pace in the slightest, as he made his way back across the grounds. Professionalism.

Still, it was with considerable relief that he finally slipped out the side gate into the overgrown path beyond. He didn’t quite indulge himself in a sigh, knowing roughly the range of that creature’s hearing, but allowed himself to un-tense slightly as he re-latched the gate behind him, then turned to head back into the forest.

He was instantly seized by the throat and slammed back into the gate.

“One other thing,” Malivette said in total calm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to suddenly be standing there on this side of the wall. She wasn’t even looking at him, still reading the newspaper held in one hand; the fingers of her other one were as icy and rigid as marble against his neck. Fawkes had better sense than to struggle against them, merely rising up on tiptoe so he could continue to breathe. “Be a love and report to Lord Vex that if he wants to give me a message, he can do so like a civilized person. If I continue to find his playthings creeping about my back steps, I can’t guarantee he’ll get them back in one piece. Clear?”

“Explicitly,” Fawkes replied, unable to fully compensate for the strain on his vocal cords. “I shall relay the message, your Grace.”

“Attaboy!” she said brightly, releasing him.

He was, by that point, only slightly surprised when she exploded into a cloud of shrieking bats and swirled away, back toward the manor. At least she took the paper with her.

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The manor gates were standing open when they arrived. The group paused for a moment, glancing around at one another before Darling shrugged, grinned insouciantly, and strolled on in. There was nothing for them to do but follow, Ingvar with a soft sigh.

Though the thief made a (somewhat casually-paced) beeline for the door, Joe and Ingvar carefully studied the grounds as they trailed along in his wake. The gravel walk was even and clean, the house apparently well-repaired, its partial blanket of climbing ivy even cleared away from windows. It didn’t look like a particularly well-maintained property apart from that, however. There was no landscaping of any kind, and the lawn was essentially a walled-in patch of wild prairie in the forest, thick with chest-high grasses, bramble bushes and even occasional small trees that had clearly grown up within the last ten years or so, due to no one bothering to clear them out. There was no statuary, no garden or porch furniture, and the only flowers appeared haphazardly on the edge of the walk where the taller grasses didn’t quite blot out their access to sunlight.

They all stopped again at the top of the short flight of steps to the manor’s doors, because those doors opened before they got close enough to knock. Well, one of the double set did, revealing a beautiful young woman in an expensive red gown. She regarded them with a faint, knowing smile.

“Good afternoon!” Darling said with a grin and a bow. “Would I have the pleasure of addressing Lady Malivette?”

“Hardly,” she said, her smile widening. “But please come in, your Grace. She is expecting you.” With that, she stepped aside, gesturing them demurely through.

“You’re too kind!” Darling, again, strolled right on ahead as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Joe and Ingvar exchanged a significant look before following, hands straying close to holstered wands and tomahawks.

The woman in red stood aside to watch them with that calm smile as they clustered together inside, pushing the door shut as soon as they were clear of it. Inside, the entrance hall of Dufresne Manor was more of the same: clean, well-repaired, but starkly bare of furnishings and apparently not much cared for. The three gave it only a glance, however, being focused upon the person waiting for them at the base of the stairs, directly ahead.

It could only be Malivette Dufresne; the crimson eyes were a dead giveaway. She also wore an exquisite but severe black gown that suited the vampire mystique, but apart from that, she seemed to be just a petite young woman who could be quite pretty if she’d get a good night’s sleep, eat several regular meals and get some sun. Ingvar, naturally, was not about to voice that assessment.

“Bishop Darling,” the lady of the house intoned in a silky contralto voice. “What an interesting visit. I can’t recall the last time a cleric deemed me desirable company—though, now that I’ve said it aloud, it occurs to me that the disciples of Eserion aren’t exactly the standard run of clergy, are you?”

“Why, we take pride in not being the standard run of anything, m’lady,” Darling said with another grandiose bow. “I apologize for dropping in on you like this…though apparently we’re not quite as unexpected as I was expecting.”

