《Wander West, In Shadow [Slow Burn Dark Fantasy]》


 The Demon-set Path

    Part One: Through a Dark Wood


    <h2 style="text-align: center">1. The Demon-set Path</h2>


    In the twilight gloom of an autumn-touched forest, the young wizard paused to listen to the wind.


    It whispered through the dying leaves, giving up the last of their life in a shout of color, and set the skeletal branches they clung to creaking. It rustled through undergrowth choked with black thornbush, lifting ghostly fragments of foliage into swirling eddies around his dusty, travel-worn boots. The wizard shivered as it passed him by, tugging at the edge of his black-furred cloak, drawing his faded red scarf tighter against the gathering chill.


    It was not so much the wind that concerned him. He did not have the skill to listen to it, as some could, to predict storms and droughts. It was the fact that he could hear nothing but the wind - no birdsong nor chirp of cricket interrupted it. No sound of anything living at all could be heard in this part of the forest, in fact, except for his own unsteady breath. This, more than anything, made him think he may have found what he was looking for.


    He stood in a clearing, in the shadow of a large gray boulder covered in lichen and creeping vines. Tall as he was, it towered above him, nearly twice his height, and just as wide besides. He reached out to touch it with one gloved hand, breaking away some of the dried bramble, thoughtful, the strange stillness of the forest momentarily forgotten. Olive-skinned, his face was dirtied by travel, and his long dark hair was unkempt, knotted. He wore dark, weathered leathers, a sword buckled at his hip, and a hunting crossbow slung over one broad shoulder.


    Though his face remained calm, a light seemed to spark in his dark green eyes, and the shadow of a smile flickered across his face, as he pondered the stone with hungry curiosity. It was clear that whatever it was, it had at one point been carved by man. Whoever had taken the chisel to it was long gone now, though; vines had grown over it and pried apart its seams, and time had worn away at it, leaving only the ghost of what had once been. This, it seemed, had once been the head of some enormous statue. Too far gone, now, to tell who it had been meant to honor, or if it had been man, woman, or even human. Little more than the suggestion of eyes and a nose, all the rest buried in earth and lost to time.


    The wizard lingered for a moment, frowning, narrowing his eyes, as if by simply staring harder he might get the stone to give up its secrets. Then he sighed, stepping back. He was not here for whatever faded glory this forgotten statue represented. Glancing about, he slowed, and noted uneasily how the trees seemed unwilling to even enter the clearing, their crooked black limbs seemed to bend away, twisting unnaturally, painfully, just to not grow within it.


    ¡°Well,¡± he whispered to himself, ¡°¡®it is time to get on with it.¡±


    Reaching beneath his scarf, he drew out a corded thong that hung about his neck, from the end of which dangled a curious cage of dull, rusted iron, no larger than the circle his thumb and forefinger would make if held together. All of a solid piece, unhinged, it had jagged slots carved into one side of it to reveal its contents: a jagged shard so dark that it seemed as if it had been broken off from the night sky itself.


    The wizard held this odd little charm balanced flat in the palm of his glove, holding his arm outward. He stared at the cage, at the shard in the cage, for a long, quiet moment, remaining as still as possible, holding his breath.


    Nothing happened.


    Finally, he gave a sigh, part disappointment, part relief. But just as he was about to pull his arm back, the little shard of darkness jerked sharply, of its own accord.


    The man froze, his breath catching in his throat, and extended his arm outward once more. The shard rocked back and forth within its cage, ever so slightly at first, so slight that it might have seemed to be mere accident - but then faster, and harder, rattling within the cage, angrily, violently, seized by some invisible force. And then it spun, in fits and starts, until it came to rest, the narrow end pointing firmly in one direction, and was still.


    The young wizard stared at the cage in his palm for a long, silent moment, but it did not move again. He felt a chill grip his heart, and his hand shook as he tucked the little cage back beneath his scarf. "Well, fool," he muttered to himself, "This is what you wanted."


    The only response to his voice was the low sigh of the wind, reminding him of how utterly alone he was, here. Only I¡¯m not really alone, am I. Swallowing his nerves, the wizard moved forward, following the direction the little black shard had pointed him toward. Past the time-faded statue, stepping carefully over dry black brambles that had grown around it. The underbrush gave way to clear ground, as if even thorns did not want to grow here, and when his boots swept aside the leaves, they revealed dark loam studded with small pieces of gravel, and the occasional fragment of flat rock.


    The wizard found himself speculating, as he often did when he was nervous. The oddly flat rocks were signs of the remains of a floor, perhaps, or a plaza. If one knew to look, the clearing was a bit too regular in shape to be natural, and the ground too level. Other stones, too, once he walked past the statue, lay scattered about - smaller, almost entirely buried in leaves, but placed too neatly for nature¡¯s hand. What was left of columns, maybe. A building, then? It must have been terribly ancient, and he without the knowledge of history to know who might have built it. Though it might have been the case that even a scholar would not have known. Too much of history was rumor and stories, and contradicting ones at that.


    These idle thoughts offered little comfort, and it was not long before any lingering curiosity about what this place might have been was driven from his mind entirely.


    With every step along the path pointed out to him by the black shard, the air seemed to grow heavier. A sense of unease washed over him, twisting his stomach into knots. Something was here, he knew, which ought not to be, something here was wrong, and he was walking towards it. Dread clawed at his heart, and panic rose in him, leaping up his throat, but he bit it off, smothered it before it could blossom. He could not afford to break and run away, not now. He had found what he was looking for, and to flee, in this moment, would almost certainly mean his life.


    He forced himself to walk forward, step by step, his breath ragged, until finally he stood before the entrance of a cave.


    It may have been a natural cave, or perhaps it had once served as an entrance to a basement for whatever building had once lain here. It was impossible to tell. If it had been built by man, no sign of that remained. It was little more than a hole in the earth, large enough for him to step into without ducking, that descended down, quickly, into a darkness so black that it seemed to simply drink the light that shone into it.


    The man stared down into that darkness for a long moment. The entire world seemed to fall away. The forest, the wind, the clearing, the faded statue, all gone. All that existed was him, standing at the lip of this dark hole, and the more he gazed into it, the surer he became that it simply went on forever. If he fell into it, it would be nothing but that utter darkness and himself, for all of time.


    ¡°Move,¡± he whispered to himself, so softly that even his own ears could not hear. But he did not, could not. He felt as if he wasn¡¯t within his body, that he was without it, watching himself. "Move, move," he hissed furiously, and finally something in his blood seemed to awaken, catch fire.


    He stumbled backwards from the cave, and then dropped to his hands and knees and began to clear the leaves from the forest floor. Once he had exposed a large patch of bare dirt, he snatched up a stick and began scratching patterns into it. Concentric circles, spiraling in on each other. Pulling a dagger from his boot, he unsheathed it and, without hesitation, nicked his thumb, letting the blood drip into the dirt. He shook his sliced finger, and squeezed, until there was a small pool of red soaking into the ground. Hurriedly, he mixed this with the dirt, and then began tracing the dark paste into the pattern he had drawn, sparingly.


    A low, keening wail pierced the eerie silence. The wizard looked up sharply, eyes wide. That sound had come from somewhere deep within the cave. There was no mistaking it.


    He worked at his patterns quicker, now, sweat beading upon his brow. He could feel it, as well. Within the earth, something stirred; in this ancient and abandoned place, something wicked had made its home in timeworn stone. Like a fool he had sought it out, with both hope and dread but not dread enough, certainly not dread enough, now that he could feel it slithering towards the throat of the cave, towards him, what a mistake this had been¡­


    The wail grew louder and louder. It was not a sound any animal could make. At first it seemed a low whistle, a moan, almost like the wind itself. At other times, it seemed like a man''s scream, but not of any emotion or feeling a man might hold in his heart, no, an inarticulate, flat howl of otherness, drawn out longer than any human breath could hold it. It seemed even less a howl than a long, mocking groan. The shadows lengthened, and the light of day, what there was left of it, seemed to dim. The wizard closed his eyes to focus, trying to keep the endless shrieking out of his mind, trying to trace his pattern in the dirt with trembling hands as the darkness drew closer and closer.


    And then, all at once, the wailing stopped.


    The wizard rose from his knees on legs that he struggled to keep from trembling, standing in the center of the pattern of circles he had drawn in mud and blood. It was as if all he could see was the mouth of the cave, a hole into hidden darkness. He knew this wasn''t right, something wasn''t right, it was not dark as it seemed, if only he could turn his head he would still be able to see the worn and ancient stones, and the forest around him, in the evening light. But he could not, he could not tear his gaze away from the cave''s entrance, because there - just out of the edge of the light - if only he could strain his eyes hard enough - there it was, he knew¡­


    ¡°Martimeos,¡± called a voice from the darkness.


    He nearly broke and ran right there. The voice was wrong, somehow, thick with cruelty. There was the hint of laughter in it, too, and a hunger, a red impulse that throbbed into his mind the moment the word was spoken aloud. This creature would hurt him, he knew, in ways he could not possibly fathom, if it could.


    He could not run. It was far, far too late for that now. He stared at the lip of that cave, the only thing in the world, trying to still his mind, calm his breathing. All dark powers such as this have limits. All have laws they must obey. He clung to those words of wisdom, hoping they would be his shield. The wizard licked his lips, his mouth suddenly felt bone-dry. "That I am, demon," he called out in a croak, with more bravery than he actually felt. "How is it you know my name?"


    Something within the darkness moved, rasped against the cave walls. For an instant, just an instant, Martimeos caught a glimpse of something gray and pale before it vanished back into the black. ¡°I was waiting for you,¡± the demon crooned, sounding oddly lyrical, almost as if it sang instead of spoke. ¡°I knew you would come.¡±


    Martimeos tried to work his mouth, tried to speak, but found he could not. They have limits. Why did it know my name? His breath caught in his throat, and it seemed like something was burning behind his eyes, burning through his thoughts. He had to say something, but he could not think of what it was, and he could not summon the bravery to say it. He could not tear them from the entrance to the cave. It¡¯s lying. Nothing ever said it would know my name. Why¡­


    An awful sound drifted up out of the entrance of the cave. The wizard thought that it might be laughter, if a demon like this could be said to laugh. ¡°Poor little mageling,¡± it crooned, and its voice seemed to silence even the wind. ¡°You¡¯re going to die.¡± It was a promise. Within the darkness, something began to move. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    ¡°Wait,¡± Martimeos managed to whisper, but his throat seemed to seize and he could say no more.


    ¡°Will anyone know?¡± The voice seemed to grow stronger, and that burning feeling behind his eyes did too. ¡°Who knows that you are here? Your family? No. No one. You are all alone, aren¡¯t you.¡± The voice paused, and when it spoke again, it almost felt as if it were whispering in his ear. ¡°Who is this golden-haired girl I see behind you, on your path? Perhaps I will find her. Tell her-¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± Martimeos shouted, outrage finally cutting through his fear. His hand shook as he gripped the hilt of his sword, and he could not make himself let it go, even knowing that a sword would be worthless here. His stomach had curdled upon hearing the demon mention his family, but when it spoke of her - it felt like a violation that this creature should even know the color of her hair. How did it know? How could it know of her? He almost asked the question aloud, but he knew it would do no good. He did his best to discipline the rage he felt. Threats would not work here, but he could seize upon it for courage. ¡°I¡­I have an offering for you,¡± he forced out, his voice tight.


    The demon did not reply, but whatever was in the cave had stopped moving, for the moment, as if waiting. Martimeos managed to peel his fingers away from his sword, and from a jacket pocket he produced a figurine, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. It was in the shape of a long-whiskered catfish, its open, gaping mouth filled with a staring eyeball. And it seemed to be carved from midnight, just as the little shard in the cage that led him here had been. He held it out in front of him, on his outstretched palm. ¡°All that is rightfully yours I offer,¡± he intoned. That was one thing he knew he must not do. He must not imply that he owned this object in any way. ¡°I was not the thief, just the finder, but in good faith I return it.¡±


    There was silence, still. But the figurine trembled on his hand, once, twice, and then it flew through the air, faster than his eye could follow, and disappeared into the darkness of the cave. He waited in, holding his breath, for some sign, some reply, something.


    ¡°That is not all you have which is rightfully mine,¡± the demon hissed, and for once its anger sounded almost human. ¡°Is it.¡±


    Martimeos felt something tugging at his neck - the leather thong that carried the cage, and its little dark prisoner. It rose beneath his scarf, now, held in the air by some invisible force, straining towards the cave. His hands flew up to remove it, but it snapped before he could, and flew, cage and all, down into the dark.


    And then a moment later, something flew out of that dark to strike him in the forehead so hard that stars bloomed behind his eyes and the world seemed to spin. He could immediately feel warm blood flowing down his face, even before he touched his glove to his forehead and saw that it came back wet and red. He looked down at his feet at what had struck him. It was the little iron cage that had held the dark shard, only now it was torn open, and the jagged, ragged edges glistened with his blood. It could have taken out his eye, he realized, feeling a little sick. Blood had flowed down over his lips and into his mouth, and he spat it out. So much of this was not going as he had expected it to. How did the demon know his name? Know of the people that he knew? He thought he could not be harmed by it, while within the circle. Perhaps I really am going to die.


    He kept all these thoughts to himself. He pulled a kerchief from a jacket pocket - little more than a dirty rag - and held it to his forehead to staunch the flow of blood. He winced at the pain - it was a shallow wound, but ugly. Something about that pain, though, dispelled some of the fear he felt. ¡°Is the offering sufficient?¡± he called out. So much else had gone wrong that he could not expect that it was.


    Something shifted in the dark. ¡°Yes,¡± came the demon¡¯s voice. It had lost its mocking edge, at least for the moment. But it still seemed to have that odd, almost musical quality. ¡°Let the Finder have his payment.¡±


    A long, thin arm of gray, pale flesh emerged from the darkness, and Martimeos very nearly clapped his hands to his mouth to stifle a shout of terror. Sweat rolled down his forehead as he watched that sickly arm, gripping the edge of the cave - then another - then another, whipping out of the dark, clawing at the ground, raking thick furrows in the loam. They looked almost as if they might be human, except that they had too many fingers - Martimeos could not count them, only that he knew they were more than five, perhaps six or seven - and their nails were pitch black. They strained with whipcord muscle as the demon pulled itself up.


    Its body was draped in long, stained rags, layers upon layers of them, so that much of its flesh remained hidden. It rose up tall, taller than most men, though its back was humped and stooped. The only part of it visible uncovered by those filthy rags, other than its arms, was its head - a fox¡¯s head, luxurious with bright red fur, but much larger than any fox¡¯s would be. In place of its eyes were glittering black stones, midnight stones, as were its teeth, bared in a vicious grin.


    As it rose, the world seemed to narrow again, the light to grow even dimmer. Those eyes, those jet-black eyes, they seemed to drink the world in until all that Martimeos could see was the demon. And it was wrong. Even setting aside its appearance, something about it was simply not right, something that made his bones shiver, like he was looking at something he wasn¡¯t supposed to see. The way it moved, as it approached him, was unnatural, almost seeming as if it was going to collapse at any moment. But for all that it moved quickly, never wavering, never taking those jet-black eyes from his, and for a moment Martimeos was certain that it was going to kill him, it was going to sweep over his circle as if it wasn¡¯t even there, this was all a sick joke, he would die screaming¡­


    The demon stopped just outside the circle he had drawn. Though it was taller than he was, it was so hunched and stooped that the strange fox-head was at the same level as his. It was like that fox-head was the only thing in the world he could see. His head pounded, and his vision was mostly darkness, and if only he could bring himself to speak, but his breath seemed all at once too ragged and too quick to get a word out.


    ¡°Martimeos,¡± the demon spoke, as if relishing his name. The fox-head did not move in the slightest as it did. Whatever it was speaking with, it was not that mouth. ¡°Little wizard. I know what it is you want.¡± Dimly, Martimeos realized he could not tell if the voice even came from the creature in front of him. It seemed to hum within his own head, like his skull was a bell, suffocating his own thoughts. ¡°You have lost your quarry. And you want a Telling to set you on your path.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he managed to force out, past a tongue that seemed too thick. Truth be told, he almost didn¡¯t care about that anymore. Almost. He forced himself to meet the demon¡¯s gaze, tried to rally the tatters of his thoughts. Laws that it must obey. The demon owed him. ¡°Yes, yes,¡± he repeated, his voice growing stronger each time. ¡°That is what I want.¡±


    Silence, for a long, heavy moment, was his only reply. The demon was close enough, he realized, that if this thing breathed, he would have felt its breath. But it didn¡¯t breathe; in fact, it now seemed so still, so perfectly, impossibly still, that Martimeos for a wild moment wondered if somehow, time had stopped. No creature, no natural, living thing, could remain so utterly unmoving. You will be stuck here, frozen here, for eternity with this demon, forever.


    ¡°Blood,¡± the demon¡¯s voice echoed through his mind, just when he felt that he must have lost it. ¡°I need your blood for this.¡± A mottle-gray hand extended out, black fingernails as sharp as talons, but it did not cross the circle.


    Martimeos wondered for a moment if this was a threat, but the demon seemed to wait patiently for his response. His blood? Quickly, he remembered the rag he still held to the wound in his forehead. He drew it back, and it was soaked through, red and wet, and a fresh trickle began to run down his face, though not nearly as much as had before. Careful not to cross the circle himself, he half-dropped, half threw the rag into the demon¡¯s waiting clutches.


    Whip-quick, the demon brought that rag to its twisted fox¡¯s face, and breathed in deep; it dragged its tongue across it, tasting it, tasting his blood. It raised its snout to the air, and sniffed, as if scenting on the wind. When it spoke, it seemed subdued, somehow calmed. ¡°I see your paths, little wizard. Dancing with each other. Yes.¡± Its nose, Martimeos saw, was wet with his blood. It stood for a time, nose flaring, as if savoring the taste of it. ¡°Less than a tenday¡¯s travel. To the South. By the shores of the great lake of Nust Drim, you will find the cursed village of Silverfish. And there you will find the trail again.¡±


    Martimeos waited for the demon to say more. When it became apparent it would not, he swallowed, his throat feeling as if it were dust, and asked in a hoarse whisper, ¡°What sort of curse?¡±


    But the creature did not answer him. It simply lowered its bloody snout, that fox-head grinning at him, leering, with flat, black eyes.


    Martimeos knew he ought to accept this; to take what wisdom he had been given and go. A part of him longed for the demon to be gone. It still dominated his vision, fuzzed his thoughts and blurred his sight, dimmed the light, and dragged his eyes towards it every time he tried to glance away. And it might take the implication that what he had been given was not enough as an insult. Still, he asked the question his tongue itched to speak. ¡°Isn¡¯t there anything else that you could tell me?¡±


    That grinning snout seemed to laugh, revealing more black fangs, and a gray, limp tongue. However bright the fur of the fox-head was, it looked dead inside. ¡°Someone follows you, Martimeos,¡± the demon¡¯s voice burned in his thoughts. ¡°Someone walks in your shadow.¡±


    And then, before the question could be put to it, the demon was gone. Martimeos nearly stumbled as the world seemed to lurch around him. The heavy feeling of the demon being in his skull was suddenly gone, along with the sense of disgust, the feeling of being in the presence of something filthy. The world no longer seemed so dim - or, any less than it should be, the day¡¯s light was very nearly gone. He could feel the wind again, and the cave no longer held its hypnotic pull. It was simply a hole in the ground.


    Still, Martimeos could not help but feel uneasy. The demon had simply vanished, there one moment, gone the next. And he realized, looking at the rim of the cave, that signs of its passing were gone too. The creature had dug long furrows in the ground as it pulled itself out of the cave, and yet now it was undisturbed, as if it had never been touched. He wondered wildly if the demon had ever been there at all.


    Putting a hand to his forehead, he winced. He could feel tender flesh, and the start of scabbing. That was real, at the very least. Catching the scent of something burnt, he looked down and felt his heart quicken. That circle he had drawn on the forest floor, in a paste of dirt and his own blood, was burnt into the ground now, as if it had caught flame around him.


    Martimeos stared at this for a moment, then scuffed the circle with his boot. He had no time to wonder at this. Night was coming on, and he would have to walk quick to make it back to his camp before it fell. With one last look back at the cave - darkness there, and nothing more - he set off, leaving behind the clearing and the forgotten, worn statue, long legs expertly picking a path through the thorny underbrush, quieter than the wind.


    A waste of time, is what that was, and a deadly one too, Martimeos thought grimly. It had done little more than tell him to continue the path he was already on. Demon or no, he likely would have made it to Nust Drim and Silverfish eventually. He spat, shifting his cloak around him, and then sighed. It wasn¡¯t totally useless, he knew. Now, he knew to go straight there, and he knew to linger in Silverfish to find what he was after. And, he thought, you know that someone is following you.


    Remembering the last thing the demon said, he paused. It was very nearly dusk, and the deep shadows of the forest could hide anything. Why would someone be following him? Whatever reason they had to be doing so, it couldn¡¯t be good. More calmly than he felt, he unslung his crossbow from his back. Pulling back on the built-in lever to cock it, he slid a bolt into the groove. It was small, and not very powerful, but it did well for him in hunting. And it could kill a man, from up close.


    He stalked forward, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire at anything that moved, his eyes straining at every shadow and his heart racing with every creaking branch. Despite the chill, he felt as if he had sweat through his underclothes by the time he made his way back to his camp. Such as it was. It was little more than a ring of stones he had placed around the remains of a fire, and his hide satchel hung on the low branches of a tree.


    With a sigh, he removed the bolt, and let the tension go out of the string. He had half been expecting someone to be waiting for him by the time he got back.


    If someone was following him, he had certainly detected no sign of it, and he was not uncautious. He knew these woods were dangerous, and more so alone. If they were following him, for how long had they been doing it? They would have had ample opportunity to steal while he was away, and yet his satchel was still there, where he had left it. He checked it, just to be sure, but it was completely undisturbed, and nothing was missing from it.


    Could it be possible that the demon had lied to him? For the simple joy of deception? He didn¡¯t put it past the creature, but then again, it had been part of his Telling, and it would not have lied about that. Laws that had to be obeyed. Or perhaps it had not been part of the Telling. It had been an additional question that he had asked at the end, after all. Martimeos didn¡¯t know, but he thought perhaps that he had been lied to.


    Still, he declined to light a fire that night, and slept with his back up against the rotten trunk of a fallen tree, with his cloak wrapped tight about him and a whispered word to it to keep it dry and warm against the chill. Despite the wards he had set that would warn him if anyone came near, he found himself straining his ears for any sound in the dark of that moonless night. It was a long time before he finally drifted off to sleep.

 The Huntsmans Home

    <h2 style="text-align: center">2. The Huntsman¡¯s Home</h2>


    It was dark, but a hazy yellow moon stared unblinking down at him, providing just enough light to make his path clear.


    Martimeos was standing in a field of long grass, dotted here and there with soft white meadowflowers, almost seeming to glow as they caught the moonlight. Fairy¡¯s tears, they were called, drooping sadly towards the ground, their petals looking oddly like little women in dresses, faces in their hands, weeping. They bobbed up and down, gently, as a breeze passed through the field, the grass rippling in waves.


    The wind brought with it a wave of heat and the smell of burning wood, and something else. In the distance, the dull orange glow of fires stained the night sky. Ash drifted down to settle gently in his hair.


    Martimeos opened his mouth to speak, tearing open lips that felt as if they had melted together. Nothing but bright blood bubbled out. His hands were pale, too pale, too cold, and he could only dimly feel an agony, an agony that he knew was dulled beneath numbness, deep inside him, like the sounds of screams in the far distance.


    He walked, stumbled, shuffled through the tall grass, not feeling it as it brushed against him, not willing himself forward at all, drawn, drawn to those fires in the distance. He had to know what burned.


    But long before he reached the flames, he spotted a small figure laying face down on the ground. All at once, he knew he could not go near it. He tried to scream as his feet dragged him closer. Closer to the small, ruined, broken figure, mercifully hidden mostly in shadow, lying in the dirt. He tried to tear his eyes away, but whatever force it was that made him walk against his will made him look, too. He had to look. He couldn¡¯t look. An eye in a ruined face moved slightly, to look back at him. Not dead. Oh, if only, if only it had been dead.


    The thing on the ground opened a mouth full of broken teeth to speak.


    ===***===


    Martimeos awoke with a hoarse yell, his eyes staring wildly, heart hammering in his chest. It took him a few moments to realize where he was, and when he did he grimaced. His throat burned as if he had done more yelling in his sleep, and he hastily wiped tears from his face. It had been years since he had had that nightmare. Or, at the least, years since he had remembered it upon waking. ¡°Dark thoughts,¡± he muttered to himself. Dark thoughts put into his head, by his meeting with the demon yesterday. That was all. He quickly put it out of his mind, not wanting to think of it at all. Let the Land of Dreams claim back its visions, the way it normally did.


    He stood up with a groan, stretching sore limbs, shaking leaves from his hair. It had not been a very satisfying sleep at all, and the light had only barely broken, but he did not intend to stay here one moment longer than he had to. He had been in these woods too long already, and he had further to go before he was out of them. The demon had said less than a tenday¡¯s journey, but how much less? Martimeos was a fast walker. Perhaps he could be at Silverfish with just a few day¡¯s journey, and hopefully find a bed to sleep in.


    In a tree a stone¡¯s throw away, a bird burst into exultant song, saluting the sun. Other birds joined in quickly, but Martimeos smiled. He recognized who that first birdsong belonged to. ¡°Ho, Flit!¡± he cried out, following with a birdlike whistle of his own.


    A brilliantly scarlet cardinal darted out from the leaves, camouflaged quite nicely among the reds and yellows of autumn, and winged its way towards him, landing on his outstretched glove, cocking its head to stare at him with one beady, black eye.


    ¡°Did you have a fine time winging yesterday?¡± Martimeos asked him. He nodded sagely as his familiar told him of a fine talking-to he had given a group of finches who thought they could keep him from a bush of bloodberries that he had found, despite the fact that there was enough for all. The way he talked, he made it sound as if he had battled every finch at once with the utmost honor and defeated them all handily.


    Perhaps he had. Flit, like most familiars who chose to serve one who practiced the Art, was unusual for his species. Something about the Art seemed to invigorate them, make them more than they otherwise might be. Flit was larger, smarter, and had plumage more brilliant than your typical cardinal, something he was inordinately proud of. Some even learned to speak a human tongue, though Flit had never had the ability for that. Though Martimeos at times suspected that he might have, but simply found it too insulting to speak in anything but song. Familiars were supposed to serve, but Flit seemed to find the relationship much more of one between equals.


    Martimeos paused for a moment, considering. He could speak in the bird-tongue too - or, at least, one of the bird tongues, one that Flit could understand. There were hundreds, if not thousands of them, some of them just slight variations on what he knew, some of them so foreign that he could not tell one trill from the next. He was a bit clumsy while speaking it, but..maybe, just maybe, someone was listening to him. Pursing his lips, he whistled smartly. ¡°Have you noticed anyone following us?¡±


    Flit puffed up imperiously, insulted, his crest bobbing up and down in irritation. Of course he hadn¡¯t, if he had, he would have told, now wouldn¡¯t he?


    Martimeos did his best to soothe him, offering him an old, stale crumb of bread that he dug out of one of his pockets. ¡°It¡¯s alright. The demon, yesterday, told me someone was following me. It might have lied. But perhaps it is best if you stay nearby for a bit.¡±


    Flit gave a long, desultory, put-upon whistle. Usually, he spent most of his time winging up high, far ahead of Martimeos, scouting the land and reporting back anything unusual. The little cardinal liked to think of himself as leading the charge; being the rear guard did not nearly satisfy his curious bird¡¯s sense of honor. But still, he agreed, taking off from Martimeos¡¯ hand to alight upon a nearby branch, warbling unenthusiastically as his wizard made ready.


    Not that there was much for Martimeos to do. He grabbed his satchel from a nearby tree and slung it over his shoulder, as well as his crossbow, fumbling for a bit to make sure they did not tangle in his cloak. He loosened the red scarf that hung about his neck. It was a crisp fall day, but walking would warm him up. For a brief moment he considered hiding the evidence of his campfire, but if someone really was following him, they certainly already knew he had been there. Maybe it would make sense, in the future, to be more discreet with his campsites. He sighed. He almost hoped that Flit did spot someone, so he could confront them, and not have to put up with the extra effort of hiding.


    A brief memory of his nightmare swept through him as he looked at where he had slept, and he shivered. Defiantly, he began whistling a merry tune, forcing any lingering memories from his mind, and was off and on his way.


    ===***===


    His camp had not been made far from the road, just off of it enough to be out of sight if someone had glanced his way, and it was not long before he was striding down it with a purpose, Flit darting from tree to tree around him, the whistle eventually fading from his lips as he became lost in his own thoughts.


    Unlike the ancient, forgotten statues by the demon¡¯s cave, this road was only centuries old, or at least so it seemed. Its builders had laid good foundations, in any case, and while the top layer of flat, gray paving stones may be worn, the forest had not reclaimed it yet. The wells and cisterns he had seen built roadside for travelers, however, were choked with brush and useless more often than not. Someone had once, at great expense, carved a path through these woods, trying to tame them, but whoever that had been was now long gone.


    Most folks he had spoken to called it the One-Road Wood, appropriately enough, with warnings never to stray from the path. Martimeos knew they had another name as well: the Forest of Glys, though only because he had seen that name on an old map. He had heard stories when he was young mentioning that name, though, with never a description of where it was, only tales of brave young men killed by shadows in the dark, or foolish princesses lured into the deep woods by the fae, never to return.


    He wondered if the stories had any truth to them. Nowadays, there were such tales about every forest. But then again, nowadays, nearly every forest did swallow up folk in all truth. There were no Kings to carve them up with roads and tame them; none with the strength or inclination, anyway. The demon, at least, is truth enough for any story, he thought grimly.


    The demon was known as a Dolmec, and the stories - none of the sort that you told in polite company, the sort of stories that wizards and witches might whisper to each other when normal folk weren¡¯t listening - they said that such creatures could be bargained with. The demons were always after the jet-black material which most folk called Nightstone - if they knew of it at all - but which those who practiced the Art called Dolmec iron. If they knew of it at all. It was a rare thing, and in truth may not have been stone or metal at all. It was something out of an age long gone; nobody alive knew how to work it, it was for all intents and purposes indestructible.


    He had gotten his Dolmec iron from the same person who had told him about the Dolmec in the first place: A witch that called herself Mother Pris, who lived on the outskirts of the village of Congar. The men of Congar traded in timbering and woodcraft, but though Mother Pris would tend their wounds, they seemed not very fond of her, and the women even less so. Martimeos had thought, at first, that it was simply fear of the Art.


    After meeting Mother Pris, though, he didn¡¯t think he could blame the villagers for their lack of gratitude. He thought it very likely that the witch was not entirely human. She kept her face hidden entirely, buried deep within a filthy hooded shawl, and wrapped around with a scarf; she had worn long gloves, covering every inch of flesh, yet all that precaution could not hide the fact that she stood a good two heads taller than Martimeos did, nor could it hide her eyes, too-large, rheumy, and moving in different directions from each other. There were tales of wild witches consorting with demons and other outsiders, and Martimeos would have bet all the coin he had that Pris¡¯ mother had been one such, if he could have, or call himself Fortune¡¯s fool if he did not.


    For all her strangeness, though, Pris had welcomed him warmly once she had learned he was a wizard. She felt a responsibility, she had said, to welcome young practitioners of the Art. She told him of the Dolmec which might have some of the answers he sought, and Martimeos had been surprised when she had offered him the figurine and the little charm of Dolmec iron. He had wondered if there weren¡¯t men who would pay quite a lot for such things, the little relics from another time being so rare. But she had seemed glad to be rid of them, eager even.


    He wondered, not for the first time, where exactly Pris had gotten them to begin with. Or how she knew of the Dolmec, so deep in the woods. Who, exactly, her mother might have consorted with. Shivering, he put it out of his mind. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    She had told him, too, of a huntsman, by the name of Coxton Praet, who made his life alone in the deep of the woods, but who would help travelers. If she had told him true, he would reach Coxton¡¯s outpost before sunlight failed today. Martimeos looked forward to it. He had traveled on his own for some time now, but never so utterly alone as he was in these woods, not seeing a soul, other than the demon, for days on end. He had Flit to keep him company, but another human face would be good to see. Coxton was certainly an odd sort of man, to eke out a life alone this deep in the woods, but some men were simply like that. Martimeos could sympathize, to a point. There was something to be said for the quiet of a wood. Perhaps he might even get a well-cooked meal, for once. Hunting was not sparse in the One-Road Wood, but one tired of rabbit seared over a campfire.


    That is, if he could be trusted. If Pris could be trusted, for that matter. What if it was Pris who was following him? A witch so much older than he, so much more worked with the Art, might have the means to hide even from Flit¡¯s eyes. What if that was the plan? To have him walk right to Coxton, her ally, thinking that between the two of them a young, inexperienced wizard would be easy pickings. But why? Perhaps not to kill him. After all, there were things that could be done, rites that required the living blood of those who practiced the Art¡­


    Martimeos shook his head grimly. He was not going to let the demon¡¯s words worm their way into his brain. If Pris were following him, and wanted to kill or capture him, she had had many opportunities. And visiting the Dolmec, for all that it had unnerved him, had worked out to his advantage as she had promised as well. If she had wanted him, she never even had to let him out of her sight - she could have bound him up as he sat in her hut. He was still not convinced that anyone was following him at all. Certainly the demon would have taken perverse pleasure in lying to him, for exactly the sort of reaction he was having at this very moment.


    He told himself that. Still, he walked on less enthusiastically than before, his worn boots no longer eating up so much ground. He kept his eye on Flit, and glanced behind himself, down the long empty road, more than he should have.


    ===***===


    The sun was just beginning to set when he reached the home of Coxton Praet.


    Or so Martimeos assumed it was. When this road had been laid down, in addition to the wells and cisterns for the benefit of travelers, the builders had also constructed occasional waystations. He had already passed by a few of these, or rather, the stone skeletons of what remained of them - their roofs and whatever else was wooden about them long since rotted away.


    This one, however, had a thatched roof in good repair, though the adjoining stables had been left to ruin. It would have served as a modest inn, with rooms for a few travelers to rest in overnight; it probably was too large for a man living alone, though perhaps being stone-carved made the effort worth it in the winter. Firewood lay stacked against one of the outer walls, and the well which lay in the center of a small, stone-paved courtyard out front was not choked with brush or fallen in on itself, as so many others had been.


    ¡°Coxton Praet!¡± Martimeos called out as he approached. He glanced behind himself, catching a glimpse of Flit darting from tree to tree over the road, then cupped his hands to his mouth to shout once more. ¡°I was told by Mother Pris that I might find rest under your roof!¡±


    Silence answered him.


    Most likely the man was out hunting. He would likely be back soon, before it got dark. Martimeos shrugged off his hide satchel and his crossbow, and drew up clear, cool water from the well to refill his waterskins. Too bad there was little hope that Coxton had an extra bed. It would be nice when he could sleep in one of those again.


    Having drunk his fill, he walked around the inn, admiring it. It may have been modest in size, but in nature it seemed dignified; a stately columned portico hung over the front entrance, seeming to invite weary travelers to at the very least rest in its shade, and the doorway itself was large, grand, and back when it was first built probably graced with a pair of heavy great doors, though nowadays it looked as if Coxton had boarded most of the portal up and built a more modest doorway into it.


    Martimeos walked around the side of the building, still admiring the architecture, his mind far away and dreaming of a hot well-cooked meal, when he turned the corner and froze.


    At the back of the building was another entrance, this one smaller - probably used by the cooks, when this was still an inn, to throw out the refuse from the kitchen. However it was used now, though, it was torn off its hinges, and lay askew half-in and half-out of its own doorway.


    For the briefest of moments Martimeos held onto the hope that Coxton had merely left it in the middle of repairs, before he spotted that the long, dry, dying grass leading away from it was trampled and broken and unmistakably bloodied. Part of him still wanted to live in denial. Coxton was a huntsman, maybe it was simply the signs of his butchery. But a foreboding told Martimeos that this was not the case, that something was wrong here. And he knew well enough to listen to that instinct. Something about working with the Art sharpened it. In wizards and witches, it was rarely wrong.


    He held his breath, his hand going to the hilt of his sword, and listened. Except for the chirping of crickets, he could hear nothing. He drew his blade, slowly, so slowly, with just the whisper of a hiss as it left its scabbard, and crept forward. As he inched closer to the broken door, and got a better look, his heart sank. There was a lot of blood smeared on the grass, as if something large and bleeding profusely had been dragged away. It had been dried black, though. This hadn¡¯t happened recently. It could have happened days ago, for all he could tell - there had been no rains recently to wash the bloodstains away.


    He relaxed, just a little bit, though he still kept a firm grip on his sword. If it had happened days ago, there was less of a chance that whoever had done this was still here. Unless they heard you crying out for Coxton and now lie in ambush for you. He listened once again, but shook his head - he wasn¡¯t going to hear someone standing still behind stone walls. Pressing himself flat against the outer walls, he gathered his courage, and quickly peeked around the edge of the doorway - and then swore.


    The interior of the inn was a shambles. Bloodstains were spattered everywhere - the walls, the floor, the ceiling - in some parts, it almost seemed as if the floor had been painted with it. This was no butchery - there had been a battle here, and someone, or multiple someones, had bled out on the floor and probably died. The smell of blood was thick in the air, as Martimeos stepped inside. He still held his sword, but he didn¡¯t think that anyone who had done this was still here. He liked to think that even bandits would have made an attempt to clean up the gore if they were going to stay.


    Not that he was certain this was the work of bandits, because the blood was the least of it. Every scrap of furniture, everything made of wood, everything that would burn, had been hacked to timbers and piled up in the center of the inn floor. There were the remains of a table, several chairs, books with their pages torn out. He even saw a few perfectly good furs thrown in the pile, wolf pelts. And the acrid smell of smoke hung in the air. Part of the pile was blackened with char. He reached out with the Art, and could feel the dead trace of flame thwarted before it could catch hold; it had burned hot enough to burn through torn papers but not enough to catch the hard, heavy wood of the furniture. Someone had gone through all this trouble to try to burn down the inn, but had not bothered to stick around to make sure it took. And they had not been back to try again since.


    Martimeos quickly checked all of the adjoining rooms, which was easy enough, since Coxton had either not bothered to put doors in them, or what doors they had had been torn down and added to the fire-pile. All empty except for dust.


    Walking back to the inn¡¯s common room, he sheathed his blade with a sigh, and then shook his head, disgusted. He made his way out of the inn, filling his lungs with fresh air. The scent of dry blood in that enclosed space was making him feel sick. But seeing the forest that surrounded the inn, its shadows growing darker every moment as daylight died, hardly made him feel any better. He whistled out to Flit, telling his familiar to stay close. He thought those who had done this were long gone, but he didn¡¯t want to take any chances at the moment.


    Wondering what might have done this, he decided to follow the blood trail out the back of the inn to see if it led to any answers. He did not follow it far before the sour stink of death filled his nostrils. He covered his mouth and nose with the corner of his cloak. And then he came across the body. He almost stepped on it, it was so hidden in the long grass.


    He took it at first for the corpse of a man in strange garb, and thought that his answer was that bandits had done this. But past a first glance, the corpse did not look human at all. It was not wearing strange garb - it was covered in filthy, dull gray feathers, where its flesh was not covered in primitively stitched, untreated skins. And its face, its face was not human at all. Covered in whorls of tough, knotted gray skin, surrounding a long, hooked, curving beak - a vulture¡¯s beak. The eyes, though, even in death the eyes were human, far too human for comfort. Its throat had been opened, and a sheet of dried, blackened blood fell down its neck and chest. It had been here long enough for the flies to find - they crawled all over it, into and out of that sharp beak, over the sightless, unblinking eyes.


    But what struck Martimeos the most was the strange sense of familiarity that washed over him, looking at it. Why should he feel this thing was familiar? He had no idea what it even was, he had never heard of such a creature before¡­


    Vultures. Remember where you saw vultures? There were so many of them, wheeling through the sky. A storm of them.


    Martimeos shook his head, banishing the thought, but he could not stop staring at the corpse. A sense of disgust, of contempt welled up within him. What a wretched thing this creature was, how hateful.


    So intent was he that, at first, he missed Flit¡¯s cry. But his head snapped up when his familiar called out with another shrill song.


    Someone was near. A stranger. Close.


    He scanned the dark treeline ahead of him, wrapped in a soft gloam as the last few rays of daylight danced across the sky. At first, even while listening to Flit¡¯s frustrated directions, he saw nothing. But as he swept his eyes across the shadows, there seemed to be one part of the forest they lingered on, even without him knowing why -


    And then he saw them. What once his mind had dismissed as a split in the trunk of an old gnarled oak moved in a way that no tree trunk should, and all at once he could see it was not a part of the tree at all. It was a dark figure, unmistakably so, though too hidden in the dim light of evenfall to make out any features, and less than a shout¡¯s distance away.


    Before Martimeos could even think to remain quiet, he had cried out in alarm, and the figure immediately disappeared behind the tree. He only paused for a moment before immediately sprinting after them, as hard as he could.


    Whoever it was, they could have been luring him into a trap. Perhaps he was being foolish. But maybe whoever it was was running off to tell others that he was here. Maybe it was another one of the vulture-men.


    He had already committed to the choice. And Martimeos was a fast runner, with long legs, and nimble through the brush. He leapt over a patch of itchleaf to come down with a crash right where the figure had stood mere moments before, and there it was moving deeper into the woods before him. He had already halved the distance between them. He could make out, now, that whoever it was, they wore a long, dark jacket, and a wide-brimmed, pointed hat. He got a glimpse of a pale face as the figure looked back at him in alarm, and then began running hard.


    Not a vulture-man, then, Martimeos thought as he tore after it. Whoever it was could not run as fast as he could, and he was easily gaining on them. Branches tore at his hair as he flew through them, but he was too intent on the figure before him. But then, between one step and the next, it seemed to simply disappear.


    Martimeos slowed, making his steps more careful, but he did not stop. Soon enough he came across the explanation. Right where the figure had disappeared, a shallow gully cut across the forest floor, carved by a stream that had since gone dry. Deep enough for someone to disappear, if they threw themselves in it, but shallow enough that it wouldn¡¯t hurt them, and deep with dead leaves as cushion besides.


    He stopped, breath ragged in his throat, and listened for a moment. He could hear no sounds of movement. Growling with frustration, he leapt into the gully, kicking aside the mounds of leaves, sending them fluttering through the air. But nothing lay beneath them except hard dirt and waterworn stone.


    Martimeos swore beneath his breath, then glared at the empty, silent forest. ¡°Show yourself!¡± he cried out, his voice harsh with anger. ¡°If you follow me, show yourself, unless you¡¯re a hollow coward!¡±


    Nothing but his own echo answered him.


    He gave the leaves one last desultory kick. There was nothing for it. He couldn¡¯t waste time searching. Darkness was coming on, and he had to move. He couldn¡¯t stay here.

 Hunted

    3. Hunted


    The thin, yellow crescent of a moon leered down at Martimeos as he forced himself along, tired to the point of exhaustion, in the quiet stillness of night.


    Upon realizing he had lost the mysterious figure in the chase, he had quickly made his way back to Praet¡¯s home and the road, not wasting any time in setting out once more. The demon had not been lying. There was no way he could stay in a place where someone who was hunting him had spotted him.


    Why, though? Why had they been hunting him? He had not been able to tell, at all, who the dark figure was. He had only caught a glimpse of their face, just a flash of pale in the darkness, and that was all. But there was something that filled him with fear. Their pointed, wide-brimmed hat. Plenty of travelers wore wide-brimmed hats to shield themselves from the shade, but that particular style of hat was worn, usually, to signify someone who practiced the Art. Not everywhere, it was true. Martimeos had never worn one, and neither had those who had taught him. But the further west you traveled, the more you saw them.


    And it made too much sense. Someone who knew the Art could have the knowledge to conceal themselves, to stalk him unseen, to be difficult even for Flit to spot. He glanced down at his shoulder, where his familiar perched now, sleeping fitfully. Flit had argued against riding on his shoulder, but Martimeos knew his familiar¡¯s pride would drive him to fly until he dropped dead of exhaustion, so long as it meant keeping up with his master. And he might have need of the little bird to fly and spot for him, yet. Better to let him sleep while he could.


    And he didn¡¯t want Flit getting too close to their hunter, either. Someone with the Art could bind him and drop him right out of the air. Someone with the Art could bring themselves upon him while he slept, bypass his wards, and cut his throat. So why hadn¡¯t they? Why were they following him?


    Truth be told, even if he hadn¡¯t spotted his hunter, he would have needed to flee. He wasn¡¯t sure what happened to Coxton Praet, but he had to assume that there were more vulture-men than the dead one he had seen. Perhaps the hunter had gotten away. He wanted to believe that. But he could not have stayed at that place and risked their return.


