《The Painter: A fantasy psych thriller and epic》 1. Kinney ¡°Paint!¡± a woman¡¯s voice called. It was coming from up the narrow road leading towards a small cluster of houses. He sighed. It was Grelda, his neighbour of nearly fifteen years. They lived next to each other in a place called Kinon, affectionately called Kinney by locals. It wasn¡¯t big enough to fly a Banner, but Kinney was well known throughout the realm of Umlom for its kind and welcoming people. Grelda and her enthusiastic greetings were the embodiment of that. Grelda continued to move hurriedly down the road. Stout in stature, she moved in a manner that was anything but discreet. Yet she continued to go unacknowledged by her neighbour as she approached. ¡°Paint!¡± The harmless greeting caused his eye to twitch and his upper lip to snarl ever so slightly. He was aware but unable to prevent his reaction. The best he could do was to try and conceal the base instinct. The name Paint bothered him, but he never corrected anyone. He had been a painter, after all, but couldn¡¯t bear to explain why the name haunted him. Instead, he quickly repressed the feeling and carried on. That was how it had gone every time he¡¯d been addressed as Paint over the past five years. He thought of himself as a traveller now, albeit not very intrepid. Relaxing his face, he looked up from tending to his horse, Tolo. Then he greeted his neighbour, who was now upon him. ¡°Morning, Grelda,¡± he said politely but with little invitation to continue the conversation. His attention was fixed on his saddle straps and bags, preparing to be away for at least a few nights. ¡°Are you heading to Onny again?¡± she asked, referring to Onlomum. It was a good day¡¯s ride and the nearest place of note. The journeys only ever lasted three or four days, and a few small packages were all he ever had to show for it. She was nosy, to be sure, but not so inquisitive to ask what he returned with each trip. The man had covered his windows from the inside, figuring Grelda might try and peer in. They¡¯d been like that since Kahriah left. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ¡°No. Not this time,¡± he replied, knowing he was about to hear a request regardless of whether Onny was on his route or not. ¡°Well, if you see it, would you pick me up some dragonleaf while you¡¯re gone?¡± she asked. Dragonleaf was a spicy melange of several herbs that added a nice kick to harvest stews. Toward the end of summer, merchants in larger port towns like Onny would often have it available. It was a simple request, but the look on her face suggested it was one Grelda knew he wouldn¡¯t remember. Whatever these excursions were, he usually returned quite crestfallen and distant. More distant than usual. ¡°Sure,¡± he replied, not really making note of her request. They smiled at each other. Grelda, in her kindness, wouldn¡¯t bring it up when he returned empty-handed. He went back into his house to grab the last of his provisions, tucked them in saddlebags, and stuck a boot in a stirrup. Mounted, the tall and sinewy man¡¯s head would barely clear a ten-foot gate. A mess of dark hair framed his patchy, bearded face, creating a broody demeanour. His clothes were simple except for haphazard splashes of paint. Though not sloppy or unkempt, he certainly wasn¡¯t one to be concerned with appearances. On a horse, he was quite a skilled rider, despite Tolo getting on in years. She was an older horse of below-average size and had a dark brown coat with large, white irregular patches. Tolo wasn¡¯t fast, which suited the man just fine. With no schedule to keep, he moved at a deliberate pace most of the time, not testing his riding skills or his horse very much. He gave Grelda an obligatory wave as he headed off. The traveller pulled a book out from his saddle containing sketches and notes of Kinney¡¯s surrounding areas. These observations were a record of where he had been, and the boundary he did not travel beyond. Munum was to be his first destination on this particular journey, and most riders could make it there in a day; it would take Tolo and her rider two. They went slowly and frequently veered off the trail, covering at least twice as much ground as needed. The simple town surrounded by farms was due west of Kinney, but his route twisted and turned through every manner of forest and field. Most of the day was spent paying close attention to his surroundings with little regard for progress. As sunfall approached and Munum was still out of reach, he made camp in a secluded grove of bloodfir trees. For most, the idea of sleeping outside among the creatures and renegades might make for a restless night, but for him it wasn¡¯t a concern. With Tolo securely attached to a tree, fed, and watered, rest found him easily enough. Though his body lay comfortably, his mind raced with scenes from his past. 2. The Traveller The man rose with the sun, dutifully packed up his simple camp, mounted his horse, and set off. To allow his eyes to adjust to the rising sun, he had Tolo trot even slower than usual. Later that day, with the sun directly overhead, he arrived in Munum. This was the first town he¡¯d visit and the one he most looked forward to. Just like the dozens of times before, he rode through the town¡¯s rugged stone gates en route to the bookbinder. He secured Tolo to the hitching post out front and pulled open the shop door. Over the last several hundred years, bookbinders had become a depot of all things enlightened. Art supplies, musical instruments, vellum and parchments, inkwells, and the like were all stocked¨C in addition to the namesake service they provided. Being in a bookbinder shop--with the smell of ink, oil, and leather--was one of the small, fleeting joys the traveller still had. A memory of simpler times. ¡°Hello again! It¡¯s been a while since you¡¯ve been in town. How have you been? Three each of smoke, sky, moss, and lapis?¡± The bookbinder peppered his not-so-new customer with questions. He was an older man with wireframe spectacles, and though completely bald on top, he had combed his wispy, white hair from one ear to the other in a terrible failure of concealment. He wasn¡¯t much taller than the counter he stood behind. ¡°Yes, more of the same, please,¡± the traveller replied, ignoring the other questions. This dance had become somewhat familiar to the both of them. ¡°Need anything else?¡± asked the bookbinder as he handed him a small wooden box. ¡°No, thank you.¡± The traveller gave the bookbinder a small coin purse of lords. Neither man bothered to confirm the amount inside. He¡¯d bought the same thing regularly from every bookbinder in Umlom, and neither the price nor his procurements ever changed. Just as he was about to leave, an apprentice popped out from the back. He was in his thirties, short like his employer, and had the first signs of a receding hairline. He, too, wore spectacles. ¡°Hi!¡± he said with enthusiasm. ¡°Any new work to show?¡± The question was innocent enough, but the traveller¡¯s reaction was similar to being called ¡®Paint.¡¯ His eye twitched, and he could feel his canines scrape along his lower lip. No... Nothing new, he thought to himself. ¡°You come in and buy paint every few months, but I¡¯ve never seen any of your work. I must admit, you¡¯re a strange painter, ser!¡± The master bookbinder shot his apprentice a glance of disapproval. ¡°I¡¯m not a painter,¡± was the traveller¡¯s first non-transactory reply since he¡¯d entered the shop. ¡°Well, your clothes betray you, my friend.¡± They both glanced down at his paint-splattered trousers. The traveller realised he was no better at hiding his vocation than the bookbinder was at hiding his baldness. The apprentice abruptly changed the subject, still unaware it was conversation in general his customer was trying to abstain from. ¡°Have you heard of Yunekvin from Nlamk¨¢s? Apparently, he¡¯s the most talented painter in generations. His painting of the Sanctuary of the Ancients is supposed to be sublime. I heard folk talking about it a few weeks ago. They say he¡¯s a descendant of halfgods, but you know how people exaggerate...¡± The continued attempts at conversation still didn¡¯t elicit the response the apprentice was craving. The traveller gave a thankful nod to the master bookbinder before turning and exiting the shop. The traveller secured the newly purchased supplies in his saddlebags and offered Tolo an apple in exchange for her patience. Tolo accepted these terms and he made his way on foot to the local tavern, only about fifty yards further into town. The place was more than half-full with patrons, which pleased the traveller as he surveyed the room from its crooked entrance. While he hadn¡¯t been to this town or tavern in a few months, his routine was the same here as it was in each of the several he could visit. Enter, survey, sit in the middle of the room, and sip on a single drink for as long as anyone mingled about the place. He focused his eyes and ears on various parties, hoping to glean some information. This clandestine endeavour was his attempt to gain knowledge about the world outside his small village. He hoped for news, or something he¡¯d be able to go on. The patrons on this day talked of the wonders, and with their voices lowered, something about a group called the cogs. They boasted of dragon hunting and violent tempests at sea, but today, like every tavern in every town for nearly five years, there was no news. No leads. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. I¡¯ll figure it out, eventually. I have to. The tavern¡¯s drinkers and diners eventually got up, paid for their fare, and made their way into the afternoon sun. With no one left to eavesdrop on, the traveller did the same. From the tavern, he headed straight to the message board at the edge of town and pored over every word in every notice, hoping for something to catch his eye. But like every time before, he was left dejected, with no more information than when he¡¯d entered town. Not learning anything on his first pass, he scanned again, looking for any decent lord-paying work. A few days of ploughing fields, picking vegetables, or clearing brush would do. He needed only enough lords to purchase a month¡¯s worth of paint and the few foodstuffs he wasn¡¯t able to secure through hunting or foraging. Certain he hadn¡¯t missed anything, he left the message board and rejoined Tolo in front of the bookbinder¡¯s shop. He climbed into the saddle and trotted up and across town to the southern gates. The town¡¯s Banner hung beneath the centre of the archway and gently flapped in the soft afternoon breeze. The green and black Banner was emblazoned with the elements of bear, snake, and mountains. The people who lived in the valley town of Munum had flown this Banner for millennia. With the Ancient Banner at his back, he headed south on the sloping road toward Inrunson. On a good day, it was no more than a few hours away, but the plodding traveller would again be sleeping under the stars before he made it to Inrunson¡¯s gates. After a short stint on the road, he left the hard-packed dirt and ventured off through the woods and highlands lining his route. Despite the vast rolling lands to the west, he made certain not to veer too far from his course. Years of traversing these parts made him acutely aware of what his limits were. His pace through the forest trails slowed even further as he observed the world around him. It was easier to search with dusk looming. The time between when the diurnal animals went to ground and before the creatures of the night started their watch. Every so often he heard a sound and brought his horse to a stop to investigate. Empty-handed, he and Tolo continued their methodical trot. Much of his progress was marked by frequent veering to the west and meticulously recording his results. After several hours, mostly southbound, he emerged from a thick brush and found a suitable place to make camp for the evening. He wasn¡¯t far from Inrunson, but night had fallen and he wasn¡¯t in a rush. The next day, much the same as the one before, he woke and rode into town. Inrunson didn¡¯t have a bookbinder, so he headed straight to the inn to break his fast and engage in harmless spycraft on unsuspecting customers. A few hours later, and long after he had finished his meal, he made his way to the message board filled with the same glimmer of hope he¡¯d had the day before. The scraps of paper and rusty nails didn¡¯t reveal anything on this day, either. On his second pass, he made note of someone in Onny looking for shore clammers. With his next job decided, he remounted his horse, heading for the edge of town. From Inrunson, it should take no more than a day to make Kinney, but like every trip, he stretched it into an overnight endeavour. No matter how much variety he tried to add to his trips, they were all some combination of Inrunson, Onlumum, Munum, Runman and Tunum. Beyond those towns, a painful pounding would beat inside his head. He tried several times to visit Munpun, and had even reached the city gates, but despite being steps away, he was unable to go any further. It was as if he had reached the end of a leash. A reminder he had ventured too far. *** Long after dusk, four days after he¡¯d left, he finally emerged from the woods south of Kinney and picked up the last leg of the road through town, to his house on the outskirts. He slumped in the saddle after the long trek and under the weight of yet another failed trip. He walked Tolo around back, where he had an apple and a handful of oats for her. It may have been another failed mission, but she had done her part well, loyally aiding in his futile reconnaissance. Tolo lowered her head, letting him remove the bridle, and whinnied in approval of his patting. Procurements underarm, he entered through the back and laid them on the table. It was pitch black in the house and he fumbled to find a candle. Even the faint moonlight couldn¡¯t find the interior of his house, as the windows were covered from edge to edge with old canvases. Under flickering candlelight, he carefully unpacked the items from the bookbinder. There were fresh canvases, neatly rolled and ready to be stretched. With the lid pried off his box, light danced on the twelve glass jars of paint carefully nested into wood shavings. Each hue was quite familiar to him. Tucked between the jars were three new horsehair brushes, his preferred tools of his trade. After carefully setting the jars of paint on the table, he laid the brushes beside in deliberate fashion. He prepared a canvas, set it in the easel, and stepped back to look over his set-up. I wonder what I¡¯ll paint this time... His attention turned to the walls of the house, once a happy and bustling place, now lonely and quiet. A variety of his paintings had once covered nearly every square foot of wall space. Now spectres of the past hanging on cold iron nails looking down. He fiddled with his ring. Kahriah used to joke that you could only see the walls if he had sold a piece. The walls were still covered in his paintings, but he hadn¡¯t sold any. It wasn¡¯t for lack of skill in the commerce of art; it was that he hadn¡¯t painted anything original in over five years. 3. The Masterpiece ¡°Get up already!¡± he heard from across the small house. The man opened his eyes and found his wife shaking his shoulder. A smile erupted across his face, remembering the accomplishment of the night before. He¡¯d gone to bed late and had fallen asleep in his clothes and shoes, both covered in the trademark paint drops of an artist in the prime of their brilliance. It wasn¡¯t just him; the entire house was a paint-stained studio. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and joined his wife and son in the kitchen. The boy¡¯s cheeks were full of eggs and bread as he gave a muffled, barely discernible, ¡°Morning, Father.¡± He gave the boy¡¯s hair a scrub, sat triumphantly at the table beside him, and broke off a large piece of bread. He did this a few more times, with little regard for breathing between bites. Satisfied with the fresh bread and himself, he leaned back in his chair. ¡°What has gotten into you?¡± his wife asked. ¡°You have far more energy than someone who only slept a few hours should.¡± ¡°Behold!¡± he pointed to the smallish canvas sitting on the easel near the hearth. The fruit of his late night¡¯s labour was dry and complete. He had hoped his son or wife would have noticed it, but his excitement was palpable and he couldn¡¯t wait any longer. The painting was a truly beautiful work. The kind that could hang in the Altar of Perfection with other masterpieces from across the realms. It was a painting of the sunny pond not far from their house, but on the horizon were ominous, dark clouds. Just looking at it transported the viewer to one of those few times in their life when they were in the middle of a thunderstorm and it was raining, but the sun was shining. It was both heartwarming and disturbing at the same time. Intentionally conflicting. There was no way to know if the storm was coming or going. A perplexing piece, forcing the viewer to examine their own outlook on the world. ¡°It¡¯s wonderful, Father. I love how you captured the contrast of light and dark,¡± his son said dryly. He was only eight, but Thesdon had overheard his dad talking shop with merchants in nearby towns. After the age of about five, he started taking his son on small trips with him. The boy was whip-smart and had a good sense of humour. ¡°There¡¯s not enough sunshine, though,¡± he said with squinted eyes as he examined the painting. ¡°But that¡¯s the whole point, my boy! The critics are getting tougher, Kahriah! A regular cleric of perfection here,¡± he boasted to his wife, winking at her. Kahriah was a tall woman, and stood nearly as tall as her husband. She had light-auburn hair tied in a thick braid with a strip of colourful canvas. She was impossibly good-hearted and sent a contented smile back at her husband. He and Kahriah had tried to have more children, but it wasn¡¯t to be. They were disappointed, but found themselves grateful for Thesdon and their life together. ¡°Until your masterpieces start fetching sums matching their beauty, there are still chores to do around here, Ser Paint. Go around back and fetch some wood. Grelda said it¡¯s going to start getting cold soon, and her bones don¡¯t lie,¡± his wife commanded him, but she did it with an endearing and appreciated affection. He made a sarcastic but loving face towards her and left the house before she had a chance to rebut. There was a scant pile of split logs behind the house that he began to stack on his arms. Grelda was outside, too, hanging linens to dry in the cool morning breeze. ¡°Morning, Grelda!¡± he yelled across the yard to the stout woman who¡¯d been his neighbour for more than a decade. ¡°You sure do a lot of laundry, I must say.¡± ¡°Oh, I know. Not sure what else to do, I suppose. Comes a time in everyone¡¯s life when the days are all the same. Though, I¡¯ve the cleanest sheets in the realm!¡± She found joy in the simple life and resumed her task and the banter simultaneously. ¡°Oh, I forgot to tell you; Marell is engaged to be wed to a boy from Tunum. He¡¯s a baron of the house Helm Stag Bare Hands. There will be a big ceremony just after the winter,¡± she boasted with pride and joy. Her husband had passed a few years ago after falling ill, and Marell was their only child. The house of Helm Stag Bare Hands was from Tunum, and they were good people. The painter was happy for Marell and for Grelda. ¡°Sounds like the gods are smiling on Kinney these days.¡± He paused and thought of Grelda alone in her house before offering, ¡°Come by for supper tonight?