<h2>PYRITE 10.5: TO THE GOLDEN LEAVES AGAIN</h2>


    “Elected representatives are not held accountable for what they do not do. That is why the rich un-lords favour such representation as a form of governance. The meaning of democracy is to spread the blame for deficiencies and create an administrative branch to obfuscate all wrongdoing. The criminal in office is exonerated of all but the most superfluous charges, while those very superfluous charges are used to poison her. It is for this reason we reject the Uprising at its foundation-root. We must be ruled by those born and trained for it, so that we can blame them for their misdeeds. We must continue to bar the sale of lordships, and resist all attempts to reduce the severity of the sentences handed to guilty nobles. Upon these fragile stones is our whole civilisation resting. Without our vigilance, all will be given over to madness.”


    – from the official memorandum of the Shadow Council, Taura 705 NE


    “… what is his. Become him. Go forth. Find…”


    Sleep was brief and dreamless; I was grateful for the noises outside rousing us early. We both were.


    Hours of waking dream in which time itself dissolved and lost all meaning. Breakfast was leftover fruit and nut, washed down with leftover beer, taken right there on the apartment floor where we lay, dusty old blankets for our mattress. Finally spent once more, Ciraya fell asleep again with her head on my arm, a thin film of perspiration joining our bodies where they pressed together – her torso against my own, her arm across my stomach, left leg thrown over both of mine.


    I could close my eyes and sense every ripple and twist of the ink-patterns touching me, the power pulsing across her parchment-white skin. I’d always been curious about her tattoos, but after being with her – after joining with her – the mystery was increased tenfold. I found myself wanting to explore her, lay bare her fascinating mind as she’d laid bare her fascinating body.


    Now she was asleep again, and as much as I wanted to lie beside her, return to the hidden dreams with her, I knew I couldn’t. For all my fatigue I felt refreshed, revitalised in a way I hadn’t ever expected, hoped for… And I still had a job to do. Plenty of jobs, in point of fact.


    Would she want me to wake her?


    I looked at her. She wore an uncharacteristically-petulant frown.


    Could I bear to wake her?


    No. And this way, she could make an entrance. She’d appreciate that, I thought.


    I reactivated the nethernal essences, allowing me to slip free without causing her to stir. Funnyfingers went off to find me a writing implement while I quietly dressed myself, and he returned a minute later with half a stick of chalk. I spun up a quick shield to pacify my paranoia, then scrawled her a single-word note on the floorboards beside our makeshift pillows:


    GILTERGROVE


    It was time.


    * * *


    I knew what was coming. I sensed the inevitable in my bones, so I opted to walk, or at least move with the appearance of ordinary walking. How many of the onlookers could discern the oddness of my stride, the way my left leg almost shimmered as it moved, I couldn’t say. Even if only one percent of them were perceptive-enough to spot that there was something wrong with me, that still meant dozens were picking up on it. How exactly word had spread was beyond me, but before I even reached the Lowtown Road there were crowds of people lining the streets as if waiting for me to appear.


    Most people didn’t know what to do when I actually came into view. From time to time the masses would find cohesion, chanting ‘Feychilde’ or ‘Liberator’ for a bit; a lot of them seemed to want to just scream, letting out whatever pent-up grief or excitement they had inside them. I did my best to acknowledge their cries without looking too much like a highborn prat. Instead of waving, I kept my responses restricted to nods, the occasional finger-pointing when I recognised someone.


    “Hail!” I said jovially, keeping the smile on my face and in my eyes as I did my best to manoeuvre around a particularly-tangled knot of people.


    “Feychilde!” an old woman within arm’s length yelled at me, her eyes fit to bulge out of her head.


    “I’m only right here, bleedin’ ‘ell woman!” I shot back, eliciting a titter of appreciation from the crowd.


    Thinking to capitalise on my success, I politely requested that they move their asses out of the way to let a stuck convoy of wagons through. The Sticktowners dutifully made room, and the wagon-drivers looked a bit disappointed as their horses started trotting forwards once more.


    Inside my shell, it was hard to keep a lid on my emotions. I felt overexposed, even disoriented. The tattered robe I wore was completely unpresentable, and it wasn’t like Sticktowners didn’t have any standards; I was lucky I enjoyed their favour, for the moment at least. It wasn’t just the matter of what I wore, though. The streets had changed somewhat thanks to all the recent turmoil, and everything looked just a little bit different. It wasn’t like I’d have traded it in for Telior’s sea-drenched walkways, but here in my home town I was getting a reception I’d have never received even in the place where’d I’d been a lord, Hool Raz of dubious notoriety. Whatever I was now – it was better than being a lord. They still thought of me as one of them. But it had its price. I could see the expectation in every face, hear it in every exultant shriek. It was almost too much, too soon after returning. For all that I’d lived here forever, Mund still somehow felt alien, like I’d been away forever too. Like I’d never fully be able to return. Telior had been a few meagre months of my existence, but I’d been reborn there – there was no denying the notion, even if its exact meaning eluded me. Somewhere between the first encounter with Mal Malas and my decision to return to Mund, I’d changed. Now I just had to accept it, accept Feychilde for my face, my words, my deeds.