    He had no idea what the creatures were - he had never heard any mention of them, even in Congar where men lived right on the edge of the forest. Mother Pris had never warned against them either, and she knew of the Dolmec. There were fae that had animal features, he knew, but he did not think these things were fae. He had heard of men who took on the shape of beasts and eventually became more like them, but never as a vulture.


    It did not matter. It could be that they were something else, something from the Outside, that had made its way into this world. Such things were not uncommon these days. His last teacher came to mind; he could still see the stout, scarred old man rocking in his chair, puffing away at a pipe. The world is tired, boy. It grows thin, everywhere. It fades, and the Outside slips in through the cracks.


    Martimeos was glad for his caution. Not long after he had fled, once the darkness had settled in and the cold had begun to bite, he had heard echoing cries in the far distance. They sounded like the ragged, whistling screams of vultures. Though their sound had made his blood run cold, he had forced himself to listen closely. He was no master in the way of these things; perhaps someone more knowledgeable in woodcraft might have been able to do better, but he thought he could hear at least three calling to each other. Perhaps more.


    He had pushed himself to a pace just short of running, trying to leave those cries behind. And the hunter, too. Perhaps the hunter, whoever they were, could talk with the vulture-men and had told them of his presence. He had spent so much time looking back over his shoulder, dreading what he would see, or even walking backwards at points to see if he might glimpse torchlight following him in the distance. All he had succeeded in doing was nearly tripping over himself. He barely had more than starlight to see by. Travel would have been hopeless, if not for the road.


    It had been hours now since he had last heard the cries, and his pace had slowed. He had to stop, and soon, he knew. He was used to walking long distances, but his legs ached, and his feet throbbed in his boots. It would already be painful to walk again tomorrow, he knew, and if he drove himself too much he may not be able to move very far at all. His fear-quickened blood had left him, ever since those cries had faded away, and no longer kept his exhaustion at bay.


    With a gentle prod, he woke Flit, and asked him in a low whisper if he might fly up one last time tonight, up high, to see if he might spot any signs of someone following - lights in the distance, anything. His familiar was clearly annoyed at having been woken up - he had not wanted to go to sleep for the stain on his honor, and now he did not want to be awake - but still, the bird shook himself and took off into the sky.


    As he did so, Martimeos staggered off the side of the road, into the woods, searching, and it was not long before he found what he was looking for - a suitable hollow, in the gnarled trunk of an old beech tree, and the ground thick with dried leaves. He had spotted it from the side of the road, and had hoped that it might make a good hiding spot. He would have preferred to go further into the woods, at least until the road was completely out of sight, but there was no way he could have made his way safely through rougher ground very far when the night was this deep. He barely had enough light to scratch his sigils into the dirt, the wards that would warn him if anyone approached him in his sleep.


    Flit returned, with no news of lights or anything in the night that suggested he was being followed, and settled himself into the branches of the beech. Martimeos settled himself in between the roots, covering himself in the dead leaves, and then worked a glamor that would serve to keep him hidden. He had some talent at such things; it had always come naturally to him, though he was untaught - his last teacher had not known much of it, and instead had taught him the use of sigils, the forging of the Art into symbols, such as he used to set his wards, or the circle he had used to keep the Dolmec at bay.


    A glamor, though, could be a simple, subtle thing. The secret to them was that they worked best when they played to what people expected to see. When people saw a pile of leaves, they did not expect to see bits and pieces of a wizard poking out from underneath them, they expected to simply see more leaves. All the glamor did was tell them that yes, they saw what they expected.


    It worked best when you could see the person you were trying to fool. Yet there was a way to make it so the enchantment would work for anyone who looked upon it. You whispered to the world itself that the glamor was the truth. Martimeos had heard that such works were the path to ever greater secrets of the Art, but all he knew were rumors, with no certainty of what was truth.


    It would be a fine protection. Unless the hunter who was after him really could work the Art. Then they may very well be able to see through it. It would have to be enough. Martimeos was so exhausted that even the fear of what might be out there, looking for him, could not keep him awake. His black-furred cloak, wrapped around him and kept warm by the Art, felt all the more comforting for the brisk chill he had been walking in. A few hour¡¯s sleep, Martimeos thought, and then a good breakfast, and a full day¡¯s march again, to bring me as far as I can be from the vulture-men¡­


    He did not even finish the thought before he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.


    ===***===


    He awoke staring up at a pale gray sky. The sort that might clear in an hour, or which might darken into thunderstorms. His legs felt leaden, and he knew it would take fresh blood driven by movement before they¡¯d lessen their aching.


    He listened for a moment to the sound of his familiar singing greetings to the daylight. Sleep-fogged as he was, it took him some time before he realized that was not what Flit was doing. He was saying something, with his twittering.


    He was saying there was a vulture-man approaching down the road, and it would be here soon.


    Martimeos froze. He whistled back to Flit that he had heard him, and that they ought to be quiet. Who knew if this creature knew something of the bird tongues? It looked to be part-bird, after all. Slowly, and remaining as still as he could, he picked up his crossbow from where he had set it down beside himself, and loaded a bolt into it.


    He held it to his chest, straining his ears to listen. From his position, he was hidden from the road by the trunk of the beech tree he sat against. The terrain had sloped down from the road and quickly gone through thick brush. Even if he did not have the glamor to protect him, he didn¡¯t think anyone would spot him from the road. At least, he wanted to believe that was the case. They can¡¯t be following me. Hunting me. Fortune has truly damned me, if they are. Please, let them pass me by. Or better yet, turn around and go back the way they came.


    No matter how hard he listened, he did not think he could hear footsteps. He could hear nothing but the wind rustling the leaves, and the distant cooing of a dove, and the beat of his own heart pounding in his ears. Is it still coming? Flit certainly would have spoken up if it had turned around.


    And then all at once, he knew it was there. A sense of wrongness filled him; like having a cut in his mouth that he could not stop tonguing at, or a burr in his boot that he could not remove, or listening to someone pluck the wrong note on a fiddle as they played a well-loved song. There was the sense of something out of place, of something that simply shouldn¡¯t be there. The crossbow shook in his hands. Let it pass by.


    But it didn¡¯t. The feeling lingered, for a long, miserable moment. And then he could hear it. Not footsteps, no, but a chittering, clacking sound it must be making with its beak. Go, you damned, wretched thing, Martimeos thought at it, as if his wishes might change facts. Motherless blighted bastard, Fortune pluck out your heart, just go.


    But it did not. The feeling did not leave, and the chittering sound did not leave, and there was another sound, now, that made his heart twist in his chest. The sounds of footsteps now crunching through the leaves. Flit cried out in wordless alarm, and took off from his tree branch. The creature had moved off the road and was now coming towards him. He dared to move, then, inching around the gnarled trunk to get a better glimpse of the thing.


    And there it was, standing not very far from him at all, among the tangled and dead underbrush. Like its companion, it was dressed in skins where it was not covered in dull gray feathers. Its back was to him, and its beak was held high, scenting the air, watching the path Flit took as he flew off, chittering to itself. That was how it found me, Martimeos thought grimly. He could make a glamor to fool the eyes, but he did not know how to make one to fool the nose.


    Seizing the opportunity, he quickly raised his crossbow and aimed. He had meant only for a glance, but there was no getting out of this without killing the creature, and it had its back to him. But in the moment that he paused to steady his breath and his aim, the back of the creature¡¯s head opened up, between the molting down, and a bright yellow eye stared directly at him.


    Martimeos jolted in shock, nearly dropping his bow, and the thing whipped its head around, pinning him with its gaze. How could he have ever thought the eyes of these demons had looked human? It could only have been true in death. Living, a madness and a wild, feral hunger burned in them that was not human at all.


    It screamed, a vulture¡¯s scream, but with something about it that made it sound less a mindless animal¡¯s screech and more a howl of rage. And then it was tearing through the brush at him, and Martimeos only just had time to bring his crossbow up and fire. Fortune smiled at him, because the demon grabbed at its throat and gurgled, and its mad sprint slowed, but that did not stop it from crashing into him a moment later.


    For a moment, all was scuffling chaos. He was down on the ground - he didn¡¯t even remember falling - and the creature was on top of him. Its beak, dripping blood, was snapping open and shut so close to his face that he thought he¡¯d lose his nose. With one hand, he pushed that face away - one wide, wild eye, burning with hunger, stared at him - he put his thumb in it - the demon screamed so loud he thought his ears might burst - he groped for his sword with his other hand - pain roared through his side, once, twice - This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    And then the creature shook, and all strength seemed to go out of it. Martimeos realized he had his sword in his hand, and its blade was in the demon¡¯s chest. He couldn¡¯t remember how that had happened. He pushed it off of him, wrenching his blade free, and it lay there, rattling out its final breath, its eyes telling him that it hated him to the last tin penny¡¯s worth of its soul, until he put his sword through its face and it jerked and twisted and finally it was still.


    ¡°You had to, of course,¡± Martimeos told the corpse, as he pulled his sword free. ¡°You had to have an eye in the back of your filthy head.¡± He hated the awful thing right back. Even dead, something about it just evoked such revulsion in him, more than one might expect just from the simple fact that it was a demon. He did not know why.


    Flit returned, winging low to settle on the ground next to the creature¡¯s ruined face, and he sang a song of victory, dipping his beak in the blood. He considered the death of this demon a fine thing indeed, apparently; he was insulted by its mockery of the avian form. For such a little bird, his familiar could be very bloodthirsty. ¡°We aren¡¯t out of trouble yet,¡± Martimeos told him. ¡°Go on and scout and tell me if you see any more nearby. We cannot stay here.¡±


    Watching Flit flutter off, he straightened, and then groaned as pain shot through him. He was covered in blood, and not all of it belonged to the vulture-man. The demon held a long dagger in its hand, wet with red blood, and Martimeos could feel the blood dripping down his side from where it had scored him. At least, he thought the wounds were not that deep. He hoped that his leathers had caught much of the blow.


    He hoped, because he had to, he realized grimly. He could not afford the wounds to be deep, because again he could not stay here. He was still stiff with exhaustion from marching day and night, his wits dulled from lack of sleep, bleeding and wounded and he could not stop to rest still, because he had to assume this creature had companions that would come looking for him. He had to move again, and soon. He realized, distantly, that this was what being harried to death must feel like. How quickly fortunes reversed themselves. It was only just yesterday morning that he had awoken with hope in his heart that he might find a bed in Coxton Praet¡¯s home that night. Now, it seemed as if he may very well not make it out of the One-Road Wood alive.


    No, I can¡¯t die here. The Dolmec said I would be in Silverfish, and so I shall. It was a small comfort, and one that Martimeos found a little funny. That it should be the words of a demon so wicked that lightened his heart. But it was true; Martimeos did not know much of Telling, but he knew that a Dolmec was supposed to be very strong in the talent. Did that mean that what it said was much more certain to be true? How far could that be pushed? Could he throw all caution to the wind, knowing that he¡¯d be guaranteed in Silverfish?


    Martimeos did not want to test that theory at the moment. His blood ran hot and quick from the fight, and while it burned enough to dim his sense of exhaustion he meant to take advantage of it. He quickly gathered his crossbow and his satchel, and wiped his sword clean of blood on his black-furred cloak before sheathing it. He did not wait for Flit to return with a report; his familiar could find him. Unwrapping a piece of stale, dry trail bread and a hunk of hard cheese, he wolfed them down even as he walked, leaving behind crumbs scattered on the demon¡¯s corpse.


    ===***===


    As vigorous as he might have felt when he started out, with his blood hot from battle, it did not last long. His body betrayed him.


    The dull ache of overworked muscles and the wounds in his side grew stronger as he walked, and the fear faded from him as he went further and further without hearing the cries of the vulture-men in the distance. He should feel afraid, he knew. That one had found him could very well mean that they were looking for him, specifically, hunting him; that he did not hear the cries of any pursuers now did not mean they were not following him - perhaps they had heard their companions'' death cries and remained silent now to not give away their presence.


    He could think of a thousand reasons why he ought to feel fear and why it should lend his feet wings, but he could not make his body feel it without something visceral to remind it. No, it seemed as if his body could only feel the exhaustion. Oh, if death was charging straight at him, he thought he still might find some reserve. But he was also well aware that if he did not manage to get any rest, soon he might not even have that.


    He staggered along, forcing his legs to move against low, dull, painful stiffness with each step, his leathers and underclothes rubbing against his wounds and ripping sharp pain from them with every strike his boots made upon the ground. His wild hair, knotted with leaves from his sleep, was soaked with sweat despite the chill of autumn.


    Flit reported back to him that he could not spot anyone following him, and yet what solace could he take in that? He still had his hunter to worry about, his stalker. They could very well be working with the demons; if they practiced the Art, it could very well be the case that they had called the demons to their service. And if they could conceal themselves with the Art, surely they could conceal their servants, and they would do it all the more carefully now that he had already spotted them once. He was assuming the worst, but that was just prudent to do when your life was on the line.


    So it was that he spent two days walking like this, pushing himself on to the edge of his endurance, staying on the road until evenfall and never daring to light a fire at night, sleeping lightly wrapped in glamor and surrounded by wards, his sword and crossbow nearby. He did his best to clean the wounds in his side, which did not seem that deep, and yet at the same time were deeper than he would have liked - his constant movement kept breaking through any scabbing, reopening them. Flit he kept at the rear guard, watching out for pursuers, and for two days neither he nor his familiar saw or heard any sign of them. At least, though the skies remained gray, it did not rain much beyond a drizzle, and he was grateful for that.


    Finally, on the dawn of the third day, as he awoke from a broken sleep beneath the cover of the branches of an old, collapsed tree, he gave in. He allowed himself to hope. Perhaps he had outrun his pursuers, the demons and his peculiar hunter both. If they were keeping pace with him, surely they would have fallen upon him by now. Wouldn¡¯t they have?


    He thought he had an idea of what had happened. A coven must have claimed the One-Road Wood as their own, or at least a stretch of it. He had heard tale of such things, and the stories, of course. Every person who practiced the Art was always held somewhat apart from normal folk, if not always feared. But there were wizards and witches who had truly forsaken their fellow man, who lost themselves and hid in the wilds to practice black craft, necromancy, and consorting with demons and other Outsiders. He remembered Mother Pris - she was certainly only half-human. Perhaps this coven had been the one that her mother had belonged to. But did that make sense? She had seemed friendly with Coxton, and the huntsman would have also almost certainly been killed by the coven as well.


    Martimeos shook his head. Perhaps the coven and Coxton had once had an understanding that had somehow broken, recently, or perhaps something else had happened. Likely he would never know. But if he had been in a coven¡¯s territory, then Fortune loved him, that he had escaped. If he had, yet. He had. He must have. He so badly needed to rest. A lot of supposition about nothing. Who knows if the coven even exists?


    That day, as he set out, he still kept Flit spotting at the rear, but he did not push himself nearly so hard. When midday arrived and he was still safe and unfollowed, he allowed himself a break to do some hunting, and bagged a good-sized rabbit with his crossbow. His spirits lifted; with this, he could have a feast tonight, or at least, such a feast as one could manage on the trail. Hardtack bread, salted cheese, pickles and roasted rabbit was not bad at all.


    That evening, he stopped well before the light of day had died. He was sure he had not traveled even half the distance he had the day before, but his sharp ears had picked up the sound of a creek nearby, and he thought it would be good to make camp where he could refill his waterskins and bathe. It was a good choice besides, as here, off the road, the terrain dropped off sharply, and he was able to find a little hollow beneath a shelf-like overhang of rock, brushing aside dangling tree roots. He would be well-hidden here, from the road, even if he did make a fire.


    He built a ring of rocks and gathered wood for the campfire he would make, his eyes scanning the sky for Flit. He had not seen his familiar for a while, but he was not so worried - it was not unusual for the cardinal to be gone for many hours at a time, unless he saw something he thought Martimeos needed to see. And he knew that the pace he had been setting had kept Flit on the wing very often, and was harder on him too, though the proud little bird would never admit it. Perhaps he could find some berries for him.


    Leaving the rabbit and his satchel behind, Martimeos set off after the sound of rushing water.


    It was further away than he would have thought, from the sound of it, and larger, a wide, shallow, slow-moving creek that moved smoothly over soft silt and flat rock, long strands of water weeds waving lazily in its current as it passed by. Golden-leaved willows leaned out to touch the current with their drooping branches, and the soft murmur of the water was a welcome caress to a heart that had so often been seized by fear these past few days.


    Martimeos filled his waterskins, then stripped to bathe, a jolt running through him as he first stepped into the water. The creek was very cold, ice cold. But it was also soothing, and his skin was caked with grime and dried blood.


    He washed his clothes at first, as best he could; they were filthy as well, and stiff with demon blood as well as his own. The water he wrung from them came out a dirty brown. He whispered to them with the Art, the same way he whispered to his cloak at night to keep it warm, that they might dry quicker. Such a secret was his greatest talent with the Art that he knew, as yet, and he had met those who were jealous of it. It was not uncommon for a wizard to have some control over flame, but the difficulty came in the fine control of it. Flame - at least, when Martimeos worked with it - could feel like a devouring beast, a hunger that grew the more it was fed. It had taken practice to find the fine balance necessary so that it might warm his cloak, but no more.


    As he washed himself, he winced as his hands passed over the wounds in his side. He still did not think they were too deep, but they still bled when the scabbing broke, and the flesh around them felt tender and hot. He did not have much knowledge of herbcraft or healing, and he could only hope that it did not become infected.


    A gentle rain broke out. The patter of raindrops against his skin felt soothing. Ripples spread across the surface of the creek, and a sense of serenity and calm filled him. The woods had such moments of grace. It was a shame that they were so dangerous, now. They had not always been so, the road was testament to that. But there were only the most dim memories, now, of a time when the wilds had not been dark and terrible. Even in the best of times, merchants traveled with a heavy guard. And this was not the best of times.


    Lost in thought, Martimeos found himself staring across the creek, to the opposite bank. There, the forest gave way to maples, their leaves a brilliant, striking red, their trunks appearing almost black in comparison. They carpeted the forest floor, as well, brighter than the brightest paint, seeming so vital even in death.


    The more he stared, the more strange that forest on the opposite bank seemed to be, and yet the more he realized that it had the touch of something familiar on it. The black trunks of the maples seemed almost like columns, like they formed paths.


    ¡°Who gave you leave to bathe in Lob¡¯s creek, boy?¡±


    Martimeos jumped, and almost fell over. He glanced sharply, back and forth, trying to find the source of the gruff voice, but could see nothing. ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± he called, backing up towards the bank, where his sword and crossbow were.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you go a-running, now. Answer the question.¡±


    Finally, Martimeos spotted who it was that was speaking. On the opposite side of the bank, squatting on a rock, was a little man. He could not have been much taller than a young child, but his features were warped, knotted hard as tree roots. He wore a hooded cloak as bright red as the maple leaves on his side of the creek, and pinpoint eyes burned over a knobbly nose and a snow-white beard.


    Martimeos stopped moving, weighing his words. ¡°I¡­didn¡¯t know that this creek belonged to Lob. I¡¯m sorry. Would you bring word of my apology to them?¡±


    The little old man bristled, baring yellowed, warped teeth. ¡°Lob is me, you addle-brained natter! And you¡¯d better be sorry. Lob saw you a-fouling his pretty little creek with all your muck. Filthy boy!¡± He gnashed his teeth and stamped his foot, and then a sly grin crept across his face. ¡°Maybe Lob will teach the filthy boy some respect.¡±


    Martimeos swept with as formal a bow as he could manage while naked. ¡°My apologies to you, good Lob,¡± he said, his voice dripping honey. ¡°I am Martimeos, the wizard. I did not intend any insult. I have had a few day¡¯s hard travel, and I only meant to wash myself in your creek, ignorant of your ownership. Had I known, I would have asked permission.¡±


    The unpleasant smile on Lob¡¯s face quickly turned into a pained grimace. ¡°A wizard, a wizard,¡± the goblin muttered to himself, stroking his beard. ¡°A wizard. Bah! At least you have some manners about you. Lob forgives you.¡± The way he said this last, it sounded as if it was being pulled out of him under torture.


    Martimeos backed up towards his bank, and began to dress. His clothes were still a little damp, but with the Art he had worked on them, they would be dry soon enough. ¡°And might I ask permission for my familiar to bathe, and take drink from your creek, as well? He is a cardinal, by the name of Flit.¡±


    Lob snarled, clenching and unclenching his fists. ¡°Lob allows it,¡± he snapped. ¡°So long as you are a-staying on that side! This side belongs to Lob.¡± And then the little man leapt like a frog, and Martimeos never saw him land. He was simply gone. But not his voice. One last cry of, ¡°Stay out!¡±, and then silence.


    He let out a long, relieved sigh. This, at least, was not entirely unexpected. He had heard the One-Road Wood was fae-haunted. Though that alone told him little; the fae could be many things, in many forms, some of which looked very human, and all of them tricksome. But Lob seemed to fear the Art, as many of the fae did, and he did not think the little goblin would be dangerous so long as he did not go out of his way to anger it and abided by its rules.


    Still, he considered if maybe he ought to move his camp. He would have preferred if he could sleep tonight without worrying about a nasty little fae nearby. Ultimately, though, he decided against it. He did not want to take the trouble of finding a new spot; the bath had soothed his bones, and his stomach was rumbling. He wanted to cook himself a fine meal, warm himself by a fire, and for once, in days, get a good sleep. Lob would leave him be, so long as he did not cross the creek.


    He was still wrapped up in this musing when he made his way back to his camping spot, and it was not until he had brushed aside tree roots and stepped beneath the overhang that he noticed the figure, in a dark wide-brimmed hat, deep in the shadows, grinning at him.

 The Witch

    <h2 style="text-align: center">4. The Witch</h2>


    ¡°Hello, stranger,¡± the figure said. A raspy voice. A woman¡¯s voice. The figure was too far in the shadows to see anything of it other than its silhouette.


    For some reason, Martimeos was very intently aware of the sound of rain pattering gently on the overhang. For a moment, it felt as if someone had gripped his heart and he might simply float away. His hand strayed towards his sword, but slowly. For all he knew, he might be dead the second his hand touched it. Then again, he might be dead either way. He didn¡¯t answer. He didn¡¯t know what to say, but the figure didn¡¯t say anything either. A long, tense silence filled the air, his stomach twisting in knots. ¡°Who are you?¡± he managed to croak out at last.


    ¡°Naught but an old crone, hoping to warm herself by a kind traveler¡¯s fire,¡± came the reply. The figure shifted in the darkness, gesturing towards the ring of stones, and the dry wood Martimeos had stacked there. ¡°Just a little warmth, stranger, if you¡¯d be so generous.¡±


    Martimeos stared at her, but the figure only looked back expectantly. He thought he could just make out the glimmer of her eyes in the shadows. What was she doing? She obviously did not mean to hurt him, at least right off, but why? Was she stalling for time before her demons could arrive? He should run. He should run, right now. But the moment he did, she might bind him or kill him with the Art.


    In the end, for lack of knowing what to do, he simply did as she suggested. He worked the Art among the dried leaves and wood in the ring of stones, stoking the hunger that was always there, everywhere, in everything. To begin it, that was the hardest part of making any flame. To build the hunger from just the tiniest of whispers to something that made leaves smolder was far more effort than it was to build it from smoldering leaves to open flame. A curl of smoke drifted up from the fuel, and then a flash of yellow flame, and then all at once with a burst of hot air the campfire was burning merrily.


    When the fire burst into life, shadows were banished in an orange glow, and Martimeos could see the woman he was talking to for the briefest of moments. She wore what seemed to be layer upon layer of ragged clothing pulled around her, and her hat was pulled so low that all he could see were the twin lights of her eyes reflecting the campfire. But her hands were gnarled and knotted with age, and upon one crooked finger, she wore a large, dark ring. Just that, just a glimpse, and then the fire burned normally, and the dancing shadows of it concealed her nearly as much as the total darkness had. Still, Martimeos relaxed just a fraction. It felt good to have the fire between himself and her. He could do things with the fire, if necessary. That hunger could be directed at her.


    ¡°Ah,¡± said the hag, ¡°So you do know some of the Art.¡± Her hands reached out to warm themselves by the fire. Her fingernails were almost talons, thick and yellow.


    ¡°A bit, here and there,¡± he replied, stone-faced. ¡°As do you.¡±


    ¡°So modest. And perceptive.¡± She sounded very amused. ¡°I do not know how to work with flame, though. My talents lie elsewhere.¡± She looked up at him, firelight dancing in her eyes. ¡°Are you not going to sit down?¡±


    He very nearly did not. It all might have gone very differently, right at that moment. A plan had been formulating in his head over the past few moments. A plan to work the Art on the flame, and direct it toward the crone, burning her badly, hopefully to death, and if not, then the short stroke of a sword should finish her off. If Fortune smiled upon him, she¡¯d be dead before she could even think to strike back at him with her craft. And then he could run before her demons got here. He had been tensing his muscles, readying himself, ready to engulf her with flame, draw forth his sword and plunge it into her.


    He very nearly did this, and then, for reasons even he couldn¡¯t name, decided not to. Perhaps it was because he knew she had had opportunities to kill him, she must have, and yet she hadn¡¯t. Perhaps it was because he simply couldn¡¯t bring himself to kill someone who was being friendly to him, even if it might mean his life, even if he knew that was plain foolish. Perhaps it was because the idea that she was working with the demons was all guesswork of his, and he didn¡¯t want to condemn someone to death on a guess. Or perhaps he was simply too afraid to do it, because he thought it better than even chances that his plan would fail. Whatever the reason was, instead of attacking her, he sat down, cross-legged, on a flat patch of ground.


    She made an approving sound, apparently satisfied by this. ¡°Might I impose on your kindness a bit more, stranger? You would not happen to have any extra rations to fill an old woman¡¯s stomach, would you?¡±


    Martimeos eyed his pack, and the dead rabbit, both within reach. ¡°I have the rabbit that I planned to cook,¡± he said, ¡°And some cheese and bread. But it¡¯s very hard.¡±


    ¡°My teeth are still good, young one,¡± the crone replied. Martimeos rummaged through his satchel, and tossed some to her. She caught the bread with surprising deftness and it quickly disappeared into the shadows beneath her hat.


    As she ate, making small noises of satisfaction, he rummaged through his satchel, and retrieved a long-stemmed pipe. He had not dared to indulge in it these past few days, fearing the light and the smell would give him away. If she really is going to kill me, I might as well enjoy it one last time, he thought wryly to himself.


    The old woman finished eating as he paced the bowl and focused his Art upon it to light it. ¡°Thank you,¡± she said, brushing crumbs from her hands. ¡°You are very kind for a young man. What may I call you?¡±


    Martimeos didn¡¯t answer her. He stared at her, silently, puffing at his pipe. He took a long draw from it, and blew a plume of smoke into the air, watching the patterns dance and slowly fade. ¡°Why were you following me?¡± he asked quietly.


    The hag laughed. Bubbling laughter, lively and energetic, that almost made her sound like a younger woman. ¡°Right on out with it then! It was simple curiosity, young one. You are the only other traveler I¡¯ve seen in this wood.¡±


    There was nothing for it but to ask. ¡°And the demons you sent to kill me? That was simple curiosity too?¡±


    The fire crackled, and she was silent for a long moment, just staring at him. ¡°Sent them? To kill you?¡± She seemed genuinely taken aback. ¡°What? I have nothing to do with those foul things.¡± She laughed again, though this time it was angry and disbelieving. And with a sharp, unsteady edge. ¡°You have no idea. I have been keeping them from you, if anything.¡±


    Martimeos chewed on the stem of his pipe, considering her words. She seemed truthful, at the very least, but the world was full of skilled liars. And after the past few days, he was not going to idly let his guard down. ¡°How were you keeping them from me?¡±


    The witch waved her hand, and the flickering shadows cast against the wall of the overhang wavered. They shifted, changing direction, dancing with each other, growing darker, more solid, before dispersing like smoke, falling and folding into each other, blooming and pulling themselves apart. It was strangely beautiful, watching this; it reminded Martimeos of a quiet snowstorm, though he could not put a finger on why. ¡°I have some skill with glamor, and weaving the shadows,¡± the crone told him, her voice quiet too, as if out of respect for the spectacle she had created. ¡°Those¡­filthy creatures, demons, as you say¡­they seemed intent on hunting you. No doubt they would have hunted me, if they had seen me. But when they banded together, I made the shadows dance in the night, and they fled. More than once I scattered what was likely a hunting party to pursue you.¡±


    The unusual movement of the shadows slowed, falling apart; they fell into line like soldiers taking up their positions, until they had forgotten their dance and marched once again to the tune of the campfire. Martimos felt a strange sadness upon its ending, but he soon turned his mind from the fading beauty. So, the demons were not hers, were they? ¡°How many of them have you seen?¡±


    ¡°Never more than three at once. And you?¡±


    ¡°One. Which I killed.¡± It was a convenient story for her, wasn¡¯t it. Far from wanting to harm him, she was practically his hero. What better way to gain someone¡¯s trust? ¡°Do you know what happened to Coxton Praet?¡± She simply stared at him, expression hidden in the dark. ¡°He was a huntsman. He lived in the, ah¡­¡±


    He was about to say the house that I chased you by, but before he could go any further, she shook her head. ¡°I have not seen another person in quite some time. Nor have I seen them with a corpse. I suppose he might have escaped. I watched them, for a day or two. They did seem afraid to go near that house.¡±


    She had watched them? Even cloaked in shadow, it was brave to watch a group of demons, or foolish. Or she was simply so powerful in the Art that she felt no fear in doing such a thing. ¡°If you were curious, and meant me no harm, then why did you run from me?¡± She certainly ran nimbly for an old woman.


    The witch snorted in response. ¡°I suppose you would stand your ground if a man twice your size came charging at you? I thought you meant to snap me in two. Will you tell me your name?¡±


    If she had been so afraid of him then, why was she here now? She spied on demons, but she seemed to think that he might easily overpower her if given the chance. Unless this was some game, some trick of hers¡­he shook his head. The threads of his thought were becoming too tangled, which was usually a sign that he was overthinking things. Perhaps she was being honest, somewhat. He realized, with a start, that part of him didn¡¯t want it to be the case that she was being honest. Because if she was telling the truth, then what he had very nearly done to her, mere moments ago¡­ ¡°I am called Martimeos,¡± he murmured, quiet in the thought of what might have happened. ¡°Martim, for short.¡±


    ¡°Martimeos,¡± the crone sighed, as if relishing the name. She withdrew her clawed and gnarled hands back into her rags, so all that was now visible of her was her eyes glinting in the firelight. ¡°Well, Martimeos. You may call me Elyse. I have answered your questions, so now you may answer mine. What brings a kind young traveler such as yourself into a dark forest such as this?¡±


    ¡°Just wandering.¡± Martimeos tapped out the ashes of his pipe on a flat rock, taking a small iron scraper from his boot to dig at what he could not tap out. Supposing she was telling the truth, even supposing that, she was still someone who had stalked him. He would do well to remember that. Perhaps the demons were not her work, but she still might have strange designs for him.


    ¡°Just wandering,¡± she repeated back, disbelief clear in her voice. ¡°Hmm. It does not seem to me like you are wandering. I have watched you, and it seems to me like you move with a purpose.¡±


    Martimeos paused in his scraping, feeling a chill run up his spine. He resumed, calling lightheartedly, ¡°How long have you been watching me for?¡±


    ¡°Oh, ever since you¡¯ve entered the wood. ¡®Tis very easy with talents such as mine. Night and day, when you were not walking so far that I thought my feet would fall off if I followed you.¡±


    He found his mind racing over his time in the woods. Just how often had she been watching? He wondered if she had spied on him bathing in Lob¡¯s creek. The hag¡¯s gleaming eyes revealed nothing. ¡°I don¡¯t know that I appreciate that, crone,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°Elyse.¡± The crone tilted her head, curiously. ¡°I¡­ ¡®twas meant to reassure you. Had I meant harm, I could have stolen in to cut your throat in your sleep long ago.¡±


    Those had been his own thoughts on the matter, at times, but it certainly was an odd thing to say to someone you were trying to put at ease. Was she threatening him? Martimeos put his pipe away, and leaned forward to warm his hands on the fire. ¡°And why are you in these woods? Besides to watch me.¡±


    The hag shifted in the shadows. He caught a glimpse of a pale leg, surprisingly smooth, as Elyse readjusted her position, before it disappeared back within the shadows. ¡°Let us say that I am a wanderer myself. But even for one with some knowledge of the Art¡­you have seen how dangerous these woods can be. I wanted to know if you might make a suitable traveling companion.¡±


    Martimeos blinked. He didn¡¯t know what he expected, but it had not been that. He didn¡¯t answer her. Instead, he sighed, and looked up at the sky. ¡°I¡¯m hungry,¡± he announced. ¡°I¡¯m going to cook that rabbit.¡±


    She didn¡¯t object, or say anything at all, as he pulled a knife from his boot and set about skinning and preparing his catch. She only watched, silently. As she must have when she had watched him from the woods.


    What she said was not really so surprising. It was the wanderlust. All those who made it their purpose to study the Art felt it; the urge to leave behind their home and journey forth into the world, the call of the wilds, the road, the trail, the sail. It pulled most strongly at the young, but he had heard that it never really left you. It was not so strange to find an old woman pulled by it once again.


    What was strange was why she might want him as a companion. And why had she stalked him? He could not stop that from sticking in his mind. Even if she had wanted a companion for a good sword arm, why decide on him, in the midst of these woods? Had she not prepared when she first set out? Maybe she had. Maybe she had a companion previously, and something had¡­happened to them.


    He found some stout sticks, and soon had the rabbit spitted and roasting. His stomach growled, and he frowned, glancing at her. She was probably going to expect him to share.


    ¡°I am no mean hunter,¡± Elyse said suddenly, as if she had read his mind. ¡°I have never gone wanting for meat, myself. I think you should probably eat better if you might have me along to catch for the both of us.¡±


    Martimeos did not respond. He sat back down and pulled his pack towards him. On a flat rock, he began laying out bread, and cheese, and pickles for his meal. ¡°Why should you want me as a traveling companion?¡± he asked eventually.


    ¡°Why not?¡± She laughed, again. He wondered whether that light spirit was meant to put him at ease. ¡°Two with the Art are better than one, yes? Or have you enjoyed your time alone? You certainly would have faced more than one demon if not for me.¡±


    Another hidden threat? Or was she just uncouth? ¡°You do not even know if I am traveling the same direction you are.¡±


    ¡°Well then. Which direction are you traveling?¡±


    Martimeos paused, the bread he held in his fingers crumbling. He did not know if he wanted to be telling this crone which way he was headed. But if she had so successfully managed to follow him so far, what did it matter? She would end up knowing whether he wanted her to or not. And there could be a price to lying to a witch such as her. ¡°South,¡± he said.


    Elyse tilted her head once more. ¡°And what drives you south?¡±


    ¡°I asked a Dolmec.¡±


    The crone murmured appreciatively to herself, silent for a moment as the fire crackled and the shadows danced against the overhang¡¯s walls. When she spoke again, she sound suitably impressed, almost admiring. ¡°You must have no mean knowledge of sigils to protect yourself from a Dolmec and win a Telling.¡±


    Martimeos was not so sure that his sigils had actually done a damn thing against the Dolmec. True, it had never moved within the circle that he had drawn. But it had come up right to the very edge of it, and he had the distinct impression the thing could have killed him without bothering with the circle. Indeed, hadn¡¯t it shown him that his scribing did not protect him from harm? He still had the wound in his forehead from when the demon had thrown the remains of his charm at him. He had almost forgotten it with all the fleeing and the more worrying wounds in his side. ¡°That and Fortune¡¯s love,¡± he replied sourly. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Hmm.¡± Elyse nodded, as if this were a very wise statement indeed. ¡°And what do you hope to find to the south?¡±


    Martimeos grimaced. She just could not let it be.¡°The great lake Nust Drim, and the village of Silverfish.¡±


    The witch clapped her hands, startling him. It took him a moment to realize that it was a sign of her delight. ¡°Nust Drim, yes - I should very much like to journey to this place. I have read of it in tales and stories. I would be glad to accompany you there. Young one.¡±


    Tales and stories, was it? He had never heard any grand tales of Nust Drim himself, though he had heard fragments mentioned in other stories. Tales of beasts in the lake, and one of the many stories of the Aurelic sorceress V¨¦reline Valoir mentioned that she had taken a lover near there. He could remember a time when he had thought of following the world¡¯s legends, of seeing what he had read of in stories. He supposed he might still like to, some day.


    But still, he would rather not that a crone and a witch follow him. She might not mean to harm him, not immediately, anyway, but she was simply too strange to be trusted. He did not think she had sent the demons after him, but he found her presence unnerving. The problem was that there was no simple way to refuse her offer delicately, when she was so insistent, and it might be best not to insult a witch who had tracked him in secret for so long. He could warn her off, telling her that the village was cursed¡­but that might invite more questions that he did not really feel like revealing to her, such as why he was headed towards a cursed village in the first place. He would have to be clever about this, to rid himself of her. Perhaps as she slept tonight, he could hasten away, and lay a false trail for her to follow. ¡°I suppose if you wanted, we might travel together,¡± he muttered finally, his mind racing with thoughts of how he might abandon her. ¡°Very well.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Elyse said. And then she leaned in from the shadows, and Martimeos nearly jumped to his feet. What the firelight revealed as she drew closer was not an ancient and withered crone, but rather a young woman of pale, fair skin, and a rough shock of long black hair, twisted and knotted with leaves, that came down very nearly to her waist. One of her hands, however, still wore the large, dark ring that he had seen on the hag¡¯s. She winked at him with startlingly dark blue eyes, and flashed him a mischievous, very self-satisfied grin. ¡°Now, are you going to share that rabbit?¡± When Martimeos just stared at her in confused silence, she laughed. ¡°¡®Twas a glamor! Have you not heard of this Art?¡±


    ¡°I know of it,¡± Martimeos replied somewhat testily, once he had recovered. He turned the rabbit on the spit; the smell of it was beginning to make his mouth water, but it was not done yet. ¡°Enough to hide myself, some, and perhaps do some smaller tricks when I concentrate. I do not believe I could so convincingly disguise myself, though. That must take great skill. But why would you do this?¡±


    Elyse preened under the compliment, her smile growing even wider. ¡°Oh, it is not so hard a thing,¡± she said, trying to sound off-handed and not doing a very convincing job of it. ¡°Staying hidden in the shadows does much of the work. I doubt I could have fooled you in good light. As for why, well¡­¡± she paused, putting a finger to her lips thoughtfully. ¡°I wanted to see the sort of man you were. I wanted to make sure you were not a braggart. And kind enough to offer aid to an old woman in need. And¡­.¡± here, she flung her hair dramatically, and spoke mockingly. ¡°I wanted to make sure you would not take me along merely because of my striking beauty.¡±


    Martimeos simply stared at her again, and bit his tongue. That was from a tale of V¨¦reline Valoir that he did know. According to the tale, she had been hired by a local lord to rout bandits that had been plaguing his fiefdom, but in talking to his people found that many were more fond of the bandits than they were of the lord, who took far more than the bandits in taxes. To judge their character, V¨¦reline had disguised herself as an old crone traveling the roads at night. When the bandits found her, and treated her kindly, she had revealed herself and allied with them. ¡°For any might be inspired by my beauty and grace to do me a kindness, and yet those who would treat an old woman well have the honest spirit of charity with them.¡± And then V¨¦reline had taken the bandit chief as her lover. That happened a lot in her stories.


    That Elyse was no crone - she looked to be no older than he was, and likely younger than that - made some of her tale make more sense. She could not be so learned in the Art at this age; she was certainly telling the truth that she had not sent the demons after him. And wanting to travel together made more sense, now, knowing that she was not some old witch at the height of her power. And she was at the age, like he, when the urge to wander gripped the heart most feverishly, and so perhaps it was not so odd that she seemed to have no fixed destination and simply wanted to travel in safety. ¡°Striking is going a bit far, isn¡¯t it,¡± he told her dryly. ¡°How do I know that you do not show me a false face? Maybe what you show me now is glamor, and what I saw before was the truth.¡±


    Elyse moved herself closer to the fire, then rolled up a sleeve and held out an arm to him. The dark ring she wore on her hand glittered in the firelight. ¡°Give it a pinch. ¡®Tis much harder to fool two senses than one. Touch can be almost impossible to fool.¡±


    Martimeos had heard that this was the case. He frowned, and then pulled off his gloves to prod at her arm. He supposed that it did not feel like an old woman¡¯s might; her arm was smooth and firm. ¡°¡®Twas very impressive, then,¡± he admitted. ¡°Even the firelight seemed to-¡± he looked up at her, and froze. Elyse was staring down at his hands on her arm, wide-eyed, as if she had just dared herself to place her limb in the jaws of a wolf and was now wondering whether she might lose it. He let her go immediately. ¡°I did not mean to frighten you.¡±


    ¡°Frighten me?¡± Elyse sounded insulted, but he could see that her arm was trembling slightly. When she laughed, it seemed almost as if it was out of relief for her own safety. ¡°I was not frightened.¡±


    He let it drop. Either way, he did not suppose that this was some extra trickery on her part. She was a young witch, and he could be as certain about that as was reasonable. And while it would be foolish to think that she was not dangerous at all, he could feel some relief at that. But his fear subsiding only made room for his anger to grow; had this really all been necessary? He could understand that maybe she might want to get the measure of him, at first, but she had frightened him half out of his wits. The hours he had spent, on the run, wondering who it was that was hunting him! ¡°You know,¡± he said, "trickery and deceit is surely a poor way to first approach someone you wish to travel with."


    The witch frowned, wrinkling her nose at him, and her eyes flashed, and he thought at first that she had taken it as another insult. But after a moment¡¯s consideration, her face softened. "Fair enough point," she murmured, eyeing him. "Here - a boon, to demonstrate my good intent." She reached out towards his face with slightly trembling hands. Martimeos flinched backwards, but she just laughed. "Stay still a moment, man! You are injured, yes? I know something of healing, and can soothe your wounds.¡±


    Martimeos was further impressed by this. His last mentor had always told him that healing was one of the more difficult workings of the Art. For her to know something of it so young was unusual. And it was Fortune¡¯s gracious blessing she did, for it would be a very good thing for his wounds to be tended, and yet¡­she frowned at him as he flinched back from her touch once again. ¡°What is it?¡± she snapped at him, annoyed and sounding oddly hurt. ¡°Do you want that wound on your forehead to leave a nasty scar? I cannot make it vanish outright, but I can aid the healing of it. You have my oath that I know what I am about and will do no harm to you.¡± She placed a hand over her heart, and recited solemnly, ¡°Let the Dark Stranger take my soul in my sleep if I lie.¡±


    He sighed as she reached out to him once more. Her hands were surprisingly warm on the sides of his face, considering the autumn chill; almost hot, in fact, and the ring she wore ice cold. He could feel a strange sensation of tingling spreading out from her touch, like pins and needles in his flesh, but not unpleasant. She had closed her eyes, and he watched her expression as she frowned, concentrating, in front of him. ¡°You are wounded in your side, too,¡± she muttered. ¡°Why would you not want healing? And also¡­¡± suddenly, she gasped, her eyes shooting open, and she whipped her hands from his face as if she had touched a pot left too long on a cookfire. He waited for the inevitable question, but it never came. Instead, after a few moments, she put her hands on his face again, with some trepidation, and then just a few moments later withdrew, more gently this time. ¡°I have done what I can for your forehead and the wounds in your side,¡± she said quietly, almost in a whisper. ¡°And the cut on your thumb.¡±


    Martimeos checked himself. The thumb he had cut open to draw blood for the ward against the Dolmec seemed now as if it had never been opened at all. His forehead, he could feel, was still scabbed, but whatever was left of that wound was the healing of a day or two. And the flesh around the wounds where the vulture-man had stabbed him felt less tender. ¡°I¡­thank you,¡± he said, grateful as much for what she hadn¡¯t asked as he was for the healing.


    He could see curiosity battling with caution in her expression, but she did not press the issue. "You see?" she said, confidence slowly returning to her voice, "No need to be stingy with your trust." She drew a long breath, steadying herself, then fixed him with a hard stare. ¡°Those wounds in your side were beginning to fester, you know.¡± It was almost impossible not to hear the silent, left-out, ¡®you imbecile¡¯. ¡°It is always best to prevent these things rather than undo them. A few more days and my healing could have done little for it, unless I took weeks to work it. I hope you are not such a fool that you do this sort of thing often. Don¡¯t you think we¡¯d be better off traveling together?¡±


    He considered her, in the orange glow of the campfire. She was trying to give him a stern look, but the smoke went wrong and blew in her face, and she coughed and moved away, muttering to herself. He was coming around to that way of thinking, in fact. He had felt, even before being chased, that the forest was lonely. And it would be good to trade knowledge with her - he was very interested in her skill with glamor and healing, and what he might learn from her. She had demonstrated her good intent, hadn¡¯t she? He had to remind himself that she had still stalked him through the woods, and had casually brought up the idea of cutting his throat. He frowned, studying her face, and wondered if he was just being incautious because she was pretty. He was young enough to still be charmed by beauty, but old enough to recognize this.