¡± ¡°Sounds lovely. Sure,¡± she responded. ¡°Great!¡± he said before moving back towards his house with a meagre pile of logs. ¡°I had better get some wood back inside before Kahriah sends the boy looking for me.¡± He walked with a bounce in his step and joyfully re-entered the house. Moments after walking through the door, his pile of wood crashed to the plank floor. His wife quickly looked over to see her husband¡¯s face had flushed red and wore an expression she hadn¡¯t seen before. Thesdon was sitting in front of the easel he¡¯d boasted of just minutes before. The boy had picked up a wide brush and was placing generous streaks of bright, golden-yellow paint opposite the dark, ominous clouds. He managed a few more strokes onto the freshly dried masterpiece before his father could get a sound out of his mouth. ¡°Demon¡¯s hearts! What the...!¡± the painter screamed, searching for words. ¡°Do you have any idea what you¡¯ve done?!¡± Startled and alarmed, Kahriah rushed over to see what her son was doing, confused by the unusual anger from her husband. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ¡°I...just...thought I could add some sun...like you¡¯ve been teaching me...¡± the boy blubbered between laboured breaths. His cheeks were already glistening from his tears. His father had never raised a hand before, but for the first time in his life, Thesdon flinched and raised his arms in defence. ¡°This was my masterpiece! Do you know how many a painter has in a lifetime? One! If you¡¯re lucky! There¡¯s a blank canvas right there! Why didn¡¯t you paint that?!¡± He kicked a bag out of the way and pointed to a fresh canvas tucked between two cabinets. The painter had a habit of stretching canvases and having them at the ready all over the house should inspiration strike. He paced as the veins in his temples pulsated. He saw the glass jar of yellow paint on the table and hurled it against the far wall. It shattered and left a giant splatter, as if someone had gored sunshine itself. His wife shrieked in fear, and Thesdon bolted across the room and out the front door. Kahriah ran to the door just in time to see her son disappear into the woods up the road from their house. She walked back inside, her surprise and fear replaced with an anger of her own. ¡°What is wrong with you!? He¡¯s eight years old,¡± she scolded. ¡°He just wanted to help. He was trying to show you he¡¯d been paying attention to the lessons you¡¯ve given him.¡± ¡°This was the best thing I¡¯ve ever--!¡± he started to yell in response, but his wife slapped him before he could finish. ¡°It¡¯s just a painting. Take a walk to clear your mind and then go find your son.¡± She turned her back to him and went back to preparing herbs. The father was still in shock, both from the fact that she¡¯d struck him, and the fact it had actually knocked some sense into him. He didn¡¯t know where the rage had come from, but it was unlike anything he had experienced before. Whatever he had become in that moment, he certainly didn¡¯t like it; the vile energy rushing through his veins had scared him. Finally collected, he stood and left to find his son. Grelda called out to him from her garden. ¡°Everything all right, Paint? I heard a bit of screaming...¡± ¡°Yes, sorry about that. Young boys...¡± he explained without breaking his stride. Figuring Thesdon might head to the pond from the painting, he pressed on and entered the woods. It wasn¡¯t far from their house, and he and the boy had spent many days there. In the summer, he would string a line for his son and have him fish while he painted alongside. It was a special place for them. A thing he wished he¡¯d remembered before reacting so intensely to the unwanted addition to his painting. The pond¡¯s surface was glasslike, and the birds perched around the shore had not been recently disturbed by anyone. No one had been there. He looked around and checked behind some of the twisted elms his son liked to climb and hide in. No sign of him. A slight tinge of fear entered his gut, faint as it was. The boy is only eight. He cannot have gone far. He probably just wandered down the trail a bit, thinking about how he might make it up to me. The painter started down the trail, calling his son¡¯s name. With each passing call, his panic increased. He increased his pace to a jog. When he was about a quarter-mile from the pond, he sprinted back and started the same procedure down the path on the other side of the pond. Sweat poured from his brow and chest. His head swung from side to side, trying to glimpse any visual clue. A footprint, a bread crust, a paintbrush...anything that might lead to the boy¡¯s location. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Thes!¡± he yelled. ¡°It¡¯s just a painting. I like it much better with the sunshine you painted!¡± he pleaded. ¡°Come on out. Let¡¯s go home and finish it together!¡± The invitations went unanswered. The faint unease in his gut turned into full-on terror when he saw it. On the trail ahead, almost on display, was a shoe. He raced toward it and picked it up. Thesdon¡¯s. It was marked with the same paint drops as his own, including fresh yellow ones. He instinctively circled the location for more clues. There¡¯s no blood, so it¡¯s probably not an animal. Did someone take him? Or maybe he fell somewhere... But there¡¯s nowhere to fall, no cliffs. Maybe he drowned? Where is he? His thoughts were as erratic as his breathing. I shouldn¡¯t have screamed at him. Doesn¡¯t matter now. Get help. ¡°More eyes. Need more eyes.¡± His thoughts became audible as he spoke himself into clarity. He bolted back to get Kahriah and anyone else within earshot of their house. He burst through the door and told his wife he hadn¡¯t found their son, but had found his shoe. She immediately joined him, her anger replaced with the same fear as her husband. More time passed with no sign of the boy. It wasn¡¯t long before word spread, and almost the entire town turned up to help. Most of them knew the boy, and everyone who did, quite liked him. He was polite and quick-witted, the kind of child grown men and women enjoyed talking to because he seemed intelligent beyond his age. The townsfolk formed a line and combed the forest in a formulaic way. At dusk, they lit torches and the intensity of the search increased. As the morning sun broke over the horizon, the townsfolk started to come and go in shifts. They were tired, but still moved with a sense of duty to help the couple find their son. This routine continued for another two nights and days. Weary townsfolk were relieved with fresh ones, but as the likelihood of success waned, so, too, did the number of searchers. The town had put everything they had into the search, but after six days, no one gave a boy of just eight years much chance of having survived. Grelda¡¯s bones had been right, and there had been a chilling frost the last three nights. The search went on, covering more ground than any eight-year-old boy could have covered on his own, but it ultimately produced nothing more than the single shoe. As days turned into weeks, the painter and his wife were the only ones left searching. The people of Kinney watched them enter the forest every morning with pity. Even more when they returned at dusk, haggard and exhausted. No one talked to them much because they didn¡¯t know what to say. It seemed out of place to talk about the mundane, and too recent to talk about the boy. Their only interaction with the couple was to leave food on their doorstep most afternoons. They did talk amongst themselves, though, coming up with all sorts of wild theories about the boy¡¯s disappearance. ¡°Demons appeared outta nowhere, grabbed him, and disappeared just as fast,¡± one said as an explanation for the lack of tracks and clues. ¡°No, it was a youngling dragon. Mistook him for a sheep and snapped him up in his talons. Boy was probably bent over tying his shoe,¡± another said. Other theories included bandits, a bear, a werewolf, dark sorcerers, and spectres. There were all manner of suspicions, but none of them provided any useful insights into where the boy might be. Eventually, the snows came and quieted the land and the theories alike. The footprints of the sullen couple were the only signs of hope remaining in Kinney. 4. Spring On the morning of the first fairypetal bloom, an illness overcame Kahriah. ¡°I can¡¯t go today... I--¡± she said, lying in their bed. ¡°It¡¯s all right. I¡¯ll go,¡± the painter interrupted. He left the house as he had for the past several hundred days and ventured out to find his son. Just like every day before, he returned home at dusk with nothing to show for it. Kahriah was sitting at their small table when he walked through the door that night, looking gaunt but not ill. She sat facing the front door, as if waiting for her husband to return. He explained he hadn¡¯t found anything and sat down with her. ¡°I¡¯m leaving,¡± she said after a haunting silence. The painter¡¯s eyes drifted, and he noticed a bag packed with a few belongings. It stood out in the otherwise barren room. For the better part of a year, they had sold whatever they had to buy sustenance so they could continue the search. Every painting that had hung on the walls was now gone, sold to anyone who¡¯d take them for whatever price they would pay. Just empty nails and a giant splatter of sunshine remained. ¡°He¡¯s gone,¡± she said. ¡°Call it a mother¡¯s intuition...but I¡¯ve known for some time.¡± Her voice faltered as she spoke. ¡°I can¡¯t stay here. With you, or in town. Around Kinney, I¡¯m just the poor mother who lost her boy. And every time I look at you, I see him. I can¡¯t do it anymore.¡± She leaned across the table and put her hand on his cheek. Pity, blame, sadness, warmth, and resentment all resided in a single look. Kahriah had always said how much the painter and his son looked alike. This was the first time either had touched the other since she¡¯d slapped that same cheek back in late autumn. The husband wanted to protest but didn¡¯t say anything. He couldn¡¯t. He respected her greatly, and knew she was probably right. Suffering the rest of her days, living with the reason for their son¡¯s disappearance, was not something he wished for her. He slumped into his chair and cupped his head in his hands. Kahriah wiped a single tear from her face and left. She was only a short distance down the road when she heard a cry of agony from behind her. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. He frantically looked around the house before finding a blank canvas tucked between two cabinets. He yanked it from its nook and slapped it onto his easel. In the next cabinet were his paints and brushes. They hadn¡¯t been touched since his masterpiece. Half-finished premium paints weren¡¯t worth much in a small village like Kinney, or he¡¯d have sold those, too. He thrust the paint on the table and angrily poured his palette. A painting was started for the first time in over half a year, though it didn¡¯t seem like he himself was painting. It was his arm holding the brush, but something else was guiding it. It was similar to the trance he¡¯d felt when he¡¯d painted his masterpiece, but this time, it was a different sensation. Darker. In a couple of hours, his work was complete and he sat back down in the chair. The brush fell out of his hand onto the floor while he stared in disbelief. There on the smallish canvas was the pristine pond glimmering opposite the ominous clouds, either creeping in or retreating. It wasn¡¯t just similar; it was identical. Every stroke in the same place, the contrast of light and dark captured expertly, just like it was before. How can that be? It was a masterpiece... You don¡¯t get two, let alone do the same one twice... It wasn¡¯t a masterpiece, you fraud. It was no better than some huckster at a market. An anger, similar to the one that had sent Thesdon running, filled the man. The hearth fire roared when the broken canvas was cast into it. Then it was gone. The house was uncomfortably silent when he awoke the next day. After a few seconds of rummaging, he found another blank canvas stuffed under his bed and prepared his palette like the night before. He wasn¡¯t in control, and after a few hours, he sat gobsmacked in front of another copy of the original. His masterpiece, the culmination of his years of toil, experimentation, and honing his technique, had just been recreated two days in a row. It tore him up inside to look at the piece. He felt shame for being so proud of something that wasn¡¯t miraculous. Guilt for taking Kahriah¡¯s life away from her, through no fault of her own. Deep, burning regret for Thesdon. 5. Umlom The painter made one last, long brush stroke on the canvas to smooth the pond¡¯s reflection of the tumultuous sky above, though he found no joy in its completion. For nearly five years, creating this familiar picture had become a torturous routine. Looking at it no longer elicited any of the conflicting emotions from when he¡¯d first painted it. He knew what direction the clouds were going. He could more or less paint it with his eyes closed. Despite the bathetic completion of the work, the painter still moved with care as he lifted it. His walls were now crowded with replicas of the pond, the clouds, and the previously uncertain storm. The only abstention was his signature. Otherwise, each was a near perfect facsimile of the one before it. Each ready to receive the sun Thesdon had so innocently added to the original. ¡°Another masterpiece,¡± he said to himself as a matter of fact. He had indeed run out of room on the walls and leaned the canvas up against a cabinet. The only piece of wall not covered by a replica was the giant splatter of golden-yellow paint. The canvas-covered walls had come to feel like a prison cell, and the yellow paint was evidence of his transgression. With the day¡¯s masterpiece dried and his brushes and paints ready for the next painting, he set about his puttering for the day. His wife¡¯s words still rang in his ears. He¡¯s gone... He knew she was probably right, but he was unable to move on. The odds his son was alive somewhere were unlikely, but he¡¯d spend the rest of the day poring over different routes in his notebook. The painter had long since stopped his daily treks into the woods near his house; every square inch of forest had been covered many times over. His search radius had expanded further across Umlom, where he¡¯d first discovered the phenomenon of his perplexing headaches. Uncertain of their cause, he attempted different routes, trying to find one where he didn¡¯t feel like he was being pushed back or pulled home. He wasn¡¯t sure which it was, a push or a pull, only that he hadn¡¯t found a way to extend the search for his son into other realms. Even parts of Umlom were unavailable to him. Despite the helpless trials, the man still held out hope. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. It was shortly after Kahriah left that he first discovered his tether. He¡¯d heard a mage was in Susnakuni in the neighbouring realm of TidTid. It was a rare occurrence and an opportunity to discuss his masterpiece condition with someone who might understand. Mages didn¡¯t take appointments, but the painter would think of a way to be seen on the road. He readied Tolo and pushed her as fast as he could, for once, putting her to the test. She held strong for several hours, but it was her rider who ultimately failed. West of Inrunson, about an hour outside of town, his head was consumed by throbbing pain as if someone was scraping the inside of his skull. He pulled the reins, doing everything he could to stay on his horse. Tolo responded quickly to the command and pivoted before trotting back in the direction from which they had come. With each retraced step by Tolo, the pain subsided in the painter. Bewildered, he turned Tolo around again and started back toward Susnakuni. Within strides of where it had started before, the agony resumed. On his next attempt, he lashed himself to Tolo, took her back about fifty yards from the boundary of pain, and brought her to a hard gallop. He lowered his head to her neck, closed his eyes, and braced. He awoke sometime later, still strapped to Tolo, who was dutifully transporting him back towards Kinney. After that, he repeated the experiment in every direction with the same results. On several occasions he¡¯d even hired skiffs, but the sea offered no exit from his confines either. Neither the terrain, time of day, mode of transport, nor the weather made any difference. For over four years, the painter¡¯s systematic experiments yielded nothing except the circular shape of his prison. Despite the wide variety of routes, he always stopped in the same five towns and returned home with the same painting materials. He tried to fight the urge to paint, but he couldn¡¯t help himself. It was either an act of self-atonement or a feeble call to his son to finish it. It typically took him about a month to use up his supplies, which served as his calendar, marking the time for travel. The closer he got to travelling, the further he pushed the words of his wife from his mind. They interfered with his futile optimism and pragmatic cartography. In the moments leading up to a trip, he believed he might learn something. A note. A conversation. An odd look from a stranger. An opening in his boundary. A change in the nature of the headaches. Anything. 6. The Letter On the final leg of another journey, with the evening light fading, the painter made his way down the hard, packed road that would take him home. As he approached, he saw his neighbour in the front yard tending to her vegetables. Odd time of day to be gardening... Normally he would go out of his way to avoid an interaction such as this, but she lived next door and he couldn¡¯t go undetected if Grelda was outside. He readied himself for conversation. ¡°Hiya, Paint,¡± she said gleefully. The painter should have been used to it, but he felt his eye twitch and his lip snarl. ¡°Good evening, Grelda,¡± he replied politely after allowing for a reset of his facial expression. Like most of his life of late, everything seemed to have happened before. Grelda ignored the awkward greeting and revealed the reason for her late-night adventures in horticulture. ¡°There was quite the rider waiting on you earlier today. He banged on your door, but I told him you were out, likely not back till past dark,¡± Grelda said, giddy with excitement and curiosity. She doesn¡¯t miss anything, does she? The painter was once again perturbed both by how predictable his trips were, and how precise Grelda was in her estimation of them. ¡°He was quite the specimen. Tall as oak. And his horse!¡± she exclaimed, looking skyward. ¡°A beautifully pale creature. White as milk. The man and his horse were both outfitted like nothing I¡¯ve ever seen. All his rigging was gold. His armour was brilliant shining silver. He wore a deep hood, though. Couldn¡¯t get a look at his face. Not sure why you¡¯d ride around in that sort of regalia and hide your face.¡± She laughed and then took a much-needed breath, hoping the intermission would compel the painter to fill it with details. She was left wanting though, as the painter got lost in his own thoughts. Grelda went on describing the brilliant white rider, though the painter paid her little attention as he unpacked from his trip. He turned to walk around back to stable Tolo for the night. Having been her neighbour for fifteen years, he knew Grelda wasn¡¯t about to stop. He patted Tolo on her neck as they started walking. ¡°Probably a mistake,¡± was his only offering. ¡°Well, goodnight, Grelda. I¡¯ll be turning in for the night.