Sephiris: The Price of Peace

Mandor > Aram > The Green Twig, Lower District ~ morning of DAY 16

The common room was filled when Barthon and Simion stepped inside. A fire was roaring in the hearth, though Barthon thought it was entirely unneeded. He was already beginning to sweat underneath his armor. He glanced around at the tables that filled the common room, round wooden tables that had certainly seen better days. The patrons themselves looked the same. Most of the tables were filled, seating four or five patrons that seemed an equal mix of male and female. They all seemed to be talking, and the buzzing drone of their collective voices seemed to saturate the stifling air.

Most of the men and women were laborers or farmers. Many of them were probably in from their lands until the trouble out in the countryside could be settled. That was a part of the problem with the over-crowding of Aram: as many were here because they did not want to fight for their homes as those who had already lost their homes and had no where else to go. Barthon could not really blame them. He had been raised to wield his sword like a farmer was his hoe; they each had their own uses, and the middle of a battle was no place for a farmer. Those who were not despairing into a mug seemed intent on their gossip. Barthon had heard a few of the rumors on his way through the Gateway: that the shadows belonged to Zephiris, and had been sent out to punish humans for their sins, or that the shadows were in fact the demonic magics of the dragons. He had even heard rumors of both elves and dragons invading Sephalia, spoken by merchants as if it was fact! Were it a fact, Barthon would have been told by the Lord Knights, or the Duke himself. More rumors spoke of Duke Omoron preparing for war, and those rumors did bother Barthon. Duke Cyril Omoron was an ambitious and unpredictable man. How merchants and farmers had come across such information, should it truly be accurate, was beyond Barthon however.

A cursory glance across the tables of the common room was enough to show Barthon that his friends were not among the refugees.
“May I help you, Sir Knight?” came a voice from Barthon’s right. The innkeeper, a stout man wearing a stained apron and a few strands of graying hair, had approached him. He was standing slightly bowed, holding a wooden mug in one hand and a dirty towel folded over the other. “If you are looking for a room, I do fear you are better off with your own. And as far as the food goes…”

“I am looking for some friends,” Barthon said. “They spoke of a lady who owns the inn, and said that she keeps a room available for a man named Brenard san Deccour. He came in yesterday. Have you seen him?”

“Brenard…” the man said, rubbing his chin with the towel-covered hand. “Brenard… oh, yes! Strange company, that was. Unfortunately, I had no accommodations for them. The mistress never returned from Iyel’Del, a little over a week back now, and I did never hear of any… special reservations. They had a few drinks before going on their way.”

“Did they say where they were going?” Barthon asked. He couldn’t understand why they would not have sent word to the barracks if they had changed where they were staying.

“No… no, they did no say a word of it to me. I apologize, Sir… uh…”

“Camlin,” Barthon said. “Barthon Camlin.”

“Well, then, Sir Camlin, I will of course let them know you were looking for them should they come back. Unless, of course, you do no want them to know?”

“They are not fugitives,” Barthon said, a little too roughly. “Should they return here, tell them I am heading to Caluk tomorrow, and then Iyel’Del. They can follow if they wish, though I hold them to no obligation.”

“I meant no offense, Sir Camlin. And I will relate your message, of course, should they happen into The Green Twig again.”

“Thank you,” Barthon said, turning and striding toward the door. “Come on, Simion.” Barthon knew he had no right to act so angry with the man, but he couldn’t help it. He had no time to search for the others, as much as he wanted to. He had a mission, and beyond that they had to find Zephiris. Simion insisted that she could only be found in Sephalia, or beyond, but certainly not here. If they did not catch up to him and Simion by Iyel’Del, he would assume that he would likely never see them again.

“Why didn’t they send word to us?” Simion asked as they left The Green Twig. The street beyond was crowded, as it had been since Barthon had returned to Aram. It was also dirty, showing signs of the lack of care by the current inhabitants. Refuse filled the street corners and alleys, and the entire Gateway reeked of urine and worse. A crowd of refugees parted way for Barthon as he strode away from the inn, temporarily halting their normal plea’s for pity coins or scraps of food.

“I don’t know, Simion,” Barthon said. “I would assume either they could not, for whatever reason, or they have decided to halt their journey. We do not have the time to look for them though. We must make our preparations for Caluk.”

“What about Quentin,” Simion asked. “How will he know where to find us?”

“He knows where to ask,” Barthon said. “But I fear that he has more than enough work for him here.” Simion did not respond, but Barthon could see the disappointment in his face. Simion had grown attached to all of them, and Quentin had treated him like a father. Their departure would be hard, but necessary. As a Holy Knight of Zephiris, Simion could not afford to become too attached to anyone. Besides, Simion would soon be seeing his own father, and the rest of his family.

“How do you feel about returning home?” Barthon asked.

“A little scared,” Simion responded quietly. “I don’t know what I will find there. I don’t know if…” Simion took a deep breath to steady himself before continuing, “if they are still alive.”

“Try not to worry over it too much, Simion. You will know by tomorrow. For now, we need to focus on our mission. Since we cannot find our friends, there is something else we can do, something for your mission.” Simion looked up at him in surprise, one eyebrow arched and his lips drawn down in a slight frown. “We will speak to Duke Nuriam about relinquishing some mages to speed our journey across the sea to Sephalia. I have a feeling that time is of the essence, and we will waste quite a bit of it crossing the sea.”

“That sounds good,” said Simion. “But mages are not very common. Are you sure that Duke Nuriam will let you take any?”

“No, not me,” Barthon said. “You. Duke Nuriam spoke highly of you, Simion, and he believes in your mission. This request is to come from you, as a Holy Knight of Zephiris, rather than from me.” Simion smiled as the boy’s face paled. “But don’t worry. I will be there with you.”

They traveled back through the city of Aram to the Upper District. They passed by Order barracks, which was now an organized mess, like someone had kicked an anthill. Pages and squires were moving supplies and equipment to and fro, and the knights were either training, praying, or preparing their mounts. They passed the barracks to continue farther into the Upper District, toward Duke Nuriam’s castle itself. The castle was tall, built against the side of the mountain to add strength to its foundations. A single large tower soared over the castle itself, offering a birds-eye-view of the surrounding lands.

Barthon and Simion left their horses at the stable yard near the castle courtyard, known as the Sibylline Court, while Barthon went over what Simion was to say and do. Simion listened attentively, but Barthon could easily sense his fear. That would be understandable, even to the Duke, so Barthon did not try to hamper it. Across the courtyard, which was decorated with numerous fountains and statues, were the wide, shallow steps that led to the entrance of the castle. They ascended the steps until they reached a pair of liveried guards crossing pikes over one set of the wood, heavily engraved and gilded doors. Their livery bore the sigil of Duke Nuriam, a scroll wrapped around a wooden staff. It was a representation of the symbols of Aramis Sient, the prophet who had founded the city. They nodded at Barthon and raised their pikes, allowing them passage. One of the guards banged the butt of his pike against the door, and the servants within slowly pulled the massive doors open. Barthon could feel his own heart racing; he was nervous for Simion. It was a big task for a boy of ten years, and probably unheard of before now. Simion still wore the clothes of a page boy, and his sand-colored hair was still tousled. Barthon realized then that he was going to have to get an outfit for the boy, something that would make him look presentable and, with luck, be taken seriously. Perhaps he would speak to the Duke about that himself.

Their steps echoed through the stone corridor as they walked down the long halls. The tapestries, most of them bearing scenes of fall and winter to counter the current season, did little to muffle the sounds. The Duke’s audience chamber was straight down the hall, though they passed several side corridors and closed doors. Barthon had never been anywhere in the castle except the audience chamber, and he doubted he ever would. Today marked Simion’s first time within the castle, and Barthon enjoyed seeing the wonder on his face. He had already seen much for his age, but the Duke’s castle had always been a daunting symbol sitting on the crown of the city, something few people ever have the luxury of seeing. While it was always open to the public, it was certainly frowned upon to loiter or to waste the Duke’s time with petty complaints or requests.

The door to the audience chamber was open. The Duke was not at his chair, directly across from the door on the far side of the long chamber. A thick rug covered most of the stone floor. The trim was red, and an enormous and stylized version of Duke Nuriam’s sigil was woven into it. Banners hung from the walls, displaying the various guilds, orders, and Houses that comprised Aram. It was a colorful room, which helped dispell many visitor’s fears. A clerk was standing ready by the door, and when Barthon and Simion entered he bowed deeply.

“I will inform the Duke of your arrival, Sir Knight,” the clerk said. He bowed once again before departing through a side door.

“Do you remember what you are to say?” Barthon asked. Simion nodded, but he was staring at the chair across from them as if the Duke were already sitting there. “Stay calm, Simion. And don’t try to sound formal or pretty. Just tell him what you need”

“Okay.”

“And do not mention me. You do not want to look as if you are relying on me in any way. Try to talk as if this is your idea, and your quest alone. It will make people take you more seriously.”

“Okay.”

“And one last thing: try not to wet yourself.”

“Barthon!” Simion yelled. He immediately cringed as his shout echoed loudly in the chamber. A door behind the Duke’s chair opened immediately after, and Simion’s cheeks colored. Barthon did his best to subdue his smile. Duke Nuriam strode into the room, a pleased smile on his aged face. He had wavy black hair that was streaked with gray, and a thick beard. He wore a red and blue coat with lace trimming and his sigil on the left breast. A large jeweled ring adorned his finger, a mark of his office.

“Sir Camlin!” Duke Nuriam said as he walked passed his chair and across the chamber. Barthon and Simion both bowed deeply. “What brings you to my castle? Shouldn’t you be preparing for the new mission from your Order?”

“I am not here on any official capacity for my Order, nor for myself. I am simply escorting Sir Simion, the Holy Knight of the Order of Zephiris, so that he may make a request for his own mission.”

“Sir Altus?” The Duke said with his eyes raised. “The Holy Knight that I’ve heard so much about? It is an honor to meet you at last!” The Duke held his hand out for the boy to shake. Simion took it, albeit a bit shyly. “What is it you would ask of me, Sir Altus?” the Duke asked when they dropped hands.

Simion cleared his throat. “I would like to… I request in… as a Holy Knight of the Order of Zephiris, a unit of Magi from the Society of… um… Conscious Thought. In the name of Zephiris. My Lord,” Simion finished hurriedly.

The Duke smiled warmly at Simion. “And what need would you have for a unit of mages, young knight? I am sure you realize what a rare and expensive commodity they are.”

“For crossing to Sephalia, my Lord. A lot of time will be spent at sea, and that gives the dragons and elves more time than me to find Her. Mages can use their magic to speed up the ship. The sooner I get there, the sooner I can find Zephiris.” Barthon noticed that Simion spoke more confidently now. He had a feeling that Simion was in his element, whether he realized it or not.