    He leaned forward to take the rabbit off the fire, and leaned its spit against a rock to cool. ¡°Perhaps you are right,¡± he said slowly, watching the steam curl off its skin. Elyse¡¯s eyes went to it too, with unabashed eagerness. He could not help but remember, though, how she had trembled when he had touched her arm. He searched for the right words. ¡°I could accompany you out of the wood, and out of danger, see you safe. But beyond that, would you feel¡­comfortable, traveling alone with a man?¡±


    Elyse crossed her arms and peered at him, a curious expression on her face. ¡°Why would I not? Oh, I¡¯ve heard so much about how dangerous men are, but you seem perfectly safe to me. And what is a man anyway, but a woman with a funny bit betwixt his legs?¡± She laughed as he grunted in surprise at her indelicate language. At his frank look, though, she blushed. ¡°I am not a child. I know what men and women do together. You do not seem like you would try to take advantage of me. And if you tried, I would turn you into a moth.¡±


    Martimeos raised a skeptical eyebrow, but he could not keep the excitement from his voice. ¡°Do you actually know how to do that?¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­no,¡± she admitted. She frowned at him for calling her bluff. ¡°Are we ever going to eat that rabbit?¡±


    It had cooled enough by now, he supposed. He saw no pack with her - perhaps she had left it somewhere else - so he offered her some of his bread, cheese and pickles to eat with her share of the meat. He had more than enough supplies still. Somewhat to his surprise, she only requested a single haunch. He did suppose, as she stood to grab it, that it made sense that her appetite was small. When they both stood, he could more easily tell that she was rather short. True, he was tall, but she only came up to his chest, and would have to crane her neck to look up at him. Her pointed hat was high enough that it came up past his head, though.


    Although she had requested so little, she ate with such reckless abandon that he could not help but stare. Martimeos was hardly fussy about how he ate, but she wolfed down the meat and gnawed eagerly at the gristle on the bone, until he was convinced that she must have been starving. He was left puzzled when he offered her more and she refused, patting her stomach and claiming to be full to bursting.


    It was just as they were finishing up and tossing the bones into the fire - Martimeos had picked his share clean, the past few days really had stoked his appetite - that a red blur darted into the overhang. The next thing be knew, Flit was darting back and forth around Elyse¡¯s head, pecking at her hat, his tiny talons scrabbling in vain at her hair. He tweeted furiously, and the walls echoed with his demands to know who she was, what she was doing. Elyse, for her part, seemed mostly bemused, but perhaps she wouldn¡¯t be if she could have understood what Flit was saying, about what exactly he¡¯d be doing to her eyeballs if he reached them. ¡°I was wondering where your familiar was,¡± she said, ducking as Flit dove at her. ¡°I spotted you looking for me many times, little one, but you never saw me.¡± Hearing this taunt, the cardinal¡¯s threats became even more bloodthirsty.


    Martimeos called out to Flit in birdsong, cutting his bloody tirade short, and he set about explaining Elyse¡¯s presence to his familiar as the little redbird sat perched on his finger. Flit was wroth, out of embarrassment, Martimeos thought, for not having spotted her. When his familiar asked what was to be done with her, he paused, and then spoke in the tongue of man, for her benefit. ¡°I suppose,¡± he said, looking at her, ¡°That she will be coming with us, for a time at least.¡±


    Flit puffed himself up, his crest bobbing, while Elyse grinned and nodded. But he had just made the only choice he could, really. She was odd, and he still did not like that she had stalked him, but the truth was that both of them could ill afford to spurn an offer of sincere help. And for all her strangeness, he did think that the witch was sincere. Even if he hadn¡¯t needed or hadn¡¯t wanted the aid, it would not sit right with him to leave her on her own when she had come and asked for help. Though he did have other reasons.


    ¡°If we are to be traveling together for some time, I would like to learn what you know of the Art,¡± he told her, as he tried to mollify Flit with some generous breadcrumbs. Glamor, in particular, he was interested in; he had always felt stifled that his natural talent for it had gone to waste with a teacher who did not know much of the craft, and did not care to.


    ¡°Of course. I would like to learn what you know of the Art as well, and more besides. I did not know you spoke the bird-tongue.¡±


    The day had grown long, now, and between the soothing warmth of a campfire, the comfort of having his wounds tended, and the filling meal, the exhaustion that had been building in Martimeos for these past few days of fleeing caught up with him. Of course, though Flit had reported that he had not seen anyone back on the road, and he had been two days since seeing or hearing of the demons himself, he still could not afford to be careless. And so, grabbing a stick, he set about ringing the campsite with the sigils that would warn him if any came close. Elyse trailed him, hands clasped behind her back, peering closely at what he scratched in the dirt, questioning.


    It was his last mentor that had taught him of sigils, and they were fascinating in their way, though the study of them onerous and frustrating. His mentor had said that part of the Art was a hidden language, a true language that described all that was in its most pure forms. In this tongue, to speak something or to say something was simply for it to be, and if one knew all of it, one would have mastery over all. But it was lost, the knowledge of it shattered in cataclysms so ancient they were no longer remembered, and only fragments remained, spoken and written, and all that was known of sigils were these fragments.


    Martimeos, for his part, was not sure that he necessarily believed this. If one particular language were so fundamental to the Art, why was there so much that might be done without speaking or writing it at all? When he spoke to flame, he used his own language, or sometimes snapped his fingers - he had discovered that such bursts of sound could cause it to flare up, though he did not know why - or sometimes he did not speak at all, but he certainly never used this supposed ¡®true¡¯ language. His mentor had only smiled, and said that any language that came sufficiently close might command the Art, but that he would be far more powerful if he knew the True Word of Flame. Whatever the truth was, though, it could not be denied that some sigils certainly did seem to hold power, and things could be done with them that he had otherwise no idea how to do.


    After Elyse had practiced a few times, unsuccessfully, to replicate his sigil - it took practice, one had to be very precise, not just with the final symbol, but with how it was drawn - darkness had already come on, and he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. As he bedded down, and prepared to throw dirt on the campfire - he could have snuffed it with the Art, but for a fire of this size, dirt was easier - he paused. So long had he taken his ability to charm his clothes warm for granted, that he had forgotten the struggles of what would be done without it. His Art would keep him comfortable through the night in the chill autumn air, but Elyse did not have it. And she did not seem to be particularly well-dressed for warmth to begin with. Her garb was black, and half-robe, half-dress, many-layered, but many of those layers seemed thin, of a material he did not recognize. And the skirt seemed to be pleated, or even cut in those long layers, which may be good for movement but was probably chilly.


    He would have offered to use his Art to warm her clothes, except that it was a delicate balance that must be struck, and he could not be sure that he would be able to find it without practice in different material than he was used to working with. And yet as he made to douse the fire, she showed no signs of chill and made no protest. She must have seen him staring at her, for she waved him away idly, as she made herself a bed of dry leaves to lay down upon. ¡°Don¡¯t worry on my account,¡± she told him, ¡°this chill barely touches me.¡±


    He wondered at that, as the fire went out, and true darkness settled in. He had heard of northerners who were so used to the deadly cold of winter that they barely felt the lesser chill of autumn, and perhaps that was what she was. Or maybe she had some other secret of the Art that kept her warm.


    Despite his exhaustion, he lay awake in the dark for quite some time, his head on his satchel, very aware of her presence. It had been quite some time since he had had anything but the night¡¯s silence to listen to before he went to sleep. The sound of her breathing, and rustling on her bed of leaves, grated at him. As did the worm of distrust deep in his heart. What if you were wrong, it whispered at him. What if she means to wait until you sleep, and then cut your throat?


    If he were less tired, such thoughts might have kept him up all night. As it was, exhaustion buried them, and soon he sank into a deep slumber.

 Driven Off the Path

    5. Driven Off the Path


    Martimeos was woken the next morning by the sunlight pressing against his eyelids, a strange pressure on his chest, and an odd, deep rumble filling his ears. When he groggily stumbled out of slumber, he was greeted by a pair of fierce, yellow feline eyes staring directly into his. They belonged to a large gray cat perched on top of him ¨C larger than any housecat, the size of a fox ¨C gray, and speckled with stripes and spots, with a yellow-furred underbelly. Its ears were long and pointed, with black tufts of fur at the tips, and though the cat was well-furred all over, hair grew thicker around the beast''s throat, forming a small mane.


    Martimeos stared at the cat for a moment as it purred at him. He could feel its long tail flicking back and forth on his legs. His sleep-addled brain dulled the panic he might have felt. ¡°Well, hello,¡± he said bemusedly. As if in response, the cat leaned over to the side, reaching over to the pile of leaves the wizard slept in, picking up the limp corpse of a rabbit in its mouth. This it dropped unceremoniously onto Martimeos¡¯ face.


    ¡°Fah!¡± he shouted, bolting upright. The cat leapt off his chest and looked back at him, offended, but quickly returned to nuzzle up to him, still purring, as he delicately picked up the dead rabbit and looked at it, frowning.


    ¡°He likes you,¡± Elyse said. She was already awake, standing over the blackened ash of their campfire, and to his surprise, Flit upon the brim of her hat. ¡°My Cecil. He thinks you smell good.¡±


    The cat circled around him as Martimeos stood and stretched until his limbs trembled. Shaking the sleep out of his head, he plucked leaves from his hair. A good night¡¯s sleep had done wonders for him. Not just for his aching muscles, either; for his mind, as well. He no longer felt so drawn in upon himself, so paranoid and suspicious. Fear had done that for him, true, but so had exhaustion. Now, in the mid-morning daylight - much later than he usually woke - as he watched Elyse feed Flit bloodberries by hand, she now seemed much more harmless than she had when he went to sleep. Perhaps he had been too long on his own to be so hard towards his fellow man. ¡°Are berries all it takes to dull your suspicion, Flit?¡± he chided his familiar, and the cardinal merely stared at him blankly, very slowly and deliberately accepting another berry from Elyse.


    ¡°¡®Twas berries, and me complimenting his morning song, I think.¡± The witch gave the last of her berries to him, and rubbed her red-stained fingertips together. ¡°You named him Flit?¡±


    ¡°It is the name he chose for himself,¡± Martimeos replied, brushing leaves from his clothes. He watched for a few moments as his familiar twittered and burbled at the witch, then whistled until the little red cardinal fluttered away from her to alight on his outstretched finger, hopping back and forth as it babbled in its furious bird-speech at him. ¡°Actually,¡± he added, as Flit preened himself and chirped out his morning report, ¡°¡®Tis short for his full name.¡±


    ¡°And what is his full name?¡±


    Martimeos rolled his eyes as he released Flit, and the tiny bird quickly climbed into the sky above the trees, circling high above, for the pure joy of flight. ¡°He who flits on crimson wing through the night, terror of crow and hawk, the scarlet sentinel of snowy wood and field¡­. ¡®twould take me all morning to tell you it in full. Cardinals are pompous little birds.¡± He glanced around the campsite, noting that the dead rabbit was not the only prey Cecil had brought back; a muskrat, still damp, lay by Elyse¡¯s feet as well. ¡°I suppose it is Cecil who will be bringing us our suppers. So when you said that you were a great huntress, you actually meant that your familiar was.¡±


    Elyse gave him a dark look as Cecil padded over to her to lay down before her feet. ¡°Cecil¡¯s kills are my kills, and mine his. Isn¡¯t that right, Cecil?¡± She leaned down to rub the thick fur of her familiar¡¯s stomach. ¡°You¡¯ll be much more well-fed either way, wizard.¡±


    Despite it already being further along in the morning than it usually was before he set out, Martimeos found himself lingering. There were Cecil¡¯s kills to butcher, for one, though Elyse made quick and expert work of that, and despite his trail-feast last night, his stomach still grumbled at him, so they ate a breakfast of bread and walnuts as well. Flit found a pair of doves that he wanted to speak to, to see if they had seen anything, and it seemed wise to let him rest some more as well - he had pushed himself in flight as hard as Martimeos had pushed himself walking. He and Elyse fell into talking of glamor, and as it was, the sun was nearly halfway through the sky before they decided to set out.


    As he slung his satchel across his back, he glanced at the witch curiously. ¡°Do you not have a pack?¡± he asked her.


    She lifted one of the layers of her odd dress; beneath it, close to her side, was a waterskin and a small leather purse. She must have seen his dubious look - he did not think that could carry nearly enough for long journeys - because she scowled at him. ¡°Cecil finds me food on the trail as I travel, and this is enough besides,¡± she told him, slapping her waterskin. ¡°I have been wandering for some time, Martimeos. I know how to take care of myself.¡±


    He shrugged, and let it be. He supposed she must, at that.


    When they set off down the road, he set Flit to watch behind them once more. It still would pay to be wary, even if it seemed that the vulture-men had lost them. He thought if they still pursued that they would have caught up some time ago, given the long rest he had taken. Still, extra caution never hurt. Cecil, for his part, melted into the woods, not deigning to walk on the road; he skulked alongside them from the woods, and Martimeos would catch glimpses of the cat from time to time.


    He and Elyse fell to talking about the demons, as they walked. Though she had observed them, she knew little about how or why they had come to be here, either, claiming to have only been in the One-Road Wood a few days more than he had. While they spoke, Martimeos considered her manner. She had a sharp tongue and a ready laugh and could be quick to mock, but she seemed friendly, in her own way. Strangely so, actually. While he had looked with her with suspicion, for her, there never seemed to be a question of whether or not she was in any danger while with him. It was many little things - how quick she was to grab his arm or playfully clap him upon the back - something small that Martimeos realized that he himself would not feel comfortable doing with someone he had just met, as if she had a different idea of what was appropriate or not to do with strangers.


    He had traveled far enough by now to know that custom and attitude could vary from place to place - he had even been to villages where casual acquaintances might kiss each other on the cheek as a greeting, kiss! And like all who worked with the Art, he was aware that wizards and witches and the like were apart, in some fashion, from the typical customs of normal folk. But her manner seemed more than eccentricity; it was an odd naivety, as if she had never learned to be on guard against strangers. Her open attitude put him at ease, despite himself. He found that he had to make a conscious effort to be on guard around her. Companionship lifted his spirits. It felt almost as if a hard knot tied in his head began to loosen.


    They had not been on the road for very long at all when the witch suddenly seized his arm. ¡°Hold, wizard. Do you feel that?¡±


    Martimeos glanced down at her. He had been in the midst of explaining a meandering thought of where the demons had come from - with the Dolmec here too, perhaps other demons had been drawn to it - and noted her stern, somewhat fearful expression, her dark blue eyes scanning the woodline in quick darting movements. And then, drawn out of his thoughts, he felt it too. A sense of unease, of something out of place.


    She tugged at his sleeve, trying to pull him off the road. ¡°I think we should hide,¡± she whispered urgently, and then everything happened all at once.


    First, from behind them came a great yowl and a hissing, and they spun to see Cecil bounding down the road at them. The moment they did, a crude stone-tipped shortspear passed through the space where their heads had been only moments before, close enough for Martimeos to feel it brushing past his hair, and clattered into the road. And then the air was filled with the hoarse screams of buzzards, with shadows moving through the woods to their side and the underbrush shaking, and Martimeos found himself pushing Elyse over the opposite side of the road and leaping over after her, clinging to the ground just as another spear sailed overhead.


    He heard panicked breathing and frantic cursing to his side, but his crossbow was in his hands, and he peered up over the edge of the road with it, only to immediately fire it with a curse that was half-shout, half-scream. One of the vulture-men had already been charging down the road at them, and in two steps would have been upon them.


    His bolt took it somewhere in the side, and then he immediately scrambled backwards, pulling Elyse with him, as it fell upon them. Whatever injury his bolt had inflicted did not seem to slow it in the slightest, and it screamed at them, this wretched and broken thing, its eyes flat and dumb with mad hunger, and Martimeos had only barely managed to bring out his sword and rise to his knees when it came at him with talon-tipped hands outstretched.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    It was only the arrival of Cecil that saved him. The cat leapt, a gray, howling blur, at the demon¡¯s face, clawing and spitting. It shrieked, shaking itself free, and Cecil leapt nimbly aside before the thing¡¯s claws could find him. It was all the time Martimeos had needed to grasp his blade in both hands and thrust as hard as he could, sinking his sword deep into the creature¡¯s chest. It screamed and grabbed at him as he danced back out of the range of its feebly grasping claws, and it chittered and kicked as it died, its overlarge beak snapping at the fallen leaves.


    It had been mere moments since Elyse had first grabbed his arm. Piercing, whistling, hoarse buzzard-shrieks filled the air, so sharp they seemed to cut straight through the skull, bleeding thought. There were more of them, more of them charging down the road, no, not charging, hurtling, and what made his stomach drop were that some of them ran backwards, legs and arms bending strangely, snapping, that enormous eye on the back of their head staring, and there was no waiting, no pausing, or those awful un-human eyes would be the last thing they saw. And so they fled, fled, in the only direction they could, away from the road and deeper into the forest.


    Martimeos¡¯ long legs and bounding strides carried him through the dense brush with haste, and his sword cut down what would slow him, but Elyse was smaller, she could not leap as he did over clawing thorns and snagging branch and soon fell behind, and then she screamed, so wild and desperate that she barely sounded human herself. His black-furred cloak whirled around him as he spun around, and there behind him Elyse lay on the ground, staring up at the demon that came at them, backwards, its limbs snapping oddly, the one wide eye on the back of its head gleaming, looking not at her but at him. And beneath this eye a pair of fleshy lips beneath the feathers opened up, a mouth, a human mouth, and it spoke in a voice that croaked, that groaned, that seemed on the edge of sickness but could not disguise its feverish glee: ¡°we miss you we miss you we miss you come with us we¡¯ve missed you¡±


    Revulsion roiled through him, and fear gripped him, but need carried him forward screaming, for in a moment the creature would have fallen upon Elyse. He was beyond thought as he leapt at this creature, this vile thing, and so he did not know why, could never name why he ducked as he leapt, and crashed into the thing''s legs, bowling it over, and then it was grabbing at him, tearing at him, and he was cutting at its raking arms with his blade as it thrashed on the forest floor, until suddenly it screamed so loud he thought his ears would bleed, and Elyse was holding a dagger stuck in its eye.


    The demon still thrashed wildly on the forest floor, whether in its death throes or in pain they did not know, but they both scrambled out of the range of its bloody talons. ¡°I cannot run,¡± she breathed desperately to him, before the demon screamed again, drowning out all thought.¡°My ankle-¡±


    There were more coming, crashing through the woods, and there simply was no time. He wiped his sword hastily on the leaves and sheathed it, hoping it was enough, and then he picked her up and ran.


    His heart hammered in his chest and his blood sang in his ears. She was surprisingly light, but it was still no easy feat running as fast as his legs could carry him with her in his arms. He was dimly aware of Cecil running beside them, snaking his way between the trees, and he could hear Elyse saying something, saying that if only they could get out of the demon¡¯s sight that glamor might serve them. She might know more of glamor than he, but he knew it was near impossible to glamor your way out of someone seeing you who already knew you were there. No, there was only one hope he had, and he prayed that they had not already left it behind. It would either be very close or not there at all, and then they would be dead.


    The screams of the vulture-men only grew closer, and he could not tell how many there were. He thought he could hear voices beneath those screams. He was bleeding from somewhere, and he could smell the blood, feel it sheeting down his skin with every stride. Elyse clung hard to him, trying to relieve the burden on his arms, but he knew he would not be able to keep up this pace forever, even with the strength fear lent him.


    Just as he was on the edge of despair, he found what he was looking for. Through the trees, he spotted the slow-moving creek that he had bathed in yesterday, and beyond it the maples, with their bright red leaves. The creek and forest had continued alongside the road, and they had not walked past them yet. Hope gave him a second wind, and he put it to use.


    In two strides, he was at the bank, and he unhesitatingly leapt out into the creek. Ice-cold water immediately soaked him to the knee, and he scrambled upon slime-slick rock, nearly dropping Elyse. But Fortune blessed him and he did not fall, and in this spot the wide creek was not too deep, and he was able to cross quickly, and make it to where the wood was painted red, beneath those odd, darkwood trees. Just as he stepped high out of the creek, he could hear the vulture-men splashing behind him, entering on the opposite bank. But he had a thin, frantic hope now. Now it was just a matter of getting deep enough.


    And so with the last of his strength he flew, bounding down the paths made by the maples. It was easier going in this part of the wood, no underbrush here; just a carpet of red leaves. Elyse was saying something, but he could not hear her. Deeper into this part of the forest, all red leaf and black trunk, not caring where, so long as it was deeper. He ran until his legs howled, until his lungs burned and his breath tore at his throat. And when he could run no more, he could no longer hear the demons pursuing them.


    Elyse yelped as he dropped her, collapsing onto his hands and knees, sweat pouring off him. He wanted to turn, to look behind him, to ensure they weren¡¯t pursued, but he was too strained. He needed air. Bright spots flashed before his eyes, and it felt like sand was pouring through his head. He gagged, and tried to keep from being sick, but exertion had his breakfast from him. Or maybe it was not merely exertion, but the fear as well, and the hate. He hated the vulture-men, the wicked, wretched things. They sickened him; they were vile.


    After a few moments of gulping down air, panting, he found the wits to pay attention to what was happening around him. Elyse had worked something with the Art, he knew, a glamor to hide them, though he did not think it would be so necessary anymore. And then her hand was on his back, and her whisper in his ear. ¡°Martimeos,¡± she said quietly, ¡°I have hidden us best I can. You must have outrun them somehow, though I thought just moments ago they were still upon us. Can you quiet your breathing? They must still be nearby¡­¡±


    ¡°They will not be,¡± he told her in a hoarse growl. If the demons had still been behind him, they would already have been upon the both of them. No, he thought, his plan had worked. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, and his blood slowed. It would still do well to be quiet. Other things might be listening now.


    The witch was quiet for a moment, but seemed to take him at his word for now. When he could sit up, she silently guided him to sit with his back against a tree trunk. They rested now in a small divot in the land, almost cradled by the roots of nearby trees, and nearly enclosed by them. Cecil had kept up with him as well, and lay next to his witch, panting, his tufted ears twitching as he watched the woods. He looked upwards, and found Flit, as well. His familiar was sitting perched in a tree with his head tucked into a wing. Elyse was giving him a very serious look, her dark blue eyes intent on his. She was solemn, subdued. ¡°I caught my ankle in a root and twisted it,¡± she murmured. ¡°I was certain I would die. Thank you, wizard.¡±


    ¡°How is it?¡± he asked her, and she only answered him with a grimace. Then she was pulling at his cloak, at the neck of his shirts, pursing her lips.


    ¡°You¡¯re bleeding from somewhere here,¡± she told him when he frowned at her. Then her eyes widened, and she breathed out slowly. ¡°I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s Fortune, but someone certainly loves you.¡± He had been torn by one of the demon¡¯s claws, though he could not remember when, and even now he felt oddly numb to the pain. It was not a deep wound, but it was very close to his neck. Too close. Any closer, Elyse told him, and it could have opened his jugular, and then he would have bled to death, likely before he had ever made it to the creek. ¡°This ought to be bandaged,¡± she sighed, prodding at him. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you have any spare linen?¡± He did not.


    ¡°They must have figured that they were being watched near the road somehow,¡± he said, as she worked her healing on him - her hands were very warm, even though he still felt as if his blood were hot beneath his skin. ¡°They must have gone wide around and come out in front of us while we were resting. It is not your fault that you did not see them, Flit.¡± His familiar ignored him, and buried his face deeper into his wing out of shame.


    ¡°They are cannier than I thought them, then,¡± the witch muttered, drawing her hands back from him. Then she shuddered. ¡°And stranger. I had not seen them go so¡­backwards before. And I did not know they could speak. What do you suppose it meant?¡±


    ¡°Meaningless demon-babble.¡± Martimeos turned his head and spat. Demons did not necessarily know the world, or speech, as normal folk did. It could be that what they said made sense to them, but it did not always make sense to others. ¡°Idiot things.¡± But then why had that voice repulsed him so?


    ¡°Those idiot things set a fine ambush for us,¡± Elyse reminded him. She sat back, plucking a red leaf from her long, wild hair, and frowned at it, then at the woods from which it came. ¡°Perhaps now you will tell me where you have brought us, and how we have escaped them.¡±


    He did not answer her, at first. He breathed in deep, the fresh air of these woods. They seemed so serene, and though it was autumn, the leaves crowded so thick that even beneath the midday sun there was a quiet gloom beneath those trees. If only that peace and calm were true. He dearly wished for a tavern; this forest was much more dangerous than he had been told, and he was keenly aware that had he really been alone, he very likely would have been dead by now. This was not the first time he had worried for his life, but it was the first time he had been so certain he would have died.


    He turned back to Elyse. There was nothing for it but to tell her. A part of her must suspect already, he thought. Though perhaps not. She was looking at him calmly, expectantly. She would not be so serene if she actually suspected. He breathed in, and caught her eyes with his. ¡°This is a fae-wood,¡± he said.

 To Trade in Riddles

    <h2 style="text-align: center">6. To Trade in Riddles</h2>


    Elyse blinked at him. Her mouth dropped open in surprise and stayed that way for a few moments, in silence. ¡°A fae-wood?¡± she whispered, almost too softly for him to hear, as she flinched back from the trees surrounding them. ¡°You ran us that deep into a fae-wood?¡±


    There was little he could say to her. He had, and that was that.


    To treat with the fae, to speak with them, that was one thing - and there were plenty who would swear off doing even that. It invited ill fortune, or even tragedy. The tricks and games of the fae could be harmless, or they could be heartless and cruel. They might knock over a milk bucket as a prank, or they might steal a child and never return them. Few enough were willing to deal with that sort of capriciousness, and many never even wanted the attention of the fae upon them because of it.


    To walk into the woods of the fae, however, to come into their own home¡­that was another thing entirely. You could stumble upon such places by accident, deep parts of the forest that the fae had claimed. Often, unless you knew what to look for, you might wander too deep within them without ever knowing. And those who went too deep did not return except at the whims of the fae themselves. Such whims seldom enough turned towards setting people free. Indeed, it was often a good guess that if someone had disappeared into the woods, the fae had taken them. Martimeos watched Elyse stare wide-eyed at the red-leafed, quiet forest surrounding them, knowing she must be having those same thoughts.


    But there had been no choice, as far as he could see. They were simply not going to get away from their pursuers otherwise. Within the fae-wood, those you did not keep a close eye on could vanish almost beneath your nose, leaving you isolated and alone in a forest you did not know. Fae-woods were places made for becoming lost. All it might take is for your companions to leave your sight for but a moment, and somehow they may end up far, far away from where you were, in the endless maze of silent trees. He had been able to use that against the demons, and now, for all he knew, they wandered some other part of the fae-wood, lost. And besides¡­


    ¡°Do not worry overmuch,¡± Martimeos told the witch, getting to his feet. He already felt rejuvenated. In fact, he felt downright lively once more. ¡°I have been through fae-woods before, and come out of them. It is not so dire as the stories might tell you.¡± A small lie, perhaps. He would much rather be walking on the road, through plain and normal forest. He had known this as a fae-wood the moment he had seen them, bathing in the creek. If he thought them a perfectly safe option, he would have taken his path through them then. ¡°Will you be able to walk soon?¡±


    Elyse looked as if she wanted to ask questions, but she pulled up her dress to reveal her wounded ankle, red and swollen. Her shoes, he noticed, were quite crude, and looked stitched together from pale, stiff hide. ¡°I do not think so, not even with the Art,¡± she admitted. ¡°Except for very slowly, and hobbled. If I work my healing upon it for a time, it may be better, but even then I would limp and be no good for running.¡± She looked at him, and the corners of her mouth crooked upward in the hint of a smile. ¡°You could carry me again, I suppose. I¡¯ve never been handled so, before. You are strong, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    There was something about her tone that made him wonder if she was trying to tease him. ¡°Not that strong,¡± he said, giving her a wink. ¡°Carrying you so was tiring. I do have rope, though. We could tie you to my back if necessary.¡± The witch¡¯s face fell, and he laughed at her. ¡°Well, we won¡¯t do that yet. Let us stay here a time and see how your healing fares.¡±


    He sent up Flit to fly above the trees, though he could already guess what the redbird would see, and he was right: nothing but endless forest of red-leafed maple in all directions, with nary a sign of the woods they had come from. He did it more to encourage his familiar, than anything - Flit¡¯s pride was deeply wounded from not preventing or spotting the ambush, and he was likely to sulk if not given something to do.


    It was barely past midday, but it seemed they¡¯d be stopping here for some time, so he made a little fire, that he might dry his boots and his socks. There was no use in trying to hide from the things in these woods. They knew they were here, and it was only a matter of time before they revealed themselves. He crouched down beside Elyse to watch intently as she worked the healing on her ankle, hoping to learn something of it.


    To learn something of the Art from another was not such a straightforward thing. The Art spoke in many voices, so it was said, and one understanding of it may be entirely different from another, even to achieve the same ends. To Martimeos, working with flame felt like working with a great devouring hunger whose appetite must be carefully balanced and controlled. To another, it may feel like speaking directly with the flame itself, or commanding it like a soldier, or something else entirely. There were many ways of knowing the Art, many paths to wisdom and power, though all were winding and with many a dead end. You could be helped, you could even be brought to see the Art the way someone else did, but always you would know it your own way eventually.


    Some crafts, though, were difficult and dire enough that the paths to success with them seemed fewer. Healing was one such as those. For Elyse, as it did for many, healing began with knowing the territory, knowing the body of the one you tried to heal. ¡°I need to touch,¡± she told him, ¡°Though I have heard of others who do not. But in touching, I can hear the blood sing in the veins, and I can feel the life of the one I try to mend. It is called the red song. A wound is a hole, a break in the red song. Like running your finger along smooth wood and coming across a splinter.¡±


    Before one could heal, she told him, you had to learn to feel the red song of the body, and where you could best feel the blood beneath the skin was easiest. She guided him to remove his glove, and then took his hand and placed it against her slender neck, to feel the pulse there. ¡°Try to feel the wound in my ankle,¡± she said.


    But Martimeos, the moment he laid his hand on her neck, was worried about something else. The skin there was hot, alarmingly so. ¡°Do you have a fever?¡± he asked, lifting his hand to her forehead, peering at her. She was hot there, too.


    Her dark blue eyes widened, for a moment, staring into his, before she batted his hand away. ¡°I don¡¯t have a fever. Don¡¯t you think I would know if I did?¡± she snapped, brushing unkempt bangs down across her forehead again. ¡°Some folk have hotter blood than others, or did you not know that? Mine just runs a bit hotter than most. Now do you want to learn or not, Martimeos?¡±


    She grabbed him and guided his hand to her neck once more, and this time she held it there. He was skeptical - for certain, some blood may be hotter than others, but this hot? But she showed no other signs of fever, and so he let it go. He did notice, as she held his hand there, that she wore an odd grin, and her arms shook slightly. He closed his eyes and tried to see what she saw, to feel what she felt; the song of the body, as she called it.


    He could feel the beat of her heart through her neck, feel her pulse quicken, but was there a song in that rhythm? ¡°If there is a song, I cannot hear it,¡± he said after a while, opening his eyes.


    She let his hand go as he withdrew, but laughed oddly and whispered something beneath her breath - he thought he caught the word ¡®harmless¡¯. ¡°It is not something you are likely to find on your first try,¡± she told him, speaking for him to hear. ¡°Or on your hundredth, for that matter. It took me many times before I could hear it. Though I heard the song in myself, before I had heard it in others. I hear that for most, it is actually easier to hear in others first, but maybe for you it would be easier to try to hear the song in yourself as well.¡±


    It was not just the Art she had to mend herself. From somewhere beneath the layers of her dress she produced a scrip, and within there were small bundles of herbs tied with twine. She plucked out a somewhat wilted shoot with densely-petaled purple flowers. False mimsy, she called it, for the swelling. When she bemoaned that she would have nothing to wrap her ankle with, Martimeos sighed, and opened his satchel. He did have an extra shirt tucked in there, but he had not wanted to cut it up for bandaging. But now he took a knife to it and cut it into long strips for her ankle. Of course, once she saw that he was sacrificing his shirt, she insisted that as long as he was cutting some of it up, he ought to cut more of it so he could have bandages for his wounds as well.


    She had other herbs for that, and then water had to be heated to steep them, and by the time they were done - her with her ankle wrapped and bound, and he with bandages along his side and shoulder - the sun had slipped significantly further towards the horizon. And then it had seemed only prudent to eat, as even though they had had a good meal the night before, their flight this morning had stoked their hunger.


    Even with one of the rabbits Cecil had caught earlier roasting on a spit over the fire, it seemed that with less to do, now, a pall had settled over their camp. Elyse was silent, chewing her lower lip fretfully. Even Cecil, who had at first wanted to explore the woods and had to be warned away from doing it, seemed nervous. He lay close by his witch¡¯s side and stared out into the red forest, his tail flicking back and forth.


    Without a task to distract, the sensation of being watched here was palpable, and only grew worse as the light slowly began to dim. The witch jerked her head to stare at every rustling of the wind through the leaves, every creak of a branch or snap of a twig. Even the crackling from the campfire earned a hard glare. Of course, Martimeos could not blame her. They were being watched, after all. They had been watched for some time.


    Martimeos had first noticed them some time ago, when first he had started the campfire. Faces, peeking out from behind a tree, or sometimes even from within the branches. Sometimes from places where it did not make much sense for a face to be. A wicked smile and staring eyes glancing out from within a knothole within the trunk of a tree that, upon examination, would not have had room enough for a squirrel. Only ever glimpsed from the corner of the eye, and always gone in the time it took you to blink. Elyse had not seen them; the witch did not know how to look, and he had not thought to tell her of them. What would it have done, besides make her miserable? And it would not be long, now, anyway.


    Just as he thought that, Flit gave a shrill cry. Martimeos looked down at the campfire, and there was a little man sitting across from it, leering at him. ¡°Hello, Lob,¡± he said, quietly.


    Elyse gasped, and Cecil rose, his back arching, letting out a low, rumbling caterwaul as he flexed his claws. The goblin sneered, and then there was a blade in his hands where there had not been one before, though it could not be said where it had come from. Long, and cruel and curved, notched and worn and pitted, and nearly as tall as Lob himself was. Martimeos was sure that despite the ruined appearance of the weapon that it would do a fine job of skinning a cat. ¡°Hold, hold,¡± he said, raising a hand to ward off Cecil. Elyse grabbed her familiar, stroking him to calm him, though she remained staring at Lob with eyes nearly as wide as her cat¡¯s. ¡°We can talk to him.¡±


    ¡°Mayhap Lob does not feel like talking, wizard,¡± the little man growled. Up close he was even uglier than he had appeared across the creek. His skin was so twisted and wizened that he looked almost like a snarl of gnarled roots. His beady, bloodshot eyes squinted suspiciously, and he had not put his blade away. ¡°Lob told you to be a-staying on your side of the creek, and you agreed, and yet here you are. Mayhap Lob feels like a-bleeding you dry.¡±


    ¡°You know this creature, Martimeos?¡± Elyse was staring at him, now, and there was a hint of reproach in her voice.


    He nodded, keeping one eye on Lob. ¡°I met him not long before we first talked, by the creek, yesterday-¡±


    ¡°Lob¡¯s creek,¡± the little old man snapped. He pulled his scarlet cloak about him and waggled his blade menacingly. ¡°Yon wizard promised Lob that he¡¯d stay on his bank. Lob did not even reproach him for letting his wench fill her skins with my water-¡±


    ¡°Wench?¡± Elyse snapped. That, at least, had seemed to rob some of the fear from her. Lob simply ignored her, though.


    ¡°-and despite all of Lob¡¯s graciousness, despite the wizard¡¯s worthless promise, he comes a-tramping and a-fouling up my wood.¡± The goblin gnashed his teeth and spat, and Martimeos could see, from this distance, that beneath his snowy beard, his yellowed, crooked teeth came to fine points.


    Martimeos inclined his head, spreading his hands before him apologetically. ¡°You are right, of course,¡± he said, stiffening a bit when he heard Elyse muttering from behind him. ¡°I will explain myself, but for now, could I offer you some rabbit?¡±


    The goblin snarled and grumbled beneath his breath, but he did eye the meat greedily as Martimeos took the rabbit off the spit and began cutting a steaming leg free. Soon enough, as he had hoped, the little fae had put up his blade, leaning it against a rock, and was chewing greedily, grease dripping down his beard. Martimeos had taken up a seat, cross-legged, next to Elyse. Some of the tension seemed to have gone out of the witch, and some of the fear too, now that Lob had appeared. Indeed, she stared at the little man with something that seemed like fascination. ¡°A beginning,¡± the goblin said airily, waving the leg around. ¡°A beginning of your apology to Lob.¡±


    ¡°It really was not our intent to trespass, only that there was the most dire need,¡± Martimeos told him, doing his best to keep his tone diffident. No need to conjure more trouble for themselves than they had already had to deal with. ¡°We found ourselves pursued by demons, and with no way to escape but to come to the fae-wood.¡±


    ¡°Yes, demons,¡± Lob grumbled. ¡°You both stink of them.¡± When Elyse frowned and made a small noise of disapproval, the goblin gave her an unpleasant grin. ¡°You, especially, reek,¡± he told her with spiteful glee.


    The witch took a sharp breath. That last must have pricked her anger. Martimeos spoke over her before she could spend it on giving Lob a tongue-lashing. ¡°This is Elyse, who also flees from the demons, and has offered me her aid. A witch,¡± he added, meaningfully.


    Lob grumbled, his mouth full of rabbit-meat. ¡°Lob knows that,¡± he said once he had swallowed. ¡°Lob knows a witch and her familiar when he sees them.¡± Still, the goblin seemed a little subdued. He could only be so brave in front of two who both knew the Art. Truth be told, Martimeos had been almost glad to see the little man. Lob was certainly not the only fae in these woods, and there could be many who would have been much worse to deal with. He wasn¡¯t certain why the goblin had been the one sent to treat with them, but he thought it may have actually been because he had been the first to speak to them, and that he already had issue because of the broken promise. The way fae thought of things, that may have given Lob the right. In a way, that broken promise might have been a boon.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Of course, the way fae thought of things, they might have simply done it because they thought it funny to see Lob natter away at a witch and a wizard both. And the broken promise was not that much a boon. It would have been far better to pass unmolested. That was never a guarantee in a fae-wood, in fact it was unlikely, but he had been left in peace in such before.


    Lob finished picking the last of the meat the rabbit-leg, and he gnawed at the bone now with his fine, sharp teeth. Martimeos offered him another, and the goblin leapt at it greedily, throwing the bone into the fire. ¡°I would not have broken my promise except for the demons,¡± he said, as Lob settled back, noisily working on his new meat. ¡°For that, you have my deepest apology. We simply seek a path by which we may avoid them.¡±


    Lob shot him a dark look, those beady little eyes too crafty by far. Still, the goblin¡¯s demeanor seemed to be calming the more meat he was fed. ¡°Dragging demons into my woods with you. Fool things have not learned their lesson.¡±


    ¡°Have these demons wandered into your woods before?¡± Elyse asked suddenly. She had dragged Cecil into her lap, and the familiar was purring deeply, but still kept his eyes pinned to Lob and his claws free.


    ¡°That they have, pretty one.¡± The goblin licked grease from his fingers, before wiping them on his beard. ¡°Other demons who live here, they are smart enough not to come into Lob¡¯s wood. These though, they have not been here long. They came before into his woods, a-stalking and a-hunting.¡± He laid a crooked finger alongside his overlarge nose and winked at her. ¡°But Lob has friends, you know. Lob¡¯s friends taught them the price of trespass, oh yes. They did not come again. Not until they chased you in, hmm. Foolish things.¡± He laughed now, and his gaze switched back to Martimeos. ¡°But a clever boy to lose them so. Hmm. Well, we will see just how clever it was, won¡¯t we.¡±


    Martimeos felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up at the mention of Lob¡¯s ¡®friends¡¯. ¡°We were wounded in the chase. All we seek is permission to rest, and then we will leave.¡±


    ¡°Oh you will, wizard? Do you promise?¡± Lob tutted as he tore the last of the meat from his second rabbit leg and threw the bone into the fire with a shower of sparks. ¡°Hmm. Lob does not know that he can trust you in this. If you are a-wanting to sleep here, then you will pay your price ahead of time.¡±


    A price from the fae would not be in coin. ¡°Name it, then.¡±


    Lob stood, slapping his hands against a full belly, and belched. He picked up his blade, grounding its point, and leaned back against it, an elbow propped on the hilt. ¡°Lob understands your predicament,¡± he said, his voice full of mock sympathy. ¡°So even though he has every right to skin you alive, he is willing to barter. Lob is a collector of riddles, you see. If you can give Lob a new riddle, one that he does not know the answer to, he would be glad to give you permission to rest here safely, for a night.¡±


    ¡°That does not seem such a bad trade,¡± Elyse said hopefully.


    Lob treated her to a bland grin. ¡°Did Lob mention,¡± he said idly, ¡°That if you are not a-thinking of one proper and quick, then his friends will have to be a-giving you the same lesson we are a-giving to demons. Three tries each, and then off with your heads.¡±


    The branches above them shook violently, showering them with a rain of blood-red leaves. Laughter, as if from a dozen mouths, rang out through the forest, sounding as if it were coming from directly above them, though they could see nothing there. Flit cried out in alarm, and flew down to perch, offended, on Martimeos¡¯ shoulder. He put on a brave front, but Martimeos could tell from the trembling that his familiar was frightened by whatever had sat next to him, apparently invisible, in the branches.


    The goblin cackled, hefting his blade, and danced a little caper, full of vim and vigor. ¡°Go on then, and give your best! Lob thinks he¡¯ll see your blood on this day.¡±


    Martimeos reached out with the Art, to touch the campfire¡¯s hunger, and it roared upward as he fed it. Lob jumped back, cowering, hissing, beady eyes burning with the flame. He had hoped that reminding the goblin that he was dealing with the Art might have cowed him, but all too soon the little man¡¯s crafty, wicked smile returned, as the branches above shook and invisible voices tittered. ¡°If the two of you don¡¯t want to make a trade, go ahead!¡± he screeched. ¡°My friends - Lob¡¯s friends will skin you alive! I¡¯ll make new shoes from your hide!¡±


    It was no good for them, if the fae had such confidence. He thought Lob would have likely fled if he did not think his threats had weight to back them up. ¡°Simply stoking the fire,¡± he said, and tugged his red scarf tighter around his neck as Lob snarled at him.¡°A chill comes on, or can¡¯t you feel it?¡±


    He reached for his satchel, to retrieve his pipe. As he lit it, Elyse leaned over to whisper in his ear, keeping one wary eye on Lob. ¡°What shall we do, wizard? Should we run?¡±


    Martimeos drew long on his pipe, and breathed out a ring of smoke that whirled and grew, thinner and dimmer, as it floated upwards, until it caught the heat rising from the campfire and was torn to tatters. ¡°I think,¡± he said quietly to her, ¡°We ought to come up with a good riddle, or we¡¯re likely to be killed.¡±


    The witch stared at him for a long moment with a mute expression, the shadows cast from the campfire dancing on her face. Then she turned to Lob and said, ¡°I have one for you. I know of two brothers who never leave each other¡¯s side. Only one will ever show himself, and the other speaks for them both. What are their names?¡±


    ¡°Thunder and lightning,¡± the goblin replied dryly, creeping back towards the flames of the campfire, the moment she had stopped speaking. He gave her an unpleasantly sharp frown.¡°Lob is a-hoping you have better than that.¡±


    Elyse sat back, clutching Cecil, her hands kneading at his fur in worry. Martimeos could not help but feel badly for her. He realized with a bolt of guilt that very likely, her traveling with him had actually been a poor choice on her part. She had not done badly for herself, at least by her telling, staying off the road and keeping herself hidden in the dense woods with glamor, though it was slow going. Now, merely a day after she had joined with him, she had been attacked, wounded, and now bartered for her life with a fae. He almost chuckled aloud when remembering his notion that he would help see her safely out of the forest. Likely she would have been safer had she never seen him.