¡± There¡¯s no reason for anyone of import to call on me. Just as he was about to slip from Grelda¡¯s view, she continued. ¡°Not so fast,¡± Grelda scolded him pleasantly, shuffling towards him. ¡°The rider left this for you.¡± Grelda handed the painter an envelope. The seal was vibrant purple and the symbol was like nothing he had seen before. He scratched his head and again said goodnight to Grelda, who lingered, expecting more. He turned and walked Tolo around back. If he¡¯d been paying attention, he might have heard Grelda huff and grumble before shuffling back to her house. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. He sat down at his table and inspected the letter before opening it. The material was soft white, and even as a purveyor of the visual arts, he couldn¡¯t make out what it might be. He carefully sliced open the envelope and found a note with just one line of text. Check the spot where you keep your last original piece. The blood drained from his face. How could they know about that? And where I keep it? He stood slowly and moved towards the far side of the room. The now solitary man who¡¯d spent the last five years by himself, suddenly didn¡¯t feel he was alone. He moved a bag to one side, pushed a wooden chair to the other, and removed a loose floorboard near the corner of the house. Reaching inside, he pulled out a rolled canvas. Emotion poured over him before he could unfurl it. He held one end with his left hand and slowly worked the roll upward with his right. As he went, the familiar painting of the pond with the gloomy sky began to appear. However, on this one, there were large swaths of yellow paint, more vibrant on the picture he held than on the wall, though they were of the same jar. This painting had been safely stashed away from the ravages of time for nearly five years. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time he¡¯d looked at it. It was ugly and beautiful and comforting and agonising all at the same time. It had stayed on the easel until long after his wife had left. When he¡¯d finally taken it down, he¡¯d carefully removed it from the frame, rolled it, and stashed it safely under the floorboards. Though he never looked at it, the painting was his most treasured possession. Still lost in his emotions, he remembered why he was looking in this spot: the letter with the unfamiliar seal. He stuck his hand in further and fished around. The first thing his fingers met was a plush-velvet purse full of lords. With the drawstring loosened, he peered inside. There was a kingly sum and many times more than he would earn in a lifetime of message board labours. All of a sudden, he felt quite strange, having such a fortune. With his shoulder nearly level with the surface of the floor, he found another letter, this one with the same strange, purple seal. Sitting at the table, he opened the envelope and found another note inside. Greetings, This letter serves as notice that you have been officially commissioned. The sum you find yourself with represents one third of the total remuneration. The final two thirds will be paid upon your completion. We will send a ranger for you tomorrow. Be packed for a long excursion and be ready to depart just after dawn. There¡¯s little time to waste. The letter wasn¡¯t signed, and other than the purple seal, there was nothing to reveal its sender. ¡°A commission?¡± he said to himself. ¡°Who in their right mind would hire me? To paint ponds?¡± He went back over every word. You have been officially commissioned. We will send a ranger for you tomorrow. The more he thought about it, the less he felt like he had a choice in the matter. The combination of the wording and the fact they seemed to know very private details of his life made this seem more an order than a request. The word ¡®we¡¯ had him perplexed. We will send a ranger for you tomorrow. He looked around the house at the countless copies of the same painting. Each was a memory of his very last moment of lived happiness, the exact moment when the dark clouds revealed their direction and came straight towards him. If they know about the painting, they know I¡¯m not well. They know everything, and they still want to hire me. Who are these people? Who is ¡®we¡¯? He tried to come to a sensible conclusion. Pacing the room, his thoughts moved from the clandestine nature of the job to where it may take him. They¡¯re sending a ranger... His first feelings of reluctance and confusion subsided, and he was filled with an unsettled feeling. The term ¡°ranger¡± came with many implications, but leaving his boundary was the first that came to mind. Everything was a complete mystery, but it offered him a new approach to break his confinement. He resolved to go. Already packed from the trip he had just returned from, he grabbed the satchel his wife hadn¡¯t taken and tossed in what few items and food remained in his possession. He thought back to the day his wife left and her heartbreaking stoicism. With thoughts of his former family, he carefully rolled his son¡¯s painting and reverently placed it in the bag. The idea other people knew about the floorboards made him uneasy, and if he was to be gone on a long excursion, he wasn¡¯t about to leave it behind. He surveyed the house once more. The chair in the corner, the kitchen table, and hundreds of masterpieces were all that remained. He thought about hiding his work, but there was nowhere to put them. It had been a long day, an intense evening, and his body called for rest. Despite the mystery the next day held, he lay down and drifted to sleep. 7. The Departure ¡°Good morning,¡± he said with more nervousness than excitement. He¡¯d heard the wagon wheels coming down the road and had made his way through his front door. With a bag in each hand, he was carrying what amounted to nearly everything he owned. It didn¡¯t matter if it was a request or a threat; he was aching with the prospect of leaving. The two-horse wagon was driven by a single man, though the ranger was not dressed nearly as well as the messenger Grelda had described the day before. His clothes were almost entirely black; they were quality garments, but clearly made for utility as opposed to pageantry. He didn¡¯t appear to be overly tall, and seemed to the painter to be of average build. The ranger didn¡¯t reply from under his dark hood. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± the painter asked. In place of an answer, the ranger nodded, motioning for the painter to climb up to the seat. The wagon was fairly simple, but the horses were quite magnificent. They were as black as obsidian, with white accenting their eyes and feet. Each one stood a full head taller than Tolo, and would certainly outrun her. The painter tucked his few belongings--careful with the bag containing the masterpiece--into the bed of the wagon and obliged the ranger¡¯s gesture. There was little hesitation from the painter, but he motioned to the ranger he needed a minute. He darted behind his house, untied Tolo, and led her across the yard to Grelda¡¯s. Unsure when he might see her again, he gave her a loving pet on the nose and gently scratched her ears. With Tolo secure, he walked between the houses to the waiting ranger. Unsurprisingly, Grelda was in her doorway, taking in the second strange visitor in as many days. ¡°Grelda, I¡¯ll be gone for a few days. Can you see to Tolo?¡± he asked as he was making his way to the wagon. In that moment, he wished he¡¯d remembered the dragonleaf, but knew he could count on Grelda to take care of his equine companion. He didn¡¯t linger long enough to give Grelda much say in the matter, and quickly climbed up onto the wagon. The ranger gave a tug of the reins and they were off. This is going to drive her mad, the painter thought to himself in one of the few moments of levity he¡¯d experienced in years. I¡¯ll regale her with stories of my trip when I return, he promised in a moment of fondness for Grelda. After an hour on the road, the silence started to gnaw at him. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. ¡°So, where are we going?¡± he asked the ranger, who again offered no response. ¡°Look, I don¡¯t know if you¡¯re aware, but I¡¯m troubled. I can¡¯t paint and I can¡¯t go very far,¡± he confessed. ¡°They seem to have gone to a lot of effort to come to me...¡± He stopped mid-sentence and swallowed hard. They seem to have gone to a lot of effort to come to me... he repeated in his mind. Then it came together in a flash of clarity. They want me precisely because I am troubled. They want a painter with nothing to lose... His mind raced now. Do they want me to creep into a werewolf den to paint them in their natural habitat? Or maybe the spectres of the Omen Graves in Goshshkug? Or have sorcerers sit for portraits in the Temple of Dread? But they must know I can¡¯t leave¡­ The painter didn¡¯t say anything for quite some time after that realisation. He quietly stared at the road ahead, trying to puzzle together the mysterious task before him. It was nearly sunfall, and he had spent most of the day quietly thinking. He was off in his own thoughts when the ranger took the wagon off the road and brought it to a stop. Though he had lost track of time, the painter thought they must be about halfway to Tunum. Damn it. I should have been paying more attention¡­ While the painter was working out their location, the ranger reached under the cover in the back of the wagon, pulled out an impressive bow, and slung a quiver over his head. The bow was black as night and gave off no shine whatsoever. He walked softly into the field of tall grass lining the road to the east. The field of light golden grass was moving ever so slightly in the late afternoon breeze. Without taking his attention off the field in front of him, the ranger pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and pulled the string back. The singular fluid motion was a sight to behold. His bow panned slowly to the right, and the ranger let loose the arrow. A soft squeak came from out in the grass, but it wasn¡¯t clear what the ranger had bagged. Just moments after the sound, the ranger had nocked, pulled, and let loose a second arrow, which was met with another squeak. Then the ranger lowered his bow, slung it over his head, and marched out into the grass. At roughly a hundred yards, he bent over and picked up his two trophies. As he walked back, the painter could make out two fully grown false hares. They roosted in fields and were nearly impossible to see during the day, let alone at a hundred yards. Those shots were not made by an amateur. The ranger motioned to the painter to make a camp while he went to clean their game for supper. An hour later, they were eating roasted false hare and sitting silently, the fire and the odd bone being spit out the only sounds. The way the ranger ate was unsettling; he didn¡¯t seem to consider his food or enjoy it. After finishing their meal, the ranger stared into the waning flame for quite some time. Eventually he lay down, his back to the painter, and slept. 8. The Book Binder The next morning, the two men fell into a routine. The ranger spoke through gestures and nods. The painter obeyed, and would, on occasion, ask a question that would go unanswered. He hoped the ranger might slip up and speak, but it wasn¡¯t to be. They climbed into the wagon and were off. For the next several hours, the painter tried just once to engage his companion in discussion, but to no avail, so he sat quietly, trying not to think of his aching backside. His mind tried to chart their course while his body shifted from side to side, but neither endeavour was successful. At some point in the late morning, the ranger once again pulled the wagon off the road. He reached deep into his robe and produced a small lord purse, then pushed it into the painter¡¯s chest. He then motioned with a nod toward a tree some twenty yards off the road. Even if he doesn¡¯t talk, he sure gets his point across. He took the purse and hopped down off the wagon, much to the relief of his backside. Heading toward the tree, he tried to imagine what he was about to procure. Maybe ten minutes later, he heard the sounds of a rider approaching. The painter squinted to get a better look, and as they approached, the painter¡¯s fears abated. The rider was forty-ish, wearing spectacles, and was dressed well enough not to be a labourer, but certainly wasn¡¯t highborn either. She was rather nondescript, but entirely familiar. To the painter, she looked as unremarkable as one could be, and more importantly, not a threat. The rider pulled her horse to a stop, dismounted, and led the stallion by the reins towards the painter. She¡¯s a bookbinder, the painter realised. The short woman extended an arm up to pat her horse on the neck as she walked. ¡°Sorry for insisting we meet out here. My instructions were pretty clear,¡¯¡¯ she said to the painter as she brushed herself off and reached up to unlash a saddlebag. ¡°If anyone in town had seen this book...¡± She didn¡¯t finish the thought. It seemed she thought the painter could assume the rest. ¡°What kind of book is it?¡± the painter asked. ¡°The kind you don¡¯t show to anyone, hence why we needed to meet out here,¡± she continued hurriedly. ¡°I can¡¯t stay. I¡¯ve got to get back.¡± The painter offered her the lord purse and the bookbinder handed the painter a large tome, wrapped and bound. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Of course it¡¯s wrapped. Its weight surprised the painter, and his inattention nearly caused him to drop it. ¡°Listen, stop by my brother¡¯s shop in Kidkam,¡± the bookbinder said. ¡°It¡¯s about a two-hour ride from here. Three in a wagon. You¡¯ll know you¡¯ve come to it when you see the large, purple-leafed tree at the fork. You can¡¯t miss it. Just keep this book hidden from prying eyes.¡± He thought back and remembered the large, violet juniper from when he was a boy travelling across the realm of Zhuasschazh with his father. It grew sideways and had stretched out almost fifty-feet then. Forty years later, he could only imagine how impressive it must be. Kidkam was the second northernmost town in the realm neighbouring Umlom to the southeast. The painter was stunned, realising he hadn¡¯t left Umlom in almost four decades. He thought longingly of his previous life in Kinney with Kahriah and Thesdon. There was little need to leave, and it was only after his son had disappeared that he had actually tried to. His thoughts were cut short by the bookbinder. ¡°Finally, Illuminator,¡± the woman started with a final instruction. Illuminator? That¡¯s a new one, the painter thought, but offered no reaction to the strange moniker. ¡°You can visit any bookbinder across the realms and they¡¯ll resupply you, no questions. They¡¯re expecting you. We¡¯re not a formidable bunch, but we do pledge to the idea of recorded knowledge. You¡¯ll not find us in every town, but where you do, you¡¯ll be well taken care of. Now I really must be on my way. I¡¯ve a very long journey of my own. Good luck.¡± She leapt onto her horse, turned, and broke into a gallop down the road in the direction the wagon had just come from. It seems she knows more than me. Why didn¡¯t I ask her more questions? The painter scolded himself and put the heavy parcel under his arm, turning back toward the wagon. ¡°Can I open it?¡± the painter asked. Knowing he wasn¡¯t going to get an audible response, he looked to find the ranger giving him a definitive ¡°no¡± with the subtle sway of his head. Unsurprised, the painter stowed the book in the back with his other belongings and among the assortment of crates. Unmarked crates, the bow of a realm-class archer, and now a tome of complete mystery. What other secrets does this man have in the bed of his wagon? He was inclined to ask, but he knew the response already. They¡¯ll tell me what is going on when they¡¯re ready, I suppose. The ranger and the painter rode in complete silence for the remainder of the day until the ranger pulled the horses to the side of the road and began to unhitch them. The painter did some arithmetic based on what the bookbinder had said. Three hours to Kidkam on a wagon... We must be less than an hour now, but we¡¯re stopping here... This is very near the end of my tether... ¡°Making camp for the night?¡± the painter asked, but he already knew the answer. In an effort to be helpful, the painter gathered some sticks from nearby and arranged them to make a fire. In complete silence, the two men set up a rudimentary camp and ate, this time packed provisions instead of wild game. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve even seen this man¡¯s eyes yet... Possible explanations for this strange adventure played out in his mind, but none seemed entirely plausible. He drifted to sleep in spite of his racing mind. 9. The Parting The next morning, he was awoken with a stern kick to the ribs. Peering over him was the ranger. The morning sun was right behind his head, blinding the painter and spoiling the best chance he had to look the man in the face. He coughed gently, stood up, and stretched. The ranger had already hitched the horses back to the wagon and was climbing to the seat. He nodded in a ¡°come here¡± motion, but the painter waved a single finger and went to relieve himself behind a tree. As if trying to postpone his imminent encounter with the painful boundary, he took his time. The meaningless delay stalled nothing, and he was soon seated in the wagon as well. They were off, the ranger knowing exactly where and what they were doing, the painter not having the slightest idea of either. He had tried to go to Kidkam about three years ago, and again about a year ago, but had been incapacitated both times. No matter how slowly the wagon travelled, he knew he was close. They rolled along slowly for another forty-five minutes and the painter began to sweat. Not from any actual pain, but from the expectation of it. Grimacing in anticipation, the painter clutched the edge of his seat, awaiting the blaze of agony. Another fifteen minutes passed with the painter feeling like the wagon seat might splinter in his grasp. His brow glistened and his jaw ached from clenching. Eventually, they crossed a small bridge spanning a stony-bottomed creek. The bridge was unfamiliar. Have I crossed? Surely it couldn¡¯t be this easy. He turned his head, looking anxiously back down the road. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.For five years he¡¯d been rendered immobile by piercing headaches if he tried to stray too far from his home, and today, with the ranger, he was able to casually ride through his invisible prison walls with no issue. I¡¯m finally free... For the first time since his son had bolted out the front door, the painter felt optimistic. His mind raced with nervous excitement about the world outside Umlom. Of the places he¡¯d read about, he wondered where the ranger might take him. The Doppelganger houses could be found across the continents and were notoriously reluctant to welcome outsiders. Maybe they¡¯d travel to the mysterious wandering towns that flew the Celestial Banners and didn¡¯t show up on any map. Perhaps they¡¯d visit the swamplands of the poison houses. Just as the bookbinder had estimated, they quickly came upon the violet juniper the painter remembered from his childhood. It towered sideways, its stunning purple leaves creating a shadow over the fork in the road. ¡°Hey, there¡¯s the tree. Let¡¯s go into town and say hi to the bookbinder¡¯s brother,¡± the painter suggested. The ranger seemed to ignore the request, but turned in the direction of town. Ha! Maybe I¡¯m finally getting through to him! Just as they were about to pass through the stone archway that framed the road into Kidkam, the ranger pulled over alongside the town¡¯s walls. ¡°What are we doing?