“That sounds like a worthy goal, and a reasonable use of resources. The Society of Conscious Thought will be pleased to aid in the goal of the Holy Knights, indeed the goal of all mankind. From where are you sailing, Sir Simion?”

“Iyel’Del, my Lord,” Simion said. Barthon noticed Simion glance at him for a split second before returning his gaze to the Duke. Barthon wanted to sail from Dor, but Simion argued against it. The boy’s reasoning was two-fold: Iyel’Del was closer than Dor, and Simion had not yet seen the northern port-city. Being Simion’s mission, he told the boy that it was his call.

“I will give you one unit of mages from the Society here in Aram, and a writ for another unit upon reaching Iyel’Del. Use them well, Holy Knight, and ensure they reach safety in Sephalia. They will return here once you reach shore, however. Does that fulfill your need, Sir Altus?”

“It is more than I expected to receive. My Lord.” Barthon cringed inwardly at Simion’s hasty addition, but he was surprised as well. Relinquishing two units of mages was a grand gesture, and quite an honor for the boy.

“Now then, is there anything else I can do for the two most distinguished knights of Aram?” The Duke’s smile looked sincere, but Barthon could not help feeling guilty. He hadn’t earned such a distinction, nor had Simion. But it would be rude to argue the point.

“If I may, my Lord,” Barthon said, “I have a request as well. Sir Simion is young yet, and still inexperienced. He will find trouble on his journey with those who refuse to acknowledge his status and… capabilities. Perhaps some clothing that did not look like rags would lend him a little more credence?”

The Duke laughed heartily and clapped Simion on the shoulder. “The Church has just the thing for you, I think, young knight. They are relics of the Sixteen Years’ War, but they will do. I will have them sized for you, and both clothes and mages will be ready before you depart for Caluk tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Barthon and Simion said in unison, bowing.

Mandor > Aram > The Sibylline Court, Upper District ~ Noon of DAY 16

“That wasn’t as hard as I thought it was going to be,” Simion said as they retrieved their horses from the stable yard in the Sibylline Court. The Duke had left them promptly after they had concluded their business, no doubt to secure the things he had promised them. The walk out of the castle had been silent, and Barthon refrained from interrupting Simion’s thoughts. Now, though, he was relieved to know what the boy was thinking.

“Not everything will go so easily for you, Simion. Not that you didn’t do a good job, because you did. The Duke was predisposed to you. Most men of power that you come across will fear you more than respect you, simply because you want something from them. Or might be inclined to take it.”

“‘Predisposed’?” Simion said inquisitively. Sometimes Barthon forgot that the boy was really only ten years old. Despite how much he knew, he still had so much to learn.

“It means that he had foreknowledge of you, and he knew he had nothing to fear from you. You are working for the Duke, in a sense, and you do his name great honor.” Barthon smiled as he said this, but Simion slowly shook his head.

“I haven’t done anything to give anyone honor, Barthon. At least, not yet.”

“Modesty is the trademark of a great knight, Simion, as is piety. You have both in you, and that alone is honorable.” Barthon winked at Simion, and then urged his horse forward. “We should return to the barracks and prepare for our journey. There is much to do, and we must get an early start in the morning.”

As they passed the Court of Virtues, memories of a few short weeks ago raced through Barthon’s head. He had met with Lord Drake there, and he had given Barthon the mission that had brought him to his current path. It was truly honorable to have been the one chosen for the mission, and Barthon worried often whether his pride was too strong because of it. But to turn it down for that reason would make him no better than a monk. Duty was more important than fears of his self-worth. The Court was empty, as it usually was except during ceremonies, but it looked as serene as ever.

The barracks were a different story. The yard was even more hectic than when they had passed by the first time. Again, Barthon let Aramis force his own way through the crowd toward the stables. When Tadlin, the stablehand, saw Simion with Barthon, his glare returned. Tadlin would not understand the duties Simion had taken on; he only saw a spoiled page boy who was taking advantage of anyone he could as Simion handed him his reigns.

“Sir Altus,” Barthon said loudly. Perhaps that would get the point across. “You should report to Lord Drake and brief him on your mission, as well as your audience with Duke Nuriam.” Actually, Barthon saw, that got more than Tadlin’s attention. Most of the knights in the stable were staring wide-eyed as well.

After Barthon slipped down from Aramis and left the suddenly quiet stable yard, he made his way straight to the barracks. A dirt yard separated the stables from the northern side-entrance of the barracks, and the building itself looked more like an enormous inn than anything else. He supposed that, in a sense, that is what it was. The main entrance, facing west, was surrounded by a stone courtyard, the Orphic Court, which was itself lined with large bushes and a few verdant trees. None of it was overly fancy, just enough to provide some cool air and shade. The center of the Orphic Court was taken up by a large obelisk, the infamous Gedrich Monument.

The Gedrich Monument was nearly fifty paces high, making it taller than the barracks. Each side of the obelisk was heavily engraved with human script . The northern side was engraved with the history of the Order of Gedrich, the west with the importance of the Sixteen Years’ War, the south with scripture that pertained to the duties of the Order, and the east with an exact copy of the written document of Sakira’s Treaty. Barthon had prayed many times kneeling before the monument, though he passed it by without a second glance as he entered the barracks. It had been too long since he had bathed and cleaned his armor. His trek to Dor and then back had been taxing, and he had another long journey ahead of him. Perhaps far longer.

The halls inside the barracks were emptier than usual, a stark contrast from the outside. Barthon saw no brown-robed knights striding through the halls, though there were numerous servants, and a few page boys and squires hurriedly carrying out their tasks. “Glad to see you back, Sir Camlin,” said a few of the servants and pages as he made his way to the stairs leading to the second floor. “Welcome home, Sir Camlin.” The halls themselves were perfectly cleaned with the wooden-paneled floors scrubbed, the historical tapestries dusted, and the stands of ancient Gedrich Knight armor shining like a summer sky. None of the candles along the walls were lit because the windows spaced along the outer wall of the hall let in plenty of light. One candle however, marked to tell the passing of hours day or night, was lit in most rooms and in every hall in the barracks. The stairs leading up to the second floor of the barracks were on Barthon’s left-hand side halfway down the hall. The stairs went all the way up to a third floor, but Barthon’s quarters were on the second. The hall of the second floor looked much the same as the first except it was broken up by more doors. The outer wall was evenly spaced with windows, and Barthon glanced at the obelisk in the courtyard again as he passed it by.

Barthon’s room was near the end of this hall just before it turned inward. As he opened his door and stepped inside, he breathed a deep sigh of relief. Not that his room was as he had left it, but that he was finally back. He could take off his armor and relax. He could fall into the meditative activity of cleaning his armor, mentally preparing himself for the journey starting the following day, and of course taking a steaming hot bath. His father’s armor stood on its stand as it was when he had last seen it. It was physically empty, but it still carried so much in it. His father had meant a lot not only to Barthon, but to the entire Order. Like most, his father’s armor had been uniquely engraved, and Barthon feared that he would always feel to unworthy to wear it. With another sigh, Barthon began taking off his own armor.

The first piece to come off was his helmet. The blue plume was almost matted with dirt and pieces of dry leaves and grass. Dragon teeth were engraved along the visor that covered his face, as well as the lower part that covered his chin. Barthon set the helmet atop his own stand of armor.
Next, he removed his gauntlets. Heavily engraved with scripture, the gauntlets were perhaps the most heavily decorated and symbolic pieces of the armor with the exception of the breastplate. The miniature characters of scripture that twined around the fingers and hand were all chosen by Barthon. Their silver covering helped outline them, and of course increased their beauty. Inset in the knuckles were sharpened pieces of dragon bone. Largely used for hand-to-hand combat, the pieces of bone symbolize the defeat of G’sanarkath with the aid of his own daughter, Sakira.

Barthon then removed the belt that held his various pouches and two scabbards. Like much of his armor, they were heavily engraved with silver-covered characters. The scripture along the scabbards pertained to humanity’s willingness to uphold Righteousness, even at the cost of their own lives. It was something that had always rung true to Barthon, and, he assumed, every Righteous Knight of the Order of Gedrich. His two swords, the falchion and the arming sword, mimicked their scabbards in their solemn design. Both swords had seen much use during his journey the passed few weeks, and both would need to see the Order’s skilled blacksmith. One of the pouches, slightly stretched, carried Barthon’s journal. For some reason, he slid the journal under the pillow of his bed. Writing was not necessarily frowned upon, but Barthon wasn’t ready… wasn’t sure if he would ever be ready, for someone else to read the contents of his journal. That journal was a tangible record of the changes that Barthon had already gone through on his mission to find Zephiris. And he knew already that they would not be the only changes.

After the various arm pieces, Barthon finally removed the heavy cuirass, the thick breast and back plates that provided the most protection of his armor. The chest plate of the cuirass was carved with an important scene from the Zephirisian religion, perhaps the most important scene to the Order: the creation of the symbolic first human receiving the gift and burden of Righteousness from Zephiris, which the Order of Gedrich strives to uphold. This part of his armor was the most dented and dirty. After its visit to the blacksmith, Barthon would need to spend some time polishing it. His fights with Ragner Duiran and Z’ang, the strange dragon knight, had been costly to the symbolic engraving on the front. Many of its smooth lines were interrupted with dents or gashes.

Beneath his armor, hanging around his neck, was the Amulet of the Order, an acknowledgement of his achievements that he had received four years ago. Barthon was currently the youngest knight to have received it. The amulet bore the same symbol that was branded onto the skin of his right shoulder blade: a cracked dragon skull struck by three bolts of lightning, with the middle bolt, signifying Gedrich with the color of blue, more prominent than the other two, red and green, bolts. It was another symbolic reference to the defeat of G’sanarkath and the end of the Sixteen Years’ War. The amulet he left on.
After removing the rest of his armor, Barthon knelt before the completed stand in his woolen shirt and small shorts. He clasped his hands at his heart and uttered a ritual prayer to Zephiris. Wherever his journey was soon to take him, he was prepared. He had trained his entire life for this. But more important than himself, or his own mission, was the young Simion, the Holy Knight of the Order of Zephiris. As he clasped his hands at his heart and pictured the beauty of Zephiris in his mind, he knew this. It seemed engraved on his bones like the scripture of his armor. Simion must survive.`

Mandor > Aram > The Court of Virtues, Upper District ~ Evening of DAY 16

The open courtyard of the Court of Virtues was basked in the pink light of the setting sun. Filling the stone benches that outlined the circumference of the circular, man-made canal were the Righteous Knights of the Order of Gedrich. Within that circular canal, standing alone atop the central dias and surrounded by a ring of scripture-engraved columns, was the Order’s priest. On the morrow, the knights would be venturing out beyond the safety of the walls of Aram to bring stability and order to the chaotic countryside. It was a dangerous mission, but an important one. Every knight sat at rapt attention, eager to hear and assimilate every word from the holy priest standing before them.