“No indeed,” the vampire said with a broad, friendly smile which was both uncharacteristic of the nobles Ingvar had observed, and unnerving in that it showed off her elongated canines. He suspected that was no accident. Malivette oozed forward with a slinky gate that might have been alluring under other circumstances. “This has been the day for unexpected visitations—you’re not half so surprising as what told me to be on the lookout for you. Tell me, your Grace, do you know what a shadow elemental is?”

Darling blinked. “I…confess I haven’t the faintest idea. Sorry, elementals are a bit over my head.”

“I didn’t either,” said the vampire, her smile fading. “Let me tell you, it’s a hell of a thing to have breezing into your living room all of a sudden.”

“And we are exceedin’ly sorry to’ve been such an imposition, however indirectly, ma’am,” Joe said politely, hat in hand. “It’s clear you don’t care for visitors. We’ll aim not to take up a hair more of your time than absolutely necessary.”

Malivette turned her red eyes on him, tilting her head inquisitively. “That’s clear, is it? Now, what makes you think that?”

Joe glanced at Darling, who merely raised his eyebrows, expression a blank mask of curiosity. The Kid cleared his throat. “Well, ah… Just puttin’ together the numbers, so t’speak. Your home is in very good repair, an’ so’s the outer wall. None o’ that’s cheap for a property this size, which means the apparent state of disrepair’s deliberate. Few times I’ve seen rich places fallen on hard times, the furnishings were all kept, an’ all gettin’ shabby together. I reckon you affect a tumbledown aesthetic on purpose, to discourage people comin’ over.”

“Why, what a sharp eye you have,” Malivette cooed, “Mr…?”

“Jenkins, ma’am. Joseph P. Jenkins. Just payin’ attention and applyin’ logic. Your pardon if I step outta turn, I mean no disrespect.”

“Oh, pish tosh,” she said, waving a hand airily. “I do say it’s a delight to meet a young man your age with a sense of did you say Joseph P. Jenkins?”

He swallowed. “I, ah…yes, I did.”

“Well, as I don’t live and breathe!” the vampire enthused, grinning broadly. “The Sarasio Kid, in my front room! What a day this is turning out to be! The Kid, the Bishop, and…” Her gaze fell on Ingvar. “I’m certain this is quite a story, too.”

“This is Brother Ingvar,” Darling said mildly. “Huntsman of Shaath.”

“Brother?” Malivette looked him up and down, and Ingvar refrained from bristling, having had far too much practice at it. “Okay. Quite a story, then.”

“And one with which we won’t bore you,” Ingvar said flatly. “Your pardon, lady, but these gentlemen seek an audience with you; I am merely traveling with them. I’m afraid I’ve nothing to offer or ask of you, and will not trouble you more than I must simply by being here.”

“There’s no need to be defensive, Brother Ingvar,” the vampire said with a faint smile. “We all have our need for privacy—believe me, you will rarely meet someone who understands that better than I.” She transferred her gaze back to Darling. “So! What wind blows you to my door, Bishop?”

“Well,” he said with an easy smile, “we’re following up on a trail of old events, your Grace. I understand you had some houseguests recently!”

“Mm hmm,” she murmured, watching him closely now. “The sort of houseguests about whom lots of people are curious. It’s not my policy to divulge anyone else’s secrets any more than my own—and that’s even for people who aren’t watched over by a certain archmage with an apocalyptic temper.”

“By all means,” he said smoothly, “I’ve no intention of digging into the students’ business; we won’t be at all offended if you can’t tell us anything. It’s not they who chiefly concern us, anyhow. The events in question, though…” He sighed, glancing back at the others. “Well, the truth is, Joe and I are part of a group of folks who were trying to prevent disaster from breaking out here.”

“Good job,” she said, deadpan.