¡± the artist asked with a tone of irritation. The ranger paid no mind to the painter and began to unhitch a horse. He rearranged the shaft assembly, centering the remaining horse. The other he took to a post near the archway, wrapping the reins around it. The painter followed the ranger and sensed this was to be their parting. 10. The Illuminator ¡°What about the commission? You haven¡¯t said a word to me!¡± he argued, beginning to feel uneasy and getting louder. ¡°What am I supposed to paint!?¡± The ranger took two saddlebags from the back of the wagon, threw them on the ground, and pulled a dagger from beneath his robe. It was ornate, and clearly well maintained. Divine¡¯s sake, I didn¡¯t notice that before. The ranger took the blade and slid it under the lid of one of the wooden boxes in the back of the wagon, prying it off. The painter was relieved to know the dagger¡¯s intended use. With an open hand, the ranger gestured toward the boxes. The painter approached. Inside were glass jars of the silkiest, most vibrant hues of oil paint he¡¯d ever seen. He grabbed one, holding it up to the sun to admire its opacity. His delight quickly turned to confusion, but he stuffed the saddlebags with supplies, anyway. The ranger opened another crate containing a palette and the finest horsehair brushes the painter had ever seen, birch handled and clamped with silver. If the gods painted, they¡¯d use one of these. While the painter grabbed as many as he could and stuffed the bags, the ranger tossed the painter¡¯s sparse luggage on the ground. The painter¡¯s heart skipped a beat as he watched the satchel with his original masterpiece hit the dirt. He shot the ranger a look, and any fear he¡¯d had of this mysterious ranger evaporated for a second. His face began to flush and his eye twitched, but a look at the dagger kept his canines at heel. He turned his attention back to the painting supplies and set them aside with more care than the ranger had shown. The ranger, successfully unloaded, adjusted his robe to the side and twirled his brilliant dagger back into its sheath. Remarkable proficiency with at least two weapons had now been displayed. ¡°What am I to paint?!¡± the painter asked, his arms open in exasperation. The ranger tossed the heavy book and it thudded against the painter¡¯s chest. He did well to catch it, and himself, before either fell. He laid it carefully beside the saddlebags while the ranger climbed aboard the now single horse wagon, and began to trot away. Still confused, the painter jogged to catch the wagon and grabbed the shoulder of the ranger. The ranger¡¯s head swung around and his hood pulled back just enough to reveal his face for the first time since they¡¯d met. His skin was a greyish tone and his eyes were pure black. No whites or pupils, just solid dark from lash to lash. The painter stumbled back. Either by chance or by intent, the sun caught the hilt of the ranger¡¯s dagger and the painter took it as a sign to stand down. With hands raised in surrender, he started backward slowly. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. The ranger reset his hood and pointed to the top of the stone archway. It was no engineering marvel; it was a run-of-the-mill town arch with a Banner hanging from it. In fact, the arch looked like it might fall down if something bumped into it. Other than its mediocre construction, this one was like nearly every entrance to every town the painter had been to, as small a sample as it was. The ranger turned his head back to the road and flicked the reins. The painter turned back to the archway and collected his saddlebags and the book. With his back leaning against the wall, he took the tome into his lap while the ranger disappeared around a bend. The painter cut the binding and peeled back the wrapping. Inside was an impressive tome, easily a thousand pages of precisely cut parchment. It was bound by a leather he had never seen before, and had ornate inlays of gold, silver, and titanium. There were even a few metals he couldn¡¯t identify. Still unclear about his task, he furrowed his brow and opened the cover. The Banners of the Realms He read on. A visual guide to all twenty-five thousand houses, towns, and families, great and small. At the bottom of the page, Illuminated by Lohmen Dreisler He hadn¡¯t seen his name written in years, as he no longer bothered to sign his masterpieces. He flipped to the next page and found it nearly blank except for evenly spaced numbers. At the top left of the first page was the number 00001. He took a deep breath, looked up at the stone archway, and had a chuckle to himself. You¡¯re not painting the archway, you dolt. You¡¯re painting the Banner. He flipped to the last page. 25000. You¡¯re to paint all of them. Clarity and recollection overcame the painter. The handsome sum in his floorboards and the promise of two-thirds more wasn¡¯t his biggest commission. It was several years¡¯ salary. The book sat blank in his lap for some time. He hadn¡¯t painted anything new in over five years and wasn¡¯t sure if he could, let alone travel entire continents by himself. But up until this morning, he hadn¡¯t been able to travel this far, either. Whatever had been troubling him, whatever had tethered him, must have been released. He was finally free. His thoughts turned to his son. I¡¯ll be able to search everywhere... He still hadn¡¯t decided whether his commissioners were benevolent in granting him the means to search for his son, or vultures preying on his situation. He was certain they knew of his loss, but it didn¡¯t matter to the painter-turned-illuminator, for he had renewed hope. He found a suitable rock in view of the Banner and grabbed the saddlebags filled with paint. He picked out the required colours and poured small drabs onto his palette. Then he dipped a fine brush and began to paint the Banner of Nymph Skull Crown. House 00001, a single-point Banner with a field of bright gold. 11. The Apprentice Lohmen waved a hand at the Nymph, Skull and Crown and admired the tome¡¯s first entry. It was unlike his previous works, but being able to paint something different was a relief. Most importantly, it felt like a step closer to Thesdon. The task was immense, and he knew it, but that didn¡¯t matter. It was a chance to search, and he¡¯d paint the Banners thrice if it meant finding his boy. Lohmen pushed the enigmatic scope of the task from his mind, letting hope and opportunity wash over him. One final brush stroke to her long, flowing hair was all it needed. Profiled and looking dexter, the mythical nymph reigned impassively over the skull and crown below her. When the paint was dry, he closed the book of Banners and set about reorganising his luggage. He stuffed as much as possible into the saddle bags to make room in his large rucksack for the weighty tome. Next, he tucked his smaller soft leather bag, the one with Thesdon¡¯s masterpiece, into the larger bag. Finally, the pragmatic traveller scribbled a note into his cartography book, now a log of progress. After lashing his saddlebags to the horse and throwing his pack over his shoulder, he led his new mount through the gates into town. Meandering along the wide streets of Kidkam, a jaunty Lohmen saw the village with fresh eyes. A wide-eyed man with a big pack would appear to anyone as an intrepid traveller but little did they know he was only a couple days¡¯ ride from home. Though each building, person and smell were familiar, they were delightfully foreign to him. Kidkam was a bustling town nestled at the end of an inlet, like Onlomum, but too remote and shallow to be a port. The briny water did have its benefits; Genesis Adventurers first discovered the region and found rich pockets of pearl containing mollusks in the Grasp Fjord. The iridescent treasures would have attracted more speculators were it not for the Kraken paralarvae. Eventually, the bookbinder¡¯s shop revealed itself, and Lohmen tied his horse outside. A small man looked up from his work and greeted Lohmen as he entered. A younger man of similar stature huddled over his work and paid no attention. ¡°Hello¡­¡± Lohmen started with an unsure, almost nervous tone to his voice. ¡°Your sister recommended I come by your shop.¡± The bookbinder removed his glasses and squinted at Lohmen, who plopped his hefty pack on the counter. ¡°You¡¯re the illuminator!¡± Lohmen looked around the empty shop and raised an eyebrow at the man. ¡°Yes, I suppose I am.¡± ¡°What¡¯s that sister of mine up to these days? Let me guess. Secrets, cloaks and daggers? Ha!¡± A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°I didn¡¯t see the dagger, but yes, actually¡­.¡± Lohmen started. ¡°Don¡¯t pay her any mind. True, you need to keep the tome away from prying eyes, but you¡¯re fine to speak freely among us bookbinders.¡± Lohmen fiddled awkwardly with his ring. ¡°Say, do you remember hearing about a boy from Umlom that went missing?¡± Off to the side, the apprentice stopped working, and there was a silence before the Master Bookbinder spoke. ¡°I did, yes, must have been what¡­ four years ago?¡± ¡°It¡¯s been five. Yes.¡± Lohmen pressed. ¡°Do you remember anything?¡± The bookbinder furrowed his brow and frowned. ¡°No. I remember hearing of it, but¡­awful thing that. To lose a child.¡± He cupped his chin with his hand. ¡°Alright. Well, thank you, if you think of something or hear anything, please let me know.¡± Lohmen turned slightly but paused. ¡°Your sister, Tomeeera, was it? Where was she going?¡± ¡°Only the Divine know. She¡¯s always off on some mission or another. She¡¯s an emissary of the bookbinders, helps organise things for fancy and powerful folk. I suppose delivering books might be dull if not for her imagination.¡± He laughed. ¡°Do you need anything else?¡± Tomeera¡¯s promise rattled in Lohmen¡¯s mind. ¡°How about some of those birch brushes and a jar of golden yellow.¡± Lohmen took out his lord purse and palmed a few coins. ¡°Ohh! I almost forgot!¡± The bookbinder said excitedly while grabbing a stool. ¡°By the foxes¡­ you¡¯re to have all you need free of lords, and you¡¯ve no way to identify yourself?¡± He chuckled as he climbed the stool and retrieved an item from behind a stack of books. ¡°Tomeera, too busy for her own good.¡± He descended and presented the wrapped object. He pulled the burlap fabric away, revealing a cold, iron pin shaped like a palette. ¡°Pin this on the shoulder of your hood, painter, and you¡¯ll be looked after by any bookbinder you meet.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± Lohmen said, admiring the detail of the miniature version of the tool he¡¯d used earlier that day. ¡°But I¡¯m not a painter¡­.¡± ¡°Well, your clothes betray you, my friend.¡± The apprentice turned to face Lohmen and placed six brushes on the counter. His boss placed the jar of golden yellow paint beside them while the apprentice gestured at Lohmen¡¯s trousers. It was faint, but Lohmen recalled the first time they had this exchange. ¡°Yes¡­I guess they do. Don¡¯t you work in Munum?¡± ¡°I do, but I¡¯m an apprentice. My family runs all the binder shops in this corner of the Realms. This is my uncle¡¯s, and it¡¯s my father¡¯s in Munum. I split time between all of them to learn the craft. It¡¯ll be years before I shed that title, and decades before I¡¯m a master bookbinder with a shop of my own. Until then, I¡¯m in a new town every few days.¡± He offered much more detail than Lohmen had expected. Lohmen nodded. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I don¡¯t recall your name.¡± ¡°No worry. It¡¯s Yerik. Before you leave town, you should stop at The Heavy Head. They¡¯ve boarchops on the menu. I¡¯ll join you in an hour when I¡¯ve finished up here.¡± The apprentice¡¯s invitation was unexpected but he considered the suggestion. With the brushes and paint stored in his pack, he bid them farewell. Just before shutting the door, Lohmen looked back. ¡°Heavy Head, right?¡± 12. The Heavy Head Lohmen spent the next hour or so taking in Kidkam. The new people and buildings should have excited him, but his thoughts kept circling back to the meal with the apprentice. They could have dined together any number of times over the past five years. Why now? Perhaps Yerik knew his commissioners. To help pass the time, Lohmen perused produce carts and engaged in light conversation with the merchants, something he had avoided in recent years. Their wares were no different than other towns in Umlom, but on this particular day they felt exotic. ¡°Is this drakebud?¡± Lohmen asked the spice pedlar. He brought a bunch of short bushy leaves with small, orange flowers to his nose. ¡°You¡¯ve a good eye! Main ingredient in dragonleaf, but careful with that! Too much and b¡¯fore long the Dragon¡¯s Ass will getchya.¡± The rotund man replied with a chuckle. ¡°Understood,¡± Lohmen replied, smiling. Kahriah had loved making spicy stews but went easy on the Dragon Leaf; her ancient southern upbringing made her more accustomed to exotic flavours than Lohmen¡¯s northern constitution. Eventually, the hour of the boarchop arrived, and Lohmen made his way to the tavern. The Heavy Head was spotted quickly enough; the sign depicted a woman wearing an oversized crown canting to the side, though she looked more jovial above the door of a tavern than her stoic counterpart at the town¡¯s gates. Lohmen pushed through the doors and headed for the middle of the room. His custom for over half a decade. No sooner had he sat than the apprentice walked by and nodded toward a more secluded table in the corner. Lohmen stood and followed. They made odd dinner fellows, the tall and slim, the shaggy painter, and the short, plump and balding bookbinder. After sitting quietly for a few awkward moments, Yerik broke the silence. ¡°So what way are you heading? Have you figured out an itinerary of sorts?¡± Rusty in the art of simple conversation, Lohmen responded, ¡°I¡¯m working my way east, painting the Banners as I go. I figured I¡¯d try and get to the eastern ports first.¡± ¡°I¡¯m on an eastern route as well. I¡¯ll head as far as lu Kipa and then work my way back before starting it all over again.¡± The apprentice said before the pair fell into another silence. ¡°I know it¡¯s been five years, but my son¡­.¡± Lohmen struggled with the next part. ¡°If he¡¯s alive, my son, he was taken. If he was taken, they¡¯d have to leave by sea. This continent isn¡¯t that big.¡± The apprentice just nodded solemnly. ¡°Can I ask why you wanted to meet?¡± Lohmen asked, more hushed than he had spoken previously. ¡°I was told¡­.er, heard about a grand commission. They don¡¯t really tell an apprentice much. But then you showed up, the painter whose son disappeared.¡± Lohmen was captivated and just stared at Yerik. ¡°I knew Kahriah.¡± Lohmen froze and looked at the apprentice. ¡°How?¡± A single word laced with confusion. ¡°She and I had become friends over the years. I never met Thesdon, but Kahriah would always check in when she was in town.¡± ¡°She had that effect on everyone, I think.¡± Lohmen smiled longingly. ¡°You said you heard about the commission¡­.¡± Lohmen steered the conversation. ¡°Yes. The commission seems simple enough. A grand tome of census.¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t really thought about it. I¡¯ve only just¡­.¡± Lohmen trailed off, unsure how to explain everything that had happened over the past five years. ¡°What did you hear about it?¡± ¡°Not much, I¡¯m afraid, but I saw Tomeera meeting with a mage a few months ago. I was heading back to Munum, and they couldn¡¯t see me. The mage handed Tomeera a package and then departed. The mage just upped and vanished.¡± Yerik saw the look on his companion¡¯s face and fell silent. The pragmatic painter who spent five years trying to connect dots had just been given another. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°Maybe if you figure out who the commission is, they can help you find Thesdon. Book Binding is a modest trade; tomes like this aren¡¯t requested often. Somebody should know something. Let me ask around the shops and see what I can uncover. No harm in that. We should be in Ponshmun in Kunnan at the same time. We can catch up then.¡± ¡°Thank you,¡± Lohmen said sincerely. ¡°The commission I¡­It has helped me branch out to find Thesdon, but I don¡¯t have any clues. So truly, thank you.¡± He said with grateful sincerity. ¡°But why would you help me?¡± When Lohmen asked, a fond but worried look washed over Yerik¡¯s face. ¡°Ten years ago, my newborn daughter was afflicted with ghoul pox. We hadn¡¯t even given her a name yet. We thought¡­¡± He took a quick breath through his nose and paused for a moment. ¡°Kahriah had been in town tending to an elder from one of the high families. As she was packing to leave town, I found her, and she agreed to come. She knew of the affliction and rode out. A few days later, she returned haggard but with herbs and plants I¡¯d never seen before. Kahriah worked all night mixing, checking, mashing and giving my daughter all kinds of compounds and concoctions. My wife and I just prayed. The fever broke the next morning. Dawn is 11 now, and the happiest child you¡¯ve ever seen.¡± A father¡¯s smile washed over Yerik¡¯s face. ¡°Kahriah brought my girl back. Least I can do is ask a few questions on your behalf.¡± Lohmen sat back in his chair. ¡°I remember that trip. Or rather, I remember her being gone¡­she returned home and slept for two days. She told me of the young girl and asked if I could paint something for her to take the next time¨C¡± ¡°The Morning Sky,¡± the apprentice interrupted, ¡°I think you called it. Sun breaking over the horizon. Violet, crimson and orange washed over the land. It¡¯s beautiful. It¡¯s been hung proudly in our house ever since.¡± ¡°I¡¯m going to help. Without Dawn in my life¡­¡± the apprentice stopped himself. ¡°I will help you find Thesdon.¡± The two men got up, and Lohmen paid for their fare before Yerik could reach into his pockets. ¡°It¡¯s the very least I can do.¡± Lohmen proffered to his dinner companion. ¡°That¡¯s quite a sum you carry around, Lohmen. You should get to an iron bank.¡± Lohmen nodded at the suggestion. Halfway to the door, a rather imposing patron bumped into Yerik, who was believably out of the man¡¯s view. He was not quite as tall as Lohmen but dressed in worn plate and had a greatsword hanging at his hip. ¡°Watch it, you sarding dwarf.¡± The man said in a heinous tone. ¡°I¡¯m not a dwarf. You bumped into me!¡± The apprentice rebutted nervously while the other man clenched his fist. Lohmen put his left hand across Yerik¡¯s shoulder, creating a barrier between him and the stranger, who immediately stepped back. Lohmen hardly gave off an imposing demeanour, but his presence seemed to tame the situation. ¡°Now, gentlemen, there¡¯s no need for a fight,¡± Lohmen said, attempting to quell the situation before the big man could win any ensuing altercation. The man looked at the hand and then at Lohmen. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, brother, let the red runneth over you.¡± The stranger tipped his helm and let the two men pass. The apprentice and Lohmen glanced at each other in mild confusion before continuing to the door. Outside, they shook hands and confirmed their meeting in Ponshmun in nine days. They¡¯d meet at middleday, at the Bard & Bass. Lohmen looked to the setting sun and figured he¡¯d be able to get halfway to the next town before moonrise. The town¡¯s message board called for a quick detour from his route just down the thoroughfare. No longer looking for work, the weathered papers still held a faint chance of clues, but not this night. Having read everything, he returned to the bookbinders, where a gaunt old man sat in the dirt outside the closed-up shop. ¡°You alright, ser?