The priest was dressed in a loose, open longcoat woven in blue, with four white bands radiating from the center of the coat at chest height, so that the white tunic visible beneath combined with the white bands of the coat to create a six-pointed star. His left hand held the hem of his coat near his heart as he waited to begin the ceremony. On that hand, a large silver ring on the first finger proclaimed his authenticity as an elder priest of Zephiris. The ring was set with a star sapphire, a round blue gem with six natural white rays that mirrored his priestly garb.

Without apparent signal, a monk entered from behind the dais, accompanied by two modest priestesses. In his hands a large, thin, ornate tome was carried up the steps toward the priest, who, accepting the book, bowed and dismissed the trio to stand behind him near the scriptural columns.

The priest held the lavish volume at chest-height, so that he could easily read from it and glance out at the gathering. His voice carried strongly across the courtyard, despite his age and seeming frailness. His voice, and the words he spoke, gave the knights courage and renewed their sense of purpose, strengthened their sense of duty.

"It is Written," he began, opening the book, "in the first book of Aramis: 'The duty of the righteous is by word and deed through pen or sword to uphold that which righteous is.'"

Barthon's heart swelled, and he ran a hand reverently over the engraving on his left gauntlet.

The priest turned a page and went on, "These words many of you know well, perhaps so well that they affect every aspect of your service, perhaps so well that you take them for granted. But I tell you now, never in all your generation--indeed, not since many centuries past--has there been such a need to live these precious words of our beloved prophet.
"When we hear this passage, most often we think of our service to our people, our duty to guard against evil and dissuade those of corrupted hearts. But today, we are called not to confront wickedness, but to shine the light beneath the shroud of shadow!" The elder's voice rang with conviction, paused to allow the knights to feel the stirring in their hearts. "For we read, near the end of this dissertation: 'Even as a burning lamp, whose flame is needed for its purpose to be shone, so also the righteous, though he is a flame to the wayward, should not neglect to be a light to the faithful. For this is the greater purpose of the upright, that there should be help in times of trouble, and light in times of darkness.'"
He closed the book and held it in his arm. "Noble knights of the Order of Gedrich, you set out across the land not against human foes, but against the powers of darkness, against the cloud of fear! You set out, even as Gedrich of old, against an enemy that would destroy your people!
"In this hour, all of Mandor is in need of our strength. We will go in pairs, as Gedrich did when he slew the dragon. We will be their strength! Yet it is not us, for in our flesh we are nothing. Knights! whence comes our strength!?"

"From Zephiris!" came the collective cry.

"And when the darkness grows thick, remember who you are! You have grown up in the traditions of Gedrich, whose cause was just! Victory is in your blood! You will have allies. You will face an enemy. And you, the righteous, will prevail!
"We are the hands of the mother! We are the arms that carry her children to safety! We are the light that shines their way!" Once more with a loud voice the priest called to them, "KNIGHTS! WHENCE COMES OUR LIGHT!?"

"FROM ZEPHIRIS!"

The priest raised his right arm, palm out. "For Mandor!"
All cheered.
"For Mandor!"
Again all cheered.
A third time, "For Mandor!"
And as the priest's arm fell, the exultant cacophony persisted into the darkening sky.

Mandor > outside of Aram ~ Early morning of DAY 17

I know the journey is going to be a long one, but I am prepared. And this time I have familiar company. The unfamiliar company, however, is what I find myself attracted to.
-Sir Barthon Camlin, Righteous Knight of the Order of Gedrich

Lord Walter Drake and Sir Barthon Camlin sat atop their horses at the head of the column of forty knights. Sir Simion Altus of the Holy Order of Zephiris, wearing a blue and silver uniform of the ancient Zephirisian Lords, rode on the opposite side of Barthon from Walter. The Duke had done more than refit an old uniform; he had ordered a new one made just for the young knight. It fit him well, and did its job of dispelling the image of a scraggly young page. The knights rode four abreast, with each row ten deep. They would hold this formation all of the way to Caluk. Between the knights and their leaders were the mages, Fabre Grau and Iaed Vesage, on loan from Duke Nuriam. Fabre and Iaed also rode horses, though obviously unsteadily. Behind the column of knights itself was a small army of page boys and squires and packhorses, many of which were further burdened with carts carrying even more supplies. Barthon could feel the sweat gathering on his brow beneath his newly polished helmet. As much as he had wanted a position of leadership, it was a new experience for him. He wasn’t quite sure how he would perform.

Lord Drake spoke, relieving Barthon of the burden. For now, anyway. “As all of you know, we are riding out to the farming town of Caluk. It is of utmost importance that we provide the town with security and safety, The shadows do not pillage or burn, they simply kill. As long as the farmers there survive the night, they can continue with their work during the day. And their work must continue. That is the only way that Aram will survive this dark time. When we arrive in Caluk, we will begin setting up the palisade and other defenses. We will train every able townsman how to fight and defend. Once Caluk is secure, we will move on.” Walter looked at Barthon and gave a small nod before continuing. “Sir Camlin will be leading this mission, and both I and Sir Altus, of the Holy Order of Zephiris, will be advising him.”

“We should reach Caluk by noon,” Barthon said. His voice felt strained, and his palms were beginning to sweat beneath his gauntlets. He was never this nervous in the middle of battle. “That should give us plenty of time to get the majority of the defenses in place. However, even the best plans can go awry in the face of the unknown, and that is exactly what we are going into. We will leave off the major planning until after we’ve seen the state of the town. Let’s move out.” Barthon pulled the reigns of his destrier, Aramis, to turn it around. The Blue Mountains and Aram, his home, filled the view to his left. Ahead of him, northeastward, lay sparse forests. Those forests would thin as they neared Caluk and would be replaced by farmlands. With a small nudge, Aramis started forward.

After several long moments of relative silence, Barthon turned and waved Fabre and Iaed forward. Fabre kicked at his horse and flailed with the reigns until the horse sped up more out of irritation than any direct command. Iaed’s simply followed. Barthon grabbed the reigns as Fabre reached him, before he sped passed completely. Walter pulled Iaed‘s hoses level with his own. “Tell me about yourselves,” Barthon said after both man and horse were calm.

“Uhhh….um…like, what exactly?” The mage looked at Barthon oddly, as if the knight were an insect worth a momentary inspection and nothing more. His dark hair was cut short and his face well-trimmed. He wore a leather vest over standard traveling clothes, and a sturdy pair of leather boots. His saddle bags were filled to the brim with supplies. At least the man had come prepared, Barthon thought to himself.

“Why don’t you start with what you do,” Barthon said. “I know very little about mages, or about the Society of Conscious Thought.”

“Really?” said Fabre. “I thought you knights were educated in more than the ways of war.”

Reining in his irritation, Barthon replied evenly, “There is little of importance in the Society to our Order. We focus on military aspects, truly, for we are a military order. But we are also a religious order, and every one of us knows, to varying degree, the scriptures and histories. Magic has never been an important part of what we do, nor has the Society.”

“Hmmm…” said Fabre. He watched the road ahead of them silently for a few long moments. Then he said, “as a mage, I do more studying than anything. I can do a little bit of everything, but nothing with any great skill. I hear the mages in Iyel’Del are much more skilled, but the Society there is larger as well. And their history… I would love to spend some time in their libraries.”

“How did you learn to do magic,” Simion asked.

Fabre looked over at Simion and drew down his brows. Simion was obviously less than an insect to him. “I was fascinated with dragons as a small boy. I taught myself draconic, learned everything of their histories, played out the Sixteen Years’ War in my small bedroom. I did not know about the Society then, but somehow they found out about me. Magic or no magic, a working knowledge of draconic is valuable.”

“How long have you two been a pair?” Barthon asked.

Iaed looked at him angrily. “We are not a pair, Sir Camlin. I hardly even know him.”

“Danolt died in one of the first shadow attacks,” Fabre said. Again he was peering deep ahead, as if looking at something beyond what was before him. Probably looking back, more likely, Barthon thought. “They sent some of us out to see if we could do anything. Nothing really seemed to work.”

“What about you, Iaed?” Barthon asked in the intervening silence. Iaed was about Barthon’s height, though she looked younger. Her dark brown hair was done in up in a type of bun with her bangs hanging loose over the side of her face. Her eyes were a very pleasing shade of amber. In fact, he realized, everything about her oval-shaped face was pleasing, even the small mole over the left side of her lips. She wore a red and black embroidered corset over a black riding dress. With the exception of the corset’s straps, most of her arms and shoulders were bare, except for a pair of black satin arm covers that extended from her elbow to her wrist and ended in a lacy design that covered the backs of her hands. Her fingernails were even painted red. He felt the sweat returning to his brow and palms.

“When you are done studying my bosom, perhaps I will tell you…” Barthon cleared his throat and turned his head away. The sweat she wouldn’t be able to see, but he did not want anyone to see the bright shade of red his face was turning. “I have been in the Society of Conscious Thought for three years. I have not been paired with anyone yet, though I have participated in numerous group spells. They really only sent me because Fabre lost his pairing.”

“How do they choose pairings?” Walter asked. “I mean, you make it sound like you have little choice in the matter.”

“We don’t’ have any choice,” said Fabre. “What Iaed said is true for all of us, in the beginning. We do more activity in groups. The Masters watch us closely, finding a pair that really resonate with each other. It is a lot like forming a choir, one of the Masters explained to us once. You want some to sing high, and some to sing low, and those who can do both at the perfect pitch form a great pair. Some of the Masters think that it goes beyond that, but that is only theories and speculation.”

“What, exactly, are your orders?” Barthon asked. “Are you to help us freely, or are you only required to help our passage across the sea to Telmural.”

“We follow whatever orders you give,” Iaed said.

“The only requirement is that we return to Aram once you reach Telmural,” Fabre added. “As I am sure it was explained to you, human mage pairs are an expensive commodity, and not easily replaced. Danolt and the others we lost that night were more than we can afford to lose in these times.”

“I suppose that means you will have to take extra good care of me, Sir Camlin,” Iaed said with a sultry smile. Barthon felt his face heating again, but he refused to look away again. He knew she was just teasing him now because of his first reaction.

“I will protect everyone under my charge, Lady Iaed.” Fabre snickered and let his horse fall behind, and Iaed did a few moments later. Walter closed the gap with his horse and nudged Barthon in his armored ribs.

“What?” Barthon asked. Walter was grinning.

“You’ve got until Telmural with that woman. That is quite a journey. Are you sure you can handle her?” Walter laughed at Barthon’s glare.

“I don’t understand,” Simion said. “What’s so funny?”

Sephalia > Ashwood ~ Night of DAY 26

Barin looked about the tavern. All the Hawks were here, Honourguard and all. The otherwise half-empty tavern now seemed pretty full, even though it could probably hold twice as many men as it now did. The atmosphere remained mostly unchanged; there were still the loud and rowdy people one would expect to find in such an establishment....but there was a difference. A subtle, just under the surface, tension could be felt in the air. Despite their cheerful and, seemingly, carefree faces the mercenaries knew that they were here for a reason. The Mustering was to be held soon, they all knew it; they all felt it; it was only a manner of time until the Captain declared it officially.