    Or, he knew very well, the vulture-men might have found her, smelled her out, and then very likely she would have been dead as dust. Still, he could not help but feel some responsibility for her. It had been he who had carried her into the fae-wood, and he who had told her that they could be traveled. He blew rich, thick smoke from his nostrils and gestured at Lob with his pipe. ¡°Chew on this one, then, goblin. A thousand armies might trample me, yet still I remain unbowed. I am a ribbon that no blade can cut. Tell me what I am.¡±


    Lob paused for a moment, his beady eyes squinting and staring off into the distance, as he muttered to himself, stroking his dirtied beard. The leaves around them rustled, and he did not know whether it was the wind, or Lob¡¯s friends. ¡°A road, a road!¡± the little man cried out suddenly, flashing a crooked, triumphant grin. ¡°That¡¯s one each from you now,¡± he went on, wagging a finger at them, and all at once it seemed that the high-hanging branches of the maples now crowded in around them, creaking, closing in. ¡°Two more from each of you now, quick-quick.¡±


    Martimeos had been about to argue the point with him - it was not fair that they had to come up with a riddle as quickly as possible, while Lob could ponder their answers for as long as he wanted, and a fae might be persuaded on the issue of fairness - but before he could say anything, Elyse had opened her mouth to tell another riddle. ¡°There is a thing that nothing is, and yet it has a name. It''s sometimes tall and sometimes short, joins our talks, joins our sport, and plays at every game.¡±


    ¡°A shadow,¡± the goblin replied with a snort. ¡°Everyone knows that one. Is this all you know?¡± He shook his head, giving her a pitying smile. ¡°Not a very good showing! Such a shame too. You are a pretty one. Lob will be sad to see you go. Perhaps he¡¯ll make a bag from your pretty face, to remember you by.¡±


    Elyse¡¯s expression grew so dark that it seemed as if the sun itself dimmed, but at least she seemed to be angry, rather than afraid. Martimeos, for his part, puffed silently at his pipe, thinking not of riddles, but of what they might be able to do if they failed this contest. He could spread the campfire to the forest, hoist Elyse and run, and that might save them. For all of a dozen paces. He sighed.¡°A careless fool gives it away, and an honest man can steal it. It can burn, and can be torn to pieces by the kind and cruel alike, and yet it will remain exactly as it was, locked in a chest with no key.¡±


    This time, a worried look passed over Lob¡¯s gnarled face, and he grew very quiet and still, looking at the ground, his lips moving as he thought to himself. The leaves surrounding them were perfectly still, as well, as if waiting, straining to hear the answer. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.


    ¡°Well then, do you have it?¡± Elyse asked him, and there was a hidden razor in her voice that made Martimeos worry that she might not intend to let the goblin leave alive, even if they did win the contest. ¡°I know what it is. It¡¯s simple, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°A moment, a moment,¡± Lob snapped at her, biting at his thumb.


    ¡°You¡¯ve had more time than is fair-¡± Martimeos started, but as soon as he did, the little man¡¯s eyes lit up.


    ¡°A heart!¡± the fae crowed, and this time, there was no mistaking it. The leaves and branches surrounding them really did crowd in closer, branches weaving in amongst each other, until it seemed as if they were surrounded by a wall woven of black wood and brilliant red leaves. Cecil gave a low, moaning growl, his eyes growing wide, though the cat remained in Elyse¡¯s arms. Flit, perched on Martimeos¡¯ shoulder, cursed and fluttered his wings as the sky was closed off. It almost felt as if they were sealed within a room where the walls were autumn itself, the light dimmed as the sun was hidden. And all amongst the leaves voices laughed, and giggled, and tittered at them, and now Martimeos thought he could see those faces again, hidden among them, with unpleasant, sharp smiles.


    ¡°One more,¡± Lob told them, the eagerness clear in his voice now. ¡°One more from each of you, and then you¡¯re done. Then Lob¡¯s friends do their work.¡± In the lessened light, he looked more monstrous than he did before, less a little man than a little creature. He turned towards Elyse, and gave her a mocking bow. ¡°We may as well hear yours now, witchling, and Lob will eat his own ears if he can¡¯t solve it in less than three breaths.¡±


    Elyse did not even pause to think, and her voice dripped venom as she spoke. ¡°I have touched everything you have ever eaten or drank,¡± she said, staring intently at the goblin, her dark blue eyes glittering sharply. ¡°You will spend your life trying to be rid of me, but in the end I will swallow you whole.¡±


    Lob opened his mouth, as if he confidently knew the answer, but then stopped. He shut his mouth, frowned, then flicked his eyes to Elyse, set his blade aside and sat down to think. A small smile twitched upwards at the edge of the witch¡¯s lips, but otherwise she merely continued to give him that dark, poisonous stare.


    Martimeos thought on the riddle himself, a moment. He had the impression that Elyse might have made it up on the spot, and the fae might cry foul if she had chosen an answer they could never guess or otherwise riddled poorly. ¡°Oho,¡± he said with a chuckle after a while, ¡°I think I know it. I like this one.¡± The witch smiled, pleased with the praise, though she never removed her eyes from the fae.


    ¡°Will you be silent!¡± Lob snarled at him. ¡°I am trying to think!¡± The goblin looked back into the fire, beating his forehead with his fists. ¡°Idiot, stupid foolish loud wizard!¡±


    Long moments passed with nothing but the sound of the fire and Lob¡¯s frustrated mutterings beneath his breath. ¡°I think that¡¯s been longer than three breaths,¡± Elyse said after a time.


    ¡°Shut up!¡± Lob shouted. ¡°Cheating, cheating it is, to distract me so!¡±


    Whispers passed through the leaves that had closed in on them. No mocking laughter this time, only a babbling susurrus of speech, just out of the range of hearing. Lob¡¯s eyes glanced around, and sweat began to bead on his forehead. Whatever he heard, it seemed he had not liked. ¡°I think,¡± Martimeos said, seizing on the moment, ¡°Your time is up-¡±


    ¡°A bear!¡± Lob cried out. ¡°It is a bear, who drinks from the same pond you do! A rotten riddle, I say! It does not count!¡±


    ¡°That is not the answer,¡± Elyse told the gnarled little man, and she seemed very darkly pleased with herself, like a snake that has wrapped itself around a fine meal. ¡°Martimeos, would you like to tell him?¡±


    He was somewhat surprised that the witch was giving him the honor, but he did not pause. ¡°Well, I was not sure what answer you have in mind, but a fine one I thought of was ¡®dirt¡¯.¡±


    The witch gave him a beaming smile - as if all the wrath and anger she clearly had for Lob had not existed at all - and said ¡°That was my answer too.¡±


    All at once, the enclosing branches drew back; the whispering and the laughter disappeared, and the light of the day shone down on them once more unblocked, though it was by now drawing down towards evening. Whispers and echoing laughter, as if from a very long distance, blew through the leaves as if on a breeze, though this time it did not seem as if the laughter was directed at them. Lob winced beneath it, and it sound very mocking, very cruel.


    And then they were gone, silent, and the wood was simply the wood once more; the trees were simply the trees, and they were left alone with a sulking Lob. Or at least, Martimeos thought so - he supposed that Lob¡¯s friends could still be watching.


    ¡°A fine riddle,¡± the goblin admitted half-heartedly, pulling the hood of his crimson cloak up so that most of his face was hidden in it. He hefted his blade over his shoulder, kicking at the dirt. ¡°Lob supposes that you earned it, yes. He gives you permission to rest here, hmm.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but I don¡¯t think that was all you owed us, was it?¡± Elyse¡¯s voice was a mockery of lightheartedness. The moment her attention shifted back to the fae, it was like her dark mood re-emerged. The prim smile she gave the little man could have suited a snake. ¡°I think I heard you say that you would¡­what was it? Eat your own ears if you could not solve my riddle in three breaths?¡±


    Lob gaped at her, mortified. He whirled at the sound of Martimeos standing and baring steel, drawing his sword halfway from its sheath. ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± the wizard told him, taking a step forward. ¡°We aren¡¯t cruel. We won¡¯t make you cut your ears off yourself.¡±


    With a strangled yell, the little man leapt straight up; if he ever landed on the ground, they could not see where. Just like that, he was gone.


    Elyse let out a shaky, unsteady laugh, and clasped her hands to her chest. ¡°I feel like my heart will leap out my throat,¡± she breathed, and then laughed again. ¡°The fae. The fae!¡±


    ¡°A little one, a goblin,¡± Martimeos replied, removing his pipe from his mouth. Several times during that riddling, he had very nearly bitten through the stem. ¡°But yes, the fae.¡±


    The witch gave that shaky laugh again, and finally released Cecil. Where she had clutched her familiar, his fur was worried into tangled knots; he looked at his mistress reproachfully. ¡°I have never dealt with fae before, but so often have I read of them,¡± she murmured. ¡°I have heard they can be cruel and tricksome, but¡­¡± she trailed off, looking off into the distance. She shook her head, as if clearing her thoughts, and let that lie. ¡°I do wonder if Lob would have actually eaten his ears. I think I would have liked to have seen that.¡±


    ¡°He will be back,¡± Martimeos said dryly. Lob could very well try to eat his own ears - he had seen stranger things from the fae - but he doubted the witch would really have liked to see it happen. ¡°He will remember that boast, or his friends will remember it for him, and he will come to beg off it. You did very well, for one so new to the fae. Are you sure you had not dealt with them before?¡±


    ¡°I think I would have remembered if I had,¡± she replied, with just a hint of scorn. ¡°How often have you dealt with them, wizard? You scarcely seemed worried at all.¡± The scorn faded, and the witch gave him a curious look. ¡°Already, you bring me interesting places.¡±


    What did she mean by that? ¡°I was worried enough,¡± he told her, ¡°And I¡¯ve dealt with them enough. I am just glad that it was the likes of Lob that we had to deal with; it could have been much worse.¡± He saw the questions rising in her eyes, and he hurried over them. ¡°Still, we have earned ourselves a night¡¯s rest here, which I think should be all that we dare take. Regardless of how your ankle is, we must move in the morning.¡±


    Elyse agreed with him on that, and in the last light of the day, they practiced glamor together. It turned out that while she may be more taught in the craft, there were some things he knew about it that she did not. A fae-wood was a good place to practice such magics. Here, it came more naturally to conceal and lie.

 A Bargain or Two

    <h2 style="text-align: center">7. A Bargain or Two</h2>


    If they had hoped for a peaceful sleep in the fae-wood, they were both sorely disappointed. They had earned the right to rest for the night from Lob, but that right did not extend to any notion of ease or comfort. Elyse wove a glamor to hide them, and Martimeos laid sigils on the ground to warn them of approaching danger, but he knew it was useless. Though many of the fae feared the Art as wielded by man, there were others which seemed to know their way around it. And many of them had Art of their own, glamor being the greatest among their crafts, along with the changing of animals, transformation and ensorcellment.


    First, there were the singing lights between the trees. Once darkness had fallen upon Martimeos and Elyse, and they had settled into their nests, it was not long before they found their eyes drawn to strange lights in the wood, dancing between the trees, off in the far distance. Pale blue, whitish lights, impossible to tell the source from this far away, but bright enough to bathe the ground between them in an eerie glow. And they sang, though not in any tongue they knew; it did not seem a tongue at all, in fact. Instead, they seemed to hum, long and low and mournful.


    Martimeos had heard tales of such strange lights in fae-woods before, though he had never seen them personally. Some said they were nothing more than little goblins carrying enchanted lanterns through the forest, though he could not see any figures or poles on these. Others named them will o¡¯ the wisps, and said they were the lost souls of those poor mortals who had died in the fae-woods, doomed forever to wander the strange forests not their own. He could not say which was true, but the song of these lights struck a chord in his own soul, and he felt at once overwhelmed with such a sense of longing, to sing back to them, to go and dance among them, that he was halfway to his feet before Elyse had managed to grab onto the tail end of his cloak, whispering furiously to him that he must be mad. And perhaps he really was. It was an effort to listen to reason, and to lay back down in the dark. The witch did not seem to feel what he felt, and only watched him, her expression unreadable in the darkness, only the glimmer of her eyes betraying the fact that she stared.


    After a time, the lights moved off, or perhaps they simply faded away. The moon was a waxing crescent, and very little could be seen by its weak light, and yet the forest was full of noise. In the dark, the sounds of footsteps running at speed across the dried leaves, all around them, though Flit called out that he could see no one. This, despite Elyse¡¯s carefully wrought glamors and Martimeos¡¯ warning sigils, neither of which seemed to matter at all to this unseen runner. The witch now cursed at the strangers in the dark, afraid that the fae, fickle by nature, had found some loophole in their agreements, or perhaps had simply decided to attack them either way. It was not an unfounded fear - the fae might do anything at all - and yet Martimeos was quite certain that this was not the case, and someone was simply having fun at their expense.


    His words calmed Elyse somewhat, at least until whoever ran began taking running leaps over them in the darkness, though still they could not see in the slightest who it was. It became so bad, and the witch¡¯s breathing so panicked, that once, as it happened, just as their invisible harasser leapt over them, Martimeos roared out, ¡°PEACE!¡± He was rewarded with a gasp, and the sound of someone stumbling, falling to the ground. ¡°We traded riddles with Lob,¡± he shouted blindly into the night, ¡°For the promise of a peaceful rest here! Know that we are no mere travelers, but practitioners of the Art, and if you break your promise I may set your woods ablaze!¡±


    The woods had echoed with laughter then - not from one or two voices, and not from the direction their runner had stumbled in, but from dozens of voices, even hundreds, all around them. And then, all at once, every laugh stilled, went silent, as if they had all been laughed with one throat. But there were no more runners and jumpers that night. Though they both agreed that it would be best to set a watch, then, for whatever sleep they still might catch.


    Martimeos had just dozed off for what seemed the slightest of moments when he was ripped from sleep by a sound that stabbed fear into his gut. The sound of the vulture-men, crying out in their wicked buzzard-screech. Elyse was by him, a dagger already in her hand, with Cecil crouched near her looking ready to pounce, and he fumbled for his crossbow before sleep had even fully left his mind. The cries, hoarse and wheezing, seemed to come from some distance, and it was impossible to tell from where - first it seemed to come from in front of them, then behind, ever-changing, and certainly faster than the demons could move.


    The cries had an odd quality to them, as well, and it was not long before Martimeos realized that it was fear that he heard in them, fear, and panic. And then it was not fear, but pain - their screams tore through the night, the demons howling, no longer even sounding like buzzards but rather like dogs gone mad. He could not know what was happening to them, but some of those tortured wails cut off short, and others seemed almost to beg before they went silent. He thought he could hear at least five distinct cries, and that matched up well with the number that he thought he had counted that had pursued him into the fae-wood, though he had never been sure of that.


    He could not help but shiver. He felt no pity for them - never for such vile things - but he could not help but be reminded of what their hosts might have done to them, had their mercurial whims just so happened to fancy that. What may still happen to them, in truth. He had good reason to think that they would not, of course, but there was a reason he had not gone immediately into the fae-wood to escape the demons. Always it was best to remain in those parts of the world trafficked by man, if one could. Though at times, he wondered if this really was so. Many of the roads laid by man lay unwatched, quiet and darkened these days, and it was not just demons or fae who prowled them. Highwaymen and footpads stalked them as well, and they could be every bit as brutal, conniving and false. And when you lay dying, did it really matter whether it was a bandit¡¯s blade or a demon¡¯s claws that had opened your throat?


    By the time the screams of the demons had completely faded, the light of a new day had already begun to creep into the fae-wood. They took what peace they could get, and throughout the whole night, managed probably a few hours of sleep each. It was far too soon that the light stirred them to complete wakefulness. Such an eventful night reinforced in both of them the urgent need to make clear of these woods as soon as possible.


    Elyse tested her ankle, and she could walk but stiffly at best, and it was tender - not likely a good idea to run on it. Martimeos offered that he might carry her again, though he knew this would be a strain to do so for any great distance. She was light, but not so light that he would be able to carry her on his back for very long without it wearing on him. ¡°That might be agreeable,¡± she told him with a teasing smile. ¡°I had not been carried so before, and it was quite the experience.¡± But then, to his surprise, she grimaced, and spots of color came to her cheeks. ¡°Fah, I jest,¡± she said, looking away from him.


    ¡°If it must be done, it must be done,¡± Martimeos began, but she turned to him and gave him an odd, dark look.


    ¡°Are you that eager to carry me, then?¡± she murmured, her dark blue eyes hooded - a strange blue, the thought floated through his mind - and for the barest moment he felt that she seemed somewhat predatory, that the look she gave him was somewhat akin to what he had seen her give to Lob yesterday, when she had taunted the goblin about eating his own ears, a look of snakelike hunger. But then that look vanished, and she was blushing further.  ¡°No, I feel badly enough that you ran yourself near to death carrying me before,¡± she muttered. ¡°I am not so useless that I cannot walk on my own. If it must be done, then we can come to it, but let me walk on it for a while and see how things fare.¡±


    He wondered if she might feel embarrassed at having had to be carried, and felt a bit badly for having pressed the issue. Still, it was a real worry. He had seen her ankle the day prior, and it looked to be the sort of injury where you might want to remain off your feet totally for at least a couple of days after, and do as little walking as you could manage a week after that. She did have the Art and her healing, and that definitely quickened recovery - the wound in his forehead was practically gone by now with little to mark that it had ever been there, and the wounds in his side and his shoulder both felt like they had gone through a week of mending already. But watching her limp around the campsite, muttering to herself, it was clear that it was still bothering her.


    He found a stout branch - never straying too far from where they had rested, it would still be foolish to leave each other¡¯s sight here - and hacked it from its tree with his sword, then trimmed the shoots from it, whittling down rough gnarls with his knife. ¡°If you must walk, then best for you to at least have a walking stick,¡± he said, handing it to her.


    ¡°Hah!¡± she laughed, taking the stick from him. It was a bit too tall for her, and the end was a heavy, gnarled knot that might have been whittled down more, but she apparently liked it as it was, refusing his offer to modify it further. ¡°You see, wizard? I fooled you into thinking I was a crone the night I met you, and already I¡¯m hobbling around like one.¡±


    He shrugged, yawning into his hand. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s just what you get. Fortune does have a funny sense of humor sometimes.¡±


    She hefted the stick appreciatively, and for the first time he realized that it might also serve well to beat someone with, if it came down to that. ¡°It is a fine thought, of course, but I had heard that it could be dangerous to take things from a fae-wood.¡±


    He paused for a moment before answering her. ¡°In this case, it should be fine,¡± he said carefully. ¡°I know a bit of the fae, and knew how to pick out the right stick. But you are right, and should be more careful about picking things up if you do not travel with a guide who has some experience.¡±


    She began to ask him what the signs were to tell if a branch was safe to pick, giving her walking stick a heavy swing as she did so, but she stopped with a surprised shout as she spun around. Lob sat on the gnarled roots of a tree, prodding glumly at the darkened ash of their campfire with his curved and notched blade, still dirty with dried blood. Cecil, who had been sitting by the campfire as well, watching his mistress, sat up with alarm when she shouted, and then jumped nearly as high as Martimeos stood when he noticed that Lob had appeared close enough to touch him.


    ¡°Your demon friends,¡± the little man leered at them, when he noticed them watching. He gestured to his bloodied blade, and gave them a smug, sly look. ¡°They did not have any riddles to trade to Lob, no no. You see what Lob does to those who cross him, now? You heard them last night, maybe? Screaming out their last breath into the forest, before Lob cut their throats.¡±


    Martimeos plucked a brilliant red leaf from the tangles of his hair and twirled it between his finger, admiring it. ¡°Lob did all that, did he?¡± he said idly. ¡°Without any help from Lob¡¯s friends, was it?¡±


    The goblin scowled, turning his knotted face even more ugly, but fear quickly crawled across his features once Elyse spoke up. ¡°I was hoping you might come back,¡± she told him, once she had recovered from her surprise. ¡°I was wondering, when you eat your ears, do you plan on cooking them first? If you do, promise me a bite, and I¡¯ll only make you eat one of them.¡± This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Lob looked positively sick at the thought. ¡°I¡­Lob¡­he¡­he will not!¡± The little man leapt up, and held his blade in a white-knuckled grip, eyes darting back and forth between the both of them. ¡°He will not eat his ears! Let him barter with you, let him trade!¡±


    Martimeos was not surprised that the fae would do this. Even leaving aside the pain of eating his own ears, if he were marked in such a way it would be the end for him. To see him walking around without ears would be a reminder to other fae, for as long as he lived, that he had been outwitted; to those who knew the tale, they¡¯d know it was his senseless boast that had seen him disfigured so. ¡°There is only one thing we want from you,¡± he told the goblin, making himself sound only half-interested. ¡°And that¡¯s if you can give us safe passage through your wood, placing us as close as you can to the village of Silverfish. You know of it?¡±


    ¡°Passage? Passage?¡± The goblin gnashed his teeth and stamped his foot. Safe passage was a dear thing for a fae to barter for, and very rarely given except to those who they considered friends, which was not many at all. ¡°Lob has so many other tricksies and charms he could give you. Let him teach you the trick of hiding in places smaller than you are! Let him show you the makings of leaf-dolls that will whisper to you what they see, instead. Let me-¡±


    Martimeos did his best to quiet his curiosity. He did very much want to know those things. Fae-charms and fae-tricks were no small thing to idly pass over. And he could likely find his way out on his own¡­but he knew that if he did take these tricks from Lob, the little goblin would try to find a way to keep him here. Leaving these woods with the tricks in tow would be much more difficult than leaving the woods without them. ¡°Passage,¡± he said sternly, ¡°And that is it.¡±


    Lob sucked in air through his sharp and crooked teeth with a hiss, and turned to Elyse. ¡°It is you, that Lob should be talking to,¡± his voice suddenly and strangely coy. ¡°You are the one who a-riddled him here, pretty one, beautiful one. If you will release him from¡­from eating his own ears, Lob will give you¡­¡± he drew a deep breath, puffed his chest out, and locked eyes with her. ¡°Three kisses.¡±


    Elyse stared at the goblin for a moment, stunned. She glanced at Martimeos, as if for guidance, and all he could do was shrug at her. ¡°No,¡± she said, flatly, though he could tell the witch struggled to contain laughter. ¡°No, I think the wizard has the right of it. Passage out of this wood, and quick, too.¡±


    The goblin wheedled, and whined, and sighed. He cajoled, and promised them sumptuous banquets (Martimeos quick to point out that they would never accept any food from him or any fae), a pot of gold, a favorable introduction to fae royalty, and all manner of other things that he likely had no ability to produce. But they remained firm, and in the end, stamping around their campsite and kicking their campfire to scatter the ashes out of sheer spite and frustration, Lob agreed to give them their passage through the wood.


    He beat his head in frustration and turned as red as the cloak he wore as Martimeos procured more promises from him - that the little creature would, indeed, lead them as close as he could to Silverfish, that he would not lead them out of the wood and into danger. Martimeos thought (or at least, he hoped) that, once free of the fae-wood, they would be free of the demons as well. He did not think that Lob¡¯s friends were inclined to spare any of those demons which had pursued them, nor to let them go, if indeed any of the vile creatures yet lived. Lob swore to him that indeed, where he would lead them would be far away from that part of the forest in which the demons stalked and hunted.


    ¡°Enough!¡± the goblin eventually howled in response to Martimeos¡¯ continued prodding. ¡°You will be safe enough from them, worrisome man! They keep to their part of the forest, north of here, and are too cowardly to come and follow where so many of their fellows have disappeared. They do not occupy the whole of the Forest of Glys. Did they seem very clever or organized to you?¡± And Martimeos had to admit that they did not. Still, it was difficult not to dwell on his concern over the demons, when he had been so driven and harassed by them.


    And so it was that they set out, following after the goblin, who stalked off between the trees, just as if he were walking a path, though none could be seen. Elyse hobbled along with her stick, and leaned on Martimeos that he might take much of her weight, and yet it was clear that walking was still a pain for her, slow-going. She did not wince with every step, but she occasionally gave short gasps that she tried to conceal as her ankle pained her. He offered that he might carry her, at least for a while, upon his back, but very soon she insisted on hopping off and walking along on her own once more. Cecil padded alongside the both of them, giving his mistress concerned looks. Martimeos could have sworn the cat was looking at him reproachfully, as if it were all his fault.


    Lob complained and grumbled about the pace, and tried to press them hard, undoubtedly out of spite; more than once the fae walked so far ahead that Martimeos was sure the little man was trying to lose them. He sent Flit to fly after him, to peck at the goblin¡¯s forehead, until the little man held back for them, tapping his foot impatiently.


    The forest changed as they walked, and the land seemed strange. Though the ground was undoubtedly flat - at least when you stopped to look at it, it would seem so - it felt as if they climbed a hill that grew steeper and steeper, until they began to sweat despite the chill autumn air. The fae-wood did not easily give up its hold on those it had taken in, however short their visit had been. Only those friends to the fae here could pass easily.


    Their path between the trees grew straighter, and the trees themselves more regular, until they appeared nearly like columns. Columns so closely placed that their branches grew into each other, until it seemed as if they walked down a brilliant scarlet tunnel, and at times it seemed almost to spin around them, dizzying, their patterns so strange to the eye that it almost felt as if those branches and leaves breathed. And when Martimeos looked behind him, far, far down the path, there were dark figures watching them. Too far away to see clearly. But they were taller, and more slender, than the goblin who led them, and they watched, just watched, unmoving, never acknowledging them.


    And then, just like that, they stood at the edge of the fae-wood. Martimeos blinked. He did not know how long they had been walking - at some point, his mind had left him among the leaves, though this was a familiar thing. Elyse¡¯s face was pale, or more paler than she normally was, her mouth a thin line, and he did not think that all of her sweating was from exertion.


    They stood at the edge of the creek that they had crossed earlier, though here, it ran very nearly right alongside the road, the blessed road that they had left behind. Even better, he could see here that the One-Road Wood thinned, not too far ahead, the trees becoming more sparse. He held a hand up to shade his eyes - it was not past midday yet, he thought, or just barely - and peered into the distance. He could see, if he just squinted, what was unmistakably the shape of a building in the far distance, perhaps the barn of an outlying farm. ¡°Is that Silverfish?¡± he asked.


    ¡°No,¡± Lob replied, and the fae sounded far too snide and clever for Martimeos¡¯ liking. He squatted, crouched, by the bank of the creek, beady eyes watching the water gently pass by. ¡°You have a bit more a-walking to do before you reach your destination, clever wizard. But Lob has brought you as close as he can, as he promised.¡±


    ¡°If we might rest a while?¡± Elyse asked, her voice tight. ¡°I think my ankle might appreciate the touch of cold water, for a time.¡±


    Martimeos helped her to the water¡¯s edge, where she tugged off her crude shoes - they did not even have knots to tie them, as far as he could see - and unwrapped her bandages, and then sighed with contentment as she dipped her swollen ankle in the creek¡¯s gentle currents. Cecil lay beside her and lapped at the water, and even Flit took the opportunity to flutter down towards the ebb of calm water where the bank was gentle and take a bath. Martimeos thought he might cool his feet as well, if just to relieve the strain of long walking, but to his surprise, Lob had lingered with them, and now gestured to him, away from the rest.


    He did not follow the little goblin far - it would be foolish to lose sight of his companions even here, at the edge of the fae-wood - but Lob stopped, just out of the earshot of the others reverie, beneath the spreading leaves of a red maple, and glared up at the wizard. ¡°Awful, filthy boy. Foul, tricksome witch,¡± the twisted little fae hissed, with real bitterness. He ran his tongue over his crooked teeth, as if feeling how sharp they were, and seemed almost on the verge of tears. ¡°You have humiliated Lob, you have.¡±


    Martimeos was taken aback, for a moment, but it was not long before his heart hardened. ¡°You humiliated yourself,¡± he said sternly, shifting his black-furred cloak on his shoulders and giving the goblin a hard stare. ¡°With your ill-considered boast and all your empty threats. You might have just traded us a riddle and have been done with it. It is not my fault your mouth ran ahead of you and made promises you were not prepared to keep.¡±


    ¡°Lob cannot stay here anymore,¡± the little man whinged, wringing his hands. Martimeos supposed that the expression on the fae¡¯s face was meant to be piteous, but the knotted whorls of his skin and his sharpened teeth made it quite horrible. ¡°You have made him look a fool in front of his friends. He must go away now, where no one knows him. You must help him.¡±


    ¡°I must not do anything at all,¡± Martimeos snapped, but Lob ignored him. The little man snatched a falling maple seed from out of the air. Its papery wing was as brilliantly red as everything else in the fae-wood. This, Lob held out to him pleadingly.


    ¡°Here,¡± said the goblin, wheedling, and he seemed so pathetic that, even ugly as he was, once more Martimeos could not help but feel a surge of contemptuous pity towards the creature. ¡°Plant this, where you think Lob might have a good home. Lob will repay you in however you desire.¡±


    Martimeos had been about to tell the little man to make tracks as quick as he could back into the fae-wood, but he paused. A promise like that, so open-ended, from a fae could be a grand boon indeed, even from one as small as this. ¡°What would make you a good home?¡± he asked cautiously.


    Lob licked his lips, and then his gnarled face contorted once more into something unpleasant. Something hungry. ¡°Where the lost may roam,¡± he whispered in a sharp hiss. ¡°Where foolish souls may tread. Some like to live far away and all-alone, but not Lob, no-no. He wants to be a-talking and a-playing with folk.¡±


    Thinking of the little man¡¯s curved and notched blade, Martimeos frowned. That was what he thought. There were some fae that were content to stay far away from normal folk. But many others had a fascination for humanity, one that often did not turn out so well for the objects of their interest. Though at times it was harmless enough, he did not think that little Lob¡¯s interest would be so benign. ¡°And why me alone?¡± he murmured, rolling the seed between his fingers.


    ¡°Lob is not a-trusting the witch.¡± The little man¡¯s eyes darted towards Elyse, who had only just now glanced back towards them, watching them with a blank expression on her face, and he grimaced. ¡°She has something dark in her nature. But you, though.¡± The goblin reached out and patted his leg in an almost comradely fashion. ¡°You¡­you understand the position Lob is in, don¡¯t you? You are¡­¡± he paused, as if he suddenly remembered all the insulting adjectives he had used previously. ¡°An..an upstanding boy, yes?¡±


    Martimeos continued to twirl the seed between his fingers, staring at it, and then looking down at the little goblin as the little man smiled up at him, hopefully, slyly. He had no intention of doing what the creature asked of him. And yet, such a promised boon was not so easily discarded. It may even be valuable in trade. And if he changed his mind, he might always simply burn it. ¡°We¡¯ll see. I make no promises,¡± Martimeos told the goblin as he pocketed the seed. ¡°But if it is planted, you must grant a favor to whoever it was who planted it for you.¡± The goblin opened his mouth, but Martimeos rode right over him. ¡°That is all, Lob. Now leave us be.¡±


    The little man gave a sharp, nasty grin, and his little eyes blazed, but he backed away towards the crimson fae-wood, almost deferentially. ¡°Lob will see you again,¡± he said, and then stamped his foot and leapt straight up into the air, and seemingly never landed, disappearing from sight. Still, his voice lingered. ¡°Yes. He is sure that he will.¡±


    ¡°What was that about?¡± Elyse asked Martimeos, as he walked back to rejoin them at the bank.


    ¡°Nothing,¡± the wizard told her. ¡°Lob tried to beg us into staying in the fae-wood, like most of them will. He seemed to think I might be more easily convinced than you.¡± Before she might ask him more questions, he motioned to the creek. ¡°Let us get across, then. There are buildings ahead, and there might be places more suitable for you to rest than here.¡±

 Cross-on-Green

    <h2 style="text-align: center">8. Cross-on-Green</h2>


    Once she was set once more to travel, Martimeos carried Elyse across the creek. It was shallow here, and choked with the branches of fallen trees, such that he was able to nimbly step and jump from stone and branch to make his way across and keep himself dry. Once back on the road, however, the witch insisted on walking once more. It did seem a bit easier for her now that she was out of the fae-wood, and not walking over the gnarled roots of the forest but rather the smooth flagstones of the road. Still, she leaned heavily on his shoulder, and Martimeos hoped that the village ahead might have an inn with room. She said that just a day or two more of working on her ankle with the Art and otherwise staying off it might do it a world of good.


    But as they made their way forward and the forest thinned, giving way to fields, Martimeos knew something was wrong. If these were farmlands, they were overgrown and wild, and likely hadn¡¯t felt the touch of a plow in years. They were farms halfway back to the wilds, overgrown with tall grass and meadowflowers. When Flit flew ahead and then came back and sang what he had seen, Martimeos¡¯ face darkened.


    It was not long before they came upon the first farmhouse, except it was not a farmhouse any longer. Nothing was left but a burnt-out stone shell, soot-stained and crumbling, and a large pile of blackened ruin where perhaps a barn had once stood. ¡°Do you think, perhaps, that Lob lied to us?¡± Elyse whispered to him, as she looked upon this. ¡°Did the demons do this?¡± Martimeos shook his head. Already shrubs and some thin young saplings grew among the ashes and rubble of the barn. This had been done some time ago. And he thought he knew by whom.


    They passed by more fields, more farms, and every farmhouse had been subjected to the same fate. All burnt, down to the very stone, and the fields overgrown. Dirt paths, themselves nearly hidden by brush that had not been cleared from them for years, led away from the main stone-paved road and towards other farms, but Flit flew up and told them that it was the same as far as could be seen. Every single farmhouse had been put to the torch years since.


    Martimeos began to feel a pressure building behind his eyes, and he traveled in grim silence. Elyse was quiet, as well, perhaps catching his mood. He knew the worst would be when they reached the village itself. Nobody had come out to rebuild these farmhouses or put these fields to work once more. How many would even still be living there?


    But his imagination could not have prepared him. There was simply nothing left.


    Cross-on-Green had not been a village, it had been a town, once grown happy and prosperous - perhaps on the trade from the travelers along the large roads that stretched through it and off into distant lands. There was no way of knowing what had once been the craft and lifeblood of this place, however, because it had been razed and ruined so thoroughly that no trace of the life of its people now remained. Even its name they had only known because Martimeos had found a collapsed, half-burnt sign in the tall grass that still bore an old welcome in fading green paint.


    They walked among empty streets, and the charred skeletons of ruined buildings loomed on either side of them. Where a building had been wood, nothing remained any longer except piles of broken char, and even where stone had been used in construction, it often lay toppled or cracked by the heat. If anything useful had been left in the remains, it must have been picked over long ago. Plants had begun to grow in the ruins here too, though not nearly so much as they did out in the surrounding farmlands. This place still smelled of woodsmoke and death, even now.


    ¡°I¡­this place is enormous,¡± Elyse, still hushed. Perhaps she still thought it was the demons that had done this. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever dreamed that I¡¯d see so many buildings in one place. What could have done this?¡±


    It is not that large a town, Martimeos thought to himself. Perhaps he lingered on this thought to deny the weight of what had happened. The reality of what he knew, in his bones, must have transpired here. ¡°The White Queen,¡± he said hoarsely, and then cleared his throat, blinking. ¡°This was her doing, for certain.¡±


    ¡°The White Queen?¡± she asked, and frowned when Martimeos glanced sharply at her.


    ¡°Do¡­have you never heard of her?¡± What a blessing, that would be. To live where her cursed name had never crossed folk¡¯s lips.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard the name, I think,¡± Elyse replied, and Martimeos was suddenly aware that the witch was peering at him very intently. ¡°Though never to hear of her deeds or know who she was.¡±


    ¡°She was¡­¡± Martimeos paused, looking out across the burnt, the wrack and ruin, and his heart twisted so much that he had to close his eyes for a moment. ¡°They called her the White Queen,¡± he went on, finally, his voice a croak. ¡°Or the White Rose. I knew her as The Witch in the West. She¡­¡± He took a breath, and bit back on his bitterness, so that he might give a simple telling. ¡°She was a sorceress, and a conqueror, and a butcher. She wrought blizzards upon her enemies, and her servants left death like this wherever they went. And in the end, so it¡¯s told, she went truly mad, and brought ruin even on those faithful to her. And now, she is dead.¡± Not soon enough. Better for her to have been strangled in the cradle.


    ¡°Martim,¡± Elyse said softly, and something about her tone brought Martimeos out of the storm of dark thoughts in his head. The witch was looking at him oddly, though not unkindly, and he realized his arms shook and his eyes were wet.


    He roughly scrubbed away the beginnings of tears, a hot spike of shame shooting through him. ¡°Let¡¯s try to find some place to rest here,¡± he said gruffly, though he¡¯d only wager a tin penny that any of the buildings had been left standing. This wasn¡¯t the first time he¡¯d seen what was left of those who suffered the White Queen¡¯s wrath. These were, or had been, her lands while she had yet lived, and yet there was no doubt in his mind that it was her armies that had done this.


    They walked to the center of the town, to what had given Cross-on-Green its name; the two paved highways that met in a large plaza at the town¡¯s center, one running north to south that they had just walked in on from the One-Road Wood, and one running east to west. Perhaps merchants still used these roads, on occasion. Where once had been a bustling square where the two roads met, however, was now the broken heart of Cross-on-Green, black and ruined, with everything burnt. A sickly looking oak grew out of the center of the plaza, shorn of leaves and choked with thorns, a grim witness to what had happened.


    All except one building. A tower of pale stone, rising slender from ashes and rubble piled up on both sides of it, conspicuously untouched by the fire. It rose high, likely over ten stories tall, and had probably once dominated the town center. Though it certainly had a practical purpose - it was ringed with arrow slits, and turrets protruded from it, crumbling crenellations along their battlements - the top of the tower flared out into a buttressed spire, tall and thin and tapering, as if its builders had strained to make it touch the sky.


    It was of Aurelic build, Martimeos knew, the moment he had seen it, and as they drew close to it, both he and Elyse could feel the touch of the Art upon it. The Aurelics had ruled these lands long ago, from their sacred heartlands of Mannus Aurum. Many kingdoms had sworn their allegiance to the Aurelic Crown, and occasionally the Aurelics had seen fit to build fortifications like these among the lands of their subjects, perhaps simply to remind their vassals of their power. They had known much of the Art and the working of it, and the Art they wove into stone kept their buildings standing through the centuries. Much of what was known of the Art these days came from what the Aurelics had learned, or so it was said.


    But that was all long, long ago. The Aurelics were faded and forgotten now, leaving behind monuments and stonework for folk to puzzle over. That, and the stories they left behind, was all that was left of the Aurelics these days. Martimeos knew some of the history, or at least some of the stories that were told. There had been a rebellion led by someone only remembered as the Gully Man, and this had broken the Aurelic Crown. There were those who had said the Gully Man was a servant of the Dark Stranger himself, and blamed him entirely for all the misfortunes that had followed after the crown had been shattered. There had been plague, and civil wars over succession, a breaking of allegiances. Some stories even told of an invasion of monsters. Many had tried to cling to pretensions of Aurelic glory through any excuse, even long after it had tarnished, but eventually that, too, was forgotten. The oldest man alive today would not have been able to remember seeing their banners raised, even by pretenders. Most of the kingdoms that had once sworn to them were dead by now, as well.


    Elyse was quite excited by the tower, and delighted by the thought of making camp inside it. She had heard of the Aurelics in stories, of course, but never seen aught that they had built. Martimeos, personally, was not so sure that it was the best place to rest. He thought that perhaps it would be best to camp in the field, and preferably out of sight of this entire accursed, desolated town. Too much death had been dealt here, and in places such as this, sometimes the world could grow thin. But the witch had been made to hobble far enough, and the sun was beginning to dip low in the sky.


    The doorway to the tower was ringed by many faces carved into the stone, some laughing, some weeping, some sneering and some contorted in rage. He knew these were not meant to be faces, but rather masks. The Aurelics had put a strange stock in masks, and often used them as decoration. While the Art may have done well to protect the stonework of the tower itself from the flame, it could not do anything to save the furnishings inside. It seemed like anything that might have been within had long since been looted or taken away, and they were not the first to have used the tower as a campsite either - a small ring of stones sat on the bare stone floor of the tower around a small pile of white ash.


    Circular stone steps rose in a spiral along the inner wall of the tower, leading up to the darkened spire. Flit darted up, a bolt of red, to see if any hid within, and Martimeos followed him to see what was on the floors above, finding only bare stone wherever they looked - it had truly been picked clean. Nothing but the skeletons of rats, and piles of dirty feathers molted from birds who nested in the spire. All gone, all gone so long ago, and one day even the Art in these stones would fade away, and then eventually the tower would crumble and it would be gone too.


    He rejoined Elyse on the ground floor, and sparked a small fire for them to share. They shared what was left of their meat - they still had some rabbit left - and Cecil went out to prowl, but came back from his hunting unsuccessful. Between the two of them, they puzzled over the Aurelic enchantments on the stone. They could feel what was done with the Art, but it was beyond anything that they knew; like a complex knot that they could neither see how to untie or replicate. Perhaps it was beyond the ability of any one practitioner of the Art to make. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    By the time Elyse had re-made her bandages for her ankle, and worked more of her healing upon it, gloom had settled upon the skeletal remains of Cross-on-Green. Those leering ruins were unsettling in the twilight, long shadows stretching towards them across the plaza, and so they both made their beddings away from the doorway, such that the devastation outside could not be seen. But nothing could stop the sound of the wind from reaching them, and the sound of its long moans down those empty streets was what they closed their eyes to.


    ===***===


    Elyse lay slumbering in one corner of the tower, her arms wrapped around Cecil, and her wounded foot propped up on a block of stone, and with nothing but her dress for bedding. She had a remarkable ability to sleep anywhere, Martimeos thought; he at least had his cloak and old clothing to lay down on, but he wished this place had some leaves or grass to pile up and soften the stone.


    Truth be told, even if he had been lying in a real bed, soft and warm, he would not have been able to sleep. He stood now in the doorway of the tower, looking out across the plaza, across the ruins. Sorrow wrenched his heart to look at those, the detritus of sickness and madness. How many had lost their lives here, all for nothing, nothing, nothing at all? It gripped him, like poison in his veins, and seeped into his head, filling it with dark thoughts.


    He stepped out of the doorway and into the plaza, into the black night. A thin and pale moon cast a ghostly light for him to see by. Something called to him, out there. It is where I belong, he thought to himself, and he didn¡¯t know where the thought came from. A strange desolation settled upon him, muddling his thoughts; he could only think of those poor souls, all those who had died here so senselessly, and despair that something so wrong might have happened. It was not the first time he had seen ruins such as these. Not the dozenth time. He thought he might harden to the sight of them, and sometimes it seemed that he had. All too often, though, it felt as if every reminder of the war simply poisoned him further. What enraging, appalling lunacy it was. It seized his heart so that he felt as if his body was not his own. He wondered if he dreamed.


    He crossed the plaza in this haze, and found himself standing before the tree that stood in the center of it. A towering oak, though perhaps a dead one - it was entirely bare of leaves long before autumn had denuded any other tree that he had seen. Its twisting, interlocking branches cast tangled shadows upon the stone. And growing all around its base, up its trunk, into its branches, were vines of cruel black thorns, dotted with small red flowers that reminded him of nothing more than blisters.


    He had never seen such a thornbush before, and had no name to give it. He had first noticed it in the abandoned farm-fields on the way into Cross-on-Green, choking the land, but had thought little of it. Now, though, seeing it crawl over the plaza¡¯s oak, it seemed strange to him. It wove itself in patterns that seemed to have designs, the knotted gnarls of it seemed so beautiful, so true, so¡­


    ¡°Martim.¡±


    Martimeos froze. A cold wind blew through the plaza. The voice had come from just a few paces behind him. His veins filled with ice, and his legs felt like lead. He knew that voice. There was no way that voice could be here.


    ¡°Turn and face me, Martim.¡±


    He closed his eyes. He knew what he would see, if he turned around. That ruined face, half-pale, half stained red with blood. That staring, pleading eye. ¡°No,¡± he whispered, his throat dry as dust.


    Silence. And then his heart leapt into his throat when the voice spoke again. It was closer, now. Close enough for its owner to touch him. ¡°Do you want to see? What happened here.¡±


    Martimeos didn¡¯t answer. He couldn¡¯t.


    And then, he was surrounded by flame.


    Roaring flames, howling flames, consumed the buildings that ringed the plaza, devouring wood, cracking and blackening stone, and smoke billowed out of them so thick, so much that it hung in the sky like a cloud, its underside flickering orange from the fires that birthed it.


    The air was thick with screams, though there was so much death he could not imagine who was still alive to voice them. Piles of bodies stacked like cordwood lined the plaza, and even as he watched, footmen in chain hauberks and kettle-helms threw yet more, fortune bite their eyes, more and more bodies upon the piles. The soldiers were all tall and slender, hard-faced, black-haired and gray eyes that seemed like glass, flat and staring, as if they could not see what they were doing, and their tabards bore a white rose on a blue field. They seemed only half-real, moving as if in a dream, blurring and fading away.


    The oak that stood before him was no longer dead, but its branches were heavy with horror, heavy with dangling corpses hanging from them by nooses, and its leaves wilted with the heat of the flames. No, not corpses, not all of them. These folk had not been hung properly, so that their necks would snap, giving them a quick death. No, some of them drummed their feet, and their hands scrabbled at their necks, faces purple and bloated, trying in vain to free themselves, to draw in ragged, gurgling breaths. Some of those who hung were very small. Their faces were so swollen, so contorted, it seemed impossible that they had been human once.