¡± Lohmen asked him. ¡°Um-hum. A bit hungry, but no worse for wear.¡± Was his reply, smiling. Lohmen reached into his pouch, tossed the man double the meal cost, and pointed to the Heavy Head. ¡°Boarchops. They¡¯re quite good.¡± ¡°Thank you, Stranger.¡± The man said with graciousness and esteem. Lohmen readied his horse and prepared to ride east to the second Banner. It would be just after dark when he made Kilgial, so he¡¯d spend the night at the Inn and paint their Banner at first light. The unfamiliar, unnamed horse trotted toward the town¡¯s entrance with a gentle tap of the heels. Though his current mount was impressive, Lohmen thought longingly about Tolo, despite her comparative shortcomings. As the pair clopped along, the afternoon sun at their back, Lohmen couldn¡¯t help but remember the day he got Tolo. He was lost in fond memories when a branch whipped across his cheek and snapped him back to the present. He¡¯d have passed right under it on Tolo. *** His path followed the southern coast through the rugged lowland realm of Lukos, before starting upland toward Zelzel-Mog and Likali. Those two realms bordered at Saltroar Point, a hazard-laden stretch of water that had claimed even skilled maritimers who sailed too close. The account had come from a chatty barman at the Long Shot tavern in bek-Rim. The town of bek-Rim was set inland, and looked like a quaint little fishing hamlet, though they flew three weapons on their Banner. Lohmen recorded the house of Trident Catapult Morning Star on a green field with black trim into his tome. As the barman told it, large timbers from the surrounding forests were worked and formed to make the namesake war machines sought by armies from all over the continent. A quaint little fishing town with a booming industry of destruction nestled within. The sage snapper Lohmen ordered didn¡¯t last as long as the oral history from the barman, but Lohmen found the story captivating. With a full belly and a new tale to think about on his travels, Lohmen mounted and set off to illuminate. 13. The Three Fires It must be close. He said it was in the valley around here. Lohmen trotted along the dusty trail, and a town of sorts came out of hiding behind a ridge. Just like the barman in bek-Rim had promised, Kisilimli wasn¡¯t so much a town but more of a campsite. The inland village was a stunningly broad collection of yurts only appreciated fully by soaring birds. His subject, the Banner of Fire Horse Fire, waved at him from a thick standard driven into the ground. Were it not for that, this place wouldn¡¯t have had a definitive entrance at all. ¡°Hello!¡± said a happy child, around nine or ten-years-old, as he approached Lohmen. ¡°Hello. I believe I¡¯ve arrived at the House of Fire Horse Fire. Am I correct?¡± ¡°Yes! Though we name ourselves Horse Two-Fires.¡± The young boy inspected Lohmen, his horse, and his bags as they exchanged pleasantries. ¡°This is an ancient house, right?¡± Lohmen recalled Kahriah telling him about the Ancient Banners. Any houses bearing only animals and items of the earth were the oldest houses, some with histories dating back thousands of years. ¡°Yesser, here since the Strangers. And long before the mythical or weapon houses.¡± He made a disapproving look as he mentioned the more modern Banners. Lohmen recognized the look; Kahriah had the same disdain for the houses of the sixteen orders. He started, ¡°My wife feels the same way. she¨C¡± ¡°Is she with you, too?¡± The question came before Lohmen could finish. The childlike innocence cut through him like a dagger. ¡°Just me today. But say, I¡¯d like to paint your Banner in my book, if that¡¯s all right?¡± Then he added, ¡°I¡¯ll be sure to mark its ancient status.¡± Lohmen smiled, and then reminded himself of warnings to keep the tome hidden. He¡¯s just a boy. ¡°Oh, yes, but make sure to capture the pride of the horse. I will inspect your work when you are done if you like.¡± The boy was delightfully precocious. Lohmen took a deep breath through his nose to abate emotion. ¡°Who should I ask for when I¡¯m done?¡± Lohmen played along, forcing a smile despite enjoying the banter. ¡°My name is MoShar.¡± Before Lohmen could say anything else, the boy took off with a pack of other children darting through the yurts. The house of Fire Horse Fire was his first Ancient Banner and, given its place on the standard, the first one he could see up close. There was no wear or fray. He tried to recall the previous thirty Banners, but they had been hung much higher on town and city gates. He didn¡¯t recall any wear or age, but it hadn¡¯t become apparent until he ran one through his fingers. Peculiar. With no stones or gates to rest upon, Lohmen sat cross-legged in front of the standard and prepared his tools. An hour later, he lowered his brush and blew softly onto the tome and its thirty-first addition, which yielded a proud smile on the face of its creator. He picked up the brush and added one more feature to the horse: a slight bend in his brow to signify the determined pride MoShar had required. Even with a well-defined subject, Lohmen found ways to infuse his imagination and talent. The pure satisfaction of his work never lasted long before it became sheepish approval laced with shame for letting himself enjoy something. While waiting for his work to dry, he did some basic arithmetic in his head. Banner thirty-one¡­of twenty-five thousand. I¡¯ve been on the road for three days¡­ It will take¡­twenty-five-hundred days to paint them all¡­? That can¡¯t be right. He now had a sample, which was slower than he had initially estimated. Tomeera had said there was no time to waste, but it hardly made sense to rush such a great task. He pondered her haste while closing the tome and safely slid it back into his pack. Lohmen had settled into an old routine: reconnaissance under the guise of dining post-illumination. Every Banner is one step closer to Thesdon. And Kahriah. And Tolo. Since Lohmen had packed all his belongings and broken the tether, the commission was an opportunity for him. A chance to search the world for his loved ones. If I deviate from my course, what¡¯ll become of me? Will they send that mute Ranger to twirl his dagger in front of me and set me back to task? Another question for the man with too few answers. The community didn¡¯t have a bookbinder, a tavern, or any discernible buildings, just the circles of yurts. They were arranged around a core where Lohmen found a massive fountain-like structure that would look at home in even the grandest of cities. It wasn¡¯t carved from marble or twilight quartz but made from countless stones of varying sizes, skillfully arranged into a communal structure. And it wasn¡¯t water in the fountain: it was fire. Not a giant inferno, but a collection of many low fires burning independently of each other. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Built into the circular structure were several inlets furnished with everything from metal grates to flat rocks and spits, ready to roast the spoils of a successful hunt or harvest. Thick wood stumps were strewn around the fire-fountain used as chairs and tables. Beyond the stumps, a set of posts were driven into the ground with short pieces lashed across them. Lohmen saw a horse tied to one on the opposite side of the fire-fountain and did the same. An old woman sat by herself on a stump and gestured to the one beside her. She smiled, and he sat, placing his pack to the side. ¡°I¡¯m Lohmen.¡± ¡°It is nice to meet you, Lohmen. I am NaaShar.¡± ¡°Kisilimli is beautiful. I¡¯ve never seen anything quite like this place.¡± The woman smiled in response to him, her wise eyes disappearing under old skin. The painter dispensed with the pleasantries. ¡°I¡¯m looking for my son, NaaShar. He disappeared five years ago in Umlom. Do you remember hearing of it?¡± ¡°Five years is a long time, child.¡± She went on slowly, ¡°Why do you only search now? Umlom is not far.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a long story.¡± ¡°I see. I did not hear of a missing boy, but I will ask my cousins in the house of Three Fires. They live quite far, but we have other means to converse.¡± ¡°What kind of means?¡± Lohmen was genuinely curious. ¡°I cannot say, nor would you understand if I did.¡± She went on, ¡°When you come upon a house of fire, ask for news of Umlom, and they will tell you if there is anything to know.¡± Lohmen pondered this but wasn¡¯t convinced. Shar picked up his scepticism and laughed. ¡°We cannot see visions in flames, Lohmen. Do not worry. Though we are an ancient people, we were not the first. We are descendants of the house of Three Fires. It has existed since creation itself. They live on a Continent of Detection, as you might know it, but that is a more modern name.¡± Lohmen cursed himself for getting into a conversation with an old woman that began at the dawn of time, but he paid attention to learn more about conversing over great distances. ¡°The Three Fires have burned since the beginning and were lit by the sun itself.¡± Pride of history beamed through her voice. ¡°One day, a thousand years ago, there was a violent tempest. It raged hard but was not long. When the clouds cleared, a flame had been snuffed for the first time. The same day they found a Stranger washed up on the shore. He had no clothes, no weapons or possessions. Not even a name. The Three Fires took the Stranger in and treated him as one of their own. ¡°But the third flame would not light. The Flamekeepers tried different woods. Different oils. They tried praying to the sun gods. Nothing would relight the third flame.¡± Lohmen looked up as a boy brought a large dish of meat and root vegetables, and NaaShar offered some to Lohmen. The arrival of food renewed his interest in seeing the story through to the end. ¡°The Stranger stayed with the Three Flames, though many believed the extinguished fire was his fault. Soon they came to blame him for any misfortunes that befell the village. What else could it be? ¡°Then, one day, a brave little girl dove into the waters near his landing and retrieved a bag from the seafloor. She brought it to the inner fire and showed it to the Flamekeepers. They did not know what to make of it, but the Stranger saw it and told them it belonged to him. He did not know how; only that he knew. ¡°After much debate, they allowed him to dress in its contents. When he put them on, they fit as if made for him. The third flame re-ignited when he hung his blade on his belt.¡± Lohmen smiled as he ate but failed to see any relevance. ¡°The Stranger had become one of the people, received the kiss of the coals, and stayed for a time. When dressed in the things from the bag of the sea, he developed strange new abilities. It was then we learned to communicate over great distances. And short. ¡°But the Stranger did not stay. The world beckoned him. Some people travelled with him as he crossed the realms. Some settled along the way. That is how we are here.¡± She smiled. ¡°Very interesting. I look forward to visiting the house of Three Fires someday.¡± Her gaze hardened. ¡°You do not listen, Lohmen. They were searching for answers at the flame itself. Just like you search for clues and disturb the meals of old women.¡± Lohmen took another bite and thought. But they didn¡¯t know they were looking for a bag; the girl just happened upon it. ¡°But if they had searched where the Stranger landed as the girl did, they would have lit the third flame more quickly. Where did your mystery start, Lohmen?¡± Her face softened as she leaned back. Lohmen stopped chewing. How did she do that? ¡°I told you that you wouldn¡¯t understand.¡± Lohmen sat silently and ate, trying not to think ill of the woman. He thought of his son and the years spent searching before the commission letters. ¡°Maybe you have more than one mystery.¡± She propounded. He thanked her and stood. She refused his offer of coin, and the boy who had brought the food was nowhere to be found. Lohmen walked to the fire and picked up a cold piece of charcoal well away from the flames. On a page torn from his cartography notebook, he sketched the harmonious scene at the fire fountain, the old woman appearing in the foreground wise and smiling. He tossed the notebook back into his bag. After scribbling his initials at the bottom of the page, he handed her the piece. ¡°I will cherish this, Lohmen,¡± she said when he gave it to her. ¡°Thank you. May the fire be your friend.¡± He nodded and left her to finish her meal. A cough came from near the woman. MoShar had appeared and looked at him with raised eyebrows. ¡°Right, of course!¡± He pulled out the tome and held it on display for inspection. ¡°Very good. I like how you captured the eyes. Where will you go now, painter?¡± The boy asked. Lohmen smiled at him with sad eyes before stowing the tome away. The question hung on him for a moment before he answered. ¡°I¡¯m not entirely sure yet, but I¡¯m going to see a bookbinder.¡± 14. The Herbalist Kahriah unhooked several bunches of dried foxbane from her lines and set them into a woven basket at her feet. She moved to the side and unhooked another bundle of herbs, this time giantroot. Kahriah continued to pull various plants from her lines until she was satisfied, then squatted to pick up the basket. ¡°Are you heading out?¡± Grelda called from inside her low, stone fence. Kahriah gasped and gently put her hand to her chest before smiling and turning to look across the yard toward Grelda. ¡°Didn¡¯t mean to scare you!¡± Grelda said in apology. ¡°It¡¯s quite alright! Yes, there¡¯s a sickness going around in Onny, a ship¡¯s crew. I¡¯ve been called to help.¡± ¡°Oh, that¡¯s awful¡­is it contagious?¡± Grelda asked. ¡°No, likely a waterborne malady from Slug¡¯s Bane. I¡¯ve seen it a hundred times. I suppose a herbalist from the ancient house of Frog Mushroom Tree might know a thing or two.¡± Kahriah explained, then paused for a moment. ¡°Would you like to come with me? The Merchants always send spacious carriages. Likely plenty of room.¡± ¡°That would be great! Thank you. Say¡­.¡± Grelda started slowly, ¡°could Marell come too?¡± Kahriah nodded in approval. Grelda was well-meaning and entirely likeable, but she was ever-present. Kahriah scolded herself for her unkind thoughts, mild as they were, and turned to the opportunity having an audience with Grelda would provide. ¡°Carriage is to be here tomorrow at dawn,¡± Kahriah explained as Grelda beamed and went inside to tell Marell and her husband. With the basket pressed against her belly, Kahriah walked back to her house and entered through the back door. Deep in thought in front of a half-finished canvas, Lohmen was precisely as she¡¯d left him. ¡°Are you heading somewhere?¡± He asked without looking up. She had told him several times, but he was often somewhere else when painting. Kahriah rolled her eyes and explained the illness from Slug¡¯s Bane. ¡°Infections¨C¡± she was cut off. ¡°Kill more men than steel.¡± He finished her mantra of sorts with no tone of mockery. ¡°Is it that Captain again?¡± Lohmen asked. ¡± Yes,¡± she flushed ever so slightly. ¡°I¡¯ll put together a few remedies, and one of them should suit. If not, I can pick up what I need there.¡± ¡°Umlom is lucky to have you, Kahriah¡­.¡± Lohmen exclaimed playfully, but the praise wasn¡¯t in jest. ¡°Are you sure you should be travelling in your condition?¡± Lohmen asked with concern. ¡°My condition?! I don¡¯t have a condition.¡± she scorned. Immediately, Lohmen knew he had chosen the wrong words. ¡°Is there any harm in a pregnant woman travelling such a great distance?¡± he offered with more tact on his second attempt. ¡°Women have been carrying children since before the Strangers. A posh coach ride isn¡¯t going to be a problem.¡± She walked over and kissed him on the cheek. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Ser Paint.¡± She continued into their bedroom to grab some things for her trip but talked louder so Lohmen could hear. ¡°You should be worried about an unwed woman with a talent for healing going off to the big village!¡± Lohmen didn¡¯t miss that part and fired back. ¡°Careful, Kahriah¡­while you¡¯re gone, I could just run off with Grelda.¡± Kahriah poked her head out of the room with a look of victory in her eye. ¡°She¡¯s coming with me!¡± She giggled and went back to collecting her things. Lohmen laughed to himself while his mind turned to another matter. ¡°We should wed when you get back¡­I don¡¯t like the idea of a son out of union.¡± ¡°And I don¡¯t like relying on some almighty Order to tell me what I can and cannot do. We¡¯ve been offending the light for four months now.¡± Kahriah made an exaggerated show of her belly. ¡°And how do you know it¡¯s a boy?¡± Lohmen shrugged his shoulders playfully in answer and moved on. ¡°I¡¯ll try and be here when you get back. The Shimmering Violettes should be gracing the skies in the highlands with the new moon. I want to have some work to send to the gallery in Kalkaltal.¡± Lohmen was asking, but it was unnecessary. Kahriah had always supported his work and was as generous with her praise as she was with her critique. All of which had made Lohmen a better and more prolific painter in the short time they had been together. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°I don¡¯t mind at all, Lo. You know that. However, when this boy comes, I¡¯ll need you around. You¡¯ll have to start painting things a little closer to home for a while.¡± She teased. Lohmen stood and walked into the bedroom where Kahriah was folding things on the bed. Lohmen hugged her from behind, ran his hands over her stomach, and kissed her neck. Kahriah had closed her eyes and leaned back into the painter¡¯s embrace. He paused and gently whispered, ¡°You know it¡¯s a boy too.¡± Kahriah swatted him away lovingly and went back to gathering her things. *** Lohmen was still lying in bed when Kahriah kissed him on the cheek. He grabbed her arm before she could slip away and pulled her in for a more passionate one. ¡°Sure you don¡¯t have a few minutes?¡± He offered provocatively, still in the fog of new courtship. ¡°Despite your rousing performance last night, I¡¯m certain. I¡¯ll be home in a few days. Besides, we¡¯ve been together four months now; are you not sick of me?¡± She kissed him again. A hummed ¡®nu uh¡¯ came from within the liplock. Laying naked in their bed, Lohmen drifted back to sleep while Kahriah gathered her things and left. Grelda and Marell were packed and ready, beaming with excitement on the cusp of adventure. Kahriah smiled at Marell, who looked exceptionally lovely this morning, her dress clean and sharp. Her hair was styled, but a novice and heavy hand seemed to have blushed her cheeks. Kahriah leaned closer to Marell. ¡°I didn¡¯t find Lohmen in my village either.¡± She whispered, and Marell giggled. Their carriage clattered down the road and pulled up to the three women. It was a modest ride drawn by two healthy-looking horses. The driver sat perched at the front, and two benches behind him were covered with a dark cloth to block the sun. ¡°How are you, m¡¯Lady?¡± The driver asked. The driver was an older man with a well-kept, white beard. His clothes were old and frayed, but everything was in its place. He was well past his prime but would have been quite the specimen in his youth. ¡°You know it¡¯s Kahriah; I¡¯m no lady, Bernock.¡± She corrected the man. ¡°But, fine, thank you. I¡¯ve a couple of companions this morning. Hope that¡¯s alright, Bernock,¡± Kahriah answered. ¡°Of course, Ms. Marashan. Makes no difference to Bender & Whisper.