    I would come to think of it as the first time I played the role of the champion for real; the first time it made me become something else, something utterly other inside my head. Not just a warrior for the forces of light, repelling the darkness like a good little boy – but a true paragon, a figurehead of something greater than myself. This had to have been how T-Man felt when he stood up and spoke in front of the crowds at Leafcloak and Lightblind’s memorial.


    I should’ve just flown, invisible, I thought, and grinned at my self-inflicted misfortune. It would all be worth it in the end, I supposed. Better to get this moment over and done with, get the people I wanted to protect used to my presence. I couldn’t hide, not after taking up the mantle so publicly last night. If they could get their gawping out of the way, I could crack on with things that much more quickly. I was going to be building a tower of some ostentation right here in their midst – and I was going to want their help, or at least their goodwill, while the construction was carried out. Having purposeless crowds milling around the worksite of the former Mud Lane wasn’t going to get us anywhere fast, so I couldn’t afford to become some figure of mystique.


    I came to a spot I barely recognised – the road widened, and I was certain there’d been more trees the last time I came along this route. A pair of wagons had been parked in awkward positions, creating a funnel clogged with well-wishers right in the middle of the roadway.


    “Feychilde!”


    “Liberator!”


    “Look, Turmie, it’s ‘im!”


    “Feychilde!”


    “’Scuse me! ‘Scuse me! M-mistah?”


    I stopped when I heard the vaguely-familiar voice, and looked over with amazement at a freckled six- or seven-year-old. The little red-haired girl was clothed in a mud-covered cotton dress, and the moment my eyes met hers she just lifted her hand, pointing.


    I knew what I’d find when I looked up into the branches of one of the few remaining trees.


    “Missymoo, is it?” I called.


    The girl nodded, mouth agape.


    I tapped the ghosts, to the oohs and ahhs of the crowd. I remembered to drop my shields in case I pushed the poor animal off its perch when I approached, and then it was a simple matter for me to float up and take hold of the scrawny black and white cat by the scruff of its neck. To its credit it tried to put up a fight, but after a few frantic attempts to mangle me it gave up, placidly accepting my victory.


    “Look at him!”


    “’E’s got it!”


    “Cor, what’ll ‘e do next?”


    “Ah-ha! The Catmaster!”


    I turned, hefting the cat over my head as I rotated, floating back down to the ground.


    “Feychilde conquers all!” I cried triumphantly, and laughed with them.


    I handed my trophy down to her owner, diminished the dark elf essence, and went strolling on my way. The crowd parted, baying and cheering.


    Yeah, it was weird. But it was okay. Despite the incredible loss of life, the devastating property damage – things were going to be okay.


    And it was my job to keep it that way.


    * * *


    The birds sang, an unending patchwork melody cascading down from the clusters of gold leaves. The sun climbed, bringing the moment of completion ever closer. The fifty-foot ring of grass surrounding the Giltergrove was teeming with people, especially on the north-west where I’d come to a halt; the druids whose task it was to police the area could themselves be seen loitering amongst the common folk, stealing glances in my direction. But as the minutes stretched on the crowds did manage to settle down, the nearest keeping a short (but seemingly respectful) distance from me. Everyone seemed to realise that this wasn’t just a joke – serious business was about to transpire here. Quiet conversation took hold, a babbled counterpoint to the birds’ incessant wittering. I was still the centre of attention; there was no getting around that. However, it wasn’t long before I got to share my grassy stage.


    She seemed to have the same idea as me. She didn’t use her powers to hurtle right to my side; she walked as any mere mortal would, letting them get a close-up look at her. None of them tried to get in her way, melting out of her path like she was a plague victim, or a saint. Her names went through the assemblage as a hushed whisper, announcing her arrival before I had the faintest notion she was inbound.


    She wore the bow and quiver someone had mentioned to me, but she’d chosen to clothe herself in the multicoloured fabric, something I hadn’t seen in months. She was without either of her masks but there was a faint frown on her lips as if to mimic the old, abandoned visage that’d gone with the robe ever since our first Gathering. Despite the fact her face was exposed, no one in the crowd used the same name for her I did.