    And before the tree was a horseman, his steed a black warhorse, his armor burnished until it shone. A knight, with a snowy white cloak stained now with blood and ash. His tabard showed three stars rising above the rose, and his winged helmet had the visor up, revealing a haggard, gaunt face, with gray eyes that seemed unfocused.


    Before the knight, pressed down into the pavement by the boots of two footmen, was a stout, short man with graying chestnut hair, plastered now to his skull by sweat. Blood stained his mustache, and his teeth, and his eyes were red with weeping, but by now he had no more tears in him. He had nothing in him anymore. He stared, dully, at the horseman, but it seemed as if his eyes saw nothing at all.


    The knight stared at the corpses hanging from the tree. He looked around the plaza, at the piles of dead, at the roaring flames, and for a moment, he appeared confused, as if he was uncertain how this all had happened. Then he shook his head and leaned down in his saddle. ¡°This is the price of treason, Beovar,¡± he said to the man held helpless before him. His voice sounded tired, and there was no real malice in it. He nodded towards the oak. ¡°You should not have tried to help them escape. They could have gotten a quicker, cleaner death than this.¡±


    ¡°Is that why you dragged me here?¡± Beovar asked, dragging his eyes from the ground. ¡°To watch my family hang?¡± Something shattered within him, and a hoarse laugh, almost a scream, shook his chest so much that it seemed nearly as if his heart were trying to tear its way out.


    ¡°As mayor, it was your duty to bind these people in their oaths to the Queen. As mayor¡­¡± The knight trailed off, and there was no conviction in him. It seemed almost as if he was simply too tired to go on. The men pinning Beovar looked up at their officer curiously.


    ¡°She¡¯s dead,¡± the mayor said, in a flat voice that made it clear he had said it many times before. Then he laughed again, the laugh of one broken, who knew he would never be whole. ¡°She¡¯s dead, and you know it, don¡¯t you?¡±


    The footmen standing on him flinched, but they did not release the man. They looked askance at their commander. ¡°Captain, is this true?¡± one of them asked, but the knight gave them no reply. ¡°Captain Rodin! Is this true?¡±


    Far from reprimanding the man for his tone, the knight slumped in his saddle. He waved one gauntleted hand idly, dismissively, but it barely seemed as if he could summon the energy to do that. ¡°A rumor,¡± he said, and his trembling voice gave away the lie.


    ¡°She¡¯s dead, she¡¯s dead, she¡¯s dead,¡± Beovar¡¯s voice rose to a shout, bloody spittle flying from his lips, a feverish light giving life to his eyes once more. ¡°She is, she really is, oh you fools, why did you do it?¡± Half-laughter, half-frantic tears shook the old man. The footmen stepped off him, unsteadily, as he howled so loud and so long it seemed certain that his throat would burst. ¡°You¡¯re damned,¡± he said in a growling whisper, pulling himself to a crouch, pointing a shaking finger at the knight and his attendants. ¡°You¡¯re damned to the Hells. Old Scratch will drag you there in black chains and flay your soul for all eternity, and you did it all for a dead woman.¡±


    The fires rose higher, higher, and the black smoke billowed forth endlessly to stain the sky, and ash rained down like snow. It was unclean to see this; the knowledge seared the soul. Martimeos had seen the aftermath of war and ruin, but to know that so many deaths had been ordered for a war already lost, by a man who did not even seem certain about his actions, who killed so many with so little purpose, it was too much to bear. Killing so many knowing it was all for naught. These soldiers were not men, they were parasites, they were worms. He hated, he hated so much that he fell to his knees, his heart turning to slag of hot iron, dark, poisonous thoughts eating a hole into his brain. He reached out towards the knight, wanting only to see him burn, to call up that terrible hunger in his very flesh and watch him wither like a leaf. Dimly, very dimly, some part of him whispered that this was strange.


    All at once, the flames were gone, their awful, searing heat was gone. The bodies, the screams, all of it was gone. He was hunched over on the stones of the plaza in the chill night air, before the thorn-choked oak, and the sorrow burned so fiercely within him that he wanted to scream.


    ¡°No undoing what¡¯s been done,¡± the voice said, and it felt nearly as if it were whispering in his ear.


    ¡°How are you here?¡± Martimeos asked, but he received no answer. When he finally had the courage to look around, he found the night about him empty. There was no one there.


    His thoughts were muddled, and he lay down there on the flagstones, wondering if he dreamed, wondering if he would wake up. The only way that any of this made sense was through a dream. And still he felt drawn to the oak. Something was there, in its roots, deep within the earth, in the black of the earth, and that was where he belonged. Deep in the well of darkness that the oak dipped its roots into. That was his home.


    He did not know how long he lay there, and the strange thoughts did not leave him all at once. The wind seemed to help. They seemed to fade away before the biting chill it brought with it, enough to reach him even through his cloak, and something about it choked off the black fog in his mind, bringing clarity back to him.


    Eventually, he sat up, to look warily at the oak. It was just an oak now, and no voice haunted him. A deep fear settled in the pit of his stomach. The only explanation he could think of was that he had been dream-walking. Whatever else, it was the only way to explain how he had heard that voice here. Why, though? Had the terror of the journey here really toyed with his mind so badly? He had faced danger before and not had this happen. It was not right. Something was not right.


    Soon, he would stumble back to the tower, giving thanks to Fortune that the darkness still held, and he had not woken anyone with his dream-walking. Dream-walking, yes. That must have been what it was.


    Not knowing that Elyse had woken when first he had gone to the doorway. That she had moved herself so she could watch as he walked out to the plaza, to stand before the black oak, and then froze and fell to his knees. And though she had seen no one else in that plaza but him, she had seen the leaves that littered the stones lift into the sky, as if billowed upwards by a great heat.

 The Travelling Folk

    <h2 style="text-align: center">9. The Traveling Folk</h2>


    They woke the next morning to a day that was very fair, for autumn; likely the last warm sun that the season would have to offer them.


    Martim said that he would go out of the city, taking his crossbow with him for the hunt, little Flit riding perched upon his shoulder to spot for him. Elyse told him that this was a very good idea, and that Cecil should go out with him to prowl the fields as well. The wizard was a bit concerned about leaving her alone and still wounded, but she pointed out to him that should he fail in his hunting, having Cecil along would be a fine insurance to see that they should have at least some meat to eat. And besides, she could hide very well with the weaving of shadows. The wizard saw reason, as she thought he probably would. And, she thought, he did not guess at her true reasoning for why she wanted her familiar to go with him. Cecil would hunt, yes, true (she could not stop him from hunting even if she wanted to) but he would also keep an eye on the wizard, as well.


    It was not that Elyse did not trust the man. Indeed, she had been told all her life how dangerous and untrustworthy men were, and yet here she was, journeying with one, alone no less, and he had been nothing but kind to her. ¡°Bleeding serpents,¡± she muttered to herself as she stood in the doorway, watching Martimeos walk down the empty streets of the ruined city on his way to hunt, ¡°He only nearly killed himself saving my life.¡± And just a day after meeting her, too. More than kind. She had always suspected that she had been taught nonsense about men, and now here was the proof. She trusted him out of spite and contempt for that as much as for his own actions. Perhaps that was foolish, but she didn¡¯t think so. She did not think she would have been led to him if he was not trustworthy.


    No, she wanted Cecil to watch the wizard because he was acting strange. She had not spoken to him about the odd little jaunt she had seen him take the night before. What had he been up to? The wizard certainly left enough mystery about himself. He had a way of turning away questions about himself with a wink and a smile, or else distracting her with a discussion about the Art that kept her occupied for hours before she realized that her questions about him had gone unanswered. Why had he gone to see that tree in the plaza?


    She grabbed her walking stick. Her fae-stick, she already thought of it fondly, and she had already resolved to keep it even after she had healed, as a souvenir of besting a fae at riddles. The fae! Already her wanderings were bearing fruit. It was fortunate that Martim had been her guide, although at first she thought the man had gotten them both killed. She had read that wandering deep into a fae-wood was something that only a few came back from, and often cursed or changed in some manner. It did seem that the stories made the fae seem more dire than they actually were¡­though, had she been alone, even little Lob might have frightened and unbalanced her, and she might very well have ended up as a plaything of his ¡®friends¡¯. She had a sudden vision of the goblin preening with a new catskin cloak and a bag made from her face, and she shuddered.


    She tested walking back and forth on the stone floor of the tower, and was satisfied. Her healing had not fully taken away the pain of the sprain, but it was much improved, and something that might have had her limping for weeks was likely to be gone entirely within a few days thanks to the Art. She could hardly be accounted as skilled with the healing craft, and yet even the little she could accomplish seemed a great boon to her. Healing could be so much more, if she learned the workings of it, though. She knew of healers who could fully mend small cuts in an instant, and greatly speed the healing of wounds which might have maimed or crippled. And she had read of legends that with a skilled healer and time, someone might be brought back from the very edge of death. Though, perhaps this last truly was mere fancy. She had always been taught that past a certain point, death had its own pull that no amount of healing could resist. She thought of Martim, and then shook her head. One mystery about the wizard at a time.


    She limped her way out of the tower and into the square, fae-stick clacking against the stone. She shook her head at the grim skeletons of buildings surrounding her. What a very sorry thing, that folk had gone through the effort of building so tall, only that it might be burnt down. She had never imagined that a town would be so big. When she had read about them in the stories, she had imagined that they¡¯d have been, oh, perhaps three dozen buildings all put together? She had a hard enough time imagining that many, but this was so much more. Even burnt and ruined as it was, it awed her. What must it have been like when people actually lived here? She wasn¡¯t sure that she would have liked it.


    She came to stand beneath the oak, in its shadow, and frowned up at it. Choking thorn vines crawled all over it, drooping from its branches. That might explain why it was so sickly and already bare of leaves. There were plants she knew of that would grow up trees like this and choke them - creepthorn, for one, and the crowberry plant. But though she knew something of herbcraft, these thorn vines, with their vivid red flowers, were unknown to her.


    She stepped closer to the tree, and very nearly tripped over a small ledge of brick that would have sent her flying face-first into the thorn bushes had she not caught herself. Swearing under her breath, and glaring at the oak as if it was to blame, she procured a small knife out from within the pockets of her dress and took a small cutting of the thorns. The vines bled a thick black liquid into her hands when she cut it, and the petals of its flowers felt strangely greasy. It stank of something rotten when she cut it, as well. What an odd plant. She wondered if it might have any uses.


    Next she found a spot on the tree where the thorns did not grow so thick around it, and she laid her hand upon the rough bark, deeply fissured and covered in lichen. She knew the tree-speech, and she wondered what this tree had to say. Probably not much. Even in the best of times, most trees did not want to speak of much other than the health of the land, and the feel of the dirt, or perhaps to complain of parasites in their roots. And that was when they were talkative. Trees spoke with the creak of limb and the wind whispering through their leaves, and when autumn came often they did not want to speak very much. Once they lost their leaves entirely most did not want to talk at all, and all that would be heard in the forest was the sound of the smug evergreens. She thought it very likely that this oak was beyond talking right now, but it could not hurt to try.


    She stared upward into the knots of its twisting branches, stark against a clear sky, and stilled her own breath, listening for the creaks, the whisper of the wood, imagining that she flowed into the ruts and grooves of the bark, feeling for anything, the barest sign, the most quiet whisper. And it came to her. This tree, the life in it, the heart of this oak, it grieved, deep within its core, for it had been made vile and twisted by what had been done with it, what had hung from its branches, twisted and twisted and twisted was its heart in a worm¡¯s spiral, and into those twists something dark crept, up through its roots it sipped at the shadows -


    Tearing her hand away with a gasp, Elyse clutched it as if it had been burnt, dropping her fae-stick with a clatter. She had never felt a tree so tormented before. There was no real speech to it, even - she had never been spoken to in this manner either. There was only the pain, and the grief, and the sad knowledge that it would never grow as it should have. It barely seemed like an oak at all. Oaks were proud trees, and solemn.


    She hurriedly retrieved her stick and stepped back from the tree, staring suspiciously at it. She did not trust it at all, or the way it seemed to exercise some strange power over Martim. It could be dangerous. She could not remember any stories where trees had preyed upon people, but she had heard of stranger things. She wished she had the wizard¡¯s skill with flame, so she might burn it right here and now.


    But there was really nothing that she could do about it now, and it was only a tree. It wasn¡¯t going to tear itself up by the roots and come charging at her. Still glancing at it over her shoulder, frowning, she made her way back to the Aurelic tower. Just as she had turned, and was about to make her way through the doorway, she could have sworn she heard the sound of footsteps, and the clatter of a rock being loosed. She whirled, her heart beating fast in her chest, but there was no one there. Just the empty plaza, the tree, and the wind. Still, she could not shake the feeling that she was being watched. Eventually she made her way in, standing by the campfire. She did not like that she could still see the tree through the doorway, and so she shifted until she could not.


    While the tree was unusual, she could not puzzle out why it might have pulled at Martim so. His secretive nature could be irksome. She would just have to ask him about it outright.


    The wizard had left behind his great black-furred cloak, since the day was so warm. Idly, she picked it up, admiring the craft of it. She could feel the lingering of the Art within it - she knew the wizard enchanted it to keep himself warm, and he had told her that it had something to do with flame, though she didn¡¯t see how it worked. The way that he described flame to her sounded so odd, sometimes. She didn¡¯t feel a great devouring hunger at all. She felt as if the flames danced, as the shadows danced, but it was a dance she could do nothing to steer.


    She sniffed the cloak. It smelled of pipesmoke and dried leaves, which was what Martim smelled like. Also of sweat and travel, but not in an overwhelming or unpleasant way. On a whim, she drew it around her shoulders. It weighed her down, dragging along the floor, and when she put the hood up it very nearly swallowed her head. That was one thing she had not been able to appreciate from a distance - just how much larger the wizard was than her. She knew men were large, but it was a bit unsettling up close. Though she supposed it had worked out when the wizard had grabbed her up and sprinted with her, when the demons had chased them. That too had been startling. She had not known that she could just so easily be tossed about like that.


    She threw the cloak aside and sat, rummaging within her layered dress until she found what was perhaps her most prized possession - a book, bound in rich dark leather and written in small, tight script. It had no title, but a page at the beginning said that it had been copied by the scribe Mikhail of Halsend (she did not know who that was), at the Scriptoria on Persh (she did not know what that was) sponsored generously by Lady Domon, and that it contained a collection of the Lady¡¯s favorite tales, some transcribed from other sources, others passed down by verbal telling.


    Elyse had no idea who Lady Domon was either, or who she might have been - she was very likely dead, by now, the book was yellowed and old - but she thought that the woman had a fine eye for tales. It contained stories of V¨¦reline Valoir, tales of grand workings of the Art, and power, and of the many lovers the sorceress had taken. Stories too of the two noble brothers Rance and Ronan and their tragic end; she still felt her heart twist when she read that one, no matter how many times she had read it before. Or the tales of the many heroes who faced the strange necromancer Hooloon from across the gray seas, who was not even human and seemed to have the blessing of the Dark Stranger himself. Sometimes Hooloon would kill mercilessly, and other times he would play strange games with those who opposed him, and never was he defeated - he simply sailed back across the gray waters in his dread black sloop one day, after losing a bet to the famous gambler Dani Kyne, never to be seen again. Of course, some of these stories seemed less likely to be real than others.


    She had read every tale countless times, and yet she never tired of reading them again, she loved them so. She thought that she would probably sooner lose a hand than to lose this book. While she waited for Martim to return, she settled in to read a story - one of V¨¦reline and her palace intrigue, when she had to unveil the murderous plot of the unparalleled illusionist who called himself The Night Fox, rumored to be half-fae, and who sought to glamor himself into the very lordship of Mannus Aurum.


    The sun crossed the sky, past its zenith. Elyse had read her way through the story about The Night Fox, and a couple of others besides. She had just closed her eyes for a nap when the clatter of hooves striking stone reached her ears. How irritating, she thought to herself, already half-asleep. Of course, someone has to ride by just as I try to sleep.


    Someone riding by. Riding by where she was, all alone, and not knowing who it was.


    Her eyes flew open, and she leapt to her feet, only to hiss and curse as a jolt of pain shot through her ankle. She glanced out the door, but could not see the rider - or riders, she thought it sounded like more than one horse - then cast a frantic eye around their campsite. Too obvious that a fresh fire had recently burned here, and with too many other signs of habitation; all someone had to do was look through the doorway to see that someone had bedded here. She cursed herself a toad-brained fool for not thinking ahead of time how to hide. She was simply so unused to it; she had traveled always through the forests and the fields and off the roads, where you could always lie flat in the tall grass, or among the leaves, and wrap the shadows about yourself and count on that you were well-hidden from plain sight. Where could you hide in a bare stone room?


    The clop of those hooves was very clear by now, and whoever rode them must be very close by. She pressed herself against the wall, where she would be out of sight of the doorway, and hoped that perhaps whoever this was - they must surely be in the plaza by now, and not even that far from the tower - she hoped that they were simply passing by.


    But she had no such luck. The hooves stopped such that the rider must have been no more than ten paces away, and then came a short, sharp whistle. Moments later, a dog trotted into the tower, and Elyse drew in a hissing breath. It was a dog, true, but of no sort she had ever seen. Large, it would have been much taller than she was if it stood on its hind legs, and so skinny that she wondered if it were starving, though it seemed otherwise healthy and of good temper. It had a very long snout, and when it saw her it made no sound. Rather, it simply pranced towards her with strange grace on long, thin legs, silken white hair streaming, sniffed the hem of her dress, and regarded her with wet, black eyes that seemed somehow sorrowful. Then it sat on its haunches and gave a low, rumbling bark.


    ¡°Hoi!¡± a gruff, strangely accented voice called out, so loud that it nearly made her jump. ¡°We are catching you now, nickthief, so come out and make yourself accountable. If you try to be running again I will be having Polda holding you, and she is having very sharp teeth, yes? She has been biting off thieve¡¯s hands before, so I am recommending you surrender.¡±


    Polda could only be the dog, Elyse assumed, and she did not want to have that creature bite her. It seemed to have an oddly gentle nature, but with the size of it and the length of its snout she thought it could probably bite her in half. She could feel her temper flaring at being called a thief - she had no idea who this rider was, with their strange manner of speech, but she hadn¡¯t stolen anything. There was nothing for it, anyway. She limped to the door to greet the riders, while Polda merely looked at her. Stolen novel; please report.


    The pair on horseback were an odd sight. They rode on well-kept roans of chestnut hue, weighed down with camprolls and saddlebags. One of the riders was a lean, wiry man with a large mustache that extended all the way to his tawny, braided hair and looked strange without a beard to accompany it, and the other was a somewhat plump woman with hair braided so that it very nearly matched his. They both wore shawls of startling blue that covered them down to their riding breeches, and odd, tall red hats that flopped over so that their tips nearly reached their faces. Another dog, the twin of Polda except even larger, sat obediently by the woman¡¯s horse.


    The moment the man saw Elyse, his face fell. ¡°You are not being our thief,¡± he muttered, and then hunched his shoulders and glanced towards his partner, as if he knew what was coming.


    ¡°Not being our thief,¡± the woman nearly spat. She gave the man a stare so hard it seemed as if it ought to knock him over, and he winced. ¡°Not being our thief! I was knowing this foolish chase would be trouble, and now look at what you have been doing, Chesmed son of Harl. You are sending your dog to attack an innocent woman, traveling alone!¡±


    Elyse was not sure that what the dog had done could be called ¡®attacking¡¯ - Polda was standing by her side, and had done nothing more than sniff her gingerly, but she was not full of sympathy for this Chesmed fellow at the moment. ¡°I should say that I am not,¡± she snapped, leaning on her walking stick, jabbing an accusatory finger at him. ¡°And you really ought to be more careful when accosting strangers, you know. I am a witch, and I might just have ensorceled your dog to turn around and tear out your throat.¡±


    Chesmed grimaced, doffing his red hat, and he gave a curious bow in his saddle. ¡°Please be forgiving a hasty fool,¡± he said, his head still down. ¡°If you will be staying here, we will be returning to be making the gifts for forgiveness. But we are pursuing a thief, and have been since last night. Have you been seeing a young man this day? He is of very light hair, and I am supposing he might be called handsome-¡± That was as far as he got before he got cut off by an outraged squawk.


    ¡°Has all sense of honor been fleeing you? You are besetting upon a young woman, injured, alone, you should be offering her assistance for that in itself - but also she is one we would be calling shaman.¡± The woman was already halfway out of her saddle, and Elyse noticed that strapped to her back was a basket carrying a fresh-faced young toddler with ruddy cheeks. She was also not really plump - she was pregnant.


    ¡°Halle¡­¡± the man began warily, but at another hard stare he sighed and began dismounting as well.


    Elyse wondered if the two were related. They looked rather similar. Suddenly, she felt rather awkward. She had really been hoping that these two would simply ride on once they had realized their mistake, and she could go back to reading her book. ¡°I¡­I am not really in such dire need of assistance. I am not truly alone, my companion is simply out hunting.¡± She saw Chesmed perk up at that. ¡°He is not your thief either,¡± she told him somewhat testily. ¡°I suppose he is handsome enough, but he is dark-haired. And I can tell you for certain he was not out and about stealing from you last night.¡±


    Halle laughed at that as she rummaged through her saddlebags. ¡°It is good to be hearing that you are not alone,¡± the woman said, ¡°and that you are having someone to be hunting and tending you while wounded. But you must be letting us doing the apologizing.¡± She turned, and her hands were full of a bundle of rolled cloth, every color of the rainbow. ¡°Oh, but I am forgetting to introduce ourselves. I am being named Halle, and this is being my husband, Chesmed.¡± She paused, and then said, delicately, ¡°You are not needing to be fearing him. He is being the stubborn fool, but he will not be hurting you.¡±


    Suddenly, Elyse became aware that she had been staring intently at Chesmed, and that the man had been maintaining a respectful distance with his hands raised in caution. She chided herself as a gutless coward. Hadn¡¯t she just been telling herself earlier that she knew from Martim that all she had been told about how dangerous and wicked men were was false? It certainly held true for other men besides the wizard. If he was the monster that she had been taught men were, he certainly wouldn¡¯t be listening so meekly to his wife. ¡°I am quite certain of that,¡± she said airily, raising her fae-stick - Chesmed flinched at that, as if he thought she was about to work the Art upon him - ¡°Only, might you call off your dog?¡± Polda was still doing nothing but standing by Elyse¡¯s side - if anything, the creature was nuzzling her slightly, as if expecting to be petted - but the man apologized once more, and with a sharp whistle Polda trotted over to him to get a good rub behind the ears.


    Halle had spread her cloth over the ground, bright wool in colored stripes, and set the child on her back aside, still in the basket, where it sat and stoically burbled to itself. The woman was setting up some strange copper pot, engraved with crescent moons and stars, on a stand above a burnished silver box that contained a live coal, which she blew upon until it was glowing red-hot. She and Chesmed sat cross-legged, with their dogs lying down next to them, and motioned for her to join them.


    Elyse thought about just telling the two to leave. Or forcing them to. She thought she might be able to scare them off, with the right glamor. But they had a child, and she did not want to be scaring the poor thing. And besides, they had mentioned some kind of gift, which she was interested in. She joined them, kneeling - her dress was cut well for movement, but was not so flexible that she could sit cross-legged in it - and wondered what she might say to them. ¡°This thief, what did he steal from you?¡± she asked Chesmed.


    The man made a low growl in his throat. ¡°Coin,¡± he said, staring at his hands, ¡°Which I would not be caring for, but he was stealing something else, a¡­a heirloom. A little horse statue, of gold.¡± He held his thumb and forefinger apart to indicate the size.


    ¡°It was his wedding-gift to me,¡± Halle murmured, as she stirred the liquid inside the copper pot with a long, thin spoon. Whatever was warming in there, it was nearly pitch black. ¡°It was very pretty. But I knew the moment I saw it, it would be attracting thieves.¡±


    ¡°It was suiting you. I would give the thief ten times its worth in gold and be letting him go, only to have it back.¡± He sighed, and withdrew into himself. He had very light brown eyes, the color of long-dead leaves. Both he and Halle did, and they seemed nearly on the verge of tears now. ¡°I am fearing we will never find him now.¡±


    ¡°You have already been giving me many more gifts of much greater worth, my heart,¡± Halle said soothingly, patting him on the arm. She gave Elyse a knowing look. ¡°You are knowing how men can be. Very sensitive about these things.¡±


    Elyse wasn¡¯t sure she was knowing, actually. She knew very little about coin, or the worth of gold, or why men should particularly care that much about it. But she nodded along sagely, as if it were obvious. ¡°Did this thief attack either of you? I have some skill in healing, if you are injured.¡±


    Chesmed and Halle¡¯s eyes both widened in surprise, and the woman stammered, ¡°You are too kind, shaman. I am thanking you most graciously. But it is being most unnecessary.¡±


    ¡°The thief was not doing his work with blades and bloodletting,¡± Chesmed hurried on quickly. ¡°He was approaching us as we made camp, and was putting on a false face of camaraderie. He was calling himself Ren, though I am doubting he gave his true name. He was looking over our wares, and was even buying some, which I am seeing now was only a way for him to be knowing where we were keeping our coin.¡± Chesmed¡¯s face darkened. ¡°He was availing himself of our fires, and then lifted our purses in the night.¡± Polda lay her head on his leg, looking up at him, as if sensing his dark mood, and Chesmed stroked her mane of hair absent-mindedly. ¡°Polda was able to be tracking him here, but¡­¡± He gestured around helplessly. ¡°So many places to be hiding, here¡­¡±


    ¡°Cross-on-Green was not always so,¡± Halle murmured quietly.


    ¡°Do you know what happened to it?¡± Elyse asked, unable to contain her excitement. She wanted to know more about how this town had been ransacked, wanted to know more about this White Queen, but Martim had been so obviously pained by the thought of it when he had spoken about it yesterday that she hadn¡¯t had the heart to press him with more questions. ¡°I am¡­something of a stranger to these lands myself. I have been told that the White Queen was responsible, but I don¡¯t know much more beyond that.¡±


    Chesmed exchanged a look with his wife. Halle was pouring the now-steaming black liquid out of the copper pot and into three very small, dainty ceramic cups. ¡°I am apologizing again, shaman. We are, ah, what you would be calling, initiates? This is our first coin-journey, away from our people, on our own. We know little more than you do. Only what our elders have told us.¡±


    ¡°We have been hearing of this¡­White Queen.¡± Halle¡¯s hands shook ever so slightly as she poured. ¡°The shamans did not like to be speaking of her. She was shaman, being very strong too. It was wrong, so the shamans were saying, for one to be shaman and chieftain both. That was what made her so mad. This White Queen, she was being¡­unkind, to those on their coin-journeys.¡± She set the copper pot back down, and regarded the burnt-out buildings that surrounded them sadly. ¡°I had been hearing Cross-on-Green was a small town, but welcoming to outsiders, and lovely for trade. It was one of the places I was wanting to see, when I was a little girl, just hearing about the world from our elders. But then it was razed. The elders, they were not knowing exactly what happened, but they were thinking this White Queen did it, yes.¡± She shook her head, and then pressed a tiny, steaming cup of the black liquid into Elyse¡¯s hands. ¡°Here. Be drinking the vulz with us, and then we may be making a proper gift to you.¡±


    Unsure why gift-giving depended so much on her drinking this liquid, Elyse lifted the small cup - less than a mouthful - to her nose, and sniffed. It had a strange, almost burnt smell to it, and an oddly burnt taste, as well, though surprisingly sweet. Something about it made her feel very clear-headed after drinking it. Both Chesmed and Halle took their vulz in one gulp, fast enough that she thought they must have scalded their throats. They both shook themselves and slapped their bellies, and then Halle unrolled a many-pocketed length of cloth. ¡°I am apologizing for the meanness of the gifts,¡± she said as she did so, ¡°But we are initiates, and we have not yet been collecting much to be giving away. But still, you may be choosing what you wish.¡±


    The woman retrieved a variety of odd trinkets from the pockets and stood them up on the cloth, as if for display. A stone carving of a king holding a sword, though smoothed and darkened as if many hands had held it over the years. A flat disc with a strange spiraling pattern etched into its surface and traced with colorful paints, such that it looked like a rainbow knotting in upon itself. A skull that certainly looked as if it were human, and real bone, but much tinier than any human¡¯s skull would be, even a babe¡¯s. ¡°Where did you get these - what creature does the skull come from?¡± Elyse asked.


    Chesmed answered for his wife. ¡°Some, we are knowing the stories of. The stone carving is in the style of some northern kingdoms, but we are unsure of where exactly it is coming from or who it was. The disc is from trade far in the west, from a place being called the City of Bells, and it is said that such things are simple decoration there. The skull, we are not knowing, but we are hearing it told that there are far-off lands where tiny, hairy men are living in the forests, and that this belonged to one of them.¡±


    Halle brought out yet more baubles for her choosing, and going by the number of bulging pockets in that roll, she may have had dozens of them. But the one that caught Elyse¡¯s eye, and the one she chose, was a gray clay carving of a fat frog, hollow and holed, so that when you put your lips to its lips and blew, a sort of rough, low whistle was produced. That was not the reason she chose it, though. She could feel the Art in the thing, much older than it seemed the carving would suggest. Chesmed and Halle knew little about it - which they seemed to almost find unbearably embarrassing, blushing deeply when she pressed them on it. They could only tell her that they had purchased it from a farmer, who had gotten it from from some hawker when he had bought his harvest into town to be sold, telling him it was a good luck charm for rain. It may well be, for all she knew. Whatever the Art was in it, it was so old that it was faded, and difficult for her to tell what it was meant to do. Perhaps it was meant to do nothing other than preserve the little bauble.


    Chesmed and Halle stayed on for some time after that. They let their son out of the basket that Halle had carried him in - he had no name, as yet, they would not name him until his third birthday - and Elyse made the shadows dance for the pudgy little toddler, which he reacted to with shrieking laughter. She asked Chesmed and Halle where they were from, for she had never heard of these sorts of folk before. They were simply traders, they told her, from a land called Yold out to the east. ¡°A vast, empty place,¡± Chesmed said, ¡°A sea of tall grass, where you can travel from sundown to sunup and never see a hill, and the only buildings you will see are ruins from days gone by. Old Aurelic forts, and more ancient besides.¡±


    They were of a people who lived as nomads in the land of Yold, who were horse-breeders, though they simply called themselves the People. Elyse knew nothing of horses, but she did suppose their mounts looked well muscled and very clearly cared for, and were obedient as well, standing aside impassively as Chesmed and Halle made their stop, not even tethered. The People would make their living as traders - ¡°Because you get tired of seeing nothing but grass all the time,¡± Halle joked - and among them, a good life was one spent always traveling, making many ¡°coin-journeys¡±, seeing many lands, and eventually growing wealthy. Elyse could certainly see the appeal of such a life, though it certainly had to be dangerous. ¡°It is true,¡± Halle admitted, ¡°In the days of old Aurelia, the People would travel further, and safer. These days many choose to give up the travel after a dozen or so coin-journeys, and retire with wealth and plenty. But we still have our fortune to make.¡±


    As they were talking, Elyse saw Flit flying by, a scarlet spot in the sky, and it was not much longer before Martim appeared walking down the road. The wizard did not seem worried about the two traders; in fact, as he approached, he made an almost courtly bow, with one leg bent. ¡°A fine day to you, merchants. How does the road treat you?¡±


    Chesmed grumbled and seemed crestfallen - Elyse wondered if perhaps the man had been waiting to see if Martim actually did turn out to be the thief he had looked for- but Halle was all smiles as she introduced them, and Martim in turn. Though when Elyse explained the situation to him - how she had been mistaken for a thief - Martim raised his eyebrow, and both Chesmed and Halle blushed crimson. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you have come through a place called Pike¡¯s Green in your travels,¡± he asked them, while they were still recovering, which Elyse made note of with interest, but the two traders could only shake their heads. When she questioned if the hunt had gone poorly, the wizard shook his head. ¡°I have Cecil guarding our kills. I have found a good spot for a camp, I think, much better than this tower.¡± He turned to the two traders, and gave them a nod. ¡°I took more kills than we can eat, and we should be glad to share camp with you. It is some distance south.¡±


    The two traders took the offer with grace enough, but they both seemed more nervous now that they were dealing with not one, but two ¡®shamans¡¯, as they called them, and were plainly unused to being treated as equals by those who practiced the Art. ¡°I am thanking you, but we are heading west, to the town of Twin Lamps,¡± Chesmed said, removing his hat again and giving a strange little bow while sitting down. Then he glanced up at the sun. ¡°Though I am thinking, perhaps we are making camp here, to see if we cannot be spotting the thief.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± Elyse said quickly, while at the same time Martim said, ¡°I would reconsider that.¡± The wizard turned to her, surprise and questions in his dark green eyes. Elyse¡¯s mind had gone immediately to that twisted oak in the plaza. Camping within sight of that? Without the protection or knowledge of the Art to guide them, and with a child in tow? But she spoke nothing of this, simply motioning for Martim to go on. ¡°A great wicked thing was done here, and this can seep into the land itself, at times,¡± the wizard continued, giving her a sidelong look. ¡°I myself did not find very restful sleep last night. It may be a place ill-considered to make camp.¡±


    Chesmed and Halle looked back and forth between the two of them. ¡°Well,¡± the man said, looking around uneasily at the ruined shells of buildings looming over them as if seeing them anew, ¡°If two of the shamans are telling me it is no good to make camp here, then I am listening.¡±


    That dire warning seemed to have killed the cheerfulness of their gathering. Even the child began to whine and cry. Elyse rose, leaning on her stick, while Martim gathered their things from the campsite, and the two merchants rolled up their things and tucked them neatly into saddlebags. Chesmed took the child up on his back, this time, with one last regretful murmur about not being able to catch the thief.


    There was not much time to linger, if they were going to make it to their new campsite by dark - her ankle felt better, but Elyse hoped that Martim had not chosen something too far away. Though he would certainly offer to carry her if it began to hurt too badly, and she might not refuse him this time. Chesmed and Halle mounted their horses, and set out to the west, with their graceful dogs prancing at their sides. And as the two turned to wave to them, Elyse was struck with a strong, strange feeling, a near-certainty that she would see them again.

 A Brief Respite

    <h2 style="text-align: center">10. A Brief Respite</h2>


    ¡°The Traveling Folk,¡± Martim said with a laugh, as they set off on the road south. ¡°¡®Tis a good thing to see them here. Too bad they are headed west. They make fine companions on the road.¡±


    ¡°You know of these people?¡± Elyse asked him. ¡°I have never seen such folk before.¡±


    ¡°Never?¡± Martim looked at her curiously, in that slightly unsettling, studying way he had. ¡°I had heard tale that they visit every land. They call themselves merchants, though they only ever seem to carry trinkets, rarely something practical. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve even heard of them trading one of their horses, for all they¡¯ll tell you that they¡¯re the best mounts to be found. Still, you can find something interesting among what they carry, every now and then.¡±


    ¡°They did make me a gift,¡± she said, tucking her stick beneath her arm so that she might produce the fat little frog. The wizard was very interested in it, and they spent a time discussing what they thought the Art within it was for. Though for all their speculating, they still were no closer to figuring out what it was for, only that Martim insisted that he thought that whatever the enchantment was, it served more than one purpose.


    They fell silent for a time as they neared the edge of town, where the broken, charred logs of a crumbled palisade marked the boundary between Cross-on-Green proper and the surrounding farmlands that supported it. The clack of her stick striking the stone only seemed to emphasize the quiet between them, and for some reason she could not name, it agitated Elyse. ¡°So, why did you choose to move our camp?¡± she asked the wizard, after a moment.


    ¡°I thought it might be better to sleep by a creek rather than on hard stone, and I did not much like my rest last night. Why were you so eager to tell the traders not to rest in town?¡±


    This was the slippery way he had of evading questions and steering the conversation away from what she intended. She¡¯d answer that question, and he¡¯d have another for her, and before she knew it they¡¯d be talking about something else entirely. Not this time. ¡°I saw you last night, Martim,¡± she snapped, then frowned. That had sounded harsher than she intended. ¡°I saw you¡­walking about the plaza. What were you doing?¡±


    She had been watching the path before her, but when he didn¡¯t answer she glanced towards him, and was astounded to find him looking ashen-faced, staring bleakly at the road. ¡°I was dreamwalking,¡± he said finally, when she thought he would not say anything at all. ¡°That¡¯s the only thing I can think of.¡± He blushed, and looked away from her. ¡°I did not mean to worry you. I wish you had not seen.¡±


    He seemed so ashamed, his voice so hushed, his manner so stricken, that she almost felt as if she should drop it right there, so clearly did he not want to linger on the subject. ¡°I am not sure that you were simply dreamwalking,¡± she pushed on. She told him of how she had gone to the tree, and tried to read the tree-speech from it, and how she had found the tree twisted beyond recognition. Martim listened, questioningly at first - he had not known she had the tree-speech - but then grew increasingly quiet as she spoke of how she had felt the tree sipping from something dark within the earth. ¡°I do not think the tree was¡­as it should have been,¡± she finished eventually. ¡°I worry that it drew you out, and it was not dreamwalking at all.¡±


    ¡°That may well be,¡± the wizard said slowly. He worried an end of his red scarf between two fingers, plucking at the wool. ¡°In a place of so much slaughter, it could well be that the Lands of the Dead drew close there¡­but why¡­?¡± His jaw clenched shut, and his expression grew grim. ¡°A good thing that we are quitting the place, then.¡±


    A good thing indeed. Elyse knew little about the Lands of the Dead - she supposed that relatively few would know much about them at all. Your soul went to the Lands of the Dead when you died, unless you were a wicked sort bound for the Hells, and Old Scratch¡¯s punishment. Some described the Lands of the Dead as peaceful for those souls that went to it, but many other stories described them as strange, unknowable, full of dangerous things. Everyone had their own ideas of what lay beyond the veil, and many believed there was no peace after death. Nobody knew for certain. Except, perhaps, for necromancers.


    She left the wizard in silence for a time, brooding, and concentrated on walking as gingerly as she could on her ankle. It was not nearly so bad anymore, and soon enough she would not worry about it at all. She breathed in, and looked to the sky. With trees more sparse here, she could see the setting sun, orange and bright, sinking towards the horizon, painting the clouds in soft shades of pink. A beautiful sunset, one to make her wish she could capture it somehow and hold it forever.


    After some time, Martim took a dirt path across a field - another farmer¡¯s field gone back to the wilds, with nothing but the vine-covered shell of a burnt home - and soon then to the tree-shrouded bank of a creek. If it was the same creek that the fae Lob had claimed as his own (and it very likely was) then it had grown stronger since they had last crossed over it, perhaps joined by streams, flowing faster and deeper.


    The spot he had chosen for camp was beneath the long golden branches of a drooping willow. The wizard had taken three partridges for their meals, and Cecil a squirrel and another rabbit. It would be much nicer to sleep here, with the whispering of the brook nearby, and soft ground rather than stone. She sat in the grass, laying her fae-stick across her knees, glad to be off her feet. Cecil approached her and quite aggressively settled into her lap, purring deeply, glad to be by her side again. She watched as Martimeos prepared a campfire, and a spit for two of the partridges, already plucked and prepared for the cooking. As they cooked, she practiced her healing, which the wizard tried to work at as well, though his efforts were not successful.


    Not that this was unusual. The music of the body, the red song of blood rushing through veins, blood and bone and muscle and sinew all working together to make a grand symphony, this was not something easily heard. One had to train the senses for it. Rarely was it the first thing a wizard or a witch learned in their journey with the Art, or even one of the earlier things. Often, or so she had heard, even those who became very skilled with the healing craft learned it only later in life. Knowing some of the other tricks of the Art, something of the nature of magic, helped to learn the complicated art of healing.


    It had been different for her. She had a natural talent for hearing the song, though even then it had taken her months of lying in darkness at night, listening, straining to hear what she had been told must be there. When first she had heard it, it had overwhelmed her - strange to feel the dance of blood in your own veins, to know of yourself as this strange, red, wet music, especially when so young; she had wept both at the beauty of it and with fear. And even after hearing the song, it had taken her a very long time to know how to mend it when it was broken - or to hasten the mending, since the song was very able to re-tune itself, to some degree. Sometimes.


    She could hear more now, too. She could hear the discord in the song that she knew for disease, and the dark notes of other sinister things that happened in people¡¯s bodies that she could not name. And she could feel old wounds, where the song had been altered and changed to repair itself, not the same, but still whole. And when she laid her hands upon Martim, which she did at least once a day, to see to the mending of his wounds - the cuts in his side were healing nicely now, and the gash near his neck was at least doing better, that one could have been so much worse - when she laid hands upon him, she could feel the wound he would not speak of, the wound which she had felt the moment she had first healed him when they had met.


    Something had torn the wizard, ripped him, ruined him, left a wound so deep that even healed it was as obvious as seeing the land itself split open. Rainfall and time might send more earth into the pit, and plants might grow over it, but it would always be clear that the land had been torn apart. This wound was so enormous in him, in fact, that she was not sure at first where he had been injured, though now she thought it must be along his back. Whatever it was had carved deep within him. Deeper than she had thought possible to be cut and still live, in fact. It had cut through bone and organ, it seemed almost like it had very nearly cut him in twain. She would have said that anyone who had suffered such an injury would have never survived, they must be dead. If not dead, it would have taken the greatest of healers and a complete miracle, and even then they would have ended up crippled.


    And yet here Martim was, as whole as any other man, without even a limp to show for it. He gave her a small, somewhat mischievous smile as she released him from his healing, though she thought that perhaps smiles just simply looked mischievous on his face. Golden leaves, fallen from the willow, adorned his long, unkempt hair, when she looked into his dark green eyes, she thought that he must know that she knew of his wound. The shock had certainly been too obvious on her face, the first time she had sensed it. She had itched to know the tale behind it, and yet something had held her back. Perhaps it had been the simple severity of the wound itself. So grave did it seem that it felt wrong to ask someone she had just met about it, like asking a stranger why they were crying. Though she might have still asked anyway, if the wizard had not seemed so much like a wild, wary thing, one that she needed all her caution to catch.


    She supposed that she still did not know him very well. It had only been a few days, though what a perilous few days it had been through the One-Road Wood. But already she itched again to ask him about the wound, and she did not think unfamiliarity would keep the question from her lips for much longer. Speaking of which¡­ ¡°So where is Pike¡¯s Green?¡± she asked, as Martim lifted one of the spit partridges from the fire to examine it. If she could not satisfy her curiosity about his wound just yet, she would have some other answers out of the man. ¡°Is that where you are from?¡± Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    The wizard gave a start and very nearly dropped the partridge. Frowning at her, he muttered, ¡°I did mention that to the traders, didn¡¯t I? Yes, it was my home.¡±


    She thought he might say more, but silence fell between them again as they stared into the flames. The tired, comforting dim of twilight was approaching, and from the branches of the willow above, Flit sang his last salute to the day¡¯s sun. Apparently it would not be so easy to get him to crack his lips on the matter. Eventually he removed the birds from the fire, and now offered one to her, grease still running down the stick. She watched him, silently, waiting for her bird to cool. She wondered if he was strange for a man, or whether they were all like this in some way. Absent-mindedly, she gnawed at her meat, and spat out the burnt remains of a feather.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± the wizard told her with a rueful shrug. ¡°I am not so good at dressing birds, I think.¡±


    ¡°I think so too,¡± Elyse muttered. Not just that either, she thought. She was much quicker and cleaner than the wizard was when it came to butchering kills. ¡°What is it you did before you set out on the road?¡± she asked, as she plucked some of the meat from the bone and fed Cecil a scrap. ¡°Anything useful at all?¡±


    Martim frowned at her thoughtfully, chewing slowly before he spoke. ¡°My father was a cobbler. I know a bit of that.¡± The fire crackled and popped, the only other sound that of Cecil¡¯s loud, rumbling purr. ¡°What about you, Elyse? What did you do before you traveled, and where did you come from?¡±


    Elyse gave a start, and didn¡¯t answer him at first. She supposed if she wanted him to answer these sorts of questions, it was only fair that she supply some answers of her own. She stared into the fire for a long moment, considering, before she spoke. ¡°South and east of here, there is a great swamp. The swamp of Rue Ouest. My mother was the witch of that swamp, and I was in her care. She taught me of the Art and how to survive off the land.¡±


    ¡°I think I have heard of it from travelers. Rue Ouest? It has a Calaisan sound to it.¡± That it did, she supposed. Calais was one of the old Aurelic kingdoms, and apparently the city it was named for still stood, though she did not have any idea whether it held all the lands it once had, or whether her swamp was now or had ever been part of it on a map. The wizard gave her one of those grins, and a shrewd look. ¡°Though I had heard rumor that the witch of that swamp was a cannibal.¡±


    Elyse laughed. Cannibals? She did not know that the tale of her swamp was one that travelers might speak of. She wondered what other wild things might have been said about it. ¡°Well, she was not very fond of visitors. She never ate anyone that I know of, though she¡­she did kill any man who entered the swamp. Women, though, would sometimes come to her for help. Sometimes asking for silly things, like love potions. Sometimes for more serious things, like help conceiving a child. For the first, she¡¯d sell them some swamp water in a clay jar and send them on their way. The second she would actually help.¡±


    ¡°She would kill any man that entered the swamp? What of your father?¡±


    Elyse fidgeted, running her thumb over the dark ring that decorated her free hand. ¡°I...never met him. Truth be told, you are the first man I have spoken much to. And Chesmed now too, I suppose. I never saw a man except from a distance. Mother would never let me near them...¡± She chuckled, though the memories saddened her. ¡°When I was little, there were some loggers that worked at the edge of our swamp. I watched them from afar. I thought they were women. I thought a man was what a woman became when she grew old. I was a bit disappointed when I learned I would never be very tall and have broad shoulders and hairy arms.¡± She sighed. ¡°Or a beard. I would have liked a beard.¡±


    The wizard was staring at her, Elyse realized. In the dying light, shadows seemed to swim in his eyes around the twin pinpricks of reflected orange flame. She wondered if what she had said was very strange. She knew that she had been raised in an unusual way, but beneath Martim¡¯s gaze she began to wonder just how very odd it was. ¡°You have not been on the road for very long, then. Your mother really kept you so isolated?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said slowly,¡°¡®Twas a lonely life. Certainly very much so before I met Cecil.¡± She wrapped her arms around her familiar, savoring the feel of his deep purr, the scruff of his mane. ¡°The only people I talked to besides my mother were her visitors. When I was old enough to read I asked them to bring me books, and from these I learned of the world. When I was older, mother told me of men, and how dangerous they were, but they did not seem so bad in books.¡± A dark mischief seized her, and she winked at him. ¡°They seemed¡­exciting. I think you¡¯ve demonstrated that the books are right about that.¡±


    The wizard actually blushed a bit, which she thought was a pleasing look on him. It was certainly true that in many of the stories she had read, men were having grand adventures, or performing great deeds of valor. Or she was reading about V¨¦reline Valoir, and the sorceress was taking them as lovers and going on about their excellent qualities, sometimes in great and shocking detail, which was exciting in its own way. She had always been very glad that her mother had been so busied with her Art. Elyse did not think her mother had ever read the stories she gave to her daughter. If she had, her mother might have realized that the stories were not making men out to be the barbaric, ravaging killers and despoilers that she had always told her daughter they were.