Apart from the Hawks, the innkeeper and his family had been allowed to watch – they were the hosts, after all, they had the right to be present. Any other local visitors were dissuaded from entering by two burly men from the Honourguard, proudly bearing their signature crimson cloaks, stationed at the door. Barin himself had taken position by the bar, which was (not surprisingly), at the center of the tavern. The tables and chairs had been positioned in a semi-circle around him; most had taken seats wherever they willed, often pairing themselves into small groups. Only the officers had to abide by some formality.

The Captain was in the center of the whole deal, while to his right the Seneschal had taken a seat. The Corporals and Sergeant Ratibor had sat in the front row, so they could quickly make their way to the Captain if needed. To the left, slightly to the side – the Mages had been given places; they were not yet part of the Company and as such had no place amongst the others. Those of the Honourguard that were not at the door were standing near Barin; they were not seated, as their duty was to be alert at all times.

Judging that the time was right, Barin got to his feet and raised his hands. Immediately the mercenaries quieted down. The Mustering had now begun.

“I will get straight to the point”, the Captain began as he paced about the small stretch of empty space around him “we have been offered a contract, a rather profitable one I should think. Unlike others we have undertaken, however, this one is...grander in scope. It is not my decision to make, this is important enough to warrant your votes as well.”

Barin examined the faces of the men and women around him – anxious, eager to hear more of this profitable venture. He continued:

“You have seen that we have...guests, they are Mages; our potential employer’s trusted men.”, a pause followed “You know how much I like speaking uninformed, so I will leave our visitors to present us with their offer.”, the Captain added with a smile, inclining his head at the Twins.

He resumed his seat and eagerly waited to see how D’Armitage’s men would play their roles.

As was their custom, the Twins stood to indicate a united front, but it was Tuuli that spoke to those gathered. They wore their weapons as did those gathered in a half-circle around them. Tuuli dipped her chin slightly toward Barin to thank him for allowing her the opportunity to speak and then faced the Company once again. “As your good Captain has said, our patron, Baron D’Armitage has sent us to join with you specifically. He is known to your Captain. We know him to be a man of his word and we put our lives in his good hands.”

Having introduced their patron, Tulli stepped forward a few paces to fully gain the attention of the gathered throng. She was a skilled speaker, catching the eye of each to make it seem she spoke to them alone. “My brother is Tuula, I am Tuuli Brendersen. We are Elementalists of the very Air around us, but are no strangers to the hard life of battle. We come from a long line of fisher folk and sailors. But our gifts with magic allowed us to hunt pirates for our patron.” Again, Tuuli paused, offering a smile, she swept her hand toward Fabrin, “Your good Scout can attest that we need no coddling.”

Their bona fides out of the way, Tuuli thought how best to explain the mad plan they were sent on. Tucking some errant wisps of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear, she lifted her gray eyes, deciding to simply lay out the truth of it. “In the lands, there have been disturbances as you well know. The shadows themselves rise to attack at night. None of the races are spared this nightly siege. Our patron believes it foreshadows the return of Zephiris to the lands. We are to find her and in the name of Baron D’Armitage protect her and do her bidding.” Tuuli paused to allow such a bold claim to sink in. “Our patron wishes nothing more than to ensure no other person bring harm or influence over Zephiris and is willing to pay a goodly sum to ensure she is safe.”

The stunned silence extended as Tuuli paused once more, not willing to push the point too strenuously. “If you choose to join with us, all our abilities, magical and mundane are yours.” She finished with quiet certainty.

Barin watched carefully as the mages took their seats and then glanced over at the faces of his men. As was the case with him when he had first heard details about their “quest”, the expressions were a mixture of disbelief, anger and even outright laughter. It was obvious the mercenaries were not quite certain if they should even believe this tale; be angry at the mages for wasting their time or simply dismissing it all with a shrug and a wide grin. The Captain was almost ready to do the same…but, even if a fool’s quest – if it paid well, what was the problem?

He was certain that the Baron had his less than noble reasons for wanting to find the Goddess first. Like any man born to wealth and power, he was a player. Sephalia was his board and people his pieces. As he had pointed out to the Twins earlier, Barin was more than willing to be a simple pawn provided the pay was good. And it was good.

What more could a mercenary want, then?

The Captain rose to his feet and the murmuring slowly died down, but not as quickly as it had before. He basked in the silence for a few short moments, eyeing the men one by one – taking care to meet their eyes when he looked upon them. A fighter must always know that his commander is watching, a leader’s presence had to be as real as the taste of blood on their tongues and the stench of sweat in their nostrils.

“You have heard what our assignment is to be” he told them “The Goddess has returned to the lands, our patron claims….how many of you here are one with the Faith?”
Most of the men raised their hands, some kept them down, others were uncertain. Someone spoke up:

“Beg pardons Capt’n, I pray to the Goddess, praised be Her name, but prayer alone don’t keep your stomach full at night. Faith don’t keep your small ones warm and clothed.”
That was Sten Longnose, as he was known amongst the Hawks. An old mercenary, from some distant backwater that had earned his name after losing a part of his nose in battle. After everything was over and Sten was a bit worse for wear, one of the other Companions had given him his new name. As with all nicknames to appear on such occasions, it had stuck.

“What part of a “goodly sum” did you not understand, Longnose?” Barin threw back

“I’d say Zephiris being a Goddess and all, we should be getting’ a godly sum instead!” someone said from one of the corners.

The statement was followed by loud laughter from the Hawks, demonstrating that their previous statement about holding true to the Faith was little more than words. No godly man would laugh at such matters, Barin knew. But he also smiled slightly – mercenaries should have their priorities straight.

“I assure you,” he continued after the laughter had died down “that the Baron is not a tight-fisted man and his rewards are generous. “another pause from him followed, after which he said “In short, as strange as it sounds – I say we take this assignment. When have we ever turned down a well-paying job due to what it entails?”

“I agree with th’ Capt’n” Ratibor’s deep voice boomed.

“Aye, me too!” one of the Companions said.

Men began raising their hands, to signal their approval. Barin looked over at Randor, who nodded as well. He may not look like it, being a pampered merchant’s boy and all, but the Seneschal was one cunning devil. The Captain knew better than to disregard his counsel.

“It is settled then.” he said, his voice carrying throughout the room. Would this be a historical sentence?” a part of him couldn’t help but wonder. “If any man or woman here wishes to voice their disapproval let them speak now.”

None spoke. They all agreed.

It was easier than Barin had at first anticipated. While he had decided to take on the task beforehand, convincing his men to do so had not always proved easy in the past. And yet, in this case – whether it was piety or the ability to spot a profitable venture – the Hawks were swayed easily enough. He was afraid that the task might seem too…abstract for them, but realistically, Goddess or no, it meant that they would have to travel somewhere, look around for something and return for their reward. Maybe they all saw it the same way.

“Good.” He took a sip from his mug of ale placed on the nearby bar and turned to the men again “Now comes the matter with the Mages – do we accept them as one of us or no?”

He glanced at the Twins and signalled for them to stand up; alone they looked imposing enough, together they were quite the sight. Nobody in the tavern, be it in the middle or one of the far-off corners, could miss them. Still pondering, Barin then gestured at one of the mercenaries seated in the front row.

“Tiron, what do you make of them?” He remembered that he had asked him about Geren and Silan last time, so he might as well listen to his judgement this time around.

“Lookin’ good, Captain.” He nodded a few times “Worn ‘n’ weathered faces, rough hands ‘n’ muscled aye – these are not the bookish bastards that rarely see the light o’ day.” After a momentary pause he saw fit to add “Plus Fabrin spoke good o’ them.”

Barin nodded silently, looking over at Fabrin. The scout was quick to understand his word was needed.

“Tiron says it true, Captain. The Mages pulled their own weight during our journey. They are no strangers to our way of life.” he said from his seat.

Barin nodded once more, then looked at the Twins.

“Apart from your magical abilities, what other skills do you possess and can offer to this Company?”

When the Captain addressed the pair directly regarding other skills, it was Tuula that spoke this time. He flashed a smile that flashed against his tanned face. Drawing his bearded ax from its holster, he hefted it easily. "My sister and I are sailors. Descendants of fisher-folk as far back as any can recall. At sea, raiders or bandits cannot always be hidden from or run from. You have nowhere to go. You fight or you die.

Our Patron tired of losing ships and goods to Raiders and set out to hunt them down. We are a part of his best crew set to such a task. Magic has its uses, but takes time and effort and we may not have the luxury of either. My sister's skills with bow and blade are equal to any man." His voice shone with pride. "And I would wager I might be the match of any with my axes. We do not shrink from bloodshed should the need arise in defence of our crew or in pursuit of our duty."

Barin smiled, inclining his head slowly. “Axes? I prefer the versatility of a sword myself” he told him, as a man might remark about a particular food he liked or disliked “but if someone wishes to serve me with their skills, I do not care what weapon they chose.”

Truth be told, the Captain was starting to like the mages. They were quick and to the point, did not stand out as most of their kind would and, most importantly perhaps, their martial skills would make it easier for the rest of the Hawks to accept them. Simple folk would not be willing to place their trust on someone who fought with the power of their voice. Clearly, he had received the best kind of mages for the task at hand.

“Now then, if any of you gathered here wish to speak against accepting the Mages into our employ, I will hear you out.”

Turning to his men, the Captain awaited to see if any would voice their concerns. He was certain that more than half of them were against his idea, but could not find a good enough argument to oppose him. They would grow accustomed to them, in time...this was the way with such things, for now – they would have to place their trust in their commander; who in turn hoped that the Twins would have a chance to prove themselves sooner rather than later.

Of course, there were the few who would speak against this and Will the Peasant was the first to do so. He was an old man, probably only a few years younger than Rin had been, and had joined the Hawks when they were first founded, back in Brookstone so many years ago.

“Beg pardons m’lord Barin” he still addressed him as lord, seeing as he had known Barin when he was still a noble. Despite his many attempts, the Captain had never been able to teach Will to call him something different. “But no proper man should be havin’ dealin’s with ‘em mage types. What they do ain’t natural, it ain’t. Us common folk don’t need t’ be involved in such.”

Although he kept his expression natural and passive, Barin smiled in his mind. Ignorance came hand in hand with fear, if something couldn’t be explained with whatever rustic method the peasants had, it was either godlike or outright evil. The Hawks should be thankful they have a leader who can see farther than his nose he told himself.

“You used to say the same thing about having a bath, Will. Until I showed you that using soap needn’t be a lord’s privilege.”