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    “Tanra,” I said warmly when she reached the edge of my little circle. “Thanks for coming.”


    She stopped there, glancing around at the nearest onlookers, coincidentally obtaining another yard or two of room.


    “Thanks for the invite.” When her gaze came to settle on me, a smile instantly appeared on her face, wrinkling her nose. “Feel like I owe you one; thought I’d show up early.”


    Now she sped to my side, disappearing and reappearing in a hundredth of a second and eliciting a loud moan from the crowd.


    I put my arm around her awkwardly, given the weapon slung over her shoulder, and she gave me a firm squeeze around the waist.


    “Thank you so much,” I whispered as we stepped apart, keeping my head bowed, my mouth close to her ear. “You don’t know what it’s like… Can you read me now?”


    I rolled my eyes as if to indicate the crown I’d worn.


    The wry smile spread further across her face. “Not a dropping clue, my dear. However… unless I’m much mistaken…” Her eyes scrutinised mine, their bright brown depths deepening. “Your fate’s been getting some entangling, has it?”


    I felt a little twinge of heat in my cheeks. “You can sense that?”


    We stepped apart, and she laughed throatily.


    “Oh, my dear Feychilde. I always wondered when you and Ciraya would happen. When I sent Kirid down the river last night, I had this vague notion…”


    “So you’re claiming credit now, are you?” I asked archly.


    “I’ve been throwing the two of you together since the first day we met.” She regarded me pityingly. “You don’t remember?”


    “What, even in… in the Incursion…”


    “You do remember.” She was grinning openly now. “Well done, Kas. I loved Em, I did, but she was… you know… Em.”


    For all that she clearly thought she was helping, she really wasn’t.


    “Yeah, sure.” I felt my face darken, but I wouldn’t let her sour my mood. “Do you think we’re going to get many?”


    She raised an eyebrow. “You’re worried it’ll just be us?”


    “Well, maybe not just us, but… I think I can count on the sorcerers who showed up on the heath last night. Then there’s –“


    “Winterprince.”


    “Yeah, hopefully.”


    “No, I mean – Winterprince.”


    She pointed with a thrust of her chin, and everyone turned to look as the gleaming ice-elemental came cutting down through the sky.


    He hovered above us then, after a few moments, he let the shimmering armour he wore melt away. Thanks to his magic the resulting downpour evaporated ten feet over our heads, the droplets seeming to splash against an invisible heated surface. He descended through the misty layer of vapour in his blue robe, and tendrils of wind snagged the rim of his hood, pulling it back as he landed beside us.


    Wide-spread eyes, a brusque and savage expression. His hair was longer than I’d expected, brown shot through with grey at the temple in spite of his apparent youth – he couldn’t be much over thirty.


    “I am Uwaine Gladstock,” he declared loudly, looking around at the crowd. “You know me as Winterprince. I come, to live and to die,” he glowered at the common folk, “as a champion of Mund.” He clapped me on the back. “I stand with Feychilde. Let Redgate tremble!”


    “Nice to have you here,” I said through my smile while the people cheered him.


    “Let’s hope you have some plans,” he muttered back, not shifting his eyes to me.


    “Got a few things cookin’,” I replied as casually as I could manage.


    “We’ll turn up the heat. Get as much done by nightfall as possible.”


    I glanced across at him, but he still wouldn’t meet my gaze.


    “Nightfall, today?”


    “Why the hell not?”


    “Ahem.” Tanra said the word rather than actually clearing her throat. “Three days, actually.”


    “Three days?” I was even more taken aback; Uwaine’s bravado was one thing, but Tanra’s assessment was on another level entirely. “I thought – weeks –“


    “It’s going to be a serious bit of work – no lie. But… yeah, I think we’ll be done by the evening of the eleventh, morning of the twelfth. That is, so long as I get Doomspeaker and Duskdown. I’m still iffy on the latter, to be honest.”


    I drew a deep breath. “Let’s just… hope.” I looked around, wondering when the next mage would come forward. “If we can even get twenty archmages, I’ll be happy. Thirty, I’ll be ecstatic. We might even stand a chance, then.”


    “Six arch-druids, to go up against Ord Yset?” Uwaine said sceptically. “Six arch-wizards, to face Nil Nafrim? I think you’re dreaming, Kas.”


    “I know. Don’t think I don’t know.” I gritted my teeth, fixing the smile on my face; the crowd were, of course, staring at the three of us. “It’s my job to dream. Without it, we’re lost, before we ever begin.”