    Martim cleared his throat, having pretended to choke on a partridge bone to excuse his red cheeks.¡°So glad to be of help,¡± he said dryly. He tossed the bones of his meal into the flames, and retrieved his pipe. ¡°So what set you on the road?¡± he asked, as he packed it with tobacco.


    ¡°Not so long ago, mother fell ill and died,¡± Elyse said lightly. ¡°I decided I did not want to spend my life in a swamp, so I left.¡± She shrugged. ¡°It may seem a sorry end for a witch such as she, but ¡®tis the natural course of things, I suppose. Even with all her skill with the Art and as a learned apothecary, she could not heal everything. And what about you? What was the place you grew up like?¡±


    Martim focused on the bowl of the pipe for a moment, and soon it glowed orange, trailing a thin wisp of smoke. He took a long pull on it, considering, and then blew out a thick ring of smoke, nodding in satisfaction as it drifted up to tangle in the branches of the willow. ¡°Oh, nothing interesting,¡± he said, taking another pull from his pipe.Then he yelped as a pebble struck him in the forehead, coughing up smoke, and glared at her.


    Elyse met the wizard¡¯s glare with one of her own. The confusion on his face only angered her more. That had to be a farce. He was not an idiot, or at least she did not think he was. ¡°Nothing interesting,¡± she snapped. ¡°Unbelievable. I tell you where I came from and you think you can just reply with ¡®nothing interesting¡¯ in return.¡± The man could prick her ire with his evasiveness sometimes, but he had well and truly done it now. She had really thought that if she answered his questions, he¡¯d answer hers in turn. Was he mocking her? She bent down to pick up another rock from the forest floor, this one much larger than a pebble, and glowered at him darkly. ¡°Tell me more, Martimeos, or the next one is going somewhere considerably more delicate.¡± If he was in reach, she thought she might have pinched him. Or bitten him.


    For a moment, he got a stubborn look about him, and she really thought he meant to keep his mouth shut. ¡°Fine, fine!¡± he cried, finally, as she lifted her arm back to throw. ¡°Fine.¡± Still he seemed hesitant, puffing on his pipe, as if trying to find the right words. Slowly, though, the stubbornness drained from his expression. His eyes grew distant, as if he were looking at something far away. ¡°I too came from the east, though more north,¡± he said softly, after a while. ¡°Pike¡¯s Green was one of many villages there, where folk carve clearings from forest. Many farms. People raising goats, chickens. I am told our apple cider was known quite far away in trade. The occasional merchant passing through, or sometimes the Traveling Folk. Certainly an odd-looking place. The folk of Pike¡¯s Green loved to paint their buildings in bright colors. An eccentricity of ours, I was told.¡± For some reason, he sounded very sad as he said that. ¡°A quiet place.¡±


    ¡°And how did a cobbler¡¯s son learn of the Art in such a simple village as this?" Her partridge still had a good bit of meat on it, but she was no longer hungry. She gave it over to Cecil, who took to it with abandon.


    Martim paused for a moment, smoke curling from his nostrils. Then he shrugged. ¡°From a book my family purchased from the Traveling Folk. It caught my eye, and it was made as a birthday gift.¡±


    ¡°You did not have a tutor to start you on your path?¡± Elyse could not conceal her surprise. She had seen books that spoke of the Art long before she had known anything of how to work it, but she could not imagine being able to learn from those alone.


    ¡°...Oh, I did. Though I wasn¡¯t a very good listener.¡± She waited as he blew a smoke ring once more to hear more of this, but then the wizard just laughed. ¡°I mostly just wanted to learn to impress a girl at first.¡± He tapped out the bowl of his pipe on the side of his boot.


    Elyse¡¯s eyes lit up with mirth. ¡°Hah! So, was she impressed?¡±


    Martim had been grinning to himself, shaking his head slightly, but at this, it seemed the mirth in him died. He sagged, casting his eyes to the ground, and all at once he seemed very tired. ¡°Yes,¡± he said quietly. ¡°Lots of my friends were, in fact.¡±


    Almost absent-mindedly, he drew out his sword, and a long, smooth whetstone from his pack, and began sharpening his blade. She watched him at this for a while. "It must have been difficult to leave them all behind.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Martim replied once more, focused now on the draw of his sword against the stone. ¡°It was.¡±


    Elyse might have been more annoyed at his reticence, but something about his manner made her more gentle. He seemed so run-down, and all at once. She wondered what he must have remembered. ¡°So why did you?¡±


    The only response was the hiss of his blade against the whetstone for a while. ¡°Just wanted to wander, I suppose.¡±


    Quiet grew between them. She had noticed this about the wizard, by now. He could sometimes be overcome by sudden bouts of melancholy. She did not like it. Smiles looked better on his face, and trickery and jests sounded better on his tongue. ¡°Martim,¡± she asked, and did not continue until he looked at her, ¡°For what reason do you go to Silverfish? You took it upon you to ask a Dolmec. What Telling did you need to send you there?¡±


    He considered her, and for a moment, she felt drawn in by his dark green eyes, weighing her. ¡°I am looking for someone,¡± he said, and the long silence that followed made it very clear he would say no more.


    Elyse gave a small ¡®hmmph¡¯ and lobbed the rock at him, but softly, so that it only hit his boot. She looked around. The daylight had died, and the shadows were settling in. She slid off the rock she sat on to nestle in a pile of leaves, pulling the brim of her hat down low over her head. ¡°Well, if you are not going to talk about it, I am going to go to sleep.¡±


    ¡°Goodnight, Elyse,¡± Martim called absent-mindedly. But she did not sleep, not right away. Instead she watched from beneath the brim of her hat as Martimeos slowly sharpened his sword, occasional white sparks scattering into the darkness from the edge of the blade, not shutting her eyes until he extinguished the campfire.

 End of the Road

    Part Two: The Cursed Village


    <h2 style="text-align: center">11. End of the Road</h2>


    They ended up staying at their campsite beneath the willow, on the farmland outskirts of Cross-on-Green, for two more days in order to let Elyse¡¯s ankle heal, and for Martimeos¡¯ wounds to recover, too. There were times when he thought that perhaps they ought to simply make for Silverfish. They were not far now, or so Flit told him. His familiar could see the great lake of Nust Drim from the air, and even the buildings clustered on its shore that he could only assume was the village they were looking for. But it was too far for him to carry the witch, should she re-injure herself. No, better to heal than to travel early.


    And there was the curse, as well. The Dolmec had spoken of a curse, though the demon had not given any hint as to its nature. But the thought of it made Martimeos think that to linger here, by the whispering waters, in the glory of autumn¡¯s colors, was not so bad. Game was plentiful here - they never went without meat to cook at night, and the countryside was, blessedly, peaceful. After the dire journey through the One-Road Wood, it was good to take one¡¯s time where there was calm. Before they must make their way to where Martimeos knew well that darkness dwelled.


    He had not told Elyse about the curse, and still did not want to. The witch was ever more inquisitive, and she would want to know why he felt he had to walk into a village that was cursed, and he still did not wish to tell her. She had been a boon to stumble across in the One-Road Wood. A boon still, really - her skill at healing made wounds that might have festered clean, and the knitting of them hastened such that what might have taken weeks instead took days. Martimeos thought still, though, that most likely once he found what he needed in the village that he might leave her behind. It was not that he was eager to, simply that his road was long, and surely at some point their paths would diverge.


    By their third dawn there, not much was left of his wounds but scabs, and Elyse was spry as could be. They left on the first light, south once more along the old stone road. The witch seemed in a fine mood, full of laughter and smiles, perhaps heartened by the fact that she could readily walk again. Though she did keep hold on the stick he had given her for a crutch from the fae-woods. It was a souvenir, she said, though he thought that if you wanted a souvenir from the fae you could probably do a lot better than a simple stick.


    Martimeos, for his part, remained quiet, watching her. He still did not know if he believed what she had told him, that she had been raised isolated within a swamp by a witch with a dark reputation, and kept so isolated, especially from men. Though he supposed it was not so unbelievable. She was an odd one, and that might go some way to explaining some of her oddness. He felt a dim pang of worry for her, if she was being truthful. If she was so inexperienced in the ways of dealing with folk, it might bring her trouble. It might bring him trouble, if he were her companion in Silverfish.


    The lands that passed them by were much as they were outside of Cross-on-Green, all farmlands grown over and neglected, though at some point the farms were no longer burnt, but still remained standing. He wondered if this marked the official border between Cross-on-Green and Silverfish. When the White Queen¡¯s murderers had come to burn down the farms, how had they decided where to stop the killing? The farmlands flowed smoothly into one another, with nary a break between. And although these farmhouses still stood, their fields were just as untended. And it was all the more uncanny for there being no explanation for their abandonment.


    Martimeos broke from the road to see what he could find from one of these houses, a small farmhouse of white and brown brick with thatched roof, with Elyse following at his heels. The roof was falling in and in bad need of repair, but otherwise the house looked remarkably sound. This could make folk a good home, if whoever took it were willing to put in a little work on it, and yet it lay totally abandoned and had for some time, with thick dust billowing up in clouds as soon as he opened the door. ¡°Strange, to see it empty so,¡± the witch said, coughing, waving her wide-brimmed hat in front of her face to dispel the dust. ¡°Isn¡¯t it?¡±


    It was an honest question. ¡°It is,¡± he told her. There was nothing inside the home except for a worn and scratched wooden table, lying abandoned on the floor. He closed the door, shaking his head. ¡°It might not be so odd to see one or two old farms left behind, in some places, but not so many as we have seen today.¡± Cursed, and forsaken, and deserted, he thought to himself, but he kept his silence. He suddenly wondered if they would find anyone living in Silverfish at all. Perhaps it was just as abandoned as Cross-on-Green. He hoped it was not the case. He had to take on supplies.


    The sight of the empty home seemed to dull Elyse¡¯s good cheer, and they traveled in silence then. The foreboding sight of more empty fields, more empty homes, cast a pall over their journey and filled them with disquiet. And it only grew as the land began to change.


    For soon, the fields did not seem merely abandoned and overgrown and gone to meadows. No, they were being choked, choked by the curling blackthorn plant that had choked the oak in the plaza of Cross-on-Green, those strange, unknown dark vines and their blood-red flowers. At first when they had spotted it, it only seemed as if it were a little more thick than it grew elsewhere. But then they saw thickets of thorns, tangles of vines as big as a house, and then found them crawling over low stone walls, then pulling down the bricks of abandoned homes and creeping through the windows. And then they passed by an entire field that had been swallowed by it, no sign of any building that had once been there, just thornvines swaying in a long, moaning wind, grown taller than they were.


    Both Martimeos and Elyse had been off-trail in the woods before, and they knew how thick thorn bushes could grow where people did not walk, but this was beyond anything either of them had seen before. The vines pulled down trees, they loomed over the stone walls and collapsed fences separating the farmlands from the roads, and finally they grew across the road itself, straining to each other across the cobblestone, tangling and knotting together so thick that Martimeos eventually had to draw his sword to hack them a way through. When he did, the cut vines bled black ichor, so much that they actually oozed puddles onto the ground, and they smelled like death.


    ¡°Fah!¡± he growled, yanking on his cloak as the thorns tried to snag it. It seemed almost as if they grew together behind them as soon as they walked through. He disliked the thought of them touching him, and not only because they were thorns. He was not the only one, either. Cecil would not even step among them, he would wait until a hole was carved and then gather himself and make a mighty leap over them. Flit refused even to land on them for a moment. Elyse seemed the only one unperturbed, merely frowning as she prodded at the liquid they left behind with her stick, and then to his shock bending down to feel it with her fingers. He did not know how she could stand to touch it.


    ¡°Why do they not have anyone come and clear this from the roads?¡± she asked quietly. Her dark blue eyes settled on him, troubled. ¡°How long has it been like this?¡±


    It was the same thought he had been having. Nobody had cared to travel this way for a while, clearly. Did Silverfish have no one to come by to trade? Even the meanest village would see the occasional outsider. Unless they were totally abandoned. Perhaps these vines choking the land were the curse the Dolmec had spoken of. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he told her.


    They walked on.


    It grew colder, and a fog began to settle in the land, as if the slate-gray sky had come down to embrace the earth. Trees had fewer leaves here. While the ones in the One-Road Wood had been in the full blaze of autumn, here they were black and skeletal, the wind plucking the last few dead, brown leaves from their branches.


    The daylight had begun to dim when they came upon their first sign of life. A farmhouse whose field was not overflowing with thorns, and actively tilled, filled with mounds of pumpkins and squash. A woman in a long, black woolen dress, dirty from her work, bent over an old well in the far corner of the field, rail-thin and crooked. They stopped to watch her from the road, for a while, before Martimeos called out. ¡°Hullo!¡± he cried. ¡°How far now to Silverfish?¡±


    But when the woman rose, over her head she had a rough burlap sack, with a few holes cut out for the eyes and mouth. She did not answer them. She simply stood as they passed by, watching them, motionlessly. When they waved, she did not wave back. The moment they looked away from her, the sound of a slamming door rang out, and when they turned back around she no longer stood in her field, and the curtains by one of the windows of the farmhouse stirred.


    ¡°What do you suppose was wrong with her face?¡± Elyse asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the woman might hear them. ¡°Was that why she would not talk to us?¡±


    Martimeos didn¡¯t know, and he was not sure that he wanted to. A quiet dread had gnawed at his stomach when he saw that woman, and he was glad to be well past the farm, too. Something about it made him uneasy, and he could not name what. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    He was a bit surprised to see anyone living here at all, but then thought came to him. Most folk in these lands did not fear the Art. There were those who were suspicious of it, but most did not hate it. But there were those villages, hidden away from all others, where a true loathing of the Art, and of wizards and witches, made folk abandon ideas of decency and civility. He himself could pass as a normal traveler, and Flit was inconspicuous enough. Elyse, though, with her hat, and Cecil walking along by her side in a way no normal cat would, was very obviously a practitioner of the Art, and he told her as much. ¡°Perhaps it would be best to put your hat up, and for Cecil to travel away from you, until we know the feelings of these folk, at least.¡±


    Elyse gave an indignant sigh, and Cecil seemed to be regarding him with flat, yellow eyes, as if the cat was considering whether or not to trust him left alone with his witch, but his mistress saw the wisdom of it. She raked her hands through her long, tangled hair as she collapsed her hat neatly and tucked it inside her robes, knocking loose twigs and leaves. There was no helping her odd, ragged dress - and if people were truly hateful towards the Art, they would take any eccentricity as a sign of dark magic - but at least now it was not blindingly obvious what she was.


    Finally, as the sun had begun its journey downward towards the horizon, they reached the village proper. The clear, gentle banks of the lake of Nust Drim lay before them, and fog rolled in off the placid water. A sign greeted them as they moved towards the cluster of buildings on the lake¡¯s shores, swinging gently in the breeze, creaking as it did: It simply read ¡°SILVERFISH¡±, with a painting of a peculiar fat fish beneath it, with a white belly and whiskers and a gleaming silver back. At least, it looked as if the fish had once been silver. It still glinted in some spots, but in most places the once bright paint had flaked away or faded. Black thorns climbed up the post that held it.


    Here, the buildings were made from the same tan and white bricks as the farmhouses in the countryside, but the roofs were made of wooden slats that looked as if they had once been brightly painted green and blue, though as with everything else here, they were dull and worn now. As they moved through the village, they couldn¡¯t help but notice that even here it looked like most of the buildings had been abandoned for years ¨C houses and shops both. There was, however, a pier that led out into the lake, and even a couple of small rowboats tied there. Not a soul was on the streets, though there was still some light left in the day. The only sign of life was blue woodsmoke rising from the chimneys of a few of the homes. And up to the very outskirts of the village had the blackthorn crept, until it swallowed even a few of the homes that stood not very far from the others. It all felt hedged in, surrounded, as if the very buildings themselves were huddling together against what was slowly devouring them.


    It felt odd to walk into the heart of a village and have no one greet them. Clearly very few lived here anymore, compared to how many once had. But this was not Cross-on-Green, razed and ruined; people still did live here, and yet not one of them had said anything to the pair of strangers who had come into their midst. He wondered if they were being watched. He swore he saw flickering movement out of the corner of his eye, and his hand went to his sword. But Elyse only looked at him questioningly, and when he looked, there was nothing there.


    The stone road ran through the village center and curved down, continuing on around the edge of the lake. As they drew close to the shores, thick with tall, golden reeds, they could see that some distance out into Nust Drim stood an island, not very far out. It rose above the fog on the surface of the lake, and on it stood an old stone building, squat and dark. Not Aurelic - their buildings were always grand, straining towards the sky, delicate and imposing at once, with soaring buttresses and grand arches, and intricately detailed stonework. This was more plain, with unadorned stone and thick columns, capped by short, curved steeples, though still impressive in its own way. It appeared to be some sort of manor that dominated the hill of the island, almost a castle. It had to be old. No one these days would have built such. Stretching out into the lake, towards the island, were the broken remnants of what must have been a bridge between it and the mainland. An arch here, broken stone post slick with lake-slime there.


    Eventually they walked through the village entirely, following the road until it went snaking on out into the wilderness once more. But there, just at the edge of where they thought the village must end, was another curious building. Of the same squat architecture and thick limestone as the manor they had seen out on the island, but this much smaller, as small as a house, and built strangely halfway in and halfway out of the lake itself, though this was clearly intentional - it had not sunk into the lake over the years by accident. Thick columns sank into the water to support it. And it was free of the black thorns that crowded around all the other buildings out here on the outskirts, none growing within ten paces of it.


    It had no doorway, either, just a wide-arched entrance beneath a grand portico, and the interior seemed cavernous, despite its small size. The back half of it which sank into the lake was actually open as well, so that lake water flowed into a tiled pool in the interior, and it seemed almost something of a grotto. A small, simple stone altar stood in the center of the pool, rising above the water, and upon it lay an icon, a silver statue of a beautiful woman who from the hips down had the tail of a fish, smiling serenely, beatifically at the water around her.


    And there was a man. Martimeos almost did not notice the fellow until he had walked into the building, so quiet was the man, off to the side, in the shadows. He was kneeling, hands on his knees, and his simple clothing, a plain woolen shirt and trousers, seemed too loose, and he was far too thin. The man was staring at the silver statue on the altar, quiet and still, but when he heard footsteps approaching he turned. ¡°Oh,¡± he said, somewhat tremulously. ¡°Oh. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve met you before.¡±


    ¡°I should say not,¡± Martimeos replied slowly. There was something off about the man. His face bore an expression of gentle confusion. He was not old, but he gave the impression that he was, like someone who had lost his wits and now viewed life through a haze. Even his hair was more sparse than it should have been for his age.


    Martimeos blinked in surprise as Elyse strode boldly past him, careless of the fellow and not waiting for an invitation. The man did not seem to mind, though, merely looking at the witch blandly while she cast an eye about, apparently approving of what she saw. Martimeos followed after her. It was surprisingly warm within this open building. Two braziers burning low with hot coals stood in the corner, and the thick stone held onto their heat such that even the wind could not drive autumn¡¯s chill too far in. ¡°We are visitors to Silverfish,¡± he told the man, ¡°Only it seems that not many live here anymore. We have walked the length of your village and you are the first soul that we¡¯ve seen.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± the man replied, as if he didn¡¯t really understand. He got unsteadily to his feet. His face was long, and red, as if burnt by the sun, and his dark eyes seemed always wet, as if he were perpetually on the verge of tears. His hair was the color of ash, short, and his scalp showed through it in patches. When he rose, it became clear that he was even thinner than Martimeos had first thought. So thin, in fact, that he and Elyse exchanged worried glances. Was famine what had taken this village? The man¡¯s ribs clearly poked through his shirt. But behind him, on the floor, was a clay plate with a hunk of bread and even some fishmeat on it, and a cup of water. They simply lay untouched.


    Martimeos introduced both himself and Elyse, and nearly leapt forward when the man staggered. But eventually the fellow seemed to gather himself a bit. He found his balance, and his eyes focused on them as if seeing them for the first time. ¡°I greet you,¡± he said apologetically. ¡°I am called Finnel...I am sorry that I am the first to meet you.¡± He looked around, and his loose sleeves flapped as his arms fell against his sides, in a remorseful gesture. ¡°Silverfish is¡­not what it once was.¡±


    Rolling his shoulders, Martimeos let out a held-in breath. He was glad that the fellow could speak sense. He was beginning to wonder if he might be a madman, and those could flare into sudden violence, no matter how run-down they looked.


    ¡°What is this place?¡± Elyse asked suddenly. ¡°What a strange little building, all open as it is.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Finnel replied, and a smile that was too wide for comfort spread across his face. ¡°This is¡­a temple, I suppose.¡± He waved his hand towards the half-fish, half-woman statue lying on the altar. ¡°For the Lady of Calm Waters.¡±


    Elyse looked to Martimeos again, and he shrugged while Finnel wasn¡¯t looking. He had never heard of any Lady of Calm Waters, though there were many places that had little gods of their own. Though a temple was unusual in a village so small, at least by his reckoning. He himself had never seen a building dedicated to worship until he had visited a larger town.


    Finnel was staring rapturously at the statue once more. Martimeos cleared his throat. ¡°I was wondering if there might be an inn in the village, or if not, someone willing to put us up?¡± He had never yet seen a village that did not have, at least, a small inn with a couple of rooms. Then again, he had never been in a village that had been abandoned as this. He considered simply taking up in one of the deserted houses, but any innkeep might resent being denied the custom, and he wanted to remain in the good graces of the people here, if he could. He might need them, to find what he was looking for, and an innkeep might be one who could be the most helpful.


    The scrawny man nodded, and he seemed so eager to help that Martimeos almost felt bad about how poorly he had thought of the man earlier. He told the fellow that they simply needed directions, but Finnel insisted that he could walk them there. He brought them back the way they had came, and along the way Elyse prodded him with questions about the thorns. ¡°How did they become so bad? Do they grow so quickly?¡±


    Finnel blinked at her. ¡°I¡­I have not paid attention, I suppose.¡± He looked around, frowning at the thorny vines creeping through yards and gardens.


    ¡°It is pulling down your farms and houses, man,¡± The witch replied disbelievingly. ¡°How could you not have noticed?¡±


    ¡°I am¡­was¡­a fisherman, not a farmer.¡± If he took umbrage at Elyse¡¯s tone, Finnel gave no sign of it. He was as placid as the lake. ¡°I thought things were becoming overgrown, but¡­¡± He smiled, but the pain in it was clear. ¡°That¡¯s just the way things are, here. Just the way they ought to be.¡±

 Night Fisher Inn

    <h2 style="text-align: center">12. Night Fisher Inn</h2>


    The inn that Finnel led them to was grander than one might have expected from a village this small, as well. It lay along a road that curved around a hill, and it looked as if the hill itself had been dug out around it, a two-story building of much the same architecture that the manor out on the island and the temple had been, strong columns supporting an outdoor overhang that provided good shade, the wings of the inn almost seeming to stretch forth to embrace a central court in which a single bare tree grew in the center, the cobblestone well-swept and maintained. A squat, rounded blue-tiled steeple rose from the center, and here the roof was well-kept and the colors still had life to them. The style, Martimeos realized, reminded him of the broken inns he had seen throughout One-Road Wood - this looked like a grander version of Coxton Praet¡¯s house. The same builders who made the roads were likely the ones which had made the inn, the manor, and the temple too. He put the question to Finnel, but the man simply shook his head. ¡°I was just a fisherman, sir, as I told you,¡± he replied. Martimeos blinked at the formal address, and wondered what this man thought he was. ¡°Ritter might know more about it, he has an interest in such things. He owns the inn.¡±


    This, at least, was an answer of sorts. On their walk here, Martimeos had tried to start a conversation with the man, only to receive silence. A wounded silence, full of tension, that had quickly made him retreat from his inquiries. There were better things to do than to pester a man who clearly did not want to speak.


    A sign hanging from a post before they entered the courtyard named the building the ¡°Night Fisher Inn¡±, and was painted with the image of a crescent moon shining down on a black cat feasting on a fat silver fish with a white belly, very much like the fish they had seen on the town¡¯s sign. The inn¡¯s sign, though, was maintained and kept fresh, where all else in this village was in disrepair. The building also had the most impressive doors Martimeos had ever seen. Half again as tall as he was, and thick, heavy, dark wood, and carved upon it in bas-relief was a scene of battle. Men in long-plumed hats and carrying poleaxes clashed with a charging horseman clad in furs and mustached, who carried a limp, becrowned woman over his saddle. The knockers were iron-wrought, roaring lions with rings hanging from their mouths. This Ritter was a wealthy man, and he certainly did not get that way running an inn for a sleepy village.


    The interior was impressive as well, in a way that was almost sad. Such a building might have once served as a meeting hall for near enough the entire village with room for guests besides. Now though, it was empty, despite the care that had gone into keeping well-carved tables and a nicely finished floor clean. An ancient-looking, snaggletoothed black cat lounged lazily on one of the chairs, meowing with tired irritation at them as they walked in. ¡°Ritter must be around here somewhere,¡± Finnel said, wringing his hands fretfully. ¡°Just wait here, and I will fetch him for you.¡± And before they could say anything else he had darted off and left them in the common room alone.


    Martimeos watched as Elyse went straight for the cat, which immediately sat up and watched her warily as she attempted to tempt its affections with promises of food. He turned away to examine the inn¡¯s walls further. It was a very impressive common room, with plenty to keep their attention occupied. In the corner was the sort of shrine that Martimeos was used to seeing in such places, the god¡¯s house. Every inn, or at least every one he had ever seen, dedicated space for a shrine to the gods in the form of a small false house, into which figurines or icons were placed representing the gods important to folk nearby. It was considered bad luck not to do such. The Night Fisher¡¯s shrine for the gods was as rich as the rest of the building was; a miniature three-story house cut away to see the inside, painted white and with a blue-shingled roof. It even had tiny shutters. Inside were various wooden figures, some of which Martimeos recognized.


    Here was the old man Woed, the farmer god, gnarled beneath his wide-brimmed hat and carrying a sickle in one hand, with his faithful hound at his side. The Gambling Man, also known as Fortune¡¯s Son, was there as well, drinking from a golden chalice and with a string of keys around his neck. He was surprised to see Ysonne the Temptress, nude except for the two snakes that crawled across her skin, welcomed here. She was a goddess of revelry and seduction, though there were tales of her that were darker, that said the worship of her was the worship of excess, and to drink oneself to death was called Ysonne¡¯s kiss. He trailed his finger along the statue of Demesque and Karilail, the twin child god and goddess of innocence, holding between them a sword held aloft, to strike down undeath and corruption. Martimeos drew his finger back with a hiss, frowning at the bead of blood that stood out on it - someone had carved that sword to a keen edge, and it had plucked him. Here was Old Scratch too, the scourge of sinners, tall and grim in a long duster and face hidden beneath a hat, holding iron chain and manacle. The Lady of Clear Waters was there as well, along with a dozen others, some of which Martimeos thought he had heard of, perhaps beneath other names, while others he had no inkling of at all.


    And there, standing outside the house, the Dark Stranger. His icon was carved crude and unfeatured, and painted pitch black. The Dark Stranger was never allowed into the god¡¯s house - to place him there was to wish dark fortune on the inn and even the whole village or town it served. Martimeos had seen a man beaten bloody for doing it in jest. But nobody dared to ignore the Dark Stranger entirely. He always got his due, and was always included in every shrine, just outside. The god of death and undeath, tales of the Dark Stranger sometimes told of him granting wishes, only for them to go awry on those who had wished them. He was a trickster, and a prankster, though his tricks could be light-hearted or claim people¡¯s lives and souls. None knew him, and there were those who said that it was demons who must pray to him, or fae.


    But it was not the shrine that held his interest, for other relics decorated the common room of the inn as well. A large wooden panel hanging from a wall was painted as a map that centered on a place called Farson¡¯s pass, a walled town placed between a range marked as the Bleeding cliffs, and taking in some of the countryside surrounding it as well. Martimeos had heard of it. Had heard of it all too well. Next to it was tacked a banner, featuring a rearing, snarling black cat on a red and gold field. Other wood carvings in relief, much like those on the door, hung on the walls as well, and in another corner a finely-wrought helmet on a stand with a horsehair crest. There was even a bookshelf on the wall, with at least a dozen books. Elyse had abandoned her entreaties to the cat - it appeared to have run off - and was currently looking at these hungrily.


    ¡°I¡¯m comin¡¯,¡± a gruff voice shouted out from somewhere above them, and the sound of footsteps quickly climbing down a flight of stairs. The man who eventually appeared before them certainly had a strange look about him for an innkeep. He wore a fine-tailored green vest and loose-fitting breeches, of the sort that a well-to-do merchant might own. Though he was clearly old - his hair had gone to silver - he moved surefooted and straight-backed. Slim, and angular, with sharp, light blue eyes, and something about his voice carried the confidence and snap of authority. Martimeos would have bet good Aurelic gold that the man had been a soldier, and for a long time at that. ¡°I apologize for not being here to greet you folk,¡± he said, wiping his hands on a rag absent-mindedly. ¡°Fortune mark me, but I have no guests for the longest time, and now there¡¯s three of you. I¡­¡± he looked up from his hands to take a good look at them, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion, taking the two of them in. ¡°The name is Ritter,¡± he said after a heavy moment. ¡°What brings you to Silverfish, strangers?¡±


    Martimeos introduced himself and Elyse once more, though the witch still had not torn her eyes from the bookshelf. ¡°We are travelers,¡± he said simply, ¡°And would pay well for rooms and food and resupply, if you have it to sell. Your man, Finnel, recommended you¡­¡±


    Ritter must have seen his searching eyes, because he shook his head. ¡°Finnel¡¯s gone out the back,¡± he said, ¡°Poor man doesn¡¯t like to be away from his ¡®Lady¡¯ for too long.¡±


    ¡°Can we read the books?¡± Elyse called out. Both Martimeos and Ritter turned to look at her. The witch was fidgeting as she stood by the bookshelf as if restraining herself from grabbing some of the books and running. ¡°That¡¯s why you have them out here, isn¡¯t it? So people can read them?¡± Her eyes twitched back to the shelf. ¡°Is that really a whole book on the life of V¨¦reline Valoir you have?¡±


    Ritter had been giving the two of them a hard stare, almost on the edge of being inhospitable. But at this, he softened, and gave the witch an indulging smile. He strode over to the bookshelf, and took down a book whose cover was carved in lacquered wood, and painted to show a smiling, fair-looking blonde woman, surrounded by a ring of masks. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s all true,¡± he told her. ¡°There¡¯s some who say V¨¦reline commissioned the scribing of this herself, out of braggadocio. But it surely is full of stories about her.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you must let me read it,¡± the witch said in a tone that was less a request and more a demand. Elyse did not seem to notice that she was letting her excitement get the best of her. Her dark blue eyes seemed pinned to the book even as Ritter held it.


    Lucky for her, the innkeep had warmed to the subject now, and only chuckled at her strident tone.¡°If you are so interested in V¨¦reline, you have come to the right place. You found Finnel at the temple¡­perhaps you saw the manor, out on Rook isle, as you came through?¡± When they nodded, he took on a lecturing tone, and seemed pleased to do so. ¡°Well, in the time of Old Aurelia, there was a kingdom that ruled much of the land around Nust Drim, and swore to the Aurelic crown. Hallic Nust, it was called.¡± His smile grew a little sad. ¡°The old lake lords might have ruled still to this day, but they were proud, and it is said they died to a man in combat against the traitors following the Gully Man. And then plague and famine swept away what was left of their kingdom.¡± He shook his head, seeming to catch himself, and smiled again, and held up the book. ¡°But in the glory days of their rule, a Hallic princeling called Tennelyan fell madly in love with V¨¦reline, and she with him. He built the manor for her here, and the shrine was his too - the Lady of Calm Waters was a Hallic goddess - and it is said this very inn was their guest house.¡± He gave a wry laugh. ¡°It is said V¨¦reline broke Tennelyan¡¯s heart in the end, but that seems true of all her stories.¡±


    The witch was unabashed in her glee over this. She clasped her hands together, and the smile she gave Martimeos was full of so much honest happiness that it actually made him smile in return. He ought to focus on the task at hand, he realized - it was hard to do so while a pretty girl smiled at you. ¡°About the rooms,¡± he reminded Ritter.


    The innkeeper gave a start - he had been busy smiling at Elyse in a grandfatherly sort of way, and seemed as if he might have been on the verge of opening up the book in his hands and reading them a tale. Instead now he sighed, and put the book on his shelf, and regarded them both with a flat stare - though perhaps not as hard as it might have been, had Elyse not asked him about the book - and nodded towards a table. ¡°Why don¡¯t you take a seat. I¡¯ll fetch some wine, and we can discuss rooms then.¡±


    Martimeos was feeling a bit nervous as he sat at a table across from Elyse. Why did it feel as if Ritter was upset to see them? The witch had softened him up a bit, but even now he seemed oddly hesitant to house them for a man who certainly could not be making all that much coin, being an innkeep to this abandoned village. He worried over this, hand tracing the hilt of his sword, while Elyse whispered excitedly to him. He wondered if Ritter¡¯s fondness for her might have lasted, if he could hear what she was saying. She obviously thought she was being subtle, but she was clearly suggesting that they steal some of those books and run. It seemed half-jest and half-honest. He ignored her, wondering what might be about to happen to them.


    Ritter certainly did not leave them in mystery for long. He hurried back with a green jug and three cups - apparently when he said he was going to fetch wine, he meant some for himself as well - and served them both, then pulled up a chair to sit at the end of the table so he could look at both of them at once. ¡°So,¡± he said finally, as he settled in, glancing in between the both of them, ¡°What is it that brings a wizard and a witch both to our little village?¡±


    Martimeos sputtered into his cup. ¡°I think you must be mistaken,¡± he said hoarsely, wiping wine from his chin with the edge of his cloak. ¡°We are¡­¡±


    ¡°Travelers,¡± Ritter said dryly. ¡°Aye, I heard you the first time, and the lie doesn¡¯t taste any better the second time going down. I¡¯ve walked long with your kind, and you learn to have an eye for those who work with an Art, even if they don¡¯t make it obvious. Besides, travelers? No one travels these lands idly these days. You¡¯re a wizard and a witch with the wanderlust on you.¡± He inclined his head sharply towards Elyse. ¡°Either that, or she¡¯s a witch, and you¡¯re the poor sod she¡¯s beguiled into serving as her sword-arm. So which is it?¡±


    Elyse actually had the temerity to laugh delightedly. He frowned at her as he put his cup down. ¡°The first is right,¡± he told the man. ¡°I am a wizard, and she a witch.¡± An eye for their kind, was it? Martimeos had not heard of that one before.


    ¡°Well, it seems we did not do a very good job of keeping ourselves hidden.¡± Elyse sipped again at her wine and set the cup down with a heavy clunk. She had already drank it all. She certainly didn¡¯t seem very worried about staying here. She had seen the books and all caution had flown out of her head. He suddenly wondered if she had ever drank wine before at all. He suddenly wondered if it was safe to be drinking the wine that Ritter gave them.


    Ritter seemed to notice him tensing, because he put his hands up. ¡°Easy, lad. I¡¯m not so fool as to cross a wizard and a witch both. It was wise of you not to stroll in here announcing to all what you were. I have nothing against it, but those who use the Art are not very well received in Silverfish these days.¡± He scratched his chin, considering. ¡°Maybe it is well that you didn¡¯t run into anyone on the streets, either. Except for Finnel, but he¡¯s harmless. I think most would not be able to tell you for what you are, to look at you, but you don¡¯t exactly look reputable, either. Folks around here look askance at outsiders.¡±


    Martimeos bit back on his curiosity - why did the people here distrust the Art and outsiders? - to focus on what was important. ¡°We mean no ill will towards you or anyone here.¡± He had relaxed a bit. He did not think that Ritter was going to be the one to attack them, or that he tried to poison their wine. At least, he hoped that he was not, because Elyse was well into her second cup already. ¡°All we look for right now is some shelter and some resupply.¡± And some questions answered. But he could get into that later. ¡°If our presence at the inn would be burdensome to you, we could shelter in one of the empty homes at the edge of the village. We are well able to hide ourselves.¡±


    Ritter¡¯s eyes widened a bit. Even among folk who held no special fondness for the Art, it was sometimes seen as bad luck to refuse those who practiced it. Perhaps this was simply a practical belief. ¡°Hold on that, wizard. You¡¯re welcome in my inn, as long as you have the coin.¡± He sighed and jerked his head towards the door. ¡°You aren¡¯t going to have people banging down the door on suspicion, if you¡¯re worried about that. Folks around here, they¡¯re mostly old. Too many aches to be causing all that much trouble.¡± He paused, considering, and then leaned in, elbows on the table, to look at them over clasped hands. ¡°Just tell me this now. Were you¡­looking for someone, coming here?¡±


    How could he have known? Martimeos tried to conceal his shock. Might Ritter have actually seen his face, years past, and known that Martimeos would be looking for him? What could he say to the man?


    Elyse saved him from the trouble. ¡°Looking for someone?¡± Her speech was slightly slurred, and red spots bloomed in her cheeks. The wine was getting to her head quickly, it seemed. ¡°We came here running from demons and fae. All we¡¯re looking for is a good bed.¡±


    Ritter eyed her, suddenly alert. ¡°Demons, you said?¡±


    ¡°In the One-Road-Wood,¡± Martimeos replied, discreetly sliding the jug of wine towards him and pouring the last of it into his cup. He wished that the matter of demons had not come up. Ritter might know something of wizards, but if demons had recently appeared nearby, and a wizard and a witch came strolling into a village¡­some folk might be inclined to make connections. ¡°Vultures, in the shape of men, and with eyes in the back of their heads. They very nearly did us in.¡± No need to mention the Dolmec. Telling of that one would do more harm than good. Dolmec did not usually seek people out, but there were always folk who would hear of one and think they were clever enough to barter for a Telling or some other gift, and the demon would eat those sort of folk alive.


    The innkeep grimaced, running a hand through his short silvery hair. At least he did not look like he was immediately blaming them. ¡°That is poor news indeed. It is just as Coxton said.¡±


    ¡°Coxton Praet? The huntsman? He lives?¡± That, at least, was a piece of good news. ¡°I was told he had a house in the One-Road Wood, but found it abandoned and ransacked. I thought he had been killed.¡± Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°Not he. He tore in here, oh, about ten days back, I would say. Shouting about demons in the woods. Wouldn¡¯t shut up about it either, even soaked with brandy. He¡¯s taken up in one of the old houses around here, I think.¡± Ritter chuckled softly to himself. ¡°Demons. It would take more than that to kick old Coxton down, wouldn¡¯t it.¡± The innkeep smiled fondly, his sharp eyes misting over in remembrance. ¡°He¡¯s gone a bit odd, now, but he made his way back here with nary a wound. I thought he might have been seeing things, or¡­.¡± he shrugged uncomfortably, then frowned at the table. ¡°We¡¯ve not had a merchant from Twin Lamps in half a year, demons in the One-Road Wood. Farmer¡¯s gone missing from their farms. Everything¡¯s coming apart, it seems. Just the way of the world these days, I suppose.¡±


    Martimeos thought the man might say more, but night was coming on, and Ritter wanted the matter of their rooms settled. He charged fair prices for one who must see so little custom, which only settled the matter in Martimeos¡¯ mind that the man must have some wealth stashed that he lived off of. The price was fair enough, in fact, that Martimeos did not feel foolish or wasteful in getting a room for each of them. The rooms that Ritter showed to them, up a winding staircase, were less decorated than his common room but they were clean and well-kept, if a bit musty - nobody had stayed here to open the shutters in quite some time, it seemed.


    The innkeep demonstrated the locks on the doors to Elyse, apparently wanting to reassure her that she¡¯d be quite secure in her room. She merely laughed at his concern, but Martimeos did think it a bit odd. Normally an innkeep would avoid suggesting that his guests might not be safe in their rooms. For whom did he worry? Ritter would not have worried about convincing the witch of her security from Martimeos himself - while haggling for the price, Elyse had suggested they take the cheapest room and share a bed to save on coin, and then laughed at his blushing. The wine was making her very bold. She had said it, most likely, to get Ritter to lower his prices, but then again¡­those who practiced the Art gave up their own customs, it was said - a consequence of traveling widely. Wizards and witches were odd as a rule. Certainly he was already odd, and would probably grow stranger still.


    With a groaning sigh, Martimeos set down his crossbow and his pack, and then after a moment¡¯s thought, unbuckled his sword from his waist and lay it down as well.He could see through the open door that Elyse was sprawled out on her bed, sighing contentedly. His own bed was tempting - it had been quite some time since he had slept in one, and this bed was decent, stuffed with wool and draped in fur blankets - but he had some questions he still wanted to ask Ritter, and it would be easier with Elyse not there. But the moment he went to his door, the witch leapt from her bed and went to follow him.


    He wished she had not. Though why that should be, he could not explain to himself. She was bound to discover sooner or later. She was staring at him, wineblooms in her cheeks, wearing a small smile, almost as if she knew what he was thinking, and said not a word as she shadowed him down the stairs.


    Martimeos returned to the common room and took a seat at one of the tables, packing a lighting a pipe. Ritter had no maids, it appeared, and the innkeep was not anywhere to be seen at the moment. Elyse sat across from him, and for the moment she just boggled as he blew smoke rings towards the ceiling, three concentric ones inside the other, and then blew tiny orbs of smoke through the center of these. ¡°How are you doing that?¡± she asked.


    ¡°It is smokecraft,¡± he told her gravely. ¡°A very fine and intricate working of the Art.¡±


    ¡°No it isn¡¯t. There¡¯s no Art in this, I can tell. How are you-¡±


    She was cut off by the appearance of Ritter out of a back room. In his hands the innkeep carried a sword scabbarded in dark leather, and he seemed almost satisfied as he looked at it, as if pleased to be holding it once more. Then he looked up and noticed Martimeos and Elyse staring at him. ¡°Oh,¡± he said, glancing down at the sword, and then up again. ¡°I thought you two would have been eager to take to your beds. You look hard-traveled.¡±


    Martimeos answered this with a plume of smoke blown towards the ceiling. ¡°I often find I need a good pipe before I sleep. Is that your sword?¡±


    Ritter sighed, and shrugged. ¡°It is. Hearing talk of demons, it got me thinking maybe I should carry it again.¡±


    The innkeep walked to a counter, to set the sword aside, and then after a flurry of rummaging, brought them over a plate of bread and a sharp orange cheese, along with some more wine. ¡°Not fresh-baked, I¡¯m afraid,¡± he said apologetically. ¡°The kitchens stand mostly empty, what with so few guests, and no one to really hire on as a cook besides.¡±


    He joined them, sitting down once more at the head of the table, and produced a pipe of his own, short-stemmed and carved with a cat¡¯s face on the bowl. Martimeos gave him some tobacco, when he asked. ¡°Thankee. Haven¡¯t been able to trade for some good brown pipeweed in a long time.¡± When it flared to life in his hands of its own accord, he merely laughed and grinned at the both of them, unsure who was responsible. So the man was comfortable around the Art.