A roar of laughter followed and Will, in a way befitting a true lowborn peasant, scratched his head, mumbled something shyly and sat down. But Barin was quick to silence the rest of the Hawks and continued.

“I see your concern, but if you - we for that matter - are frightened of the unknown, what in the Goddess’ name are we doing outside our home villages?” his gaze passed through their ranks “None sing of those too timid to embrace what they do not know.”

A wave of mumbling agreeing with him carried through the inn, but the Captain had no time to waste. “Any other objections?”

“Aye” this time it came from Herold, a former soldier in one of the armies of Sephalia, who had turned to mercenary work after he realised that his wages couldn’t sustain his growing family. “They say they got skill with bow and sword and axe - that’s good. But we both know that fighting at sea ain’t the same as fighting on land, Captain. Battle is different, sailors don’t form tight ranks and fighting is man to man, blade to blade. Neither do they carry armour on them ships. Opening a man’s skull with an axe or sticking an arrow in his gut’s different when you face a knight clad in steel from head to toe. ”

“That is so, Herold” Barin nodded “but tell me, how many of the men and women in this room knew how to slip past an enemy’s armour when they first joined us?”

There was a momentary silence and the Captain seized the opportunity. “Fighting men are not born, you know that better than most I would say, they are made. Forged and fashioned, like a good smith honing a blade. What they do not know, we’ll teach them – and I’ll wager they have a deal they could teach us.”

“Aye, Captain. Beg pardons, you’re right.” Herold bowed his head slightly and sat down when Barin gave him a nod of his own.

“Still, let it not be said that the Captain is forcing down his opinion on his own men. I am certain the mages can speak for themselves.” He turned at the duo “How familiar are you with fighting on land and in a tight formation?”

Once again it was Tuula that spoke for the pair. "Only twice were we called to fight on land in the ranks of an Army, it is true what your man says. But aboard ship, there is nowhere to maneuver and the man to your left or right was all that stood between you and death. You looked out for that man or woman. And they, in turned looked out for you."

Tuula looked over the group gathered before them. "If you take on this duty for our Lord. Then we are bound to you as we are to him."

Barin nodded in acknowledgment and turned to his men again, his face firm – as if having reached a decision. And true to his expression, he uttered the following words:

“I have decided.” He said “The mages Tuula and Tuuli Brendersen will be a part of this Company. Furthermore, recognising their experience and commendation from a man I...” the slightest of pauses followed, he was certain that only the most perceptive would notice; the Captain meant to say “trust”, but that would be a lie. “know, I will accept the Mages not as simple Recruits, but as full-fledged Companions right away.”

He stopped to see what the reaction of his men would be. There was a loud muttering, from all corners of the inn – some approving, some not so much. It wasn’t the first time he skipped the mandatory trial period one underwent as a Recruit, but the occurrence was still a very rare one. And that was with men and women he had known beforehand, not a two strangers who just appeared out of nowhere. Still, his mind was set, so he raised his voice and asked:

“Does anyone object? I do not read minds, so if anyone feels that this decision is wrong or a mistake, let them step forward.”

Silence followed, the mutters were stifled. And again Barin was certain that many of them secretly disapproved, but could find no real argument. An argument to convince themselves why it was wrong, let alone their Captain or the rest of the Company. Men were strange like that, the Captain had learned over the years, they held some inbred fear of the unknown; surrounded themselves in their cages of made-up taboos and for what reason? He sighed quietly, so as to not be heard by anyone nearby. He was a soldier, not a philosopher – let them figure it out.

“Very well” he said shortly after “I see that none of my Companions object. The Hawks have decided.”

Barin then turned his head at the Twins again, motioning them to step forward.

“We have a...tradition in this Company” the Captain began “while, as I already told you, we ask for no oaths or sign any contracts, we still believe that the fighting men share a kinship together. One forged in blood and steel - those ties bind forever. And while we have yet to experience this with you, Fabrin and his scouts have agreed that you will not flinch when the time comes.”

He paused for a moment, letting the words sink into the minds of those gathered. “For this reason, I will now present you with our sign.” He nodded at the Seneschal “Randor, if you please.”

The young man got to his feet and neared the Captain, taking out a small bundle from the insides of his clothes. A black cloth wrapped around two medallions made of silver, polished to a shine. They were wrought in the shape of a hawk and were suspended from a rough, iron chain. Barin took the bundle in one hand, while with the other he took the first necklace and beckoned for one of the Mages to step forward.

Tuuli stepped forward, followed closely by Tuula. The Twins were silent for this was a solemn moment. Both were gratified that Fabrin had spoken for them. They'd grown to respect the scout as he'd led them back to join with the company. Once before Barin, Tuuli bent her head to allow him to place it about her neck.

Deftly, the Captain placed the chain with the hawk around her neck. He did the same for Tuula who came afterwards, marking him as one of the Hawks as well. When the short ceremony was done, someone raised a toast for the new members and the entire inn burst out into cheers. Some were half-hearted; some were only a few moments long, as if such an activity was necessary but misliked; but there were others – and those were earnest. Already the Company was growing used to the Mages, Barin thought with a smile.

The Twins turned from Barin to face the group gathered there. Tuuli smiled, Tuula with his characteristic scowl. Only Tuuli could tell he was happy about the way things were working out. Once the applause and cheers, hearty or not, ended, Tuuli spoke once more. "We thank you and swear to you that we will be at your side throughout anything we may encounter together."

Barin smiled and said “As I already told you, we do not judge others by their words – solemn or not – but by their actions. Soon enough, we shall see.”

He nodded at the silence that followed content with the fact that they had nothing so say to him. The Captain suspected that they too knew that a man was best judged when his words had to be put to practice. With that thought out of the way, he gestured at the rows of chairs and tables, in which the mercenaries had taken their seats.

“As members of the Company, you will now sit amongst your future brothers and sisters in arms. Acquaint yourself with your companions and with your superiors as well. Randor, the Seneschal, will make a catalogue of your inventory on the morrow and will allow you to browse through our own stock.”

The Twins nodded to Barin's instructions and sat at a bench where room had been made for them. Tuula shook hands with those offered while Tuuli smiled gently. Both glanced at Randor to identify him so they might find him the next day to work with him on what supplies they would need as they had little to offer.

“Now, speaking of superiors...I think we have quite the matter to discuss ahead of us” Barin proclaimed in the mean time, walking over to grab his mug of ale and take a sip.

Sephalia > Telmural > High Temple of Zephiris ~ morning of DAY 21

Áirhath and Kate had gone alone to the high temple, reasoning that it would be easier to get into more places with the smallest number possible. Here, in the tall, muted hallway, Áirhath was glad of their decision. He felt like an intruder, so closely surrounded by oak walls with hangings of thick blue cloth. Their footfalls were silent on the dark blue carpet, and the ceiling, though high above, caught and cushioned any sound rather than reflected it. The elf realized that he ought to be able to hear himself breathing. Maybe it was the sudden change from the openness of the temple, but the hallway seemed void of even that. Only Kate's calls could be heard, sounding to Áirhath as if she was speaking directly into his ear. Áirhath didn't like it.

“Hello?” Kate called again. “Is anyone here?”
Áirhath glanced at the oak doors they passed. “Should I--the we--have entered this place?”

A door to their left opened, and the priest coming through gave a start. “See here,” he said sternly, “just what do you think--”
At the same moment, someone appeared from what Áirhath had first thought was a dead end to the hallway. Evidently the hallway turned sharply to the left. The new figure appeared to be another priest. On seeing Áirhath and Kate, his brows came down in stern puzzlement, and he paused to close one of the side doors as he came toward them.
“I found them here just now,” said the first priest.
The second priest stopped in front of them in the center of the carpet and folded his arms. “Where did you get the idea you could just walk in?” It was obvious that, on top of their intrusion, Áirhath and Kate's unusual appearance was arousing even greater suspicion.

Katerina brushed over his question. “We wish to speak with the High Priest.”
“You and every other peddler worried about their market.”
The first priest took notice of his tone. “Isn't that a little strong?”
“She didn't answer my question, and we don't have time for this,” said the other, still looking at Kate.
“It's about the shadow beasts,” Kate persisted, and when the priest plainly had ready on his tongue a number of strong responses to that, she corrected herself, “not questions, answers. News.”
The priest glanced at the elf, whose exotic presence seemed to lend plausibility to the merchant's unusual claim.
“Besides, I did knock,” Kate added curtly, playing the unjustly accosted victim.

The priest seemed to settle somewhat. “Patience and propriety. Two things all merchants should learn.”
The first priest explained the situation. “Only priests are allowed in the chapel dome--that's where the High Priest is now. You'll have to wait in the temple till the morning benediction to try to speak with him.”

Áirhath pieced together what he thought was going on, linking the 'chapel dome' to the tall, domed tower--bigger than a tower, really--which had been visible outside as the tallest of several structures adjoining the main building. He had his bearings, now, realizing the high corridor must go to more places than just between the chapel and the main temple. The chapel had to be the most important, since only priests were allowed, but he didn't know enough of the humans' religion to understand why. Trying to subtly influence Katerina, then, the elf took a casual half-step back toward the corridor entrance.

Evidently it did quite the opposite, for Katerina started in on them again, her tone that of one well used to reasoning with stubborn folk. “Look here, we've come all this way from Oliphey, through hordes of these beasts, just to bring you this news.” She waved back at Áirhath. “My friend here has come all the way from elvenlands as an emissary from...”
“Eldin,” Áirhath supplied, “dan Irrarsil Dhallath, the White Council.”
Katerina had almost certainly been about to say more, but she instead shrewdly allowed the dropped name to have its effect.

The two priests looked at each other with differing degrees of incredulous doubt. They conversed almost soundlessly.
“He doesn't look like an emissary. He looks like a finely-dressed savage,” the harder one said. In this room his low voice was quieter than a whisper, and even Áirhath had to strain to hear what was spoken.
“All the more reason to...” he trailed off, glancing at Áirhath, probably suspecting the elf might be able to hear.
The other seemed to have gotten the message anyhow.

“You were right to come here,” said the first priest. The second nodded. “I can't let you into the chapel, but if you follow me, the High Priest will be able to see you shortly.” The one turned halfway to go, one arm held out to them, while the other took his leave and made his way back along the corridor.

Áirhath and Katerina followed the remaining priest. Only after both priests' backs were turned did they dare exchange sidelong glances, half of wonderment, half of worry, eyebrows raised and jaws set. Although Kate could not help adding a grin and wink at the end. Áirhath had reason to be less confident, but at this point they were committed to this path. There was nothing he could do about it now.