¡± He offered with a chuckle and a gesture to the pair of mounts. ¡°But you¡¯re too modest. Had you not brought yer medicines to my village years ago, I wouldn¡¯t be out here driving today. My family still sings your praises.¡± ¡°I remember. How is that cousin of yours? A strapping, boisterous lad if I recall.¡± ¡°Strapping he was, but stupid too. You pulled him from the brink of death then the dumb bastard died a few months later. Tried to pick a fight with a Highlands Troll. I suppose your healing fed the beast for the night! Ha!¡± he laughed to himself and trailed off. ¡°There¡¯s a positive side to most things, I suppose.¡± She said, trying to respond to the macabre demise of the cousin. ¡°I hope you have more stories for us on the way.¡± She turned to Grelda and Marell. ¡°We ready, ladies?¡± Marell looked like she would burst with excitement if they waited any longer. Bernock hopped down from the seat with surprising agility and placed a step for the three women from Kinon. They climbed inside the carriage, Grelda and Marell on one side opposite Kahriah and her baskets. ¡°Do you think there will be any duels on the docks or grand balls to attend?¡± Marell asked with exuberance. ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t know, Marell. We¡¯ll have a few days while Kahriah works. We¡¯ll see what trouble we can get up to. Kahriah, how long will it take to tend to the sailors?¡± Grelda asked. ¡°It should be quite simple. I¡¯ll look them over to confirm the maladie and whip together a concoction. I¡¯ll need to stay nearby for a day or two to ensure they¡¯re on the mend. We¡¯ll be celebrating Lohmen¡¯s firstday soon, so I suppose I should find a gift for him.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve already given him a gift, my dear,¡± Grelda said sarcastically. Kahriah gave her a strange look for a moment and then laughed in agreement. Grelda continued. ¡°However, you should get that man of yours a horse. He can¡¯t be marching into the woods for days just to find the right pond or tree to paint. Honestly, legs as long as his, and he¡¯d still lose a footrace to a bookbinder.¡± Kahriah chuckled. ¡°You know, I said the same thing to Lohmen just yesterday.¡± ¡°Aye,¡± said Grelda. She crossed her arms in resolute triumph. ¡°In any event, we appreciate you letting us tag along. I hope your employer doesn¡¯t mind.¡± ¡°Not at all. Carriage is going anyway. Might as well be full!¡± ¡°Tell me about this employer Ms. Kahriah!¡± Marell inquired. ¡°Well, he¡¯s a Merchant-Captain from Rozmros. Came from across the Dommian but made his name running goods up and down the Black Seas,¡± Kahriah explained. Marell rolled her eyes and flopped back in her seat. ¡°I meant, what does he look like? Did he ever fight a Kraken?¡± ¡°He¡¯s handsome, I suppose, but I don¡¯t think he¡¯s ever fought a Kraken. Even though he flies one on his Banner. I don¡¯t think anyone lives to tell the tale.¡± Kahriah said to the unimpressed young woman. The women talked of politics, theology, cooking, creature anatomy, children, and childbirth. Marell was particularly horrified at her mother¡¯s detailed recounting of her firstday. The day waned, and so too did the conversation. They had sat in silence until the gentle clatter of the horse and carriage was abruptly interrupted. ¡°Onny!¡­look!¡± Marell exclaimed, with her head out of the carriage window taking in the city as it appeared. Onlomum wasn¡¯t the most populous city, but it made up for it in grandeur. At one end of a forked inlet, Onny sprawled along the cliff crests and right down over them, as if spilling into the sea. Half the city was built into the cliff face, the other half perched proudly above. As they approached from the north, they couldn¡¯t see the cliff houses of Onny. It was those of Easlomum on the opposite fork of the inlet which arrested their attention. Easlomum was virtually identical to Onlomum, and most people considered it just another part of Onny. The towns had sprawled to meet each other over the past thousand years, and now, they formed one majestic district. Onlos, its citizens, had built an intricate system of switchbacks, tunnels, and lifts down the three hundred feet to the docks and beaches below. Onny had become a preferred port for many merchants delivering to the smaller island continent of Reflection. Her docks were tucked into a bay from the weather that battered the larger eastern port realms like Iu Kipa and Tauptimai. It took longer to get goods to market from here, but it was a small price for her benefits. Good-weathered, good-natured, and pretty to look at¨C made Onny a choice port for the older, wiser captains. The easy clamming on Onny¡¯s shores also made it cheaper for captains to feed their docked crews. ¡°Where to first m¡¯ladies¡­I mean, ladies?¡± Bernock asked. ¡°Let¡¯s head to the courtyard at the eastern docklifts first. That¡¯s where I¡¯m to meet Captain Thammasorn.¡± 15: The Captain ¡°Kahriah! My dear!¡± a man¡¯s voice called out from behind a crowd of sailors and merchants milling about the square. Kahriah squinted toward the call and saw a tall figure approaching. ¡°Welcome back to Onny!¡± ¡°Captain Thammasorn, how are you?¡± She asked warmly. Thammasorn was a tall man, taller even than Lohmen, and more muscular. He wore simple sailor breeches and a linen shirt barely laced in the front. A thick, black beard streaked with grey met glossy ringlets of hair to match. There was a rugged handsomeness to him, and he smelled like the sea. ¡°Keeping well, I suppose. My whole crew is shitting buckets down on the ship, but that¡¯s almost a certainty when you sail the Slug¡¯s Bane. I¡¯ve seen it a dozen times. A standard case of Dragon¡¯s Ass. I¡¯d mix the medicines myself, but then I wouldn¡¯t get to see you.¡± He took a step back and moved his gaze from head to toe and back up again. He stopped at her midsection. ¡°Are you with child?!¡± He exclaimed. ¡°No, I¡¯m not¡­, and I might remind you never to assume such a thing about a woman.¡± Kahriah retorted, and the Captain paled. ¡°I¡­I didn¡¯t¡­I, just thought¡­.¡± The same Captain dripping in confidence just a moment ago was now an awkward, clumsy mess. A smile crept across Kahriah¡¯s lips as she watched him squirm. ¡°You dungwraith!¡± he exclaimed¡­ ¡°You had me¡­truly! Tell me, who made an honest woman of you?¡± ¡°His name is Lohmen. He¡¯s an artist,¡± she said defensively. ¡°But we¡¯re not married.¡± ¡°He¡¯s a lucky man either way.¡± Thammasorn¡¯s confidence had returned. ¡°You are positively glowing. Come, let¡¯s head down to the ship. I¡¯ve got stoves and tables set up for you. We can skiff any potions out to them.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t make potions, Thamma. You know that.¡± ¡°Of course, of course. We¡¯ll skiff any concoctions out then.¡± He put his arm over her shoulder and led her out of the square. Onny had strict vessel quarantine policies, and the ill seafarers were not allowed ashore. The Captain was only allowed because he wasn¡¯t sick himself. As a Captain, he tended not to partake in the same rations as his crew while at sea. Dining alone in his quarters wasn¡¯t an exercise in classism but rather in prudence. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what¡¯s worse, a ship full of sick sailors or the Dragon¡¯s Ass itself.¡± Thammasorn opined. The two made their way down a small staircase cut from the stone cliffs at the square¡¯s edge. They landed on a large, wooden platform where one of the many beach lifts was located, transporting passengers to sea level and back. They waited for it to arrive and let two people exit before entering the wood and iron cage. The Captain handed a couple of lords to the liftman, who shut the door behind them. He flipped a flag on the railing signalling the lower liftman, and slowly the lift descended from the platform to the beach below. ¡°It¡¯s good to see you again, Kahriah.¡± The Captain offered in a moment of vulnerability, visibly unsettled with the rattling lift. ¡°There aren¡¯t many people you can count on in the realms today. Everyone¡¯s got an angle at best and a knife to your throat at worst. Commerce is trickier than it¡¯s ever been. Port bribes, Ranger contracts, protection garrisons¡­I swear, I¡¯d retire if I didn¡¯t need the lords. But being able to call on you, who¡¯ll perform her magic without tax or deceit. It¡¯s refreshing.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not magic, Thammasorn, just herbalism.¡± she correctly sternly. ¡°But I know what you mean. Something¡­ something feels different about the Realms. Like there¡¯s a charge in the air before a thunderstorm.¡± The Captain nodded in agreement while the lift slowly passed by open windows of homes cut into the rock. Some had smiling Onlos, others just plants. They rode the rest of the way quietly before the lift hit the platform at sea level with a soft thud. The lower liftman raised the cross-board and opened the door. Kahriah looked back and marvelled at the cliffs and lifts, despite having made the descent many times before. The two meandered their way to the merchant pavilion, where she unpacked her herbs and oils in a large room, appointed just as she¡¯d requested. Ordinarily, she¡¯d investigate the affliction, but Thammasorn had included the list of symptoms in his call to her. ¡°I¡¯ll be an hour or two, Captain, but come back with a dozen glass vials, and your men will be better in a few days. Have them each take a mouthful tonight, and I¡¯ll come back tomorrow and brew a fresh batch for the morning.¡± Kahriah instructed, and the Captain nodded and left her to her work. On time and as instructed, the Captain returned with a case of glass vials, and Kahriah carefully filled them with an equal amount of her pungent tea-like concoction. She corked each one and placed it back in the case. ¡°See that they drink this in the next hour or so. The longer it sits, the less it works.¡± She said. ¡°I¡¯ve already a skiff waiting, thanks, Kahriah. A drink later at the tavern?¡± He offered, the glint in his eye on full display. ¡°No drink this time.¡± She said as she made a show of her belly. He made an understanding face and handed her a lords purse. She took it and peered inside. ¡°Captain¡­this is too much.¡± A puzzled look on her face. ¡°I pay more than that in bribes at the eastern ports. You deserve it.¡± 16: The Stables It was still only late afternoon when Kahriah had finished her treatment for the sailors, so she made her way to the lifts and decided to explore Onny¡¯s topside. As she stepped out at the upper lift platform, she asked the operator for directions to the mountyards. ¡°Head to the northern part of town, and you¡¯ll find the stables and horsemen.¡± The teenager said politely. Kahriah tossed him a lord for good measure. Heading mostly north through Onny, the buildings got a little less crowded, and the smell of manure grew a little stronger. Turning a corner, she noticed a large barn-like building ahead with a steady stream of horses of all shapes and sizes coming and going, some ridden, some led. On her way to the barn, she stopped a friendly-looking woman leading a grey stallion. ¡°Who would I speak to about procuring a horse?¡± ¡°Well, my dear, you¡¯ve come to the right place. Head over there to the right and down the path. Horses on offer today are all in those stalls there. Make note of the horse number, then see the horseman at the next tent. Match your horse to the seller and negotiate a price.¡± Kahriah nodded thanks and made her way across the path of horse traffic to the selling area. ¡°I knew you¡¯d buy a horse for that husband of yours!¡± Kahriah turned around and saw Grelda shuffling towards her. Kahriah managed a half-hearted smile. ¡°Well, you made a good point, Grelda. Lohmen will need to be able to get around faster.¡± She agreed. ¡°But he¡¯s not my husband.¡± ¡°Yet!¡± Grelda said with boastful enthusiasm, and Kahriah feigned a laugh. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. ¡°Speaking of betrothals, where¡¯s Marell?¡± Kahriah inquired. ¡°Oh, she¡¯s gone off to watch some mummer¡¯s shows. We were in the bazaar, and this gangly kid started talking to her, and then they were off.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve gotta watch out for the gangly ones.¡± Kahriah joked. Grelda nodded excitedly and followed her toward the sale stalls. They started down the pathway and admired the variety of horses among the rows of numbered stalls. Young boys and girls with charcoal chunks ran around and updated numbers as horses entered and exited. The pair slowed as they passed an impressive horse with a thick brown coat. Its back was much taller than Kahriah, and its hooves looked larger than her head. A remarkable beast but far better suited to farm duty than painter transportation. The woman who helped her earlier was further down the aisle and was feeding her stallion a handful of oats. ¡°Hello again, beautiful horse. Can you tell me about him?¡± Kahriah asked. ¡°Sure. He¡¯s two years old and fast as the wind. A bit wild yet, but that¡¯ll settle down with age.¡± The woman said as she patted him on the shoulder. ¡°And how much? I¡¯ve never bought a horse, so I¡¯m not sure of the going rate.¡± Kahriah said as Grelda kicked her. The scolding was obscured from the horsewoman¡¯s view by the fence. Kahriah looked over at Grelda, who was subtly moving her head from side to side. The horsewoman hadn¡¯t missed anything, however. ¡°This one¡¯s 5000 lords; he¡¯s a highborn steed. Some lord or lady will buy this lad and use him to galavant all over their lands. Then they¡¯ll have him sire offspring and sell those too. This horse is more suited for investment. Are you looking for an investment?¡± Kahriah smiled pleasantly, appreciating the question. ¡°No, no... Just looking for a reliable mount for my husband¡¯s painting adventures.¡± ¡°Head towards the end of the path, and you¡¯ll find some suitable mounts there. 600 lords should get you a perfectly suitable horse for getting around.¡± 17. Disturbed Rest Lohmen set up camp as he¡¯d done the night before and noted so in his log. This was to be the second night he¡¯d spend outdoors since he and the ranger parted ways. The proximity of Banner-towns and the small fortune had allowed him to stay at inns since he left Kidkam. He was a few hours outside of Lasiksi in the realm of Snaspakisnum. Dubbed the Strong Arm of Reflection, Snaspakisnum¡¯s most notable feature was a long natural jetty extending from the otherwise even shore. He felt like he¡¯d been making good time, though he had no history to use as a comparison. Travelling directly from one place to another was much more efficient than when he had been testing his boundary. Almost a week had passed since he broke through his tether, but that was still as much a mystery as Thesdon¡¯s disappearance. As were his Masterpieces. He tried to work out how all the pieces fit and frame what NaaShar from the fire had told him. He thought of Thesdon running, but the only clue had been his shoe. For five years, he¡¯d solved nothing except mapping his prison, a near-perfect circle around his house and masterpiece. Until the letters from his commissioners. Staring into the fire, Lohmen ruminated about who put the Banner book into motion. Along with everything else he owned, he now carried the letters with him. He had evidence in his hands and was soon to meet with someone in the commerce of paper. The unusual material and strange symbol would undoubtedly strike a bookbinder as odd. Tolo¡¯s bill of sale, the only other document he carried, was folded and put in the back of his cartography book. From his larger pack, he pulled out the soft, leather bag and tucked his gloves inside. He set the bag aside and gave his fingers a flex and a stretch, then laid down using his pack as a pillow. It was a far cry from a feather bed, but he welcomed the rest. His hood, folded and layered on top, provided some much-needed softness. His hand silhouetted against the dancing flames of his campfire, he thumbed at his ring. It hadn¡¯t come off, despite Kahriah having left five years ago. If it weren¡¯t for Tolo, I wouldn¡¯t be wearing this ring. The sound of a branch breaking in the forest jolted him from nostalgia. He sat up in his makeshift bed, squinting over the fire, trying to locate the sound. Lohmen stood and tried to peer into the darkness. It was hard to pinpoint sounds in the forest over his pounding heart. Lohmen¡¯s fears materialised when the figure of a large, barrel-chested man emerged from the forest and walked towards the fire. ¡°Who are you? What do you want?¡± Lohmen asked meekly, facing the intruder but slowly backing away. He had never met anyone in the five years he slept out in Umlom. The man snorted at the weak demand and moved closer. Lohmen took another step back and bumped into someone else. A daggered hand reached over his shoulder, and Lohmen felt the cold sting of steel at his throat. ¡°To rob you, of course.¡± The big man said. ¡°I¡­I have lords. Take them and be on your way.¡± Lohmen said, strained. The offer didn¡¯t get a response. But the man holding the blade at his neck reached and pulled Lohmen¡¯s healthy purse from his belt and threw it to the other man. ¡°You¡¯re quite a stupid bastard, m¡¯lord?¡± He mocked. ¡°We saw you leave Lasiksi and knew you¡¯d need to make camp before long.¡± He spoke with cocksure certainty. ¡°It¡¯s our life made easy when a toe-head like yourself carries a big bag of lords and sleeps out.¡± ¡°You have my coin. Please, leave me.¡± Lohmen pleaded, fearing for his life. ¡°Every mark tells a story,¡± The barrel-chested man exclaimed as if in a play. ¡°Let¡¯s see who you are, wealthy traveller. Don¡¯t do anything stupid, and you might survive the night.¡± He bent and let the fire illuminate his face for Lohmen. He was a thick man and built for power. A deep scar ran from his forehead to the corner of his lips, which made his mouth sit lopsided on his face. He bent to pick up one of the saddle bags, and Lohmen saw the man¡¯s woodcutter¡¯s axe, its blade caked from use. Lohmen stood motionless, the dagger pressed to his neck by the second assailant. The big man stuck his arm inside and pulled out vials of paint. He studied them briefly, and then hurled them to the ground¨C breaking as they hit roots and rocks. Lohmen winced as they smashed. The axeman ripped out a few paintbrushes and a palette and let them fall to his feet. The man with the dagger kicked Lohmen¡¯s bag, the one with the masterpiece, to his partner. The big man grabbed it and pulled out Lohmen¡¯s mapbook first. After a brief inspection, it fell to the forest floor. ¡°Ah¡­this is better.¡± His eyes lit up. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. Out came a pair of heavy gloves with a pendant tangled in their fingers. The pendant he put around his neck and the gloves got tucked in his thick belt. He turned the bag upside down, and a rolled canvas hit the ground beside the two commission letters. ¡°What¡¯ve we here?¡± He picked up the three pieces and opened the letters first, then flung them dismissively to the fire. The third item caught his attention; the canvas. Lohmen swallowed hard and clenched his teeth. ¡°Leave it!¡± An uneven smile crept across the big man¡¯s face. He roughly worked the twine off the scroll and opened it. ¡°What the troll-scat is this?¡± he said with a furrowed brow. ¡°You¡¯re a dreadful painter, lad. I¡¯d be doing the realms a favour killin¡¯ you.