    If the bread was stale, it was still good, and so was the wine. Elyse poured herself a very generous cup of this, and Martimeos did as well. The hospitality seemed fine enough, and he thought he could let his guard down a bit in this place. Ritter had a small silver cup of brandy for himself, though. ¡°Earlier,¡± Martimeos said after a while, ¡°You asked if I was looking for someone.¡±


    Ritter¡¯s eyes were hard ice again, immediately. ¡°If you are, whatever business you have with him, I¡¯ll see no violence done in my inn. We¡¯ve no constable here, but we¡¯ve still got law, and-¡±


    ¡°Calm yourself, man,¡± Martimeos interrupted him with a frown. ¡°Who I am looking for¡­he¡¯d not still be here, I think. He would have passed by years ago.¡± He could feel Elyse staring at him.


    The innkeep stared at him, stone-faced, for a moment. He looked to the witch, who had nothing but a look of utter confusion for him. Then he chuckled, shaking his head to himself. ¡°I¡¯m an old fool. ¡®Just because a fish jumps over your boat, doesn¡¯t mean it flies.¡¯¡± He nodded sagely to himself, as if this was a piece of fine wisdom.


    Martimeos did not catch his meaning, however. ¡°Who did you think I was speaking of?¡±


    The old man sucked his teeth for a moment, appearing reluctant to talk, but then he gave over. It may well have been because he was talking to a wizard and a witch. Many folk were reluctant to cross those who practiced the Art, or hide things from them. Some rumors said that a witch could tell when you lied. ¡°Well, you have to realize, nobody has come to stay here for some time. I give out these rooms to the occasional merchant, and even then, I haven¡¯t seen one of them since spring. But another lad came in only a couple of nights before the two of you, and he seemed hard driven. Like he was running from something.¡±


    There was something in the man¡¯s tone that said he thought ill of this particular guest. ¡°Is he the reason why you felt it so necessary to show us how the locks on our doors worked?¡± Martimeos asked.


    Ritter grimaced, throwing back another gulp mouthful of brandy. ¡°Yes,¡± he admitted. ¡°I make no accusations, mind. But he seems like the troublemaking sort to me, for all his smooth tongue.¡± He fiddled with his pipe. ¡°But nobody ever comes here, and then you two come in right after him¡­¡±


    The innkeep trailed off. Elyse was twisting her cup between her hands, and giving Martimeos a very significant look. He knew what she was thinking of. The thief that had stolen from Chesmed and Halle. Suddenly, he became aware that Ritter was giving both of them a very suspicious look. ¡°You¡¯re certain you aren¡¯t after him?¡±


    ¡°I am certain,¡± Martimeos said smoothly. He had no love for someone who stole from the Traveling Folk, but then again he also did not particularly care. Chesmed and Halle were long gone, and so was any chance of justice, really. It was a bit worrying to share a roof with a thief, though. ¡°The men I¡¯m looking for¡­they would have been through here seven or eight years ago, I think. Sometime around then. They might have been as many as five, perhaps fewer. One of them¡­would have looked much like me.¡± He glanced towards Elyse. Her black dress bled into the shadows at the table, and candlelight revealed little more than her face, but her eyes were watching him intently. ¡°He was my brother.¡±


    The witch opened her mouth, as if she might say something, but then her eyes flicked over to the innkeep. If Ritter was curious about why he was looking for a group such as that, he gave no sign. He merely shook his head sympathetically. ¡°Sorry, wizard. But back then, this village was far more lively than it is now. Far too many visitors passed through for me to remember any given one, and so long ago.¡± He looked as if he wished he could say more, but then he simply shrugged and settled back on his pipe, smoke drifting from the corner of his mouth.


    And that was that.


    What to do next? Martimeos scratched his thumbnail against the bowl of his own pipe absentmindedly. His right leg shook. What to do? What could be done? The Dolmec had sent him here and said he¡¯d find his quarry, but that did not mean that he had any idea how to pick up the trail. The innkeep would have been the best bet to remember. Who else, or what else, might set him on his path here? He fell quiet, brooding.


    The black cat they had seen earlier, which Elyse had tried so hard to tempt into her clutches, chose that moment to leap up on the table. Immediately the witch was reaching out to scratch it behind the ears, but it shied away from her. It only had eyes for Ritter, who scratched it beneath the chin, eliciting a satisfied purr from the animal. ¡°You certainly seem to have a fondness for cats,¡± the witch said approvingly, watching him.


    Ritter laughed. ¡°I suppose I do. Old King here, he was¡­¡± He paused for a moment, glancing between the two of them, then shrugged, taking a draw from his pipe. ¡°He was¡­I suppose you could say, the good luck charm of the men I served with.¡± He gestured towards the wall, at the red-and-gold banner with the cat on it.


    ¡°You were a soldier?¡±


    ¡°Ha,¡± replied the innkeep, and there was derision in it. ¡°A soldier fights for a man or a woman who couldn¡¯t care less if he lived or died. I fought only for lovely Fortune, my dear. I was a mercenary.¡±


    ¡°I think you must have been a good deal more than a simple mercenary, to be able to afford to run an inn such as this when you were done.¡± Martimeos roused himself out of his quiet contemplation and swallowed more wine, and then poured himself another cup. He had come up with no answers about how to find his brother, but in listening to Ritter¡¯s talk, a dark thought had come upon him. He wanted to bury it in the rich purple fog of drink, but he could not stop his tongue.


    ¡°You might be surprised, wizard.¡± A note of pride had entered the old man¡¯s voice. His light blue eyes looked off into the distance, and a small smile played on his lips. ¡°The mercenaries of Farson¡¯s Pass, even the meanest of them, were paid quite well. We knew our worth. But yes, I was the Captain of my own Band before I was done.¡±


    That was what the stories said. That the Soldiers of Fortune out of Farson¡¯s Pass were men of great skill in battle, and a King or Queen would pay a ransom in gold to have them on their side. Martimeos downed another cup of wine. Elyse had asked a question, and Ritter had puffed up his chest in pride to answer it. ¡°Of course,¡± he was saying. ¡°I could have sold myself off as war counsel, but I have never much liked high company. I have always had an eye for relics, and my collection-¡±


    ¡°Who did you fight for?¡±


    Silence hung in the air for a long moment.


    Martimeos had not meant for the question to come out sounding so harsh. There could have been many that the innkeep had served, in his lifetime. And yet.


    Ritter had immediately noted his tone, and all at once, the innkeep¡¯s face was stone. His eyes drifted down towards Martimeos¡¯ belt, noting the lack of sword there, and then swept across the room, toward where his own sword lay. He turned his eyes back, and he seemed a bit confused at the turn things had taken, but he did not let it still his tongue. ¡°For many, over the years.¡± He paused, and the silence was painful. The man knew that was not what Martimeos was asking. When someone asked that question, in that way, there was only one thing it meant in these lands, these days. But he also seemed to know that there was no avoiding the answer, now. ¡°I fought for the White Queen,¡± he said quietly, in a voice that was almost a whisper.


    Yes. The fabled men of Farson¡¯s Pass. So skilled in battle that to have enough of them on your side could turn the course of a war. Men whose exploits had been the subject of song and poem and tale, once. Until they sold themselves to be the White Queen¡¯s dogs. Folk no longer wanted to hear their tales, now. How could the man be confused, how dare he be confused, when he sat here in his inn, not a day¡¯s march from Cross-on-Green? Martimeos knew he ought to be more careful. These were lands that had once belonged to the Queen, and some still might still find a way to remember loyalty to her. But perhaps the sight of Cross-on-Green had left him raw, or perhaps his dreams had left him raw. Something gnawed at him, to not want to let it go.


    Ritter saw now Martimeos¡¯ face turning dark as a stormcloud, and he turned to see Elyse flinching away from him as well, and he paled. Perhaps the man had thought himself in welcome company. If Martimeos¡¯ brother had come through here years ago, when the White Queen ruled, perhaps the innkeep had assumed that he had been serving the White Queen. Now that she was gone, though, there were lands where admitting to having served her would have been a death sentence, at least in the years immediately following the war. The Freetowns had hanged many of her servants after her yoke had been thrown off. The innkeep currently looked as if he could feel the noose around his neck. The man was no coward, though. His face merely grew grim in turn. ¡°I had put my sword up and settled myself in this inn ten years before the war ended,¡± he said cautiously, the way one might speak to a rabid dog, and yet there was something in him, a tiredness that said he knew well why he must worry. ¡°I took contracts for her in her earlier reign. I did not serve her by the time she went mad.¡±


    Martimeos gave a harsh, despairing laugh. He shook his head and bit down on his tongue. Poison seemed to pour into his head again. It was the same bitter tune he had heard before, from others who had once served her. Always it was thus: We didn¡¯t know how bad she had become. Or we served her while she was still good. We didn¡¯t know she¡¯d go mad. And for many, certainly, it had to be the case. But others had to be lying. Others had to be the sort of person who took the opportunity to become butchers when given the excuse. Which sort, Martimeos wondered, had Ritter been?


    His thoughts were venom, fire, acid, eating away through everything else. The world seemed so small, a flickering candle in endless dark. He felt heat on his face, and he did not know where it came from. He tried to wrestle his thoughts back into control, through the haze and fog of bitterness. Elyse was sitting next to him now, not across from him. When had that happened? And Ritter had risen from his own seat and backed away, his eyes wide. The candle on the table was a melted stump, its wax flowing over to cover the tabletop, pooling around their cups. Martimeos stared at this, trying to reason through the haze in his head. Had he done this?


    ¡°Martim,¡± the witch said, tugging at his arm, ¡°I think you need sleep, wizard. Come.¡± Her voice was low and urgent, and there was something in her dark blue eyes that he had not seen from her before.


    He let her help him to his feet - he stumbled, how much wine had he drank - but before she could lead him away, he turned to Ritter. The innkeep had lingered on, watching him warily. ¡°What happened here?¡± His voice was a snarl, no matter how he tried to moderate it. ¡°Why is Silverfish so empty? What happened?¡± It was her. It is always her. Everywhere her servants went, death followed.


    But at this, caution seemed to flee the man, and Ritter¡¯s face furrowed, grew secretive and dark. His age showed on him all at once, and his face was that of the crooked old man he¡¯d be right before his death. ¡°Too many evil things.¡± His voice grated, suddenly hoarse. He cleared his throat, and shook his head. ¡°Too many evil things. Just like elsewhere. It¡¯s all coming undone.¡±


    ¡°You know not all places are like this. Tell me.¡±


    But Ritter was backing away now, and if anything his face was growing even more stubborn. ¡°Leave off, wizard. It¡¯s not for outsiders to know of. Speaking of it is inviting the Dark Stranger into your dreams.¡± He had backed away far enough to grab his sword, and he did so with with no haste, but very deliberately. ¡°You see him off to bed now,¡± he said, speaking to Elyse now. ¡°I¡­I want no trouble, you hear me?¡±


    Martimeos did not see where Ritter disappeared to, as Elyse pulled him towards the stairs. He let himself be pulled. He felt so odd, so strange, as if his body was not really his own. Had he drunk all that much wine? He had not thought so, and yet he felt thick and fogged, almost feverish. He let himself be pulled along. He wished he had not scared Ritter so. That was what the man had been, wasn¡¯t it? He was scared. There was still more he had wanted to ask, even if he hadn¡¯t gotten the answers he wanted. He could bite down on his anger, he could, he could. It had just been so difficult tonight.


    ¡°So it is your brother you search for,¡± Elyse huffed as they mounted the stairs. She was close beside him, her hand upon his back, as if she was afraid he might fall. Or that he might decide to go back downstairs and do something. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you were thinking down there. I was afraid that Ritter was going to kick us both out for a moment.¡± What had he been thinking? What had he done? Why could he not remember?


    They were down the hallway now, the floorboards creaking beneath their feet, the shadows seeming to watch them. She stopped him in front of his doorway, to look at him. ¡°I don¡¯t know why you felt you could not tell me,¡± she said in a whisper. There seemed to be something of a sadness in her voice.


    He didn¡¯t know either. Except that he did. The hot shame he felt whenever he spoke of it. But she deserved to know. She had been honest with him, and had been a boon, and she should know. He tried to tell her, but all he could manage to say was, ¡°They killed so many.¡± That was not right. That was not all that had happened. There was so much more to it. ¡°They came, and they killed so many.¡± That was not all, but his tongue was thick, and so were his thoughts, tangled in agony, unable to think past that simple stark reality, that moment, that singular day which had changed what might have been. They came, and they killed so many.


    They came and they killed David.


    He couldn¡¯t make himself think on it anymore. Elyse stood, looking at him, lips parted as if to speak, and that was the look she kept even as he closed the door on her and locked it. He had wanted to apologize to her, at the very least, but he couldn¡¯t. He couldn¡¯t stand to think any more. His very soul ached. He crawled into his bed, not bothering to kick off his boots, and hoped for a dreamless sleep. All he found awaiting him were nightmares. Nightmares of black thorns and a ruined face.

 A Fruitless Search

    <h2 style="text-align: center">13. A Fruitless Search</h2>


    Morning¡¯s greeting was weak light through thick mist that turned everything outside the window into a featureless gray three paces out. Elyse sat in her bed, blearily staring out the window, trying to clear confusion from her mind. She could hear Flit¡¯s song, after a moment, and that helped focus her thoughts and brought a smile to her face. She had heard the singing of Martim¡¯s familiar enough by now to know it was him. The little cardinal must be on the roof of the inn, and he would not let the mist stop his morning salutations.


    Her head ached, though, and her mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with wool. That had not been her first time drinking wine, but certainly it had been one of her first. The first time in years. She did not think she had drunk too much. She had liked the feeling, last night. It was as if the wine breathed mischief into her blood. Elyse had read once about a goddess of wine - Ysonne, she had been called - and while she was not about to start praying, she thought she could see why people would have fondness for such a goddess. She rose and dressed, and took a sprig of sage from her scrip tucked away to chew, to take the bad taste from her mouth. She could not tell what time it was for the fog - she had never seen it so thick - but she thought it was probably later than she had been accustomed to waking.


    Out the door and into the hallway, she stopped before Martim¡¯s room. The memory of last night hit her, and her heart sank. Half of her wanted to curse him for his secrecy, and the other half¡­They killed so many. She did not know what exactly he meant by that, but she thought she could start to make a guess. She had wanted to follow him into his room, but what would she have done? Pester him for answers? To bite him, said the part of her that was angry at the wizard. Regardless, he had locked his door behind him. Something had not quite been right with him.


    She lingered for a moment, wondering if she ought to knock, before turning away. Anger burned over sympathy for the moment. Whatever else the wizard was, he could be very irritating. For what reason had he hid from her that he searched for his brother, other than a simple love of secrets? She put him out of her mind.


    At least, as much as she could until she got downstairs. There, she was confronted with more evidence of what had happened last night. After Ritter had admitted to fighting for the White Queen¡­


    She surveilled the damage. At the table they had sat at, and the two tables next to them, the candles had been burned down to a nub, and their wax spilled over bronze holders to pool on the table, now cooled and hardened. After Ritter had spoken about who he had served, Martim¡¯s had been so black of mood, so obviously wroth¡­he had closed his eyes, and the candle-flames around them had flared high, eating through wax and wick in mere moments.


    She frowned, and fiddled with one of the sleeves of her dress, staring at that melted wax. Normally, to work with the Art required a focus, to visualize what you were doing. When she healed, it took listening to hear the red song, and when she wove glamor, it took concentration to make the shadows dance. It was not something that was done unintentionally. But there were whispers of times when this was not the case. As one worked with the Art more, became more familiar with its forms, it bled into you. It could change you. And when you were intimate with the Art, the more it became a part of you, the more unbidden the working of it might come. It was a dangerous thing that few had written about. There were stories of dark witches, spurned or slighted, bringing curses or pestilence down without even knowing it. Stories of wizards setting buildings ablaze in their wrath without meaning to. She wondered if Ritter had known any of those stories. She thought if he had that the innkeep might have kicked them out, wizard and witch or no. Those stories had certainly been on her mind last night.


    So intently had she been staring at that hardened wax that she did not notice that someone else was downstairs as well. A young man with tousled, straw-colored hair, seated at a table ¡®cross the room, was staring at her. He chewed slowly on a buttered roll, crumbs falling from his mouth. He wore a gray woolen shirt that she could tell, even at this distance, was threadbare and in dire need of mending, and tight-fitting trousers tucked into boots whose leather had a reddish hue, laced up to the knee. As she watched, he took another large bite from the roll.


    This must be Ritter¡¯s other guest. If so, Elyse knew who he was, or thought she did, and yet seeing the roll in his hands set her stomach to growling. She pinned him with a hard stare - his eyes widened, but he did not stop watching her - and went to the counter, where there was a plate of rolls, cheese, and a slab of butter. Grabbing one for herself and giving it a generous pad of butter, she went and sat across from the man, who watched her warily with cautious brown eyes. His face was smooth, she thought. He was young-looking, perhaps a year or two behind Martimeos and herself. ¡°Hello,¡± she told him. ¡°Are you another one of the guests?¡±


    He relaxed a bit, and even gave her a bit of a nervous smile. ¡°Yes. You¡¯re one too? I thought I was likely to be the only one here while I stayed.¡± He regarded her for an oddly long moment, as if considering something, then finally gave her a bashful smile and said, ¡°My name¡¯s Ren.¡±


    ¡°And I am Elyse.¡± It was hard not to sound smug. She felt very satisfied. Ren? That was the same name that Chesmed had said the thief had given him. Either he was just using his real name, or he was not clever enough to come up with new fake ones. ¡°These rolls are quite good. Have you seen the innkeep this morning? I must thank him for the food.¡±


    ¡°He can¡¯t be far,¡± Ren muttered. ¡°He watches me like a hawk.¡± As well he might. Certainly the inn had enough that might be stolen. With a start, Elyse counted the number of books on the bookshelf to make sure none of those had been taken yet. When she glanced back towards Ren, he was watching her closely, a strange expression on his face. ¡°I really am glad to see others here,¡± he whispered conspiratorially. ¡°This village is so odd, isn¡¯t it? Where has everyone gone? The innkeep doesn¡¯t want to speak of it.¡±


    ¡°It is exactly because it is so odd that I was wondering why a fellow such as you might be here.¡±


    Nervous, shifting, Ren suddenly seemed like a child who had been caught stealing sweets. His young face only added to the effect. ¡°Well,¡± he demanded, ¡°Why are you here?¡±


    ¡°I have my reasons,¡± Elyse replied, doing her best to sound mysterious. ¡°My companion and I are looking for something.¡± Inwardly, she felt very pleased with herself. How long she had read about witches baffling others with their shadowed words, and now she finally got to play the part. And also there was something inherently entertaining about keeping a secret from someone, even when she knew they wanted to know. Perhaps that was why Martim did it. Wiping a frown from her face that was summoned by the thought, she took another bite from her roll and merely watched Ren, waiting for him to answer.


    ¡°W-well,¡± he stammered beneath her stare, ¡°I¡­I suppose I¡¯m just resting here for a while, is all. I have been on the road for some time.¡±


    ¡°Headed where?¡± she asked immediately, barely giving him time to catch his breath. She had to keep herself from laughing as he squirmed.


    ¡°Just a journey to Twin Lamps,¡± he finally offered meekly. ¡°My sister¡­wants me to find work there, and¡­¡±


    As diverting as it was to listen to him ramble on and pull lies from the air, Elyse eventually decided it was time to cut the chase short. ¡°While you were passing through Cross-on-Green,¡± she interrupted him, and he immediately fell silent. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you came across anyone, did you?¡±


    ¡°No, no,¡± came the quick reply. ¡°Not at all, no one.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a shame. I have two friends that I ran across there, you see. Merchants.¡± Ren was completely silent. ¡°Traveling Folk, perhaps you have heard of them? Odd, floppy red hats, big blue shawls. Very distinctive.¡± He was beginning to look a little ill, now. ¡°Now, unfortunately, they found themselves victim to a thief. He took some coin, and a little golden statue of a horse from them. They thought he must be hiding in Cross-on-Green.¡± She paused for a moment, and Ren flinched when she spoke again. ¡°Though, to me, it seems like they might have tried to flee and find somewhere else to hide for a few days. Somewhere south, perhaps. Though if you ask me, it would be awfully foolish of them to linger very long¡­¡±


    ¡°Is that it then?¡± Ren asked miserably. ¡°It was me you came looking for.¡± His eyes darted across the room rapidly, looking for exits. She realized he was tensing, whether to run, or to do something else, she did not know.


    ¡°You should think twice before crossing me,¡± she said, and she reached out with the Art. The shadows on the wall flickered, dancing, flowing into each other, snakes spiraling round and round, and Ren gaped.


    He put his head in his hands and moaned. ¡°A witch. I should have known. A pretty girl like you would never keep her hair in such a mess, except that she were a witch.¡± What an odd thing to say, Elyse thought, running her hands through her hair. It was awfully knotted, and full of sticks and leaves, but did it make her so obviously a witch? She did not have long to dwell on this though, as Ren placed something on the table with a clatter. When she examined it, she was surprised to find a tiny statue of a horse, rearing on its hind legs, mane streaming behind it. ¡°I did not mean to steal it,¡± he complained. ¡°All I wanted was some coin to live on. I had nothing. Take it back to them, and we will be even.¡± He seemed almost relieved.


    Elyse wasn¡¯t sure that she agreed with that logic. There was still the matter of the coin he had taken from them. And how could she ever return it to Chesmed and Halle to begin with? She remembered, though, that odd notion she had gotten that she would see them again, and so she pocketed the statue. ¡°What I really ought to do is hand you over to them.¡±


    The thief looked ready to run again. ¡°Please, you cannot,¡± he whispered furiously. ¡°Do you know what the Traveling Folk do to thieves? They take their right hand.¡± All at once, that boyish face looked on the verge of tears. ¡°Please, miss, you don¡¯t know how hard it is to survive on your own here¡­my village fell to famine, me and my friends left before we starved to death, we didn¡¯t do too bad on our own at first but¡­they¡¯re all dead now, or worse. Bandits killed Eire, and carried Nance off screaming¡­I only lived because I ran. I just want to make it to some place with high walls and steady food, that¡¯s all¡­¡±


    While it had been exciting to have confronted a thief, Elyse realized with a start that she did not know what it was she could do with him. She certainly could not drag him back to Chesmed and Halle as she had threatened - she might never catch up with them, mounted as they were, even if she were to decide to try. And she realized now, only belatedly, that while it may have been pleasing to see Ren squirm, it might not have been best to let him know that she was a witch, trying as they were to hide that from the villagers.


    She could report him to Ritter, and the innkeep may have some place to lock him up until justice could be delivered to him. Only she could not help but feel sorry for him. His nerves seem frayed to the point of snapping. What sort of justice might an isolated village deliver to a thief? Had Ritter mentioned anything? She could not remember, but she knew she had heard stories of hangings for a thief, or floggings. And they might be especially unkind to him for being an outsider like she herself was, in addition to a thief. She did not really want to see this young man beaten or hanged, just for trying to survive.


    ¡°Very well,¡± she told him then, motioning for him to keep quiet. It would do very poorly for them both for someone to be listening in on them just this moment. ¡°I will not take you to them. And I will not tell of your crimes to any others, so long as you do me a service.¡±


    ¡°A service?¡± the thief asked doubtfully. He swallowed hard, not relishing the idea of being witch-bound.


    ¡°A trifle. I am as curious as you are about how this village came to be as it is.¡± Martim, she thought, might not be. He might want to do nothing but look for signs of his brother, and move on if he could not find them. But she thought that in uncovering the reasons behind one, they might find the other as well. He had been led here by a Dolmec, hadn¡¯t he? It would not have lied to him or sent him astray. ¡°I am wondering whether the people here might be unwilling to talk about it. All I ask is that you search for yourself, as well, and tell me of what you find.¡±


    Ren frowned, nervously tugging at a lock of his hair. ¡°That¡¯s all you wish for? Really?¡± he asked doubtfully. He had to be older - he was as tall as a full-grown man - but in that moment, he really seemed nothing more than a boy.


    ¡°Three pairs of eyes looking are better than two, are they not? My companion and I will be looking as well. But perhaps your eyes will see something that ours do not.¡± Hesitantly, he nodded agreement. Part of her wondered if this was a good idea. He might have been lying to her with his story, though she did not think he was - he seemed too nervous, and intimidated by witches, to lie to her. He might just run away, which would not be too bad. Or he might tell the villagers that she was a witch. But she did not think he would. She thought she could see the innocence and the fear in him. Another man that she had been told would be a monster who was nothing of the sort. ¡°If we discover it without you, you owe us nothing. Though¡­¡± she paused. ¡°I cannot say where we might go next, but when we leave, if it is in your direction, we may be willing to travel with you. It is safer in numbers, as you well know. I can promise nothing on that, however.¡±


    The thief still looked doubtful - perhaps simply disbelieving that he was receiving this much mercy - but he nodded again. ¡°Very well, Elyse. I will do what I can. I don¡¯t know that it will be much, but I will do what I can.¡±


    After some further instructions - she told him that he ought to keep quiet about the fact that she was a witch, with a thinly veiled threat that she would reveal him if he did not - he rose, gave an unsteady bow, and walked out the door. She wondered if she would see him again.


    Alone again in the common room, and the mist outside still wreathed everything such that it was impossible to tell how late in the morning it was. She went to the bookshelf, and picked out the book about V¨¦reline. She did hope, at least, that they would be here long enough to give her the time to read this. Or perhaps one of the other books, she thought, as she realized that some of these stories were simply rewordings of ones she already knew, and usually to the effect of making V¨¦reline seem even more fantastic, gracious and powerful.


    She was still leafing through the book, looking for a new story, when the wizard made his way downstairs. He looked as if he had not slept a wink, his wild hair all in disarray, and dark circles beneath his eyes, his black cloak drawn closed around him. He stopped to stare at the three tables covered in wax, then looked up at her, his expression blank, before he blushed and looked away.


    He wandered over to the counter, picked up a roll, and then came to sit across from her. He looked as if he was going to say something, changed his mind, and then bit into the roll instead. He chewed this for a moment, then set it down, and did not pick it up again. ¡°Good morning,¡± he said quietly, and it seemed that he spoke to the room, not to her. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Good morning,¡± she replied. She wondered whether she should tell him about the deal she had brokered with Ren. But Martimeos himself did not seem very forthcoming. He said nothing of what had happened last night, only stared down at the table, before sighing and eventually pocketing the roll he had picked up. He stood, without seeming to realize it. ¡°Off to look for signs of your brother?¡±


    He jerked, looked at her. The ghost of a smile returned to his face. ¡°Aye. I suppose.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s get to it then.¡±


    ===***===


    They spent a week looking for some sign, some trace that the wizard¡¯s brother had been there. The only real thing they learned, at first, was that the village of Silverfish was even stranger than it appeared on first glance.


    It could scarcely be called a village, for one. So abandoned was it that they had foregone any semblance of government, and so few were the ones who still lived here that it was barely an issue. They held no position of mayor, nor village council, and law was what the folk thought it ought to be in the moment. Ritter, it seemed, held some authority among them, but it stretched no further than what he might purchase with harsh words and an old soldier¡¯s commanding voice.


    The lake was a near-constant source of mist that might only meagerly burn off as the day warmed, such that every morning they departed into white fog, like a fallen cloud, thick enough to deaden the sound of their footsteps on the cobbled streets and blind them more than three paces out. It felt empty and quiet, until they would run into one of the villagers, moving, blurry shadows that suddenly swam up out of the murk, yielding surprised faces that too often soon twisted into sneers and flat, unfriendly stares.


    Youth had fled Silverfish, or so it seemed. Almost all that they came across were gray of hair and slow of walk. Elyse began to understand why Ritter was not so worried about housing them, even if people in the village might not be fond of wizards and witches. She could not see these folk rousing themselves to a mob. Even if they did, they both could probably outrun most of them without losing their breath. It was hard to put an age to them for certain, but she thought that the only one they saw younger than fifty years was Finnel. There were no children here. Not a one. This bothered Martim most of all. ¡°It is not right to have a village so totally devoid of children¡¯s laughter,¡± he muttered. ¡°Even the meanest village has some children.¡±


    But this one didn¡¯t.


    And there seemed to be a conspiracy of silence among the villagers as to why. She and the wizard passed themselves off as a newlywed couple looking for a village to settle into as they plied their questions to the folk there. It was difficult enough to talk to them at all. Many which they came across greeted them with a curse, or scurried away. A gray-haired old woman with a hawkish nose scowled at them and slammed her door with a curse, and all they had done was glance in her direction. One old man, which they met as he hauled up nets of quiet, gasping fish from his rowboat onto the pier, seemed friendly at first. As he heard their invented backstory, though, his smile faded, and he became so incensed that he grabbed an oar and raised it as if to strike, and only stopped because Martim actually bared his blade. And it was a good thing the wizard decided to carry it with him, too. The man might have been old, but he had the thick arms and knotted muscle of one who had rowed boats and hauled fish all his life. Perhaps a mob would not be so pathetic as she had initially thought.


    Even those that would talk to them seemed touched, their thoughts crooked, eyes just a touch glassy, staring at things others could not see. The first of these they talked to was Finnel, after their first day spent wandering the village where none would speak with them. The quiet, skinny man of gentle madness had greeted them back in his temple to the Lady of Calm Waters, friendly enough and even with some lucidity. But when asked about where all the folk of the village had gone, his mouth snapped shut like a trap, and the smile had fled from his face. They had pressed him on it until shock had silenced them, as tears began streaming down the narrow channels of the man¡¯s worn cheeks. The breath had come ragged from his throat, and he had thrown himself in the temple¡¯s pool to perform ablutions before his Lady, a hum in his throat which sounded otherworldly, but seemed at least to calm him. They had left him there, in his rituals, and Elyse marveling at this strangeness. The water was very cold. Cold enough that tremors had wracked Finnel as he splashed the water over his shoulders, and he shivered like the last leaf on a tree seized by an autumn wind. What did the goddess whisper to him to drive him to such dedication?


    The others who talked were not much better. An odd old man who called himself only Gut, potbellied wrapped in a wool coat so long it dragged along the ground, cackled when they put the question to him, and smiled a gap-toothed grin. ¡°Why, you haven¡¯t puzzled it out yet, youngsters?¡± he crowed. ¡°We¡¯re in the Hells, don¡¯t you see? We were wicked in our lives, and Old Scratch has put our souls here to punish us for our sins.¡± He laughed again, and his breath reeked of wine and death, as if some part of him deep within was rotting, pickled in alcohol. ¡°What were your sins? Hmm? Hmmmm?¡± he peered at them, then snickered. ¡°I know mine. Oh yes, I do. It would burn your ears to hear it. I deserve this. I know I do.¡± He doffed his hat, revealing a perfectly bald head, and strolled away, cackling, down the gloomy, shadowed streets of twilight¡¯s Silverfish.


    Others seemed reduced to the level of nursery tale and nonsense. ¡°The children? They were taken off to the Land O¡¯ Dim,¡± murmured a rail-thin woman dreamily, gray hair up in a frayed bun. She stood in an empty square in the village in which stood a large wooden pole with long, colorful streamers trailing from it. A reap-pole, she called, while Martim said in his village it had been called a fairy¡¯s fancy. Children would dance around it, so it was said, winding the streamers around in a circle until it the pole was every color of the rainbow, swirled together. But the streamers were all faded now, and most frayed or worn away. The woman watched these, sadly, then turned back to them. Her face looked like skin stretched tight over a skull. She was not old, but her thinness, and her deep set eyes,made her look almost like a corpse. ¡°The Land ¡®O Dim,¡± she repeated. ¡°You know the rhyme?"


    ¡°For little ones who disobey,


    The Lord of Gul takes you away.


    He stuffs you in tooka sack,


    And takes you where the sun is black¡­¡±


    ¡°...Off into the Land O¡¯ Dim, where none will ever find you,¡± Martim finished for her. He seemed pale, his face drawn and tired, as he said it. ¡°Aye. I know it.¡± The woman nodded, as if this had given him all the answers he could possibly need, and waved him off.


    Elyse knew it as well. It was part of a nursery rhyme, a ditty parents told their children to make them behave. She had asked about it once, when she was too old for the song to scare her anymore, and found that no one knew who the Lord of Gul was, or what a tooka sack was for that matter, or even if the Land of Dim was real. Martim had been told the same. It was simply an old rhyme, so old that if it had ever touched on anything real, the memory of it had long ago faded away.


    Martim, of course, did not only inquire about the state of the village. Every villager who would stop to talk to them, he asked after his brother. All he got for his efforts were the blank stares of pure ignorance. ¡°A man who looked much like me, with hair perhaps a bit longer,¡± the wizard would ask, ¡°who passed through some seven or eight years ago¡­¡± It was at this mention that people would dismiss anything else he had to say. No one could remember the face of a stranger from that long ago. If Ritter could not, certainly no one else would.


    But it was not just people that he talked to. He pushed his way into the abandoned homes, and stood staring at the eddies of dust, as if he could see something in the empty rooms, some sign, some trace. What he could possibly be looking for there, he could not name. Something, anything. The Dolmec would not have lied to him, would it have? In some of those homes, the black thorns had grown right in through the windows, and they opened the door on a chaos of tangled, brittle thornvines. Martim¡¯s humor darkened especially at the sight of houses like those.


    The wizard¡¯s spirits seemed to blacken generally, the more time they spent here. It was not that he gained a foul temper, not exactly. And in the daylight, he seemed better, more like himself, if more tired than he ought to be for someone sleeping on a fine bed. He laughed, and joked with her, and in their idle moments they practiced the Art together. He took to glamor with an adeptness, though he did not seem to think of it the same way she did. To her, glamor was the stuff of shadows, of bending the dark to take the shape you wanted it to. You could make it take many shapes indeed, and there were finer things you could do with it still; you could twist shadows to change a color, like so. But Martim did not think so. He spoke of glamor in terms of trickery, and it did not make sense to her. He said that the more a person expected  to see something, the easier it was to make a glamor showing them that very thing, and she could not see why. She knew that to do something more complicated with shadow was more difficult, true, but that only made sense to her - you must cajole more of the shadow to do your bidding. But he said that this was not right, that potentially, one could work a very complicated glamor if that was what other people were expecting to see. What did people¡¯s expectations have to do with it? It did not change the shadows you must weave. But even though they were so at odds on the matter, she could not help but feel that she learned much too, in the course of teaching him.


    But as night came on, as the shadows lengthened, his mood would change. At first, she thought he was simply dispirited at not finding anything. He brightened a bit, at the return to the inn, when Flit came down to chirp at him. Their familiars did not follow them around town - it would make things too obvious - but to wait at the inn seemed safe enough. Cecil lounged about in the colonnade formed by the overhang of the inn¡¯s second story, and King, the inn¡¯s black cat, stared daggers at him from the branches of the tree in the center of the inn¡¯s court. But once that was done, once they were inside, he grew ever more quiet. He did not eat very much, and he spent more of his time looking out to the shadows outside.


    Things were not helped by the fact that Ritter was certainly not as friendly as he had been on the first night. He and Martim barely spoke to each other, barely looked at each other, for that matter. The silence between the two of them felt like cold poison in the air. Only once, when Martim mentioned that maybe they ought to go investigate the manor out on Rook Island, did Ritter make his feelings known. ¡°Can¡¯t you leave well enough alone, wizard?¡± the old man practically spat. ¡°You come around here, upsetting all the folk with your questions, don¡¯t you think that you¡¯ve done enough? People are tired around here, they don¡¯t want trouble. You¡¯ll never make it anyway, no ferryman goes out to the manor anymore. None have in years.¡±


    He had started out strong, but wilted as he went on. For Martim had turned to look at him with an expression the witch had never seen from the wizard before. The way that he was staring at the innkeep¡­if looks could draw blood, Ritter would have been flayed alive.


    She feared that Ritter might kick them out. She did not know why he hadn¡¯t yet, in fact. The man had some cause beyond Martim¡¯s clear hatred of him. How the candle-flames had flared when the wizard had been wroth, it could have easily caught the curtains and set the inn to blazing, and who could say that it would not happen again? But when she put it to Martim - not mentioning his loss of control, only worrying that Ritter might tire of them and throw them out - he simply laughed at her. ¡°It is because of you that we are allowed to stay. Or did you not know?¡±


    ¡°I certainly do not,¡± she said, perturbed. What could she have done to secure their rooms?


    The wizard gave her a sardonic grin, and to her surprise, brushed a lock of hair back from her ear. ¡°The ribbons are very nice,¡± he said, in an off-hand manner, but he was giving her a pointed look. She didn¡¯t know what for. She wore ribbons in her hair, and they had been a gift from Ritter. The old man had pointed out to her that if they were going to walk the streets, it might do well to be more presentable. And Ren had made that comment about her hair. And so she had combed and brushed it, which had taken nearly an entire evening in itself, and the innkeep had given her some nice length of blue ribbon to tie in it. They matched her eyes, or so he had said. She had rarely brushed her hair, and never tied anything in it before - her mother had never cared to keep her presentable - but she had taken a fancy to the ribbon. She knew nothing of braiding, or the tying up of hair, but she had tried to copy the image of V¨¦reline from the cover of her book, and when she looked at herself in the disc of polished bronze that served the innkeep as a mirror, she thought she hadn¡¯t done too bad.


    Martim had brushed his hair too, though his seemed unwilling to remain tamed for long, and even brushed seemed somewhat wild, hanging well past his shoulders. He was handsome, cleaned up, despite the dark, tired circles beneath his eyes. Though that was neither here nor there. ¡°What do you mean? Speak clear, wizard. If you are jealous of them, I can give you one. Your hair is long enough for it.¡±


    He just laughed at her again. It was a good thing to hear, even if it was directed at her. The wizard had laughed less and less since coming to the village. ¡°I mean that Ritter has a fondness for you. He dotes on you. He sees in you a granddaughter. A pretty face opens many doors.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡± Elyse crossed her arms, then looked him up and down. ¡°I suppose you would know. How many doors has your pretty face opened?¡±


    The wizard blushed, though Elyse had not meant it as a barb. ¡°Still, I think that if you were not with me, Ritter would have kicked me out long ago.¡± His smile faded, and a shadow crossed his face. ¡°Perhaps even tried to have me killed.¡±


    ¡°He would not.¡± But she wondered.


    The wizard was right that the innkeep had been kind to her. When she spent her time in the common room, reading the inn¡¯s collection of books, so long as Martim was not with her, Ritter would find a way to strike up conversation with her. He spoke of the kingdom of Hallic Nust, and the people who had lived there. How the Hallics had built trade prosperous on the lake of Nust Drim, and Hallic cogs and barges had plied the waters, and the lake lords had grown rich under the peace afforded to them by their compact with Old Aurelia, and were proud, murderous men, bloody sailors and skilled horsemen, and fiercely loyal to the Aurelic Crown. He spoke of their ruinous end, when the Gully Man (a demon, Ritter was convinced, in human guise) had summoned forth an army of traitors from the heartlands of Mannus Aurum itself, and the lake lords earned his special hatred through their valor, and so met their end through poison, or secret blade in the dark - those of them which the Gully Man had not captured on the battlefield, and had crucified. He mourned that what was left of this once great Kingdom was now scattered and forgotten, that even its people barely remembered what once was, and all they had left to remind them were the buildings the Hallics left behind, just like the Aurelics themselves.


    He spoke too, of Farson¡¯s Pass, and the mercenaries there, and he made their lives seem ones of grand adventure - when it was not humbling them through hilarious circumstances. That was common to all the stories about the mercenaries of Farson¡¯s Pass, they were funny. Like the party of mercenaries who had been sent to hunt a fae-touched lion, one that could speak and had grown monstrous in size, and the mercenaries had run screaming in terror and been saved instead by a child who tricked the beast into chasing its own echo off the edge of a cliff. Or the stories about Jinna of the Golden Heart, a hapless enchantress who found herself forever following fools into trouble and misadventure because she too easily fell in love with them.


    He told all these stories, and yet¡­he told nothing of the Queen¡¯s War, though it had ravaged these lands not so long ago. Neither would he talk about what had happened to the village, and she thought the reasons were one and the same. The one time she had prodded him on it, he had left her, and she was afraid if she tried again he would not come back to tell her stories again. He was like Martim, in that way. There was something unspoken, in the way Ritter¡¯s hands shook slightly, like the way pain crossed Martim¡¯s face. Something terrible had happened, and they did not want to talk about it. Much like the villagers did not want to talk about what had happened to them, either. Maybe she should not want to know. The burnt, skeletal remains of Cross-on-Green were still vivid in her mind. Did she really want to know that Ritter, who had been so kind to her, had done things such as that? Had he dragged folk screaming to the pyres? Nailed their doors shut and thrown the torches through the window? The old man who gave her a cup of wine while she was reading, and told her stories? The idea sickened her, but it would be a lie to say it did not also hold some strange fascination. Perhaps the innkeep might be more blackhearted than she thought. Perhaps the wizard was right to worry about a blade in the back.


    Ren, who she thought would have fled, actually kept to his word and did his part to look as well, though he had no luck either. Martim learned of him eventually, and did not approve, though for all that he had told the thief to ask around about his brother, as well. To her relief, Ren had not asked the wizard about the possibility of traveling with them. But even fog-shrouded as it was, and unhelpful as the villagers were, there was only so much of it that three young folk could search. They returned to the inn earlier and earlier as the days wore on, and spent more of their time practicing the Art, more time reading. Elyse began to doubt that this village would give up its secrets, or that Martim would find trace of his brother.


    Until they visited the farm.

 The Farm of Valerie Tuck

    <h2 style="text-align: center">14. The Farm of Valerie Tuck</h2>


    It was Ren who first thought of it. Martimeos remembered that later.


    They sat in the common room early one fog-shrouded morning, he and Elyse. The witch was chewing noisily at a crisp apple and some flaky bread that the innkeep had left out. Ritter, of course, was not here. He rarely was, when Martimeos was in the room. He always quietly found a reason to leave. Poor man, he finally had some guests for his beloved inn and he could barely find time to talk to them. Well, Martimeos would not feel sorry for the innkeep. He should hang. He should have hanged long ago.


    Martimeos sighed, and rubbed his temples, trying to drive this thought from his head. Whether or not Ritter should hang was not the question. He didn¡¯t know what the man had or hadn¡¯t done. It was not good to seize on such thoughts; they darkened the mind, made it difficult to think clearly. And yet thoughts like these found a way to slither into his skull, and had ever since he set foot in Silverfish. He couldn¡¯t think clearly. It was as if the fog that shrouded the village had poured in through his ears.


    It was his dreams. He could not remember them well upon waking. But he remembered glimpses. Thorns, black thorns, on vines thick as his arm, thick as his leg, crowding around him, thorns the size of daggers, an endless labyrinth of thorns beneath a leering yellow moon. And on the wind through the creaking, razor warren, a voice. A voice that should not be there. He wondered if he might be going mad, that he kept hearing that voice, dreaming of that voice. He had not in years, and never this often.


    Could it be these black thorns that besieged the town, that were slowly growing it over, that gave him these nightmares? Their strange and rampant growth was unnatural, and suspicious. But if they were enchanted, he could not sense it, and neither could Elyse. And though they might have invaded his dreams, it did not seem to affect anyone else. The witch slept like a babe, at least according to her. But she seemed fresh-faced enough each morning that he believed her. She¡¯s as bloody as the rest of them, a small voice inside him whispered. Smiling at the murdering innkeep like he¡¯s her favorite uncle. Martimeos firmly stamped the voice down. Now that was an unworthy thought. Elyse had not even heard of the White Queen before he had told her, had never lived through her war. The witch had never been anything but true to him, as far as he knew. Still, she saw Cross-on-Green, didn¡¯t she? Did she have to talk to the man so much? Knowing what his comrades did? What he might have done?


    He wanted to find some sign of his brother, and leave this damned village. Already he was unsettled by the thought that his brother had come here when he had. What had he been doing so deep in the Queen¡¯s lands? What had this place offered him? Why come here at all?