    We stop Redgate. We stop it all, before it starts. It’s the only way.


    “I don’t even think we’ll get thirty.” The wizard folded his arms across his chest. “No one wants to be the first to die. They’d rather run, and keep running, until it kills them.”


    Mountainslide erupted from the ground Ironvine-style not ten feet away, to a ripple of awed cries. The dwarf didn’t cast about, didn’t spare any words for the crowd, staying cowled and stepping up to join us without drawing any further attention to himself.


    At the same time Wrynka came stuttering across the sky, propelled on her way by imp-wings and imp-teleportation.


    Yune… Yune, let him be wrong.


    * * *


    Two hours later and I was shaking (left) hands with a nervous-looking man in a cheap sorcerer’s robe. He’d cut himself shaving in at least five or six places, and I tried my best to keep my eyes off the red nicks covering his jowls. I’d have had less of a leg to stand on than Winterprince in that department; I hadn’t even tried shaving since I lost my right arm and I was hardly looking forward to it. This guy’s face was why.


    “Y-you won’t remember me, Feychilde.” He licked his lips, and looked over his shoulder at his two fellows, clad in the same cheap black cloth. “Remember us, I mean?”


    There was an air of expectancy about him as he turned back to me, and I stared at him in consternation. I switched to looking at his sallow friends, but nothing came leaping to mind. They looked even more nervous than him.


    “I’m sorry… do I know you?”


    “Oh no – I mean…” He licked his lips. “You saved us.”


    “And you…” I cast another glance over the unlikely trio. “You became sorcerers?”


    “W-we… we already was,” the shortest of the three supplied. “We were, I mean…”


    His voice fell away. I looked back at the guy with the shaving injuries, perplexed.


    “We were the Shadowcrafters,” he said at last in a hoarse whisper. “Please… I don’t… we don’t want no trouble…”


    “We’ve come to help,” the short guy supplied again.


    “If we can.”


    “Yeah – if we can. I mean – if you think you can use us.”


    I nodded, feeling amazed. “Just… don’t be so nervous, okay? You’re not the only darkmages here.” I gestured at the milling, chattering mass of robed bodies behind me. “Ex-darkmages, I mean. All that’s over now. You want magisters? We’ve got ‘em. You want heretics? Look no further.” I smiled at the three self-taught magicians. “You’ll fit right in.”


    They beamed in gratitude, and pottered off to join the throng. Tanra was mediating in a debate between two former heretics, and after I caught her eye it was still a minute or two before she reappeared at my side.


    “How’s it looking?” I enquired, still trying to keep my optimism bottled. For all I knew, most of those who’d stepped forward to help were bringing absolutely nothing to the table, just wanting to take the opportunity to enjoy this moment, to be a part of the big spectacle. I was relying on Tanra to sort the grain from the husk, separate the sound from the noise. I could hardly expect even half of them to actually stick around once the work started, could I? There had to be almost a thousand people here, and we were probably still low on archmages…


    “Not bad, Kas. I’ve only had to reject a hundred and fifteen jokers. For magic-users skilled in the various disciplines, you’ve got nine-hundred and thirty-two. Of those, two-hundred and twenty are actually as good at their work as they think they are.”


    I was almost at a loss for words.


    A thousand… really?


    “And… and archmages?”


    “Seventy-nine.”


    My jaw dropped.


    “For now. I’m hoping we’re still waiting for a few stragglers.” She grinned openly. “You were right, Kas. We’ve got them coming in from all walks of life. We had three inactive archmages round the corner from where we grew up. Neverwish arrived – he was looking for you, by the way.”


    I was pleased Herreld had shown, but I was still struggling with it, the magnitude of it all. “And how are they feeling about all this… voyeurism?”


    “They volunteered for it. You need to stop worrying. We’re doing this. It’s happening.”


    “Damn right it is.” I didn’t want to let on how exhausted I was feeling already, but the tension of this morning and afternoon was like a weight pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to remember what it was like to not be in this position. “I need to get another slice of strawberry, I think.”


    “Sunspring’s growing another. Give him a minute. They go off fast once the spells are applied.”


    “Damn divine druidry.”


    “Sheer Sinphalamactic speculation.”


    I ignored her and looked over to the gnome. He’d been in his towering gorilla-shape for the past hour, using his power to inflate fruits and handing out chunks the size of a human head as refreshments. Right now Neko was surrounded by a dozen curious children and a number of Shining Circle druids clad in green and gold, the adults looking every bit as impressed as the kids as they watched the old arch-druid make his next giant strawberry. Right now it was roughly the size of a hay bale. Before he was done it’d be too big to fit in the back of a two-horse wagon.