¡± He looked at Lohmen as he tossed the painting into the fire. Lohmen¡¯s nostrils flared. His eyes twitched, and his canines bit into his lower lip. He started toward the fire but was quickly reminded of the blade pressed at his throat. A warm trickle slid down Lohmen¡¯s neck. The disfigured axeman chuckled with delight as the flames engulfed the canvas. Lohmen¡¯s chest started to heave. A surge of adrenaline erupted through Lohmen¡¯s blood, like dragon fire ripping through an army. The gangly painter hadn¡¯t been in a fight since he was a child, but in that moment, a fury soaked him to the core. He took a deep breath, grabbed the daggerman¡¯s arm, and pushed the blade away from his neck. The captor¡¯s strength was too much, so Lohmen pulled the man¡¯s arm and ducked. The blade sliced through the painter¡¯s cheek before lodging in the captor¡¯s throat. Lohmen broke free of the man and bolted toward the fire. The painting. The daggerman pulled the blade from the soft tissue in his neck, and blood began to seep. The tall, bald man fell to his knees. Lohmen dove to his knees at the firepit and tried to pull the painting from the flames. Only small scraps of his masterpiece with glowing edges floated in the air. Lohmen let out a deep rolling groan. It sounded like agony at first, then turned to anger. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the raised axe. Lohmen¡¯s hand plunged into the fire and shovelled a heap of hot coals in the axemans¡¯ face. A high-pitched howl bellowed out of the big man, and the axe fell to one arm at his side. Lohmen glanced to the left. The bald man had regained a knee and made to stand, still holding his neck with one hand and the dagger with the other. Lohmen turned his attention to the barrel-chested man, and his legs exploded underneath him. He charged the axeman, burying his shoulder into the midsection and driving him back. Unable to raise his weapon, the axeman beat down on the painter¡¯s back with his free hand. Lohmen kept pushing until he overtook the axeman, and they both hit the ground in a tumble. A giant empty gasp left the axeman¡¯s mouth, and the axe clanked to the side, free of his hand. Lohmen rolled off the man and picked up the axe. From his side, Lohmen swung hard for his head, but the big man had managed to roll partly out of the way. The blade buried deep in his shoulder instead. Lohmen retrieved the axe and turned his attention to the bleeding daggerman staggering slowly toward him. Lohmen cast wide swings with his weapon. The daggerman stepped backward, dodging the attacks. He retreated to the fire¡¯s edge and tripped, his backside landing on the hot coals and the dagger falling to the ground. Lohmen advanced, and the bald man rolled from the fire and attempted to scurry away. Lohmen delivered the axe directly into the man¡¯s lower spine as he crawled. A groan exploded from Lohmen as the axeman charged into his side, sending them to the ground. They wrestled for a moment, but the wiry painter was atop the big man in seconds. Lohmen pinned his good arm down, the other lifeless and barely attached. The painter grabbed a rock and brought it to the man¡¯s jaw. The man moaned through shattered teeth, but Lohmen raised the stone again. Another blow to the side of the axeman¡¯s face. Another crunch. Lohmen watched the rock meet face until no sounds came from the man. Lohmen stood up, breathing heavily, blood covering his head, chest, and hands. He stumbled backward, his heart pounding. He looked around frantically at the carnage. A hand clasped his ankle and sent another wave of adrenaline through his blood. Lohmen looked down to see the daggerman before shaking free of his weak grip. Lohmen pulled the axe from the man¡¯s still body. ¡°Who are you?¡± Lohmen demanded. The bald man tried to mutter something but blood pooled in his throat. Lohmen retreated to a rock at the edge of his campsite and sat down. He rested the axe on the rock, and the weight of events washed over him. How? Laboured breaths burned his lungs. He touched his cheek and felt the deep gash. The flesh hadn¡¯t separated, and he was spared feeling his teeth from the outside. Barely. A wave of nausea. His breathing slowed a little, and the adrenaline receded. I¡¯m a killer. The realisation hammered Lohmen, the man who¡¯d never hurt anything in his life. Any sentencing for his verdict would have to wait; His hand screamed out in pain. What skin remained was blistered and glistening, and the digit had begun to bulge around Kahriah¡¯s ring. Perhaps from the fire or perhaps from the puss, the ring had a dull glow between lumps of Lohmen¡¯s finger. He found his waterskin, pulled the cork with his teeth, and poured the cool water over his hand. Any relief he got was short-lived. Lohmen took stock of his situation, and he forced reason on himself. They were going to kill me. Breath. How? ¡°Think.¡± His thoughts became audible as he spoke himself into clarity. ¡°Get your things and get out of here.¡± His eyes wide open, the daggerman lay ten feet in front of Lohmen. Lohmen thought the man was dead until he blinked, causing Lohmen to stumble. When he had regained his footing, Lohmen cautiously grabbed the dagger from beside the body, avoiding eye contact, and walked toward the axeman¡¯s body. 18. Aftermath Standing over the big man, he cut the straps on his flimsy jerkin and flung it open. Had Kahriah not been so adamant about treating his scrapes and cuts, Lohmen might not have had the fortitude to proceed. ¡®Infections kill more men than steel.¡¯ Trying not to look at where his face had been, Lohmen grabbed the bottom of the man¡¯s shirt with his good hand and pulled it to his teeth. With the dagger, he cut the garment into several strips. Lohmen then cut the pendant from his neck, stuffed it in his pocket, and pulled the gloves from his belt. With those items and his improvised bandages in hand, he went to a rock opposite the eyes of the tall dying man. He laid the straps over his knee and set the dagger at his feet. A flood of pain caused him to let go when he tried to pull Kahriah¡¯s ring off his hand. He grabbed a thick twig and put it between his teeth. He took hold of the ring and took rapid, deep breaths through his nose. On the fifth or sixth breath, he wrenched on the ring and pulled with what strength he had left. Blistered skin accumulated in front of it, but his hands had separated. The flesh-coated ring was now in the palm of his right hand. He was breathing hard again, but it calmed after a long-feeling minute or two. He shook the ring free of skin and put it between his teeth before sliding a finger from his right hand through it. With his son¡¯s painting gone, the ring was now all he had left of his former family. He grabbed the first shirt bandage and began wrapping his left hand. He stood and surveyed the carnage that had transpired over the past few minutes. Doubled over beside a tree, he wretched. After wiping his mouth, Lohmen poked at the fire, but the masterpiece was gone. Thesdon¡¯s sunshine was gone. He fell to his knees. We¡¯ll paint it again, Thes. He wiped tears away to clear his vision, and at the edge of the fire, something caught his attention. The letters from his commissioner were marked black by charcoal but not burnt. The seal had melted away, but the paper was intact. He plucked them from the fire, wiped them on his trousers and stuffed them back in the bag the axeman had ceremoniously upended. I must show these letters to Yerik. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. He stood, raised his head and looked at the camp again. His jaw was agape and chills coursed through his blood where adrenaline had flowed before. He wondered how a painter could be capable of such things. Talking to himself, he forced himself to take inventory. He noted his items, those not broken, and began plotting his ride away from this cursed place. My horse¡­ He had forgotten about his horse. The obsidian-black steed was calmly grazing by the tree where she¡¯d been tied. It was hard to make her out; only her white feet were visible in the dark forest, but she hadn¡¯t whinnied or gruffed once during the entire fight. She¡¯s made of tougher stuff than I am. Morning was hours off, but he knew no sleep would find him. The spectres of this night would haunt him forever. In desperate need of a herbalist¡¯s attention, he collected his things and tried to repack them as best he could. The mental list he had forced upon himself helped sequester his violent deeds for the time being. He packed the lord purse and any jars of paint that hadn¡¯t broken he put into a saddlebag. The cartography notebook, which had stayed latched, he tucked back into the bag beside the letters. Though it made him uncomfortable, he knew what he had to do next. He grabbed the axe first and set it beside his bags, then searched for where he had put the dagger. A quick examination revealed it to be less ornate than the Ranger¡¯s, but he could attest to its sharpness. He patted his body, trying to find a suitable place to put it. There was a brief thought about sliding it into his belt, but that would be too precarious for riding. I don¡¯t know the first thing about weapons¡­How¡­? He looked at the body of the daggerman lying face down in the dirt, the blood pooling at the side of his head, creating a thick, dark mud. The painter squatted down beside him and flopped the man onto his back. The daggerman coughed up blood and his eyes flung open. Without even thinking, the painter plunged the dagger into his heart. The painter let go of the blade and staggered backward. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ¡°I need the sheath.¡± Lohmen retrieved the simple leather scabbard from the dead man with great anguish and worked it onto his own decorated belt. He pulled the dagger from the tall man¡¯s chest, wiped it on his trousers and slid it into the sleeve. Worse for wear and full of disgust, he stood as an armed man for the first time in his life. He mounted his nameless horse and began down the road, the larger pack shouldered and the smaller leather bag in his lap. In the dark of night, he couldn¡¯t be sure where he was going, only that he needed to leave this place. The pain in his head and hand kept him awake in the saddle. The makeshift bandages would do for now, but if he had any chance of avoiding infection, he would need to find an Herbalist before long. 19: The Horseman Grelda and Kahriah moved on from the grey stallion, passing all sorts of horses, even some donkeys and mules. Making their way to the end, the horses got considerably smaller and noticeably less impressive. One horse, in particular, caught Kahriah¡¯s eye. It was black, stood about 17 hands high, and looked in impeccable shape. ¡°What about this one?¡± Kahriah asked Grelda. ¡°I don¡¯t know¡­something strange in his eyes looks like he¡¯s got some will to be broken yet. Not sure Lo has the temperament for that. How about this one?¡± She pointed to the second to last stall on the right. Inside was a shorter brown horse with spots. Kahriah remarked on the pattern and thought it quite beautiful. This one stood only about 14 hands but had sturdy-looking legs and wide feet. Kahriah thought it might suit Lohmen on his off-path trekking. She noted its number, seventy-forty-two, and made her way into the horseman tent to find its seller. Grelda and Kahriah stood up a little straighter, walked into the tent, and sturdied their faces for the room full of mostly men. About two dozen sellers had taken seats at the tables, ready to strike deals on their mounts. Some farmers, some travellers. Even some low nobles were among the collection of sellers. Higher lords wouldn¡¯t attend such a market, but their brokers and horseman did in their place. Each seller had a table with charcoal numbers scratched onto milkpine boards out front. A middle-aged man sitting slouched in his chair behind his table was off to the left. He had a wide-brimmed hat and a full grey beard streaked with black. He wore typical riding clothes; leather chausses and vest over linen underclothes. Even though she didn¡¯t know his age, something about the man made Kahriah think he looked older than he probably was. The brown horse¡¯s number was marked on his board. ¡°Goodday, Ser. I¡¯d like to inquire about horse seventy-forty-two,¡± Kahriah said confidently, trying to sound like she had done this before. ¡°Eight hundred.¡± the man replied as he stood. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. ¡°Humph,¡± Grelda exclaimed and crossed her arms. ¡°Let¡¯s go, Kahriah. This man is trying to take advantage of us.¡± Grelda grabbed Kahriah by the arm to lead them away. She resisted, but the horseman interrupted before the tug of war ensued. ¡°Now, now ladies,¡± he motioned for them to stay, ¡°that¡¯s how these things work. I say eight hundred, you say a number, and we find common ground.¡± Kahriah paused before blurting out a number forcefully. ¡°Five hundred.¡± ¡°That¡¯s too low.¡± The seller rebutted. ¡°Six hundred is the lowest I can go. Grelda reached to grab Kahriah¡¯s arm again. ¡°Fine. Fine, Five-twenty-five, and I¡¯ll throw in a saddle.¡± The seller threw his hands up in feigned exaggeration. Grelda leaned into Kahriah and whispered, ¡°A saddle is worth a hundred lords alone, Kahriah; that¡¯s a good deal.¡± ¡°Five-twenty-five and a saddle,¡± Kahriah said matter of factly, trying to hide her inexperience. The seller stuck out his hand. Kahriah took it victoriously. ¡°Come by tomorrow, and we¡¯ll sign the papers, and get you your horse.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± This time Kahriah grabbed Grelda¡¯s arm, thinking they should leave quickly before the horseman changed his mind. Back out in the open air, Kahriah let out an excited shriek. ¡°Thank you, Grelda! What a team we were in there. You saved me a small fortune on the saddle.¡± ¡°Sometimes I¡¯m a pain in the arse. Sometimes I¡¯m the cure.¡± She said jokingly. ¡°Let¡¯s get some supper, my treat. I owe you that at least....¡± ¡°Thanks, my dear, but no. I should go find Marell, lest I be a grandmother before my time. I¡¯ll see you tomorrow morning here at the stables. Make sure he doesn¡¯t try and change the deal at the end. You can never be too careful.¡± Grelda bid good night and disappeared around a corner. On her feet all day, Kahriah¡¯s back screamed for the feather bed waiting at the inn, but her expectant cravings called louder. She stopped for dinner at the Long Face Lounge for a quick meal of venison stew with dragonleaf, the same meal she had every time she came to town. On this night, however, she dined alone and would forgo their signature bottomless ale. 20. The Mount Registry Kahriah finished preparing the second dose just as the Captain arrived with the empty vials. She carefully poured them and handed the crate to Thammasorn. It was reported the sailors were doing much better after the first dose, and Kahriah concluded the second would be sufficient. ¡°You¡¯re a lifesaver, Kahriah. When I retire, I want you and your family to come down to Onny, and I¡¯ll take you on a tour of the sound. How long¡¯s it been since you were at sea?¡± ¡°A long time.¡± ¡°Well, you might wretch a few times, but once you¡¯re out there¡­. it¡¯s magical. Really.¡± ¡°And just like that, eh? No bravado this morning, no nuances? Do I still smell of venison stew?¡± She laughed but awaited the answer nonetheless. ¡°Reliving old memories at The Long Face?¡± he asked. Kahriah¡¯s olive complexion turned a shade redder. Thammasorn returned to the topic of the sea. ¡°I¡¯d like to meet that painter¡­I mean artist. He must be a great man.¡± Kahriah was caught off guard by his honesty. ¡°That¡¯s very kind of you, and once the child is a bit older, we¡¯ll certainly take you up on your offer. It sounds delightful.¡± She said sincerely. The Captain nodded with a warm smile and then turned and left. Another twenty-four men and women would be on the mend before moonrise. She wasn¡¯t one to keep track, but when it came to determining the outcome of men¡¯s lives, she was up there with any warrior or king. Dragon¡¯s Ass, if not treated, meant almost certain death in two weeks. She packed up her herbs and oils, and returned to the lower lift. The one she¡¯d rode down the day before was being repaired after a line broke. The lower lift platform had a pile of cracked wood and twisted iron beside it. There were dozens of lifts dangling from Onny¡¯s cliff top, so she made her way a hundred feet further down the beach to another and rode to the top. Moving at an excited clip, she made her way from the cliffs to the mountyards. It was time to buy Lohmen a firstday gift in horse form. When she turned the corner, she saw Grelda waiting and looking around. Kahriah watched and enjoyed her first time spying on her nosy neighbour. The moment was short-lived. ¡°Kahriah! Over here!¡± Grelda called from the other side of the men and women leading mounts into the stables. A large warhorse passed before Kahriah darted through the equine traffic to meet Grelda. ¡°Let¡¯s go buy a horse!¡± Kahriah said, her energy returned after a good night¡¯s sleep. The pair walked back down the pathway taking in any number of more impressive steeds than the one they were about to purchase. At the end, they walked into the horseman pavilion and saw Mr. seventy-forty-two sitting alone at an unmarked table. After meeting their eyes, he stood up and started towards the side exit. ¡°Follow me,¡± he said gruffly, not looking back to see if they had. The horseman led the women to a small, brick building outside of the pavilion. The sign above the door featured a horse flanked by a sheet of parchment on either side. He opened the door and walked inside, with Grelda and Kahriah in tow. The room was empty except for an older man seated behind a large, wooden desk. The wall behind him was entirely shelves, each filled with books of the same size, thickness, and design. ¡°Seven, nought, four, two,¡± the horseman barked at the older man. He clutched the desk¡¯s wood railing so hard it might splinter in his grasp. The older man only raised his eyes and started flipping through a stack of loose sheets on his desk while the horseman impatiently tapped his fingers. ¡°A few niceties might be appreciated,¡± the man at the desk muttered condescendingly before speaking more robustly. ¡°Seller?¡± the man asked, holding his quill for the response. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°0113D7¡± ¡°Mount number?¡± ¡°Seven, nought, four, two¡±.¡± ¡°Purchase price?¡± ¡°Five twenty-five.¡± ¡°Inclusions?¡± ¡°Saddle, saddlebags, bridle, reins. Leather travel bag.¡± The horseman turned to Kahriah. ¡°I threw in a few extra bags for you. I¡¯ve no use for them now.¡± He turned back to the registrar. ¡°Keep going.¡± ¡°Terms?¡± ¡°Payment in full.¡± ¡°Buyer?¡± The horseman looked to Kahriah with expectation. ¡°Buyer?¡± The old man asked, looking up from his paper at Kahriah. ¡°Who is buying this horse?¡± ¡°Uh, me¡­but, sorry. What is this?¡± She asked, puzzled. ¡°First-timers¡­¡± the registrar said under his breath. ¡°This is the Umlom Mount Registry Office, Onlomum branch. All mount sales are to be registered here.¡± Kahriah looked at the horseman with a raised eyebrow. ¡°Is this necessary? I mean¡­¡± she started but was cut off. ¡°Yes.¡± The horseman said sternly. She turned back to the old registry man. ¡°People buy and sell horses all over the realm. You¡¯re to tell me they all registered them here?¡± Kahriah asked, half rhetorically. ¡°No, there are branches in Tunum and Munpun as well. But yes, there are illegal horse deals and those who perpetrate them are outlaws.¡± Kahriah laughed at the idea of two farmers exchanging a horse in Kinon being outlaws. ¡°Well, the horse isn¡¯t for me. It¡¯s for my husband. So record Lohmen Dreisler as the owner, please.¡± ¡°Very well.