Darling chuckled ruefully. “Yeah, you’ve hit it on the head, my lady. I was the one in charge of planning, Joe more a boots-on-the-ground type. I completely missed my mark—had everybody nosing around up north of Desolation. I misread the intelligence and didn’t pay enough attention to Veilgrad until matters here disintegrated so far there was nothing to be done, except by those already present.” He sighed. “I’ll have to accept your condemnation, Lady Dufresne, for failing you, even if you had no idea I was trying to help. What we are doing here, now, is investigating what happened, why, and at whose behest. The goal is to get a better handle on events so as not to make such mistakes in the future. But it already being well too late to be of use to you, here, so… As I said, I’ll take no offense if you show us the door at this point.”

“Hmm,” she mused, studying him thoughtfully. She turned her unsettling gaze on Joe, and then on Ingvar. “Hmm. Mm hmm hm hmm. Ruby!” The vampire looked past them at the woman in red. “Would you be good enough to show our guests into the dining room?”

“Of course, my lady,” said Ruby, curtsying gracefully to the men when they turned to her. “If you will follow me, please, gentlemen?”

“Most comfortable room in the house that I don’t sleep in,” said Malivette cheerfully. “I’ll be with you in just a tick, lads.”

Abruptly she exploded in a cloud of swirling, squeaking mist. Ingvar leapt back, drawing a tomahawk by reflex, as a swarm of bats whirled out of the place where the vampire had stood. Squealing and chattering, they fluttered up to the second-floor landing and down a hall.

“I apologize for the mistress of the house,” Ruby said calmly. “Social isolation and a rather quirky sense of humor make her, at times, startling to company. This way, please?”

“Put that up,” Darling said in a low tone as he followed after her. “What’d you think you were gonna do, chop down the bats?”

“Ease up, your Grace,” Joe said to him, equally softly but with an edge. “It’s instinct. Makes perfect sense to me, an’ I doubt the lady took offense. She seems too intelligent not to know exactly what she’s doin’ with antics like that.”

“Fair enough,” Darling said with a shrug, and offered Ingvar a smile.

The Huntsman slipped his ax back into its belt loop, not acknowledging him.

Ruby led them through a side door into a dining room that was very like the entrance hall in aesthetics—which was to say, clean and bare. A fireplace stood at one end of the room and a long table lined with chairs down its center.

Malivette, somehow, was already waiting for them.

“There you are,” she said cheerfully. “I was afraid you’d gotten lost. I have something for you, Bishop Darling.”

She was, indeed, holding an object, which she lightly tossed to the Bishop. Darling caught it deftly, turning the staff over in his hands; Ingvar and Joe both craned their necks over his shoulder to peer at it. Though about the size of an Army-issue battlestaff, it looked more like a scepter, capped at both ends with large crystals and with hefty spirals of gold embossing half its length. There was an obvious clicker mechanism in the usual place, however.

“I’ve been wanting to get rid of that for weeks,” their hostess said. “My plan was always to get it into the hands of the Thieves’ Guild, but our local representative is a little too closely tied to the Army for my comfort, and well… That makes things complicated with regard to that weapon.”

“Weapon?” Joe said, raising his eyebrows.

“Complicated?” Darling added. “How so?”

Malivette grinned again, which was no less disconcerting. “You boys had best grab some seats—this might take a while. Upon consideration, I believe I’ll be happy to tell you all about what went down in Veilgrad recently. Ruby, bring the gentlemen some refreshments, would you? This might take…a while.”

 

Though the revival had ended, a festive atmosphere lingered over Last Rock, chiefly due to the efforts of the remaining religious institutions to capitalize on the spirit. The Universal Church chapel had remained open and fully staffed with a few priests from the capital lingering in town for that purpose; Father Laws had wisely avoided the temptation to give extra sermons, instead having organized a bake sale. The lure of fresh baked goods, donated by the ladies of the town, and freely available root beer and apple cider had kept people streaming steadily through the chapel and its yard all afternoon, once usual working hours had passed. Students trickled down from the mountain, too, their own classes being done for the day.