    I was glad Sunspring had survived the Incursion. There were so many who hadn’t…


    Star… man… Neverwish must be feeling like drop.


    But I couldn’t dwell on it. There were so many who’d lived, so many who’d decided to join us today.


    Seventy-nine – and maybe stragglers too.


    I was keeping my eyes peeled, keeping my mind prepared for surprises – but our next volunteer made me nervous in an entirely-different way.


    Fe came prowling up, Ciraya bobbing lightly atop her, swaying from side to side with the demon’s motions. Spotting her in the distance thanks to the yithandreng’s stature, I became incredibly aware of the dryness of my mouth and lips in spite of the ghost-form, and once more I longed for a bite of the strawberry… or at least a bit of mint to chew on…


    How would I approach her? What should I do? I felt as though, of all the faces that had presented themselves to me today, this was the most momentous meeting of all. How we handled this… it would set the course for everything to follow. I found my concerns over dragons and destinies slipping away, mere shadows, lesser darknesses eclipsed by the swaying, sorcerous twilight Fe carried towards me.


    The cool breeze blew. Her face came into focus beneath the black hood; the sorceress’s expression was grave, and, seeing her out here in her element, astride her pet fiend, black sleeves billowing in the wind… it felt as though my heart lurched.


    Damn… when had she started to look so beautiful? The alluring lips that I’d tasted so many times since last night. The long lashes shrouding smoky blue eyes. There was no other word for her. She’d never appeared unattractive to me – in spite of the crazy amount of tattoos, quite the opposite – but this? It was like I’d never really seen her before.


    Desire, sharpened almost to the point of incoherent, self-directed anger, gripped hold of me. Would she be upset that I’d left her like that? Would she expect us to just go back to being friends now? Why hadn’t I made my intentions clearer?


    You wrote ‘Giltergrove’. Just ‘Giltergrove’! You great dropping buffoon! You had one chance. One chance to show her you were serious. You blew it. Look at her! She doesn’t exactly look happy, does she?


    I floated forward to greet her, but I didn’t know what to say. She seemed equally reticent to speak, her hands folded in her lap at the base of one of Fe’s spikes. I was incredibly conscious of the amount of people watching us right now. The urge to drag her into another plane so we could have some privacy was equally irresistible and unconscionable.


    She couldn’t meet my imploring stare, so I stopped being able to try. I blinked, lowering my gaze.


    “Rhu Thrile,” I murmured instead, reaching out to stroke the yithandreng’s snout.


    Fe didn’t reply, but I’d be damned if she didn’t smile, pushing up luxuriously into my ghostly fingers, encouraging an application of vampire-strength to match her.


    That made me smile, and when I looked back at Ciraya she was piercing me with her eyes.


    “I missed you.” I said it as quietly as I could manage without whispering.


    Finally, the sardonic smile touched her lips. “Middle Finger on the Hand,” she drawled, “reporting for duty.”


    “I mean… I don’t want things to be like that, between us.”


    She straightened. “Whatever you want things to be like, I’m not sure you get to choose. If you really missed me you shouldn’t have let me sleep in.”


    “I couldn’t wake you! You looked so…”


    My voice fell away – I was painfully aware just how many hundreds of pairs of ears were within earshot.


    “But you can’t tell me off for being late. You might be my master but I’m not going to be your servant. That’s not how it works.”


    “I don’t want a servant.”


    “Then what do you want?”


    “I… want to kiss you.”


    Her eyes widened for just an instant, then narrowed. “I’ve played the favourite before. I know how it goes.”


    I shook my head. “It won’t be like that. You’re clearly my favourite, anyway! I don’t want any of the drama, Ciraya. The endless stupid rumours. Can’t we just… be together? Openly? Can’t I just kiss you here in front of everyone?”


    She nudged Fe forwards suddenly, bringing herself right alongside me.


    “And who said you got a say in that either, Master Mortenn?”


    She leaned towards me and pulled me into her embrace, her lips finding mine eagerly.


    I was glad of the excuse to close my eyes. Cheers and a number of comments were hurled my way – not just from the common folk. Half the remarks were drowned out by wild whoops that sounded vaguely congratulatory… but those I made out were of a less than savoury nature. I felt my face flame right to the tips of my ears this time, but when we separated Ciraya was as pale as ever, not just smiling but grinning broadly.


    She took my hand and trotted Fe forwards, turning me about on the air to follow her.


    “Come on,” she croaked. “Let me go start whipping the troops into line.”


    “Very good,” I replied, “Mistress Ostelwin.”


    * * *