The priest made his way along the corridor, not exactly hurrying, but certainly not taking his time. He did close any doors that were ajar as he passed them. One of the branches of the corridor ended in a low double door, one of which he opened slightly and sidestepped inside. As he softly closed the door behind him, one of the four priests with their backs to the door turned around and softly asked, “What took you so long? Why isn't brother Jaret with you?”
“Something has come up,” the taller priest replied, looking past him into the room. The chapel consisted of a shadowy colonnade encircling a single bright room, its domed ceiling more than four stories above. Silhouetted just beyond one of the arches of the colonnade was the High Priest himself, his arms outstretched and his head tilted slightly upward as he sang, eyes closed, with the rest of the gathered priests. The non-centric position he had always taken as High Priest sent a deep-seated message of humility that engendered profound respect. The priest walked to the edge of the colonnade, the overwhelming sound of song lifting his spirit but affecting his steps to reverence. He waited just behind and to the right of the High Priest. Unwilling to interrupt the song, let alone the High Priest himself, the priest folded his forearms together, bowed his head and let his thoughts flow with the music. Before long he found himself joining in.

...fear,
I e'er will sing of her love...
When e-ver in the depths of dispair,
I e'er will sing of her love...

When cries the heart,
In sor-row's hold,
Then ten-der love
To us imparts
The Mo-ther of the soul.

The Mo-ther of the soul....

As the song faded, the priest waited for the next to begin, having utterly forgotten all else. For him, the song conjured images of helping others, of making sure all was right and proper with the world, according to Zephiris' design, especially during times like these.
“Brother Maric?”
The priest looked up with a start and saw the High Priest halfway turned in his direction. “Yes, holy brother?”
“No need to stand out there. Come, it's good to hear your voice.”
“Oh, of course,” said the priest, and took a step forward. Then he remembered, and his previous mood returned. “Oh, that's right.”
“What is it?”
The next song had already started, and the High Priest came out to stand with him. The priest inclined his head respectfully. “Holy brother, there is an elf without who claims to have been sent from the White Council in Eldin.”
There was a pause. “They came here? To the temple?”
“I don't know if it's true. He clearly looks to be a warrior, rather than an emissary. But he was unarmed, and a merchant woman was with him saying they bore news of the shadow demons. Brother Jaret took them to the holdfast.”
“Not the sunroom?”
“We thought it best to keep our options open, given the circumstances. When you see them I think you'll agree.”
“I see.”

The High Priest pondered for a moment. “Yes, I'd better see them now, before our duties must begin.”
The priest nodded, and the High Priest exited the chapel.

In the high, quiet corridor, in such contrast to the reverberating harmonies of a moment before, the High Priest's thoughts were free-flowing and fast. They had to be kept up with to be thought at all. Thus the elder priest made his way along the branching corridor, until he saw brother Jaret. “Brother Maric informed me about our visitors,” he said.
“They're waiting for you.”

The High priest stopped in front of the door, taking a moment to finalize his intentions. He stood with his forearms together, thinking about a number of things directly and indirectly related to this turn of events. When he was satisfied, he unfolded his arms and took a step, turned the knob, and opened the door.

Mandor > Caluk ~ Noon of DAY 17

Caluk was empty. Barthon knew that a few of those who had survived the nightly attacks had fled to Aram days ago. But he had expected to see more of the townsfolk here, barricaded in some of the buildings somewhere. Caluk was a ghost town. Barthon suspected that the only reason it hadn’t been looted yet was because of the universal danger across Mandor. Bandits would be hard-pressed to survive outside of the walls of a city. For whatever reason, the shadows could not penetrate cities; at least, not without forcing a way through the gate or flying over the walls.

It was obvious that the inhabitants of Caluk had left in a hurry. Numerous carts lined the streets, carts that were filled with supplies that some of the farmers had attempted to take with them. Barthon had ordered all of those carts to be dragged back to the center of town. They would need all of the supplies they could find. Once they arrived, he ordered the knights to disperse and scout the town. They would need a general understanding before they could plan anything. If things went well, they would have a palisade around the town’s center well underway before night fell. Several sections of the town would be lost to them at night, but they could expand outward slowly during the days.

“This is worse than I expected,” said Walter, standing to Barthon’s left. “Where did everyone go? And why are there are not even any bodies…”
Simion stood quietly at Barthon’s right. He had searched his family’s home, but it had been as empty as the rest. Food and other supplies were missing, but nothing hinted at their deaths. Simion had taken it stoically; that worried Barthon, but it was also relieving. At the boy’s age, he should have been grieving at the possible loss of his family. Perhaps he had been separated from them for too long now, or perhaps he just had hope that they had survived somehow. Either way, his calm demeanor did much to help Barthon concentrate on other matters.

“Maybe they went somewhere safer?” Simion said. His voice didn’t quiver or crack. He sounded much the same as he had before their arrival. Perhaps he would talk to him when things calmed down. It just didn’t seem normal.

“Like an evacuation?” Walter asked. “That is possible, but Aram is the nearest city. I cannot imagine why they would go to Rochham before Aram. Access to the river, maybe, but they would be sitting ducks for the shadows. The road there is rougher as well.”

“Find out if anyone knows the region,” Barthon said, more to Walter than Simion. Despite his “rank,” the knights would be unlikely to follow any orders the young boy gave him. “We need to know if there is anywhere else nearby they might have fled to, somewhere that offers shelter closer than Aram or Roccham.”

“Good idea,” said Walter. “I can also organize a scout party, though that will take away from our resources here.”

“That is fine,” Barthon said. If they couldn’t find the inhabitants of Caluk, then the defenses no longer needed to be rushed. They would have to bring farmers in from Aram instead. “Use what you need to keep the scouting organized.” Barthon shook his head and sighed. “I’m sorry, Walter. You know more about this than I do.”

“I am only here as an advisor, Barthon. You are giving the orders.” Walter smiled at Barthon and saluted before departing to carry out his orders.

“I can look in the baron’s manor!” Simion said excitedly. “Maybe he has a map of the region.”

“Good thinking, Simion. Just find me before nightfall. I don’t want you out on your own when those things attack.”

“I will, Barthon,” Simion said. The boy sped off without another word, heading down the street toward the baron’s manor. They had passed by it during their initial pass of the town. The manor was enormous, a sign of the town’s wealth. Caluk supplied much of central Mandor with its extensive farmlands, and it’s income was lucrative. Simion’s own parents had offered their land here, small as it was, in exchange for training Simion in the Order. That was an offer that the Order could not pass down. Farmland in Caluk was worth more than its price in gold.

Knights and their squires passed back and forth in front of Barthon, carrying supplies to and fro or just cleaning up the streets. Despite the supplies they had brought with them from Aram, they would need to use whatever they could find here to erect a proper palisade. The baron’s manor was near the town center, and would be included within the perimeter. Barthon preferred using the actual town center, which the Caluk inhabitants had utilized largely as a type of bazaar, for their temporary headquarters. If anything happened to the baron’s manor, Barthon did not want man coming to him or the Order for compensation.

“What about us?” came Fabre’s voice several steps behind Barthon. He had almost forgotten about them. “What are we supposed to do here?”

“He means,” Iaed said, “what can we do to help?”

“You two haven’t worked together before, right?” Barthon asked as he turned to face them. He had been a bit uncomfortable with their story earlier. Fabre had lost his pairing, and Iaed had never had one. Yet they said that a mage pairing required a certain degree of… compatibility. He wasn’t sure that what the Society of Conscious Thought had sent him was anything they could afford to lose.

“Not true,” said Iaed. “We’ve all worked in groups before. I’ve been in several circles with Fabre, we’ve just never worked together directly. But if we could not, the Society would not have sent us.”

“Good,” Barthon said. “Today you will get a chance to test your compatibility.” He pointed to a small wooden house; here on the edge of town all of the houses were small. “Knock that down.”

“Are you serious?” Fabre asked. “That is someone’s home. That ‘someone’ will expect to come back to it.”

“If they are still alive,” Barthon said. “I’ve seen what has happened across much of Mandor. I’ve seen the dying people at Toad Hollow, the massacred soldiers at Carsiun Keep. Others have been more fortunate, but at this point I’m placing lives above property. The Order of Gedrich can afford to pay to replace a few houses. But the palisade is going to need to be reinforced, and the boards of this house will work perfectly.”

“Whatever you say, Sir Knight,” said Fabre, shrugging his shoulders. “Iaed, are you ready?”

Rather than responding, Iaed began chanting in draconic, the language of the dragons through which the magic flowed. Barthon had to admit that he did not really understand it, but he would certainly make use of it where he could. Fabre joined in on the chant, his voice lower than Iaed’s yet somehow matching it perfectly. The words and rhythm of the chant were all too foreign to Barthon for him to have any sense of what was going on, but he certainly felt the effects. The wind began stirring around him, kicking dirt and leaves into the air in a tumultuous dance. The house suddenly shook, as if had been beaten with an invisible hammer. Again it shook. Finally, with a blast of air that nearly knocked Barthon off of his feet, the house was ripped apart. Small pieces of wood seemed to rain down from the sky. The larger boards were spinning across the street and fields beyond. The result was more…chaotic than Barthon had imagined, but it had certainly done the job. And in far less time than if he had employed knights to dismantle it by hand.

“Great work,” Barthon said once the mages had ceased their chanting. The wind had ceased as well, as abruptly as it had begun. “That will do for now. If we need more, you have your choice of houses. Just don’t touch anything within the town’s center. The baron’s manor is not something the Order can afford to replace. Unless, of course, things really get out of hand…”

“I don’t think it will come to that,” Iaed said. “You seem to have things well in hand.”

“Except the people who used to live here,” Fabre said, placing his hands on his hips. Barthon was learning that the man really liked to provoke him. “Might be useful to find out where they’ve gone to.”

“I think what Fabre is saying, Sir Camlin, as that he would like to volunteer us for the first…what do you call it… scouting group?” Iaed gave Fabre a mischievous smirk, and Barthon thought he felt his heart jump. Almost as pleasant was the surprised look on Fabre’s face.

“Scouting detail, Iaed. And that is generous of you to offer, Fabre, though I cannot imagine why you did not just come out and say so.” If the man wanted to play games with him, Barthon thought, he could play back. “Find Lord Drake; he should be somewhere near the town center organizing the detail now.”

“Of course, Sir Camlin,” Fabre said. There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice, nor anger in his face, but Barthon was not foolish enough to think the man had been put in his place. Iaed winked at him as the two mages departed, heading toward the center of town to find Walter. Again he felt his face heating. As much as he liked her, and he had to admit that he did like her, he could not let himself be distracted by her. He just wasn’t sure how to go about that… His limited experience with Jeanne had not prepared him for situations like this.

Work, of course, was always a good way to clear your mind. “Sir Byron!” Camlin yelled at a passing knight. The knight stopped and turned toward Barthon, saluting as he saw who it was.

“Yes, Sir Camlin?” Byron said, walking toward him.

“Let us gather some eager squires and page boys. There is lifting to be done.”