With the tents and representatives from the other cults having packed up and left, Last Rock’s newest additions were doing a brisk business, too. The high spirits of the revival lingered but the competition had not, and the new Vidian temple and the Silver Mission were both centers of activity. People clustered and swirled around the Mission’s grounds, on the outskirts of town near the Rail platform, but by far the biggest concentrations of activity were on a different side of the outskirts, between the Vidian amphitheater and the chapel, which were not far separate. In that region, shops along the short stretch of street linking the two had set out festive stands (several complete with free samples), and a sort of impromptu town picnic had formed on the prairie around the temple.

The Vidians themselves were putting on a performance. It was an old morality play, one of those stories with a ham-fisted message which everyone had already heard anyway, but not for nothing was Vidius the patron of false faces; the performers put effort and style into the production, and Val Tarvadegh, the chief priest attached to this temple, was a man with a robust sense of humor, which colored the proceedings to their benefit. Many townsfolk were clustered in and around the small amphitheater, actually watching the show, even as others milled about on the grass, sharing food and gossip.

Big, Church-sponsored festivals were fine and dandy, but now was a day for the good folk of Last Rock to have their own shindig. If a few muttered and cast dark looks at the University students in their midst, they kept it discreet, and nobody seemed to pay them any notice.

A dozen yards or so distant from the amphitheater, another cluster of people had formed around a large blanket laid out on the grass, replete with dishes brought by various citizens. Some stood or sat near it, grazing and chit-chatting, and a handful of children chased each other around nearby, pausing periodically when some adult or other scolded them, though they didn’t seem to be bothering the performers. Quite a few people were gathered on the far side of the blanket, however, watching another impromptu show at the edge of the tallgrass.

It was a little unclear what exactly Juniper was trying to do with her jackalope, expect give him some exercise. She had Jack on a harness and leash—itself a highly impressive feat to those who knew anything of the creatures and their temperament—and was running up and down, back and forth, and in circles with him. Periodically she would give him commands to stop, or to leap, which he occasionally chose to obey. Generally, Jack didn’t seem to mind bounding alongside his companion, and he made short work of the peanuts she gave him after every successful “trick,” but based on his performance he had clearly not learned to associate obedience with reward. It probably didn’t help that she gave him encouraging scratches behind the ear even when he refused to jump on command.

They made for an amusing spectacle anyway, particularly the dryad. With her green hair flying in the breeze, garbed in just her usual sundress, Juniper was an impressive physical specimen, which the exercise just served to highlight. It probably helped to encourage her audience that her antics were bouncy in multiple senses. A few of the women of the town were dividing annoyed looks between the dryad and their male companions. In a slightly separate group off to one side, several University kids loitered around, chitchatting and eyeballing Juniper with even less discretion.

“Am I alone in sensing a certain…coldness?” Sekandar Aldarasi asked quietly, eying the nearby citizens.

“What, you mean the townies?” Chase replied, glancing at them before returning his gaze to Juniper. “Nah, that’s about typical. They always keep a little aloof.”

“You are not alone, Sekandar,” Ravana said calmly. “We’ve been here a relatively short time, but I have noted a subtle yet consistent change in the way the locals look at us since yesterday.”

“Since Bishop Snowe’s very interesting speech,” Sekandar said, nodding.

“Well, maybe you’re right,” Chase said with a grin. “I mean, who’d know better? They’re your people, after all.”

Sekandar barked a short laugh. “Hah! These? The mostly Stalweiss descendants of Heshenaad’s armies, with a culture and dialect heavily influence by the gnomes and plains elves? When the Great Plains were officially claimed, most of them were divided into new provinces; this area was appended to Calderaas only because House Tirasian needed to placate my family after the skulduggery following the Enchanter Wars. The frontiersmen are no one’s people but their own. I think they rather insist on that point.”

“Y’know, this is a lot like one of Tellwyrn’s lectures,” Chase commented. “Except—and I never thought I would say this—she’s prettier than you.”

“Well, you can see the evidence before you,” Sekandar said dryly. “Everyone seems to find Juniper far more interesting than their prince.