¡± Said the old man while he wrote. ¡°Each of you signs indicating a properly executed deal.¡± He put the document on the desk in front of them. ¡°Lady, I¡¯ll take payment here.¡± She handed him a purse with five hundred and twenty-five lords, having counted them the night before. The old man counted fifty and raked them off his desk into a drawer. Kahriah heard them clank into the drawer, under the desk, and then under her feet before the sound trailed off. The official handed the balance to the horseman, who grumbled as he finished signing his name. He gave the quill to Kahriah, who signed her name below Lohmen¡¯s and beside the horseman¡¯s inelegant, illegible scribble. ¡°Just a moment, please,¡± the old man said as he grabbed two other sheets of paper and replicated the original twice in lightning fashion. He drabbed a thin layer of hot wax onto each of the duplicates and smashed a seal, a stylised ¡®M¡¯, into each bill of sale. He handed one to the horseman and one to Kahriah. The original, he filed into a book that looked the same as the hundred others on the wall. Kahriah again interrupted his procedure. ¡°Is this my replica then?¡± she asked. ¡°Yessss,¡± the old man said, making no effort to hide his annoyance. ¡°Great.¡± She flipped the page over, grabbed the quill from the inkwell on the old man¡¯s desk, and jotted a short note on the back. ¡°Finished?¡± he asked with raised eyebrows. Kahriah nodded excitedly. ¡°Kahriah, on behalf of Lohmen Dreisler and Seller 0113D7, registered with the Umlom Mount Registry Office, you have successfully purchased a mount. The horse, all inclusions and naming rights pass entirely to Lohmen Dreisler. Five hundred and twenty-five lords, less a fifty lords administration fee, go to the seller. Your business is complete. Good day.¡± He returned his eyes to his papers, ignoring the horseman, Kahriah, and Grelda. The horseman grinned as he left the building and motioned for the women to follow with much more patience and good nature than he had shown before. He led them away from the registry building and horseman pavilion towards another set of stalls where Kahriah saw the horse she had just bought. Lohmen¡¯s firstday gift had been fitted with a saddle, full tack, two saddlebags, and a soft leather bag, rolled and tucked under the cantle. ¡°Here you are, ma¡¯am. Good Day.¡± He nodded at Kahriah and Grelda. With a relieved look, he turned and left the women with their horse. Kahriah and Grelda stood there with their newly purchased mount. Kahriah was the first to speak. ¡°I don¡¯t know how to ride a horse.¡± She confessed, and both women laughed. ¡°I¡¯m sure Bernock can show you the ropes, and I know a few things.¡± They walked back towards the gates of Onny, where they were to meet their coachman. Marell was surprisingly punctual and giddy from her two days in Onny. Kahriah had been petting the horse and was quite proud of her acquisition. ¡°You¡¯re part of our family now, horse.¡± 21. Bags How he wished he could have Kahriah to tend to him now. Bleeding, one-armed and ragged, he desperately needed to see an herbalist. So disoriented he hadn¡¯t even noticed the place he¡¯d rode into. Somewhere, he dismounted his horse and collapsed to his knees. A woman rushed over to him, helped Lohmen to his feet, and the two staggered their way into a building. *** ¡°Oh good, you¡¯re awake.¡± Said an older man with a shaved head and perfectly pointed goatee. Lohmen was lying in a cot, and his hand had been recently and professionally bandaged. The goateed man sat on a stool at Lohmen¡¯s bedside and laid out a leather roll full of herbalist instruments. ¡°Hold still. This is going to hurt.¡± The herbalist was met with a grimace when he threaded a needle through Lohmen¡¯s cheek. ¡°Hold still I said.¡± He pulled the first stitch through and looped back for another. ¡°So what happened?¡± ¡°Two men ambushed me at my camp. I¡­¡± ¡°You made it here. Looks like they picked the wrong Stranger to ambush.¡± Lohmen waited for the next stitch to be pulled through before speaking. ¡°I¡­ I had no choice. They were going to kill me.¡± Lohmen offered remorsefully, thinking back to his departed assailants. ¡°Good riddance. Too many bandits and bad folk these days. You did a good thing.¡± Lohmen appreciated the supportive words, even if he could not take them to heart. ¡°Though it¡¯s toe-headed to be travelling with that many lords.¡± The herbalist nodded toward the purse on the bedside table. He vowed to finally visit a bank, however. ¡°You see a lot of violence?¡± Lohmen asked, stilling his face for the next stitch. ¡°More recently, yes. But your kind seems to be on the winning end of it more oft than not.¡± He said with disdain. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. ¡°My kind?¡± Lohmen asked dubiously. The healer stopped before the eighth and final stitch and narrowed his eyes at Lohmen. ¡°You don¡¯t know¡­.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know what?¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t the time, Stranger. If you want, you should read something by Raev.¡± He was holding a small tin and put it on display for Lohmen. ¡°Apply this salve to your hand every day for a week, and don¡¯t get into any more fights. Off with you now. I¡¯ve got others to tend to.¡± ¡°Who¡¯s Raev?¡± Lohmen replied, taking the tin. ¡°For Fox¡¯s sake¡­Raev? The ancient scholar? Ask around. The inn has a few books in the tavern. Check there.¡± Lohmen held out some lords, and the healer took them in haste. ¡°And get to a bank.¡± The healer left and ducked into another room. ¡°Thank you,¡± Lohmen called to the healer, unsure if he¡¯d heard. He made to stand, but felt a bit woozy and clutched the bedpost for support. A moment later, he collected his lord purse and left. Famished and in pain, Lohmen figured he could only do something about the first. He grabbed both his bags, not wanting his possessions left unattended. Two packs shouldered, he entered the ¡®Ole Maul & Chain for food. He¡¯d rest after. He sat at the edge of the room and tossed his bags on the opposite chair. No spycraft today. A young woman brought him a mug of ale. ¡°By the giants, what happened to you?¡± She surveyed Lohmen¡¯s injuries. ¡°I¡­I don¡¯t truly know.¡± His eyes were glazed, the night before replaying in his mind. ¡°Well, a generous helping of rabbit stew will fix you right up.¡± She smiled sympathetically. ¡°It won¡¯t, but you know what I mean.¡± Her dry humour snapped Lohmen back to the tavern. ¡°Sounds great.¡± His smile turned to a wince as the stitches pulled taught. ¡°Worry not. It¡¯s more soup than stew.¡± The astute girl winked as she started to turn. Remembering the words of the herbalist, Lohmen stopped his server, ¡°Do you have any writings by Raev here?¡± The barmaid laughed at the question. ¡°Yes, though I read it more often than your kind. Your lot seem to know it inside and out already.¡± Unable to form a response, Lohmen sat quietly as their conversation became more one-sided. She left and returned to drop a thick book on the table. Lohmen dusted the cover and ran the fingers on his good hand over the simple embossed title. Bags. 22. Laundry Kahriah waved to Grelda and Marell as they exited the carriage and trotted the new mount to her and Lohmen¡¯s house. ¡°Lohmen? Come on out¡­I have something for you.¡± She called to the house, unsure if he was home. ¡°You¡¯re back! How was Onny?¡± came Lohmen¡¯s reply. Grelda and Marell waved as they went back to their house. The door cracked open, and the painter stuck his head out. A smile worked his way across his face as he took in the site of Kahriah on the brown and white horse. Bernock had given her a few pointers on the ride home and, with a little tug of the reins, Kahriah brought the horse about to provide Lohmen the full profile. ¡°Well, this is something. You bought a horse?¡± ¡°Not exactly.¡± She slipped off the horse, pulled a folded piece of paper from her robe, and handed it to her husband. He took it with a puzzled but playful look on his face. ¡°Seller: 0113D7...Mount name: unnamed¡­price: Five hundred and twenty-five. Five-twenty-five Kahriah?!¡± he exclaimed as she rolled her eyes and motioned for him to continue. ¡°Inclusions: Saddle, saddlebags, bridle, reins, leather travel bag. Terms: payment in full. Buyer¡­¡± he cocked his head to the side. ¡°Did you buy ME a horse?¡± ¡°I did,¡± she said proudly. ¡°Flip it over.¡± On the back was Kahriah¡¯s handwriting. To Lo, My knight in painted armour, Kahriah. Lohmen swallowed a lump in his throat and moved in to give her an embrace. He knew what this meant from her. This horse, Tolo, was a way for him to continue his work and be there for her. And soon, them. A gift of deep love and understanding. ¡°Thank you,¡± was all he could muster. "Happy firstday, Lohmen." She replied. ¡°So, you¡¯re a horseman now. What are you going to name her?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯ve never named a horse before.¡± He looked back down at the note. ¡°To Lo.¡± He read aloud again. ¡°I¡¯m going to call her ¡°Tolo.¡± ¡°That¡¯s pretty good, painter.¡± She kissed him and left the embrace. ¡°I¡¯m exhausted. I¡¯m going to head inside. Why don¡¯t you spend some time with Tolo and then come in.¡± He walked Tolo around their house to the back to give her and her bags an inspection. ¡°You¡¯re a good girl,¡± Lohmen said as he ran his hands along her mane and rubbed her neck. Kahriah had now been responsible for his second love at first sight. The brown and white spotted horse whinnied as her new owner showered her with pats and scratches. When Tolo had been tied up behind their house, Lohmen turned his attention to the tackle she came with. ¡°What else have we got here?¡± He asked Tolo while rummaging through the various inclusions from the bill of sale. Saddlebags hung from either side of the suitable-looking seat. In one of them, he found a bit of rope. The other was empty. Tucked under the cantle was a rolled-up soft, leather bag containing what appeared to be the previous owner¡¯s laundry. The boots strapped to the bag looked a perfect fit, so he plopped on the ground and pulled them on. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Can hardly wear painter¡¯s shoes when riding, can I? He looked down at his feet and imagined himself a knight in the cavalry. ¡°Did she steal you?¡± He asked Tolo. Fishing further in the bag, his fingers met something that gave him pause. Clutching it tightly in his hand, he pulled it out. He tossed the bag in the saddle and raced into the house. Kahriah was standing in the kitchen unloading her herb basket as she turned to see his face brimming with excitement. ¡°Kahriah, you won¡¯t believe what I found in one of the bags.¡± He exclaimed, holding out a closed right hand. ¡°What?¡± she asked, looking at the secret wrapped in fingers. Lohmen slowly opened his hand and watched Kahriah¡¯s eyes widen with surprise and bewilderment. ¡°You know what. This is probably a sign of things beyond my grasp.¡± She grabbed the simple bronze ring from his hand and knelt on one knee. ¡°Lohmen Dreisler, will you join me as one till the end of our days?¡± ¡°Kahriah, I think I¡¯m supposed to do that.¡± He argued playfully. ¡°You know I¡¯m not one for tradition. This is as close as you¡¯ll get. I suppose that¡¯s a no then?¡± She moved to get up with a wry look on her face. ¡°No, no, no,¡± he said as she raised an eyebrow. ¡°Yes, I mean. Yes. I will join you as one till the end of our days.¡± They laughed as she slid the ring on his finger. He pulled her up, and the newly betrothed kissed. ¡°Well, that¡¯s a new one. Not sure how I¡¯ll explain it to the bookbinders!¡± ¡°Lo, don¡¯t worry. I won¡¯t tell anyone.¡± She offered as consolation. ¡°Kahriah, I don¡¯t care who knows. WE¡¯RE TO BE WED!¡± he screamed so Grelda could hear. ¡°Shall we consummate our impending union?¡± He asked suggestively but thankfully to Kahriah, more quietly. ¡°I¡¯ve just ridden all day. I¡¯m exhausted!¡± she laughed and gave him another kiss before returning to her herbs. ¡°I¡¯m a lucky man, Kahriah. Thank you.¡± He said as he smiled at her, even though she had her back to him. ¡°I¡¯m going to go get Tolo set up outback. See you in bed.¡± As he stepped out the back door, he thumbed his new jewellery. Lohmen practically danced out of the house. He¡¯d dropped everything when he found the ring. For four months, since the night they had met, Lohmen had wanted to marry Kahriah. He¡¯d asked that night and again six weeks later when they found out she was with child. Kahriah had consistently declined, saying it wasn¡¯t Lohmen; it was the institution she disagreed with. But even she couldn¡¯t ignore the chance finding of a ring. Lohmen had forgotten about the rest of the inclusions, so he rejoined Tolo in the back and finished his rummaging. The boots from the bag were already on his feet, but there was more. With his arm up to his shoulder, he pulled out the rest of the bag¡¯s contents. He tucked a pair of heavy gloves into the saddlebags for riding. Then a sizable, deep hood that would cover his entire upper body. This¡¯ll serve well if it starts to rain. Folded, he stashed it into a saddlebag as well. Next came a small notebook. Flipping its pages revealed them to be completely blank. Lohmen figured he¡¯d be able to sketch ideas for his paintings. He folded Tolo¡¯s bill of sale into the back of the notebook and slid it into the saddlebag beside the hood. A simple but finely made shirt came out next. Holding it up against his chest, it looked to be a good fit, though out of style, so he threw it over his shoulder to bring inside. Next came a fancy belt with intricate, if not unsettling, embellishments. He threw it around his waist, and the fit was perfect, just like the boots. Finally, he fished out a red pendant with a fine leather string from the bottom. Ugly thing. Who¡¯d wear such an object? He threw the pendant back into the empty bag and rejoined Kahriah in the house. Tossing it in a corner, the bag landed softly near a chair. The only sound was a soft click of a muffled pendant hitting a loose floorboard. 23. The Stranger Lohmen finished his inspection of the impressive book cover and opened it to the first section. ¡°Better brush up. By the look of you, you¡¯re new to owning one.¡± She nodded in the direction of Lohmen¡¯s leather travel bag before leaving him to his studying. Curious what the herbalist and now the barmaid knew that he did not, he flipped through and read a few pages of Bags as he waited for his food. Adventurers choose to seal much of their life and belongings - everything from treasure and transportation to property and persona - into the equipment itself. Wherever they go, their bags go as well. The barmaid returned with the hare stew. ¡°Adventurers?¡± Lohmen looked at the barmaid with a furrowed brow, pointing at the word in the book. ¡°Yeah, or Strangers. Some of the ancients call them that. Anyone with a bag, actually. Those who carry them are Adventurers¡­or Strangers. Raev was an expert on both, but the Bags especially.¡± ¡°People call me a Painter. I¡¯m not an Adventurer or a Stranger¡­.¡± Lohmen flipped through the pages of the book, reading aloud: ¡°...bags contain everything to outfit a person from head to toe¡­ ...helms, swords, ornate chestplates, warhammers¡­ ¡­.Ghost wands, Grave wands, Divine Robes...¡± ¡°How does this apply to me? I¡¯ve a tomesack and a leather bag full of travel gear. I don¡¯t have any weapons or divine garbs.¡± ¡°Keep reading Adventurer. Plenty of your kind carries simple things like tomes and jewellery. Books, belts, and boots too.¡± Lohmen spun the ring on his finger as the information sank in. He squinted at its markings that he was sure weren¡¯t there before. He looked back at the barmaid with a quizzical look on his face. An Adventurer? Lohmen slid his plate to the side and continued reading. She was right. There were all manner of everyday items, among the more elaborate. Crown, Helm, Hat, Warcap, Hood, Greaves, Boots, Shoes, Slippers, Tome, Club, Mace, Book, Katana, Quarterstaff, Warhammer, Gauntlets, Gloves, Sashes, Belts, Robe, Armour, Shirt, Chestplate, Rings. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Sweat began to form under the bandages on his head. Lohmen flipped the pages furiously. He stopped at the passage he¡¯d read before. Adventurers choose to seal much of their life and belongings - everything from treasure and transportation to property and persona - into the equipment itself. Wherever they go, their bags go as well. He flipped back several pages. Eight items covering tip to toe¡­. ¡°Wherever they go, their bags go as well,¡± Lohmen muttered. He opened his pack, pulled out the cartography book and dropped it on the table. He flipped to the back and unfolded a piece of paper tucked there. Saddle, saddlebags, bridle, reins. Leather Travel Bag. The leather bag under the cantle¡­ He rubbed his eyes with his good hand while stress seared at his temples. His breathing shallowed. Did Kahriah do this? He hated himself for the thought. They¡¯d only known each other for four months then, but she was carrying his child. No, she couldn¡¯t have known. He shook his head of ill thoughts. It had been 13 years since she had gotten down on bended knee, but he remembered that day as if it were yesterday. 8 Items covering tip to toe¡­ He wore the boots and gloves every time he rode. Hadn¡¯t taken off the ring since Kahriah had put it on his finger. The hood and book were always stowed when he rode. He wore the shirt more than half the time and the belt nearly all the time. Only seven items¡­ ¡°I never took it. The pendant had never left the house.¡± He mumbled to himself in disbelief and fished the thing from his pocket. Holding it in his hand, he looked it over. It was maddeningly unremarkable; a reddish foggy jewel on a severed leather string. Unremarkable except for the barrel-chested man¡¯s blood that speckled its surface. Wherever they go, their bags go as well. It was the tether. All that time. It was sitting in the bag in the corner of his house. A gaudy thing Lohmen took for costume jewellery tossed in an old leather bag had set the boundary of his search for Thesdon. By simply packing up and leaving with the Ranger, he had broken his tether. Lohmen sunk in his chair under the weight of this revelation. His desperate years of mapping, trying to find Thesdon, were all for nought because of a necklace. After a moment, his eye twitched. His upper lip fluttered almost undetectably to anyone who might be watching. Lohmen caught himself and took a deep breath. He flipped to the back of Bags. His finger traced down, then darted to the right. The pages flew backward to the section he was looking for. On the Matter of Transference: Lohmen¡¯s finger moved down the page. Section 6, Article 4: One may purchase a bag on another¡¯s behalf. He turned back to the bill of sale. Purchased by: Lohmen Dreisler. Kahriah¡¯s hand. Lohmen Dreisler, Stranger. Owner of Leather Travel Bag. Adventurer. He looked at the seller column, and there was only a code at the top: 0113D7. The signature below was illegible. The first letter looked like it could be a T or an F, but no further indication. It didn¡¯t matter. He owned the leather travel bag, whether he understood it or not. In a rush, he put the mapbook back into his bag, threw it over his shoulder and did the same with the leather travel bag. A smattering of coins landed beside the cold rabbit stew where the book had been. The copy of Bags was firmly under his arm. For the first time, Lohmen felt like a piece of him had been unlocked. I need to find the Horseman. Mr Seventy-forty-two. Pushing his chair back from the table a scarred, one-handed, armed Lohmen rose an Adventurer.