Mandor > Caslemon > Ragner’s Manor ~ dawn of DAY 17

Ragner watched transfixed as Duke Cyril Omoron, outfitted for war, walked toward him. The hall was long and dark, the torches set in their sconces causing the light to dance along the edges of shadow. The flickering light would momentarily highlight the form of one of the Duke’s guards hiding on the edge of visibility. They seemed to be everywhere, staring at him, and then completely gone. The Duke strode toward Ragner purposefully, a long scroll unrolling from his hand. It seemed to drop forever, never getting any longer though he could see words on the reverse side stream downward. Ragner knew what was coming. He wanted to flee but he couldn’t. A heavy weight seemed to hold him still; a sense of inevitability crushed his chest with an iron grip.
The Duke spoke, though his mouth did not move. The voice did not even seem to come from the Duke’s direction; instead it came from all around. But Ragner knew it was his father’s voice. The words were jumbled, as if spoken under water, but their intent was clear. The Duke was sentencing him to death. The scroll held a list of his crimes, his short fallings, and other discrepancies. Not the least of which, Ragner knew, was his failure to kill Barthon Camlin.
Ragner found himself suddenly moving backward. The great weight that had held him still was gone. He turned completely and ran down the dark hallway, leaving the light of the torches behind. Though he could not see the guards, he knew that they were there. They were the Duke’s men, as he had once been. Just because he was the Duke’s son did not mean that they would stay their swords. The hall seemed to go one forever, but Ragner knew he just needed to keep going until he reached the end of it. If he could just reach the end… then he could make it to Sephalia. The Duke would not be able to touch him there. His father would not be able to find him.
Suddenly Ragner found himself standing on the docks at Ostley, the abandoned town where he had narrowly escaped the dark beasts of the night. The town was still empty. The creatures seemed to be gone as well. Instead of those nightmarish beasts, Ragner saw Rurik. He was standing at the end of the docks, arms crossed and feet spread, iron mace hanging from his belt. The only boat left was directly behind him. If Ragner wanted it, he was going to have to get through Rurik.
Rurik uncrossed his arms, and in one of his hands he held his father’s scroll, the one that had ordered Ragner’s execution. The bottom of the scroll dropped, and it unfurled endlessly just as it had before. A list of Ragner’s past, present and future failings. In Rurik’s other hand was his mace, a weapon far more gruesome than a sword. Ragner had not seen him grab for it; it was just suddenly there. As Rurik took a step toward him, Ragner took several steps back. He looked behind him, toward the center of Ostley. What he saw made his heart skip a beat; a mass of swirling shadows had appeared. They weren’t the tricks of light, like what had been hiding the guards in the hall. No… these were the shadow beasts, the monsters that had nearly killed him. The ones that were just as responsible as Barthon Camlin for ruining him.
Rurik was in front of him, ready to run him down. The shadow beasts were behind him, pressing against his back. Waiting for him. Ragner ran toward them. Between the two evils, Ragner had proven that he could best the shadows. It was Rurik he was truly terrified of. He glanced back at the man, and suddenly he wasn’t the enormous mace-wielding man, but a bull. An enormous, red-eyed bull with iron horns. The bull charged him, and Ragner nearly tripped over his feet to get away. The Shadows or the Bull. The Shadows or the Bull. It seemed that all Ragner could do for himself was choose how he wanted to die. The Shadows or the Bull.
It was the Shadows that got to him first. He felt them grab his shoulders, shake him like a ferocious animal killing its prey. Rurik was behind him again, running to steal his prey back from the shadows. Wait… was it Rurik? Now it was the bull again. Ragner was pushed down. The Shadows were forcing him to the ground. He was kneeling in a pool of frigid water, and his head was being pushed toward it. He tried to resist, but he didn’t have the strength. Besides, the Iron Bull was coming for him. Hadn’t he chosen this? He felt the sting of the ice cold water slap his face as the Shadows pushed him into it.

“Wake up, my Lord!” a voice cried out in the darkness. Ragner tried to push him away, afraid that the Iron Bull had finally caught up to him. The water in his eyes made it hard to see, but he could tell that the man before him had a candle. “My Lord!” The man sounded frantic, not like the Iron Bull would sound. The voice, it sounded familiar. His servant, Edgard.

“Did you… Did you throw water on me?” Ragner wiped the cold droplets from his face with a blanket.

“You refused to wake up, my Lord. I apologize, but it is just past dawn. I would advise you get up. He is coming.”

“Who is coming,” Ragner asked slowly, “at this ungodly hour?” His confusion was quickly fading, and his anger was building.

“I believe you spoke of him in your sleep as I was trying to wake you. You said ‘The Iron Bull’.” Edgard’s right brow rose as he spoke the moniker, and a small hint of a smile split the corner of his mouth.

“Who?” Ragner was suddenly wide awake. “Rurik…” Somehow, despite his nightmare, or perhaps because of it, he had completely forgotten his situation. He had fallen asleep last night wishing that the past few days had all just been a nightmare.

“Yes,” the servant said. He placed the candle on the side table near the heard of Ragner’s bed and reached for a bundle of folded clothes. “I would guess you have only a few seconds to throw this on before ‘The Iron Bull’ knocks down your door.”

“You seem amused,” Ragner said, noticing the look Edgard had given him when he mentioned Ragner talking in his sleep. That added to his irritation even more. It seemed that every day could indeed only get worse.

“Not at all, my Lord. After all, it is my job at stake.”

“Of course. How unfortunate it would be for you should I perish.” Ragner pulled on the clean shirt the servant had brought him. He still felt dirty from being in that prison cell, despite having washed and changed the previous night. Edgard grabbed his shorts has he changed from those. He slammed his feet into his boots while pulling up and buttoning his pants. By the time he had regained his balance, the door to his room was slammed open. Rurik stood there, chest full of air and looking like he was ready to blow someone over.

“Leave us,” Rurik half-growled at Edgard, keeping his eyes on him until the man left the room. “A commander’s got to rise at least an hour earlier than his men,” he told Ragner, softening his voice a little -- for a man like Rurik, that meant on the verge of shouting. “How can you make sure they’re prepared otherwise? How can they respect you when you sleep until late morning like some lady?”

He took a few quick strides toward the window, looking at something outside. “’Sleep during the day and you’ll miss the sunshine’ my mother used to say.” Turning around, he looked at Ragner, almost expectantly.
“Well, m’lord, have you decided what to do on this fine morn?”

Ragner refrained from rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I don’t know. I haven’t…” Ragner also refrained from admitting that he had not yet thought about it. He was sure that was not what Rurik wanted to hear. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.” Ragner racked his mind for something that would keep Rurik preoccupied for the day, at least until the Iron Bull’s soldiers got there. He forced himself to walk up to the window to stand next to Rurik, peering outside the window at the grounds of his manor. They were not nearly so neat as they had been before he left on his doomed mission.

“I have some maps of Caslemon that I’m sure you and your soldiers will need. I can show you those, perhaps point out a few establishments that I think could use a visit. I’m not sure it would be wise to go there without a force of arms. Not after…” Ragner cut off his comment before he could finish it. Rurik was literally like a bull ready to charge. All he needed was to see the color red. Suddenly Ragner thought of something that might put him on more solid ground with the man. He was, after all, younger.
“I also have sparring field behind the barracks. It might be a good way to focus our energy and let out our… steam.” The dream popped back into his head as soon as the words left his mouth. He remembered seeing Rurik there, with his iron mace hanging from his belt. Ragner had the feeling that he was playing with fire, but it was too late now. Retracting his offer would only get him burned.

Rurik frowned for a moment, no doubt in though. After coming to a decision, he looked at Ragner and nodded. “The sparring field sounds good.” He gave the young lord an assessing look. “The Duke instructed me to make sure you can handle yourself alone. After practicing we can look at those maps you mentioned… a man often views things clearer after working his muscles.”

A pause followed, during which Rurik roughly took one of Ragner’s hands and turned it palm up, examining it. He nodded and looked pleased for the first time since he had arrived. “Calloused hands… I respect that in a man. You practice often… swordsman I take it? You don’t have the weight for much else.” As if becoming aware of the casualness in his tone, he looked out of the window again, letting go of Ragner’s hand. After another brief period of silence, he turned to walk out of the room and said “Swords it is then. Meet me in the training field once you’ve eaten, and be quick about it.” For once, there didn’t seem to be a frown on his face as he left.

Ragner blew out a deep breath as Rurik left the room, leaving the door open behind him. “That went well…” he said to no one in particular. He lifted his hands up and looked at them. He had never viewed his calluses as a respectable mark. They seemed more like an inconvenient scar. But if they got the Iron Bull off of his back, he could manage to work in a few more. If he was lucky, he could even give that unbearable old man a few of his own. Ragner grabbed his coat from its peg as he left his room. His spirits were finally up, for the first time in… days? He wasn’t really sure. It had been a long string of bad luck. Today, in the sparring field, that might change.

Edgard was waiting in the hall just outside his door, head down subserviently as Rurik passed beyond sight down the stairs. He looked up as Ragner entered the hall, and a mischievous smile lit his face. “Well,” Edgard said, “you didn’t piss him off. I swear there was steam coming from his ears last night.”

“Watch your tongue, Edgard,” Ragner warned. “If he hears you, you may very well lose it.” Edgard’s smile dropped instantly.
“Do you really think he would…?” Edgard asked.
“Breakfast,” Ragner said, ignoring his servant’s question. A small bit of payback for the man’s jesting before Rurik’s arrival. “Find Niles, and help him with breakfast. Make something the Bull can digest. He is going to need it.”
“What do you mean?” Edgard asked. “What is going on today?”
“I am going to show Rurik that there is more to respect about me than a few calluses on my hands.”

Sakira-thani > D'chalgtmendrir, just south of the Sakira-thani/Eldin border ~ morning of DAY 21

Sithred-makh Ragabek lounged expansively in the cushions of his tower. He was lying with the back of his head facing east, and the late morning sunlight perfectly illuminated the expensive book he held propped on his belly. It was a human work of fiction, gorgeously bound and illustrated, The Blue Knight, by Farius Something of Mandor, and things were finally starting to get good. "Farius sen," muttered the portly, middle-aged dragon, "Farius dezsan..." He kept a claw on the page and turned back to the gilt and painted cover to check the author's name again. "Farius Torser," he enunciated carefully, remembering to round his lips as best he could for the humans' circular glyph. Humans and their second names.

Ragabek turned back to the page he was on. There was a picture of the knight with his lady--finally--and the first word of the chapter started with a very large and ornate 'T' glyph. The dragon read the human language slowly but well.

“'The knight, entered the fort, proper, from the gardens, on the west side, where he had picked, a cluster of pink, rose-tree flowers.'”
With the illustration and decorative glyph, that was enough to fill both pages. He turned the page with the tip of a claw.
“'“Oh Meraph, how beautiful,” said the knight's lady'--z'gan.” The dragon started over, stretching his higher voice to sound dainty. “'“Oh Meraph, how beautiful,”'”--it was a poor approximation--“'said the knight's, lady. “Beauty for beauty on this, bright morning, my most fair Lanyssa.” He stroked her cheek, where the sun had, caused it to shine. And as they, reached for each other--'”

“Sithred-makh Ragabek,” came a voice from beyond the thick curtain in the far wall.