Ruda snorted. “Be fair, now. If you had knockers like that, they’d be all over you.”

“Yeah?” Chase turned to her, grinning. “You’ve got knockers like that, and nobody’s bothering you, I see.”

“Maybe because I don’t wave ’em around for everybody to gawk at.”

“Yes, and I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that, now that you mention it. A rack of such proportions is a gift from the gods, Punaji. You have a certain obligation to share—”

“On the subject of confusing me with Juniper, Masterson,” Ruda interrupted. “she’s the one who needs a good reason to beat your ass into the ground.”

“Oh!” Chase bonked himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. “Right, sorry. I always get those mixed up.”

Ravana gave him a very long, very cool look from the corner of her eye, which he appeared not to notice. Beside her, Szith edged subtly closer, casually flexing her fingers in the vicinity of her sword.

Juniper had either finished her allotted exercise or given up on Jack’s training, and was now wandering toward the other students, the jackalope gathered into her arms. Before getting more than a few yards, however, she was intercepted by a girl of no more than eight who burst out of the crowd of townsfolk.

“Hi!” she squealed, beaming. “Can I pet the bunny?”

“Oh,” Juniper said, blinking at her and carefully adjusting her grip on Jack. “Um, that’s not a really good idea, honey.”

The child’s face immediately crumpled.

“It’s just that he’s still being trained,” Juniper said hastily. “And he doesn’t like strangers. Jackalopes aren’t tame bunnies; those antlers can really hurt you. I wouldn’t want that to happen! Aw, please don’t cry…”

“Hm,” Ravana murmured, her eyes roving over the picnic area; almost everyone else was studying the new drama unfolding. “Why is that child not playing with the others?”

“Children are unpredictable,” Ruda grunted. “Bunnies are fluffy. Can’t expect a kid to understand that bunny is also a thing of goddamn evil.”

“Who is that?” Ravana inquired, nodding her head toward a lean-faced blonde woman in a black coat, who had come to stand at the front of the group of townsfolk.

“I don’t know her name,” Szith replied. “She is a priestess of Vidius, however, from what I have overheard. Apparently she and an Avenist have stayed on after the revival to be attached permanently to their respective temples.”

“And she’s now here,” Ravana mused, “watching this, instead of the Vidian service going on. Interesting.”

“I’m not sure I’d call a play a Vidian service,” Sekandar began.

“Uh oh,” Ruda said suddenly, frowning, and pointed.

A woman had emerged from the crowd, stalking over to Juniper, who backpedaled, clutching her jackalope. His ears had begun to twitch dangerously, though he had not yet started struggling.

“What are you doing to my child?” she demanded.

“I was just—”

“She ain’t hurtin’ anything,” the woman said sharply, taking the little girl by the hand and glaring at Juniper. “I don’t see any call to be snapping at her.”

“I wasn’t trying to snap,” the dryad said earnestly. “It’s just, she wanted to pet Jack, and I was trying to explain—”

“And what’s wrong with that? Are you really so hard up you can’t let a little girl touch your rabbit?”

“Now, hold on,” Juniper protested.

“Marcy, there ain’t no call to be like that,” a man added, stepping forward and frowning reproachfully. “She weren’t hurtin’ the girl. What would you say if she wanted to pat an ornery mule? You can’t let a kid get too close to disagreeable animals, that’s just sense.”

There were several nods and murmurs of agreement from the onlookers, which seemed to infuriate Marcy. She clutched her daughter close, the child having begun to cry in earnest during all the raised voices.

“It’s a rabbit, Herman. What’s it gonna hurt? All I see’s one o’ them kids from up on the hill who thinks she can walk around our town doin’ what she likes, an’ not show the slightest regard for th’ people livin’ here!”

That brought a few murmurs of its own.

“Omnu’s breath, Marcy, it’s her rabbit!” Herman exclaimed.

“Hey!” Natchua pushed forward through the crowd; Marcy shied back from the glaring drow, huddling protectively around her weeping daughter. “Your child was trying to interfere with an aggressive wild animal with very large horns. Its trainer just explained that it’s only half-trained and not sociable. It’s not going to be the dryad’s fault of someone gets gored. As I see it, the difference between you two is she is being responsible for her little beast!”

“Oh, my,” Chase breathed, grinning from ear to ear. Several of the onlookers had burst out laughing, while others were nodding in agreement—though with whose points it was impossible to say.

“If I may?” The soft voice cut through the noise, clearly delivered by someone accustomed to projecting through the stage. The blonde woman in Vidian black stepped forward, smiling. “Madam, I certainly understand your concern, but having been here a few moments before you arrived, I can assure you I saw no one threatening your child. She was disappointed, not harmed. And the young lady is quite correct: jackalopes are not friendly creatures, as a rule. Might I suggest it would be wise if everyone lowered their voices? The poor creature looks rather stressed. We wouldn’t want to provoke him, now would we?”

At that, most of the onlookers obligingly dropped their tones, or stopped talking entirely, and Juniper eased back further, clutching Jack close and stroking his fur. His nose was twitching furiously, but he still didn’t lunge free; despite appearances, her training seemed to be having some effect on him.

“Well, you can’t blame me,” Marcy muttered, stroking the child’s hair. “I came over to find my girl crying and that…woman right there… We all know dryads ain’t the safest creatures.”

“Juniper seems to have been trying to protect the child from another dangerous creature, if I’m not mistaken,” said the blonde. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve met everyone yet.” She dropped to a crouch, smiling disarmingly at the girl, who peeked out from over her mother’s arm. “Hi, there. My name’s Lorelin. What’s yours?”

“D-daisy,” the child sniffled. “Daisy Summers.”

“Daisy!” the priestess said warmly. “That’s very pretty, your parents have good taste. I’m sorry you didn’t get to pet the bunny, hon. You have to remember, though, he belongs to Miss Juniper. We must respect other people’s things, mustn’t we? You’d want them to respect yours, right?”

Daisy muttered something indistinct; Lorelin smiled up at Marcy and winked, before straightening up. “There, now, just a little misunderstanding. It’s good you came along when you did, ma’am.”

“Well, I’m glad someone ’round here has some sense,” Marcy said, shooting a look at Herman. He threw up his hands and turned away.

“I’m sure we all are,” Natchua said, fairly dripping sarcasm.

“Hmmmm,” Ravana mused from the sidelines. “How very interesting.”

“How so?” Sekandar inquired. She just shook her head.

Juniper had retreated further, back toward the tallgrass, and set Jack down to let him stretch and relax. Chase and a few of the others started toward her, but she looked up, shook her head apologetically and gestured them back, still soothingly stroking the jackalope’s fur.

That was the moment when Jack lunged forward, his powerful legs propelling him like a stone from a catapult. His leash brought him up short, the force of the jump not shifting the startled Juniper by an inch, and so his horns merely grazed Herman’s leg, rather than outright impaling him.

Herman staggered with a yell, other shouts immediately breaking out from the onlookers. Juniper began frantically reeling the struggling jackalope back toward her, even as he continued to bound this way and that, lunging at whoever his eyes caught. People wisely backpedaled away from the dryad and her pet, Marcy picking up Daisy and fleeing at a run. Natchua, standing just outside the range of the jackalope’s diminishing leash, watched them go without moving.

Chase was laughing so hard he had to sit down.

Lorelin had leaped to Herman’s side; she and another man from the crowd helped him away from the struggling jackalope and to a seated position on the ground, where the priestess knelt beside him, hands glowing with healing light.

Amid the hubbub, Ravana caught Sekandar’s elbow and tugged gently. He glanced down at her curiously, but allowed himself to be led; she pulled him back from the gaggle of students toward Ruda, who now stood a few feet distant, idly swirling a bottle of rum and watching the proceedings thoughtfully.

“Your Highnesses,” Ravana said, coming to a stop.