Ragabek's head fell back over the cushion with an exasperated sigh. “What!” he called, looking upside-down out the bright window. “And speak in human today! I want to practice.”
“Must I, Sithr--Llord Ragabek?”
“I know, they only talk like us when they ask a question. But yes, must you. I mean you must. Now what is it?”
The voice hesitated. “Um, uh, not, in city?”
“Outside,” Ragabek supplied, drawing out the word, trying not to be impatient.
“Autside... there is dragon, um, hi sithred sheng, um, and... other?”
Ragabek pulled his head back up. “Two?”
“To what?”
“Dragons.”
The other hesitated, probably with a blank, helpless look. “Um, y... yes?”
“No, no. Hi is two. You meant two sithred. It is their number.”
“I thought to was... the going?”
“It is both.”
“Bauth?”
“No, both.”
“What is bouth?”
“You are not saying it the right way. Both is... seka sheng hi. Too is the going and the second and the number, but you are supposed to draw them different.”
“I don't want to speak human anymore.”
Ragabek sat up. “You said something right!”
“Dezsan?”
“Tansa k'hara gsen sen ten!” Ragabek closed the book carefully, and resignedly set it aside. He had to vault himself upward with arms and tail to get out of the cushions. “Very well. Come in, come in. Wait!” Ragabek took a moment to smooth the wrinkles from his long, patterned clothing and wide sash. “Ten.” He struck an erect pose. “Psendra.”

The servant entered, dressed in finery that was not quite so fine as the lord of D'chalgtmendrir. He was somewhat thinner than Ragabek, but then most dragons were. Ragabek was fairly certain he could still fly if he wanted to; he just hadn't bothered in quite some time. Ragabek's skin was fairer, too, though he considered that a pleasing aspect of himself, along with his black-tipped horns and perfectly average height. And he liked to think his slightly wider neck made him seem a little more ferocious than other dragons. It did seem to make him a slightly better magician, if only because it dropped his higher voice so that he hadn't had to work too hard at getting more notes.

What followed was a restating of the servant's news and a launch into extensive preparations. This was a happening grander than any in a long time. Two Sithred K'handrar, at one of the farthest reaches of Sakira-thani. It promised to be the talk of the city for weeks or more. Something was afoot, and it was Ragabek's duty--and his intrigue--to be at the center of it all.


Sephalia > Telmural > High Temple of Zephiris ~ morning of DAY 21

The first thing Áirhath had done when they entered the room was to take note of as much as he could of his surroundings. They were in a space big enough to provide a comfortable area around a large, sturdy table and four similarly large, sturdy chairs. The floor was carpeted in a blue and green floral pattern. The walls were completely lined with books. Light came in from two squat, rectangular windows set high in the far wall and the wall to the left of the entrance, above the bookshelves. The light that came in was oddly prismatic or multi-layered. Áirhath also noted a second door exactly like the one they had come through, both with a longer than normal entryway, like very short corridors. The furniture was made of some sort of varnished wood, but it was all built so thick and squarish, Áirhath thought nothing short of a battle hammer would damage any of it. The only other thing Áirhath could see in the room was what appeared to be a smallish metal square set into the floor in the far left corner. Despite the quanity of books, the room wasn't all that musty, as if perhaps the room was used or aired relatively often.

Áirhath had had the distinct feeling that the priests were too casual about letting people in, even if they had expressed displeasure. Neither Áirhath nor Katerina had brought weapons into a temple, of course, and the two had just been arguing over whether that decision had been wise in hindsight, and whether it mattered at this point, and even whether it would have done more harm than good. Áirhath didn't know why they were debating the subject except that something felt wrong, even perilous.

"...as long as--" Áirhath broke off the instant he heard a sound at the door. An instant later it opened, and a clean-shaven, aging human walked into the room.

"I am told you have traveled far to speak with the High Priest?" The man left unsaid that he held that position. No one would have doubted it. "Manis Aquilas is my name."
He paused. Áirhath looked at Katerina. Was he asking for an introduction?

Katerina kept her voice reverent, whether from shrewdness or genuine respect--or both--Áirhath couldn't have judged. "Katerina Forbes." She was too far away to extend a hand, assuming one shook hands with high priests. Áirhath was closer, but he wasn't about to guess at the proper customs. "Áirhath Aeryän," he said.

"I'm told you were sent from the White Council in Eldin," the man prompted.

Not for the first time, Áirhath was keenly aware at how much his mission had been affected by the appearance of the shadow beasts. He had never intended to be so conspicuous; his original assignment was to covertly gather information. The shadow beasts ruined any chance of that. But their ubiquitous presence allowed him to come out in the open without revealing his true purpose to those in power. And the high priest was anything but powerless.

Áirhath had no way to know if the shadow beasts troubled his own people as well as the humans, but that was the story he needed. His one rueful thought was that, all too likely, the story was true.

"In my land, I--"
"--we--" Kate reminded.
"--we, fight the shadow beast, but maybe human fight it also? I see--have seen this on the our," he indicated himself and Katerina, "path to here. We, want help."
"Want to help, he means," said Kate.
"It is that." Áirhath nodded. "You know when the shadow beast first appear?"
"We also have experiences with the beasts, having passed through Shadewood. We've examined at length what patterns we could discern, and wish to share our findings in the hope that it will better prepare the rest of us."

"That is most admirable," said the high priest. "What have you found?"

Katerina began to describe the encounters they had faced, how the beasts seemed to scale their numbers according to those of the group they attacked, and a number of other observations.

"That confirms what many have speculated. I don't think it will change what anyone is doing about it, but the greater certainty will help it get done." He paused, thinking, then turned to Áirhath. "To answer your question, the earliest accounts of the shadow beasts' appearance agree that it all started just over a fortnight ago."

That was close to when the White Council had felt the surge of energy. Áirhath was in a position to probe further, indirectly. "Is--was--there any sign or portent of this... beasts?"

"I think perhaps," Manis said, "you already know the answer to that question. Surely your people felt something a few days earlier. It would be three weeks ago, now. Have the elves found an answer to it?"

Though the man hadn't been unkind, Áirhath didn't like the way he had asked the question: as if he already knew the answer. The elf tried to angle the issue. "In my land, the White Council watch the sky in the night. The lights tell us when the sun dims, when the cycle renew--even strange thing. --s," he corrected. "The star say strange thing will come, but shadow beast did not come until after. We try to find out what is the strange thing."

"The heavens declared it? Fascinating...." The high priest appeared to ponder this information. Áirhath wondered what that meant. "Do you know, the common folk in this area have taken to calling them darklings? The beasts?"

Áirhath doubted what that could possibly have to do with anything. "Haeí... One said that in the bridge city." Áirhath felt himself being put at a disadvantage. The human was taking control of the conversation, and Áirhath couldn't do much about it because he didn't know enough about human lands and customs.

Katerina noticed and came to the rescue. "What does that have to do with anything?" she said. "If you don't mind my asking."

"Everything," said the high priest, pausing, it seemed, just to watch them wait for him to go on. "I will explain." He walked over to one of the book-lined walls and pulled a volume from a shelf at chest height. He held it up to them. It was a plain tan color, with a reddish binding. "Do you see this book?"
Áirhath didn't answer stupid questions; he said nothing. Katerina did at least nod.
"Some people wouldn't call this a book. Some would call it a volume. Which kinds of people would make that verbal replacement?" Manis waited a moment, then answered his own question. "The intelligent, the aspiring, or the familiar." Again the high priest waited a moment before making his point. "It doesn't take the first two to put together a new, easier term for the shadow beasts, and anyway most folk aren't overly intelligent or aspiring. What does that tell you?" He slipped the volume back into place among its series. "The people are becoming familiar--accustomed, if not comfortable--with the shadow beasts."

There was a silence. Áirhath thought he understood the words, but he didn't comprehend what the man was trying to tell him. "Are they still afraid?"

"Of course, but they are having to ignore those feelings. While all the higher circles of humans, elves--and it has to be assumed dragons as well--worry about what is going on, the everyday worker has to accept the new dimness of their world. Life has to go on. For them, there is no other choice."

Áirhath needed to hear what the human was leading up to. He couldn't start putting together what all of it was supposed to mean until he could see the larger picture. "Why tell us this?"
"A measure of advice, and a courtesty."
"But why?"
"The first is because you at least, if not both of you, will need to be involved in these higher circles. In a way, you already are. The second is because you will not like part of that process."

Áirhath didn't like the sound of that at all. "Explain this."

"Precisely because of your presence here, it is obvious that the elves indeed have felt the general increase in energy and have sent you here, not because of the shadow beasts, but to investigate how much the humans know about the change. And if the elves felt it, there can be little doubt the dragons have as well. And if dragons sense power, they will pursue it, as will all the greedy persons in Sephalia and probably all those in elvendom as well. This will cause great upheaval across all lands, and if not for these very shadow beasts, I have no doubt that we would soon have seen the collapse of Sakira's Treaty."

He let those words hang in the air for a time.

"The good news is, yes. Unlike elves or dragons, we humans know exactly why there is that feeling of 'more' in the world. The bad news is that, unfortunately, neither one of you can at this time be allowed to share this knowledge. We will have to keep you here for a time."

Katerina was outraged. "What?!"
Áirhath was only slightly less irate, and only because he had half expected this. "You mean to make us prisoner?"
"It would be better if you did not see it that way, but essentially, yes." The man remained firm but, nevertheless, somehow still not unkind. "Would you rather I had lied to you?"
"How much is a time?" said Áirhath?
"And how will it go for you when the King hears of this?" said Katerina.
"A number of days, I should think, at the least. But you misunderstand. We are not your enemies. Rather we must do what is best for Sephalia. Indeed, the world. At this time I can give you no choice in the matter, but you will not be neglected."
"Our companions," Katerina put in.
"Will be informed of your cooperation, should they come searching for you."
"Any word might have another meaning," Áirhath said lowly, half to himself and half for Katerina's benefit. They wouldn't let Áirhath or Katerina speak to their companions even under supervision, because anything they said or did could be a special message.
"Just so," the High Priest confirmed. "And now if you will forgive me, I must attend to the morning ceremonies."

The man slipped smoothly across the floor and out of the room. Then, ominously, a heavy booming sound came from the doorway. Or rather, two at once, one from where the High Priest had gone, and the other in another corner of the room, where the second door was. The silence that followed was palpable, if not as suppressive as the corridor had been.

Áirhath and Katerina looked at each other. "Sëlthien," said the elf, the word laced with such human irony that the woman could not help a dark chuckle as she echoed in her own language. "Just excellent."