Ruda made a face at her, but Sekandar, merely raising an eyebrow, played along. “Your Grace?”

“I wonder,” said the Duchess, “if you would be good enough to say whether you’ve just seen the same sequence of events I have.”

The Prince, turned his head, frowning thoughtfully at Juniper, who had got Jack back into her arms and was holding him firmly. “Hum. I would have to say this began yesterday, with Bishop Snowe’s speech. In a widespread religious event organized by the Universal Church, a Bishop thereof launched a very sharp verbal attack on the University. Most uncharacteristic behavior for an Izarite, I might add, which suggests on whose behalf she was speaking. Now, we have this little drama, facilitated by a new Vidian cleric who arrived as part of the same function.”

“There’s a new Avenist, too,” Ruda added quietly. “A priestess, apparently gonna be working down at the Silver Mission. That’s interesting to me; Trissiny’s whole point in starting those was having a single cleric on hand to organize, and lettin’ the rest of any staff be volunteer laypeople.”

“I don’t suppose either of you happened to observe what this Lorelin was doing before the child approached Juniper and kicked all this off?” Ravana inquired, still watching the hubbub as it gradually got under control, townspeople drifting away and Herman gingerly testing his leg.

“I’m afraid not,” said Sekandar.

“Because I distinctly recall seeing the town’s children playing together, some yards distant,” Ravana continued. “There could, of course, be perfectly innocent explanations for that one having separated from the group to approach Juniper and the rabbit, but the timing seems odd, to me.”

“Hm,” Ruda said noncommittally.

“And now,” Ravana continued, “we have an incident. A local resident injured, however slightly, by a student. Or at least, I’ve no doubt that is how the story will be told. And all right as this new cleric, placed here by the same organization which funded Bishop Snowe, arrived on the scene.”

“Speculation,” Ruda pointed out.

“Oh without doubt,” Ravana agreed. “I merely point out a suggestive sequence of events. Any of them could be coincidental and harmless. It’s when chained together that a troubling pattern emerges. I’m sure that I needn’t lecture the two of you about suggestive sequences of individually harmless events.”

“No, you needn’t,” Ruda said, now watching the Vidian priestess, who was in earnest conversation with Herman and two other town citizens.

“I wonder,” Sekandar mused, “how difficult would it be for a cleric to manifest an object of divine light. Something small enough to, say, prod a jackalope, or flick its ear.”

“Hmm,” Ravana said thoughtfully, tapping her lips with one finger. “It was my understanding that light-created objects had to remain in contact with the caster.”

“What about divine shields? They are clearly solid, and not physically connected to their creators.”

“You have a point,” she acknowledged. “Of course, the tricky part would have to be doing it without garnering attention. If I’m not mistaken, isn’t such misdirection a known skill of higher-ranking Vidian clerics?”

“Almost half my class is taking divine casting with Harklund this semester,” said Ruda. “I’ll ask about the possibilities. Discreetly.”

“Yes,” Ravana agreed, nodding. “I’m sure you both understand the importance of discretion, here. It might be unfortunate if one of the paladins were to hear an accusation without proof at this juncture.”

“That would muddy the waters,” Sekandar said, frowning. “I dislike the thought of sneaking around them…”

“Don’t sneak,” Ruda advised, “and don’t lie. This is nothing but unconfirmed theory as of right now; there’s no reason at all for them to hear about it until there’s something significant for them to hear. Trust me, I know those three. One would shrug and blow you off, and the other two would fly right the hell off the handle.”

“Quite so,” said Ravana. “If it all turns out to be nothing, it will be better not to have sown any further seeds of discord. But if, for whatever reason, the Universal Church is angling to undermine the University, it seems best, to me, that someone be on site to angle right back. Don’t you agree?”

Standing a few yards distant, separate from all the various groups of people present, Szith stared into space, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. The drow heaved a soft sigh and spoke in a low tone inaudible to anyone but herself.

“I hate politics.”

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10 – 8

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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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