    He was still brooding on these thoughts when Ren came in through the front door, traces of mist swirling in behind him. The thief gave Martimeos and Elyse a shy smile as he approached them. Martimeos found the fellow a little odd. He could not hold it that much against him that he had been a thief; truth be told, there had been times when Martimeos himself had been a thief as well, and all the better at it for the Art. Still, if he were in Ren¡¯s knee-high boots, he would have run by now. He thought the boy¡¯s story (and really, the thief seemed barely more than a boy) had some truth in it; he was too young to be a hardened highwayman, surely, but far too trusting of strangers, to be so confident that they might keep his secret. If he was discovered as a thief, Ritter would certainly put him out on the streets at the least, or might try to enact some form of justice. And yet the lad stuck by his odd compact he had made with Elyse. Perhaps he thought it would be bad luck to cross a witch.


    Martimeos gave a grunt of irritation as the lad slid in next to him. Too chummy, far too chummy, and it grated on his nerves. He hoped that wherever they went next, Ren would not want to travel with them. With a sigh, he shook his head and tried to clear it of these petty thoughts. It was good Fortune to offer aid to an honest fellow traveler, and if Ren was dishonest, it was no dishonesty that Martimeos himself was not guilty of. It was the damned dreams, and the lack of sleep, fouling his mood.


    ¡°I am surprised to see you two here, now,¡± Ren said, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, no doubt out of fear of the innkeep¡¯s watchful eye. Ritter was sharp about that, he supposed; he had rightly sniffed out that Ren was a thief. Though the innkeep was not in the common room and would not be, so long as Martimeos was here. Ren could steal all the relics he has hanging on his walls, all for Ritter¡¯s fear of me. ¡°By this time, you are usually out on your search.¡±


    ¡°There is not much here left for us to search, in truth,¡± Martimeos replied quickly. It grated at him, and he thought that being the one to say it aloud would grate less than hearing others describe his failure. It did not. The fruitless search was like a canker in his mouth that he could not ignore. Yesterday, they had barely searched at all. Elyse and he had wiled away the hours deep within the practice of the Art, sinking so deep into glamor that it seemed they swam in the shadows, but even that diversion had lasted only so long before his dissatisfaction burned through. Yet what was there to be done? Every house searched, though they had to grope through fog to find them, and even draw a map to be sure where they had been (so disorienting was the mist that cloaked this village), and every miserly villager who would say more than two words to them had had their share, and there was nothing, no sign of his brother. Though it was not only that which plucked at his anger, truth be told. It was how much these people wanted them to move on. How much they didn¡¯t want to tell the truth. Martimeos would have taken a sign of his brother, and said damn the village and its curse, only that they were so craven in their denial that it incensed him. Whatever had happened to them, they preferred to turn their eyes from it. It was not merely that they were outsiders. He¡¯d warrant that these people never talked about it at all, even amongst themselves.


    Elyse gave him a kick beneath the table to grab his attention, and he stumbled out of his reverie clumsily, like a man half-drunk. ¡°Huh?¡± he asked, upon noting that both Ren and the witch were staring at him, as if awaiting his comment on something. The witch had a real concern in her eyes. He didn¡¯t like being looked at like that. He put on his best sheepish grin for them. He was always very good at appearing less concerned than he was, when he wanted to seem so, for there was a part of him that would laugh at anything. Right now, that part of him was laughing at himself, for the idiocy of coming to this backwater nowhere on the promise of a demon. Didn¡¯t they always twist their words? ¡°Apologies. I was a bit distracted.¡±


    Ren gave one of his nervous, apologetic smiles that did not touch the corners of his brown eyes. ¡°I was just asking whether or not you thought it might be a good idea to search the farmlands.¡±


    Yes. The farmlands. Brambled and overgrown though they may be, Silverfish did not subsist entirely off of fishing, and did not get all of its food off the meager trade barge that still bothered to come by, pulled along the shoreline by strong-armed, lean men wielding poles, who only looked at the dilapidated village and shook their head while they unloaded their cargo. Martimeos was considering searching outside the village proper, though he had hoped it would not come to that. Even for a village so small as Silverfish, the farms that fed it could be far-flung, and it could take weeks to scour the countryside and visit them all. And he could not see that his brother would have visited a random croft, besides. But¡­ ¡°I don¡¯t know that there is aught else for us to do,¡± he muttered, then summoned a smile to his face, and winked at Elyse. ¡°I think you might learn that following me is not as exciting as you thought it might be at first. Tracking down farmers is likely to be even less rewarding than talking to irritable fisherman.¡±


    Elyse gave him an odd look, squinting at him with those strange blue eyes of hers (the ribbons in her hair really did match them rather well), and opened her mouth to speak, but Ren jumped in first. ¡°Perhaps I should go with you as well? I do not think there is much left for me to find around here. I might be helpful,¡± he said, hope ringing clear as a bell in his voice.


    Martimeos stomped flat on that hope, and it would be a lie to say he felt no glee while doing so. He could not know why, but he simply did not like the man much. ¡°Absolutely not. I am sure our questioning has set tongues wagging enough already. If we start banding together to go and harass farmers, they¡¯ll wag even more about how all the outsiders in the town are in a conspiracy against them. Elyse and I, at least we might have an excuse to be there.¡± He and Elyse could use their tale of being newlywed and interested in a home, and come to a farm to ask how the land was. And they might have another excuse, if they were willing to admit they practiced the Art. In Pike¡¯s Green where he had been raised, it was considered good fortune to have a wizard or a witch speak the Art over your crop. A traveling wizard, newly booted and following the ache to wander, might catch a penny or a bowl of soup or a barn to sleep in for the favor. It had caught him enough of such, when he was first on the road.


    Such a boon might loosen a farmer¡¯s tongue, even in places where the Art was viewed with suspicion. That was, if such a tradition held in this place. He was far from home, now. It might be best to only use the offer as a last resort. Still, it was better than going to a farm with no excuses at all. He knew farmfolk, and these days, if they were to show up on their isolated doorstep without a good reason, they were likely to be thought of as bandits or highwaymen.


    He felt a small but true wrath alight in him, a small candle lit but burning bright, when the thief looked to Elyse, as if the witch might give him what he wanted. But she was already shaking her head. ¡°I think the wizard has the right of it, Ren.¡±


    The lad seemed sorely disappointed. ¡°Well,¡± he said slowly, glancing between the two of them. ¡°If you¡¯re sure¡­¡± He paused for a moment, frowning. ¡°The closest farmstead to town is owned by someone named Valerie Tuck. You probably saw it coming in, it¡¯s one of the only ones close to the road that¡¯s not overgrown with thorns. I don¡¯t know if you saw her, though, she¡¯s got¡­she, uh, she wears a bag over her face. I don¡¯t know why.¡±


    The thief had clearly given this some thought. Martimeos could remember it well; they had seen this Valerie on the way in, it seemed. He could still remember the woman with the bag over her face, and the farm that had filled him with such unease. It would have to be that farm that was easiest to visit, wouldn¡¯t it. ¡°It will be the first we go to.¡±


    ===***===


    It was not long after that they gathered in the courtyard, with the mist swirling about them like ghosts. Something about this fog was unnatural, too, and Martimeos did not like to think about what it might be. The world grew thin, the world grew tired. There were tales told of fog like this; tales of places where you might step into mist and never be seen again, come out in another world not your own, forever a stranger, forever lost. If indeed you ever came out at all, and did not simply stumble Between, never in one world or the next. The whole world¡¯s slipping Between, lad. You¡¯ll walk roads that don¡¯t match the maps, before you¡¯re through. There¡¯s lands where maps don¡¯t hold, because the very land itself melted and faded away to someplace else. You¡¯ll learn.


    Martimeos shook his head. Those were some of the last rambling words that his last instructor in the Art had said to him, delivered with the stink of brandy on the man¡¯s breath. Before Martimeos had finally left Pike¡¯s Green. He had dismissed the warning at the time, but there were those who would take the unguarded speech of a drunken, learned wizard as a Telling. Beg Fortune that he would not have to worry about such here.


    Before they could leave the inn¡¯s courtyard, though, Ritter appeared from ¡®round the bend of a colonnade, frowning at a worn saddle he carried. He had come from the direction of the stables (the inn had the service of one worn, shaggy gray mare named Bela) and slowed when he saw the two of them. Especially when he saw Martimeos. The innkeeper tried his best to not even be in the wizard¡¯s vision, these days. ¡°I thought you might be out already,¡± he said. Those sharp, blue eyes of his portrayed no hint of nervousness, but he shuffled his feet. ¡°Lookin¡¯ for your brother, and all.¡± Though he must know otherwise, he refused to acknowledge that they also asked questions about what had happened to the village.


    Elyse waited, probably to see whether he would speak to the innkeep, and then gave a small laugh when he refused. ¡°We¡¯ve run out of places ¡®round here to look,¡± she said. ¡°So the wizard and I are off to see if your farmers have any memory or notion of where to find him.¡±


    Ritter had been walking towards his inn door, with that fantastic carved scene of a horseman kidnapping a princess, nodding along as he listened to her words, but at this last he stopped. He frowned, then looked at them, as if considering something, then rolled his shoulders. ¡°The farms, eh.¡± He paused for an infuriatingly long time, pursing his lips.


    ¡°If you¡¯ve got something to say, man, out with it,¡± Martimeos snapped. It was the first time he¡¯d spoken to the innkeep in days.


    Fire came into Ritter¡¯s eyes then, and a dangerous look across his face (oh yes, this man had been a mercenary, for certain, and even now was a dangerous man, Martimeos would wage good gold against a tin penny if you would say otherwise). But he shook his head and gave a small, hoarse laugh, and that anger seemed to drain out of him. ¡°It¡¯s nothing, likely.¡± He nodded towards Elyse. ¡°But I told you old Mercy Gray went missing. Likely just ran away from¡­all this.¡± Saddle still in his hands, he craned his neck in a general gesture meant to take in simply everything about them. Martimeos could almost laugh. The innkeep would acknowledge that something was clearly wrong about this place, but not say what it was. Not to outsiders, at least.¡°But, well¡­now Minerva, our apothecary, she¡¯s been out at the farms too, y¡¯see¡­old Polk¡¯s sheep got spivy, and she was treatin¡¯ them¡­well, long story short, she was meant to back a few days ago and she hasn¡¯t been. It¡¯s likely nothing. Surely nothing. But if you might ask around if people have seen her¡­¡±


    The innkeeper¡¯s tone was light, but if a man such as he was giving a warning, that meant he had a suspicion in his gut that something wasn¡¯t quite right. And a mercenary who had made his way with luck and shed blood for Fortune, he had a kenning that was not to be easily dismissed. Martimeos touched the hilt of his blade, and shifted the crossbow over his shoulder. He could be civil. ¡°We¡¯ll be visiting Valerie Tuck first,¡± he told the man.


    Ritter nodded. ¡°That¡¯s good. That¡¯s good. Minerva, she might be there. She has a¡­a salve¡­for¡­¡± He shut his mouth, peering at them. Apparently, this was another thing he didn¡¯t want to speak of to outsiders. ¡°She might be there,¡± he finished. ¡°But you¡­you keep an eye out. And be careful yourselves.¡±


    ¡°Why does she wear a bag over her face?¡± Elyse called, and for once, Ritter had a scowl for her. He rushed inside, slamming the door.


    ===***===


    It was a lonely, quiet walk, out back the way they had come in, where the village disappeared in the distance behind them and they were once more in the brambled country of razor blackthorn vines. If anything those snarled warrens seemed to have grown even more dense and thickly knotted during their brief time in the village proper. They seemed now to shake even without the wind, and Martimeos could almost hear the whispers in them, the same whispers that haunted them in his dreams. At least the further they got from the lake, the thinner the mist grew. Though it never disappeared entirely. It clung in ragged patches to the ground like stubborn ghosts, swirling around his boots when he stepped through them.


    Their familiars were not with them this time. Though they still had the offer of crop-craft on hand to tempt a farmer, they did not want to necessarily reveal that they knew of the Art unless they thought it might gain them an advantage. Cecil, besides, was enjoying his time usurping the throne of the old black cat King, back at the inn. Flit had not had the patience to stay at the inn, and he was somewhere nearby but out of sight, mapping out the farms that they might visit, which ones did not seem abandoned.


    Elyse had bought her fae-stick with her, but no longer needing it for walking, she carried it leaning against one shoulder like a club. The witch was quiet and thoughtful beside him, withdrawn, as if those strange blue eyes peered inward at herself, running a hand through her voluminous raven-black hair, chaotic with poorly-tied ribbons. Martimeos was grateful, though it was not that he preferred her to be silent. Most of the time he was glad to hear her speak, cutting as her tongue could be; talk of the Art was always interesting with one who also worked it, and the witch had a sort of charm about her that usually brought a smile to his face. But out here among the thorns, it almost felt as if he could feel them pressing in around him, growing into his dreams, dripping poison into his thoughts, and it put him in such a black mood that he knew hearing another human voice would only inflame his ire. He was not being the most personable companion, he realized. If he kept this up, it might well be that Elyse may change her mind about following him.


    It was not so long of a walk to the Tuck farmstead, and it was well before noon that they reached it.


    It was not a large farm. Valerie Tuck lived alone, and there was only so much land that a single farmwife could tend to. Large pumpkins and buttersquash dotted the ground, and it seemed that she had begun the harvest, for many of the vines had been plucked clean, and a pile of gourds already sat in a rickety two-wheeled cart by the road. A lone scarecrow with an empty pumpkin for a head rocked slightly in the wind upon the post it was lashed to, straw poking out of his tattered burlap body, with crows mocking his purpose perched upon his shoulders, tugging the straw from him.


    Valerie Tuck was nowhere to be seen. As they made their way across the field and to the farmhouse, Martimeos felt a familiar sense of unease grip him; the same unease he had felt last time he had passed this farmstead by and seen Valerie, with her head covered in burlap, not knowing why. Was it simply the oddity of the woman, and the thought of meeting her, that had him so on edge, though?


    ¡°I do not like this place,¡± Elyse said from his side, as he was still wondering this. For all that the witch¡¯s dress seemed too thin for the autumn chill, she had never shown any signs of cold, but now she shivered. ¡°Something feels strange, here.¡±


    ¡°All of Silverfish is strange,¡± he replied. But he thought she was right. Something did feel strange, here. And it would be foolish to ignore that feeling. The Art gave an intuition about things, sometimes, or some called it a foggy form of Telling. He touched the hilt of his sword.


    The windows of the farmhouse stared at them like empty, black eyes as they approached. In places, the white plaster covering its walls had worn away to reveal the baked brown clay bricks beneath. Its thatched roof was badly in need of repair. A coop stood beside it, but there was no sign of any chickens. The house was not large, but it had certainly been built for a family, not for a woman living alone.


    They stood on the stoop for a moment. The door was splintered and cracked, and badly in need of a painting. Hesitantly, Martimeos reached out and knocked.


    For the longest time, there was no answer. He strained his ears to hear, though, and he thought he could make out the faint sounds of movement within. ¡°Valerie Tuck?¡± he called inquisitively.


    ¡°Perhaps she is not home.¡± Elyse looked as if she hoped this was the case.


    ¡°I can hear something.¡± Martimeos knocked at the door again. ¡°Valerie Tuck!¡± he cried, more forcefully this time. ¡°I can hear that someone is in this home. Answer the door, or I will start to think that someone is in Valerie¡¯s home without permission.¡±


    Dread was building in his gut and clawing at the bottom of his heart. He backed up from the door, and put his hand to his sword, ready to draw. What if nothing answered, what then? He knew he heard something within. Would he have to break down the door? What would be waiting for them inside?


    Would it even be human?


    All these thoughts raced through his head in the scant few moments after he knocked. But someone or something was coming. With slow, plodding footsteps that they could both hear, now, someone approached the door.


    All at once it was thrown open, and Valerie Tuck stared at them from the other side.


    She was thin, too thin for a woman who worked a farm alone, thin to the edge of famine, like Finnel, but something about her spoke of feverish whipcord strength, hard as ancient wood that turned to stone. She wore a long, black, plain workdress that came own to her ankles and only revealed the bottoms of dirty black workboots, and the hem of her dress was mud-spattered.


    The bag which she wore over her face was dirtied, as well. Gray eyes like frozen dirtwater regarded them flatly, from out of the ragged holes cut in the bag for them. And from this distance they got the answer for why she wore a bag over her head. For what they could see, the scant skin around her eyes appeared to be nothing but scar tissue. Part of her mouth looked like it had been carved away, as well, leaving teeth and the raw gum exposed. Martimeos had heard of wasting diseases that would rot people alive, and wondered if that was what had happened to her. And whether she was still contagious.


    And more than that, more than her disfigurement, there was the profound sense of something wrong. It was perhaps the Art again that made it obvious, in that primal gut feeling and intuition it could give to those who spent their lives working with it. But something about this woman was wrong, something was crooked within. Madness could have that feeling. And he could believe this woman was mad. She held herself with the feverish intensity of the lunatic, her every muscle seemed poised to spring like a trap; she stared at them both with unabashed contempt, like a princess receiving two unwashed dung-farming peasants.


    ¡°What¡­do you want,¡± she said, in a half-strangled, slurred speech that clearly took effort to enunciate every word. Perhaps something was wrong with her tongue, as well.


    Elyse and Martimeos glanced at each other. For a moment, the woman¡¯s presence had robbed them of their speech. ¡°Apologies for disturbing you, miss,¡± Martimeos said eventually, with a polite bow. ¡°You are Valerie, correct?¡± When she merely continued to stare at him, he hurried on. ¡°The innkeep in Silverfish - Ritter, you know him? We are his guests, and as a favor to him we agreed to check on the outlying farms, for he is worried for you folk away from the village proper.


    ¡°M¡¯fine.¡± Her eyes slid off them; they were dismissed. She turned immediately back to the door.


    ¡°Hold a moment, miss, please. We were also given the names Mercy Gray and Minerva to inquire about. Have you seen them or know of what happened to them? Ritter believes Mercy might have quit her farm, but is quite worried about Minerva.¡±


    Contempt flared back to life in those scar-set eyes, contempt and something more, a sort of offended incredulity that she should be asked this, by them. Valerie made a deep growl in her throat, and her lips curled back, making her look even more corpse-like. ¡°No.¡±


    She turned once more to the door, and this time spun around with a baleful glare when Martimeos stopped her, her fists clenched knuckle-white. ¡°Please miss, just a moment more of your time,¡± the wizard got out hastily. ¡°I am only here in your village to search for my missing brother. He would have come through years back, seven or more, and looked much like me-¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Valerie snapped, and this time she spat at their feet. Somehow, it did not spoil the impression she gave of a princess entertaining unruly visitors who had overstepped their bounds. She would have beheaded them for their offense, if the world was right. Unfortunately it was fallen, and the most that she could do was spit at them. ¡°G¡¯way.¡± And then she spun, her dress whirling around her, and slammed the door to her home so hard that it echoed across the field and sent crows roosting among her pumpkins scattering into the air.


    The offer of crop-craft died on Martimeos¡¯ lips. He stared at the door, but all he could hear was Valerie stomping away from it, the knock of her boots on the wooden floors fading somewhere into the house.


    ¡°Serpent¡¯s tits, her face,¡± Elyse swore, after a long moment. She whispered, as if Valerie might still somehow hear her, as if the woman was still waiting just on the opposite side of the door. She leaned on her stick, as if just seeing the woman for those brief moments had taken the breath out of her. ¡°What do you think happened to her?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Martimeos replied quietly. He remained staring at the door for a long moment, and Elyse did not question him. Perhaps she felt the same way he did. Valerie was home, and at least that was good. She was disfigured and crooked of mind, perhaps, but that¡­that could not possibly explain the nagging feeling this farmstead gave him. A strange, broken old woman was not enough for the intuition granted by the Art to be provoked. What was it about this place?


    Perhaps they should have both left well enough alone. And yet, even with that sense of uneasiness, their curiosity was pricked now. Around the side of the farmhouse they walked, leaving prints in the soft dirt, but all that was there was a stack of firewood. The coop was empty, though it seemed like it had not been not that long ago. It smelled deeply of chickens, and white down still lay scattered on the ground in front of it.


    Elyse tugged at his sleeve, and he glanced at her. ¡°Hey, wizard,¡± she said, ¡°The well.¡±


    She nodded toward the simple stone well that lay in the far corner of the field. They approached it, stepping delicately through the pumpkin patch, ignoring the protestations of crows who cawed raucously at them when they drew near, far more afraid of them than they were of the impotent scarecrow.


    The first thing they noticed was that no crows were in the fields near the well, though the pumpkins grew as thick there as they did anywhere else. The second was the odor; a thick and cloying scent that hung heavy in the air, the smell of something gone rotten, though that was not quite all - it was accompanied by a strange, fishy-sweet smell, as well. It was wretched, it seemed to invade their throats and their very stomachs as they breathed it in. It was like nothing they had ever smelled before.


    And there was that sickening sense of dread that rose within them. Something wrong, something gone foul, like something that you know deep in your heart already but still wounds the soul to know. Like watching your house burn down with your family inside it, and knowing, knowing that they were dead, and yet some whispering place inside, you wouldn¡¯t be satisfied until you see the sad lumps of blackened flesh and melted fat and charred bone, some part of you wants to see it precisely because you know it will break you forever. There was something in that well. Martimeos had to know what it was. He took a step forward.


    But something stopped him. Elyse was tugging at his sleeve again. She was coughing, tears in her eyes, looking on the edge of retching. She pointed, not to the well, but toward the ground. The pumpkins nearest the well had swollen, gone dark, almost purple, and soft. Some of them had burst open and spilled forth a rotten black putrescence, lumpy and oily, which toppled over in piles like innards. Just looking at it made him want to gag.


    And then, suddenly he was, just like Elyse. The desire to look into the well was not gone, but overwhelmed by sheer physical revulsion. They backed away, coughing, retching, until they could no longer smell it, no longer see the rotten, burst pumpkins. ¡°That is no normal crop-sickness,¡± Elyse said, gasping, wiping tears from her eyes. ¡°Fah, that was foul.¡± She was pale, and looked as if she might be sick again at any moment. ¡°It felt¡­it felt like a wound. Like a wound larger than any man might take. If someone¡¯s whole body was nothing but infection and open pits, it would not be a big enough wound to feel like that. What was that?¡±This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    ¡°Something is in that well,¡± Martimeos replied grimly. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then started marching, swiftly, back to the farmhouse. ¡°We can¡¯t leave Valerie here. No one ought to be near that.¡± Elyse followed after him, but even as he said the words he knew them for a lie. Valerie knows already, doesn¡¯t she. Oh yes, she does. It¡¯s her farm, she would have to be blind not to know. And when you first crossed her path, she was standing right over the well, wasn¡¯t she? She was. She knew. Whatever was in that well, she had already been in contact with it.


    Once he stood before the door of the farmhouse, he hammered on it with enough strength to dent the wood. ¡°Valerie Tuck,¡± he shouted, and his cry sounded more accusatory than he had meant it. Or perhaps not. That sick feeling of dread. ¡°Valerie Tuck, come out. You cannot remain at this farm. Something wicked has taken root here!¡±


    There was no answer. Before he could knock again, there was the sound of something heavy clattering, deep within the house. Then silence.


    ¡°Valerie Tuck!¡± the wizard cried again, but there was nothing, and he did not wait long for a reply this time. The door was locked, but the rusted latch and the wizened wood of the frame could not withstand a few heavy kicks. The door crashed aside with the whining squeal of bent metal and the creaking groan of breaking wood.


    Inside the house it was quiet, and filthy. It seemed that Valerie had not cleaned in years. A thick layer of dust and dirt covered everything, except those paths which she took through her own home and the spots that she occupied. The path in front of the door was tramped clean by her footsteps. Here was a fine wooden table with four chairs, only one of which showed any signs of having been pulled out and sat on in recent memory. A shelf which carried four cups, only one of which had been touched, the other three covered in grime.


    ¡°VALERIE TUCK!¡± This time, Martimeos shouted as loudly as he could, loud enough to make dust fall from the shelves. As if in response, there came a noise that sounded like muffled shouting, from somewhere beneath them.


    He drew his sword, and made no attempt to be quiet - if something was here for them, it certainly already knew they were there. Beyond the table there was a stone wall with a small, narrow door set into it, and throwing that open revealed a set of narrow, cramped stairs which led down into a cellar. The flickering glow of a candle danced against a dirt wall, from somewhere around the corner, and the sounds of muffled, strained speech were clear.


    ¡°Stay well behind me,¡± he whispered to the witch, and she nodded furiously, eyes wide, clutching her stick in both hands like a cudgel, ready to brain someone.


    He had to duck his head to make his way through the door, and crouch as he walked down the stairs. The stairway was small, and cramped, and he was uncomfortably aware he would have barely any room to swing a sword in it. He squeezed through it, down, his shoulders scraping the walls, down into the cellar.


    As soon as he turned the corner, he saw, tied to a chair, and gagged with filthy linen, a stout old woman with frazzled gray hair tied tight back into a bun, red-faced and straining against her bonds, clear blue eyes pleading with him, trying to tell him something. Before he even saw the warning in her eyes, he guessed what was coming.


    He whirled, and there, standing behind him, was Valerie Tuck. She held a shining cleaver in her hand, raised above her head, bearing down on him.


    It was the candle that saved him. The candle that Valerie herself had probably placed there for light. It was too narrow to bring up his sword in time, and so cramped that even if he had backed up, Valerie¡¯s strike would have bitten very deep. But there was that candle, and the bright little spot of hunger in it, and so Martimeos seized on that, seized on the Art, and turned that small hunger into a ravenous, devouring need, and turned it on Valerie.


    The tiny flicker of the candle jumped, becoming a gouting burst of flame that quickly melted the wax, but it was alright. Because that hunger was spilling hot orange light onto Valerie¡¯s dress, and there was its new meal.


    She went up like a dry pine tree.


    Valerie screamed and wailed, a frantic, keening cry, and it was not long before that cry shook in her throat, became heaving moans as the flame bit into her and the smoke tore down her throat. She dropped the cleaver and beat at the flames devouring her skirts in a frenzied panic, stumbling backwards. The narrow cellar contained shelves lined with large clay jugs, and she crashed into one of those, screaming. With a groan it toppled over on her, the clay jugs shattering, and the smell of brine washed through the cellar; they had contained pickles. It doused the flames, at least, and Valerie lay there, moaning, beneath the shattered crockery and the broken shelves.


    All of this took place in moments, but to Martimeos, it seemed to go on for hours. He turned back to the old, bound woman, only to find that Elyse had come behind him, having produced a dagger, and was cutting through her ropes. When the witch took the linen from the woman¡¯s mouth, she spat, and coughed, half-moaning, half-sobbing, hysterical, her lips dry and cracked, her voice raspy. They helped her to her feet, and Elyse gave her a drink from her waterskin, even as they hurried her along, but the woman was weak - who knew how long she had been tied up like that - and so they half-carried, half-helped her up the narrow stairs. Martimeos walked backwards up them, pushing her up with his back, and was glad that he did.


    He could scarcely believe it, but as they were near the top, there came a great clattering from down the stairs, and Valerie appeared at the bottom of them, clutching a sharp shard of crockery in one bleeding hand. When he first saw her, his thought was that she must not be human, she must be the walking dead. Most of her dress had been burnt away, or charred to the flesh of her legs. But the most shocking thing about her was the bag was gone as well, and her head exposed.


    What had happened to her face could not have been a wasting sickness. It was too precise, too obviously done by intention. Lined scars crisscrossed her head and face, which looked like little more than a skull with scar tissue molded on it, too close to be natural, as if some of the underlying muscle had been stripped away. She was bald, scalped, such that her hair could never grow back. The lined scars were carved in intricate patterns where they met, and most disturbingly of all, Martimeos could recognize some of the logic of sigils in them. Someone has carved a work of the Art into her living flesh, he thought, and for one wild moment he realized that more than anything he wanted to know what craft had been written in her skin.


    Her eyes blazed hate and she scuttled up the stairs after them, croaking something in a tongue now too smoke-damaged to make sense. But Martimeos was prepared for her. He could not swing his sword on this narrow stairway, so he caught her with a thrust beneath the armpit, and pushed forward past resistance. She screamed. He could hear her blood spattering on the stairs. She raised her bloody shard of jar to strike at him, and he kicked her as hard as he could, square in the face. He could feel what was left of her nose crumple beneath his boot.


    She flew down the stairs to slam against the wall and crumple there, moaning, blood covering her jaw in a fan from her nose, clutching an arm that now seemed to hang too low and too loose in its sleeve. She was trying to gurgle out something, but speech was far beyond her now. ¡°Lleekrrrm,¡± she cried, reaching out towards him, all the humanity stripped from her face. ¡°Leekrrrrm. Heez.¡±


    As horrible as this was, he would wish later that this truly was the last he had seen of her.


    They got the old woman up out of the cellar, finally, and Martimeos slammed the door shut behind him, then grabbed the table and wedged it as best he could between the door and the wall, pinning it there, thinking then that if Valerie survived her wounds, she could at least be taken in for justice. The old woman was still crying, but at the very least she did not seem to be leaning on Elyse so much anymore. She walked with a limp, and she rubbed, sobbing, at the angry red welts around her wrists, but she seemed to be able to move under her own power, if in a doddering way.


    Suddenly the old woman gave a keening wail, one that reminded Martimeos uncannily of the one Valerie had given when she went up in flames. She stumbled forward across the kitchen, nearly falling, to grab a silver locket from where it lay on a small side table. ¡°Oh,¡± she sobbed, pressing it to her lips, ¡°Oh, this was Mercy¡¯s! Oh, she said she had killed her, I didn¡¯t want to believe it¡­¡± She broke down into heaving sobs once more.


    That only left the one then. ¡°Are you Minerva?¡± Elyse asked, putting a hand on the woman¡¯s heaving shoulders. ¡°How well can you walk? I do not think we are safe here, yet.¡±


    The old woman did not seem to hear them, not at first. ¡°They were friends since they were little girls,¡± she murmured, in a vacant, disbelieving way. Her eyes swam over towards them, and in them there was nothing but questions and tears. ¡°How could this have happened?¡±


    Martimeos thought he might have some idea. That well, and whatever sickness lay within it. But right now was no time for idle talk. ¡°If you cannot walk, I will carry you. We are leaving here, now.¡±


    The old woman simply remained staring for a few moments, but finally she straightened, and some steel came into her. She wore a simple brown frock, with a belt around her waist from which hung a satchel and other small pouches. She tucked the locket into one of these, now. ¡°Demesque and Karilail guard your soul, Mercy,¡± she said quietly. Her tear-streaked face now wore a stern, no-nonsense expression, though she could not completely hide the fear that touched her, in trembling hands and nervous eyes. She did not question how Elyse knew they were not safe. They were her rescuers, and they had earned a rescuer¡¯s trust. ¡°I can walk,¡± she said hoarsely. ¡°For a bit, at least.¡±


    If the woman questioned their urgency, she did not give voice to it. It might have seemed that all was at an end; Valerie was stuck in her cellar, and the road was not far off at all. What did they have to do except to walk to it? Only that Martimeos still felt the fear in his blood, and he thought Elyse could as well. Valerie herself was not the only threat here. Dread still dragged razors across his stomach as they bustled Minerva between the two of them and hurried outside.


    They had taken perhaps three steps towards the road when it happened.


    A long, inhuman groan bellowed from within the stone well, sending crows scattering into the pale gray sky. It droned on and on, ever-louder, drowning out thought, taking up space in the skull, until it seemed that even vision was not important before the magnitude of this endless, alien sound.


    Minerva shrieked, and Elyse was screeching curses, but Martimeos was barely aware of this, his mind overcome by the torrents, the endless crashing waves of sound that flooded his mind. Some small part of him held on in the obliterating deluge, though. And that part of him realized that their voices were far away. Some dim notion of vision came back to him, some shred of his attention spared for what the eyes might see, and that small part of him realized that he was no longer supporting Minerva¡¯s shoulder, no longer with the witch. No, he was sprinting across the field, careless of where he trod, squash and pumpkins caving beneath his feet, stringy pulp clinging to his boots. Towards the well.


    Why? Why was he doing this? This small part of him, that clung to himself, didn¡¯t know. It thought that perhaps he was even trying to play the foolish hero and do something about the thing in the well, even though the obvious smart thing to do was to run. But slowly, that strange, long moan that issued forth from the well tapered off into silence, and like flood waters drawing back to reveal a shipwreck, the rest of his mind was exposed as it withdrew from his thoughts. And it had something hooked in him, snared in the part of his mind where the red ugly thoughts were, and it was pulling him forward.


    Elyse was screaming his name, and with what clarity of thought he had, with some part of himself Martimeos reached out towards those screams, as if only he could grasp them like a rope and resist the tidal pull of the thing in the well. But her voice was too small, too thin to serve as an anchor.


    He was close now. His boots squashed through black, rotting, corrupt pumpkin-guts, and something in the wicked ooze squirmed. Not pumpkins. Not anymore. He knew the smell must be horrific, but it was as if his nose was blind to it now. Some awful, muggy heat was pulsating from the well, too, and as he drew close he could feel it pouring from the earth in rancid, fetid breaths. His mind scrambled frantically, pathetically, like a bird caught in a trap, trying to escape, trying to resist, but it was too late. His gloved hands gripped the lip of the well, and he peered over.


    There was something there. Something in the bottom of the well. Not water. It was difficult to see in the murk, but down in the dark, down past slick stone, deep in the cold earth, something pale and grub-like squirmed in red wetness that welled up like blood out of a pitted wound. A cloudy, globular something danced in and out of shadow.


    But what was in the bottom of the well was almost irrelevant. Because it was the sensation of something, something else oozing into his head that occupied his attention.


    Suddenly, in his mind¡¯s eye, Martimeos saw himself. And then he saw himself through the eyes (it has no eyes, what it has is something else) of the thing in the well. And what he saw of himself there was a monster. His teeth stretched into fangs, his face contorted into something thin and snakelike. The red scarf that hung about his neck became a wound dripping blood onto a body that was stretching, cracking, popping, changing¡­


    And even as he saw this, Martimeos felt himself begin to change. Not his body, no, but some part of him, if this went on, some part of him would be this monstrous thing. He¡¯d look human but be a monster, and he could already feel his thoughts turning into a monster¡¯s thoughts; dizzying him as they twisted and bent, the sick glee deep in your chest of hurting¡­


    NO, he thought, and tried to claw himself back into shape. He didn¡¯t know what he did, didn¡¯t know what he had done other than refuse, but the image of himself shrank back, blurred and lost its monstrousness. It was merely him again, merely Martimeos. Olive-skinned and hair long and wild, well past his shoulders, tall and slender but not snake-thin, and his dark green eyes more tired and his expression more grim than they used to be.


    He felt the thing in his mind recoil, like a snail retreating back to its shell. He could also feel¡­emotions, he supposed they must have been, emanating from it in waves. And he would never say that what he felt from this thing was any human feeling. But if there was any it came closest to, at this moment, it was confusion. He felt it groping around, blindly, through his thoughts, and after getting over his feeling of revulsion he realized that thing couldn¡¯t see (Not see. It does not see in the way we do. It cannot see what it cannot make its own).


    He felt the thing seize on something, a bubbling sense of triumph oozing off of it like oil. And suddenly the image before him changed. He was no longer looking at himself. He was looking at the common room of the Night Fisher inn; from an odd angle, from above, as if the roof had been cut away and he was floating where the rafters would have been.


    It seemed very, very real. A fire crackled in one of the twin fireplaces, and Martimeos could feel the heat of it on his skin. The orange light of the flame banished the shadows to the dark corners of the room. With a gentle warmth, it illuminated Ritter¡¯s relics; his fanciful little House of the Gods, the maps that hung on his walls, gleaming on the polished spines of his books. Again, and oddly for this moment, it struck Martimeos just how sad it was for this place to be empty all the time.


    And there in the center of the room stood the innkeep, except all his soldierliness and discipline had gone out of him now, and his sharp blue eyes were not flat, the light draining out of him, seeing nothing. Ritter was screaming his death-scream, the sort of scream that takes your soul with it, and he clutched his hands to his stomach, trying to keep his guts in, blood soaking his entire lower half. And Martimeos watched as that monstrous version of himself, with serpentine, curdled-rotten glee, twisted a sword in the old mercenary¡¯s guts.


    Martimeos felt a sense of deep shame. Shame, because he had wanted to kill Ritter. He had thought about it, especially as his time in Silverfish wore on, as the dreams robbed him of yet more sleep, and his mood became blacker and blacker. Part of him had indulged in visions of torment for the old man. And why not? Ritter had been the White Queen¡¯s dog. Who knew what the old soldier had done in her name? The horrors Martimeos had seen; Cross-on-Green was only the beginning of what the Witch in the West and her servants had done. He had traveled amongst the Freetowns of Dorn and seen the ruin she had wrought there, where it seemed everyone you met had lost half their family to her wicked ambition; he had seen the fields at Durnholde, where her forces had finally broken at ruinous cost to the city itself, where even to this day farmers were likely to turn over bones and skulls and rusted swords and armor when they pulled their plows...


    And what they had done to David.


    And yet Martimeos knew, as he watched the vision that this thing in his mind had shown him, watched Ritter bleed his gut-blood screaming, that this was what had allowed the thing to catch a hold in him. This was the red, ugly thought that it had snared him by, a thing this foul could not find purchase except in those who had a desire for torture and cruelty, and Martimeos was ashamed to find this honest urge in him. This thing thought that by showing him this bloody wish fulfilled, that it might gain power over him and shape him like clay.


    Except that knowing this and feeling the shame made the thing¡¯s power so much weaker. He could feel it already shifting in his mind, knowing that something had gone wrong. And to his surprise, as he hung above the common room of the inn, he could still feel the hunger of flame, from the crackling fireplace. He could still feel it, and he could still speak to it through the Art and heighten that hunger. For only a moment, he wondered on how strange this was, that flame in a dream, or a vision, might live as much as true flame did. But then anger came upon him, anger for this thing that butchered and bent his thoughts, and so he reached out with the Art to seize upon this flame, his only weapon. To his surprise, it bent to his will much easier here than any true flame ever had, and so he built a raging inferno of starvation in the fireplace, and he sent it out into the darkness of his mind, where this thing hid.


    A gout of flame leapt up into the dark, even as the vision of the Night Fisher inn fell away, and then pain, true pain - whatever this thing was, it had that in common with humans, then - screamed out of the thing, washing over him from the corners of his mind. Something dark within his blood laughed. He was stronger here, of course he was, it was his mind, his dream, and he knew, he knew that some part of him danced with one foot in dreams already. And so the gout of flame became a gale, the sort of baking heat that an entire house aflame would give off, and the thing in his mind shrank and quailed. He could feel it trying to slither out of his mind, and perhaps he should have let it. And yet in a fickle moment he knew he could keep it there to face the flames, and so he did, and all the cruelty he had ever felt towards Ritter he focused on this thing now. Ritter, who knew what he had done - but this thing, this repulsive thing, had come into his mind to violate him, and so he would give it a taste of the Hells. It had dared to dance with him in his own dreams.


    A voice boomed out of the dark, then. It came slow, with great pauses, faltering, as if the thing had trouble making the words, but each word came with the roar of grandiose and unquestionable authority, knowing that it would be heard, expecting to be obeyed.


    And they were not really words, no. There was no true sound, here, and the thing did not think in words. It was a way of touching his thoughts that did not, in every way, scream of domination, and the thing, whatever it was, was ill-practiced at it.


    ENOUGH. I NEED NOT (SEE/KNOW/CONTROL) YOU TO KNOW YOU ARE HERE TO SEE MY WILL DONE.


    ¡°I am here for no such thing,¡± Martimeos spat, but even his ire melted away as he marveled at the dimensions to which he had built the flame, and yet it kept on growing. It was a pillar of flame in the darkness of his mind now, white-hot at its base, and it ate at the thing, though he could not see it, could only see the brightness of the flame burning in the darkness. He had never built a flame so large and so hungry in the world outside his mind, and here now he found the hunger took on strange new dimensions. It would eat more, now. He wondered if there was anything at all that flame would not eat if it grew hungry enough.


    YOU ARE. EVEN IF YOU DO NOT KNOW IT.


    A pause.


    DO YOU SUMMON


    (An image of a flame of wild and impossible colors, a flame which shone in the colors of the rainbow in its corona. A sense of laughing mockery and contemptuous scorn.)


    Martimeos did not know what to make of that. Perhaps, though, letting this flame burn within his mind was dangerous. What would it use as fuel when it could no longer burn this thing? And so he stopped feeding its hunger, started draining away the hunger from it, and to his surprise it was much more malleable than a flame in the real world might be, as well. Once a flame¡¯s appetite had grown large enough it was a struggle to stamp it out. But here, flame seemed tamed and ready to obey. Soon, the pillar of flame had reduced itself to sickly yellow grease fires, burning thick black smoke on¡­on something, on whatever this thing was in the dark of his mind that he still could not see. ¡°What are you?¡±


    (A vision of time so long that it lost meaning. If a man¡¯s life was a grain of sand, this sense of time was an entire mountain. The wild, lurching sense of falling from the sky, turning away from something that burned and tore and ripped and shattered.)


    Martimeos was quiet for a very long time, hiding in the shadows of his mind. He had felt dwarfed by the sense of time this thing had shown him; felt as if he were crumbling to dust even attempting to hold the idea of it in his mind. If this were true, and not some alien idea of a boast, then this was the oldest thing he had ever known. A demon? Perhaps. ¡°And what is it you think you bid me to do, shattered one?¡±


    YOU WILL BRING VALERIE HER REVENGE. FOR WHAT WAS DONE TO HER AND HER FAMILY.


    Martimeos was stunned to find that when it thought of Valerie, the shattered one¡¯s thoughts sang with what might be thought of as love. At least it did not feel as vile as everything else the shattered one thought of. ¡°I have no interest in avenging her. And I doubt very much that if you had put the price before her in the beginning, she would have agreed to pay what you demanded of her.¡± He knew, with a disgusted certainty, what had happened to first the chickens on Valerie¡¯s farm, and then to Mercy. Something as wicked as this feasted on pain, and flesh and blood.


    SHE WOULD HAVE. I KNOW HER WELL. SHE HAS PLEDGED HER VERY SOUL TO ME. VENGEANCE IS ALL THERE IS TO HER NOW. SHE KNEW THERE WOULD BE SACRIFICES. UNLIKE YOUR GODS, I ANSWER PRAYERS.


    Another pause.


    SHE IS JEALOUS OF YOU.


    Martimeos would have said more, only that there was something drawing him out from this place, now, and that as he was lifted out of the dream and towards the light, he felt the shattered one slip out of his mind¡­


    ===***===


    Into the light of day, and chaos.


    He stood, standing over the well, staring down into it, still staring at the grub-pale squirming something and the red wetness and the vomitous infected wound that was the shattered one¡¯s flesh in the living world. His hands held onto the edge of the well in a vise-like grip. His arms ached, as if every muscle in them had been tensed to trembling strain, and felt knotted and hot.


    Elyse was shaking him as hard as she could, screaming his name, when she was not gagging and retching from the smell of vicious rot and corruption that welled up from the very soil here. Eyes wet with desperate tears, she was trying to pull him away from the well, but his grip while in the fugue had simply been too strong.


    And even as he turned his head to look at her, even as the witch laughed in the simple relief of knowing that he was still in there, he saw broken doom racing towards them.


    He would never know how Valerie had escaped from the cellar. Shattered as she was, as burnt as she was, he had thought it very likely that she would have died from her injuries before anyone came to bring her up. And yet somehow she had, and even now was sprinting towards them across the field. She was at once a macabre and absurd sight; her skull-face slick with blood, the ragged tatters that were the remains of her dress flapping around her knees, and her one dead arm hanging limp and flopping as she came at them.


    Pathetic though she might be, she had the strength of feverish madness on her side, and Martimeos was too slow in recovering to bring his sword out before she crashed upon them.


    Or really, upon Elyse. Perhaps thinking that Martimeos was too tough meat, Valerie dove for the witch.


    Elyse, still busy retching, did not even seem to realize Valerie was coming for them until the crazed lunatic was upon her. That wild, frantic fear in her strange blue eyes was familiar. It was how she had looked when the demons had attacked them both, just after they had met, and she had fallen and sprained her ankle. It was the death-fear on her face; it was the way Elyse looked when she thought she might be killed. Only the first time he had seen that, she had been a stranger. He had only known her for a little while, but still, now seeing that expression on her face twisted his own heart with fear.


    The witch bought up her fae-stick to fend off Valerie, but the maimed woman ignored it as if it wasn¡¯t even there. She still clutched a jagged shard of pottery in her bloodied hand, and she pushed it towards Elyse¡¯s neck. ¡°Leeeekrrrrm!¡± she cried from her ruined throat and tongue. ¡°Imsskrrrm! HEEZ!¡±


    Valerie was not a large woman, but Elyse was smaller than her, and the witch shrieked as she was driven backwards. Martimeos realized with horror that Valerie was trying to push Elyse into the well and cut her throat at the same time. Fear setting fire to his blood and finally clearing his mind from his stupor, he leapt into the fray. He practically ripped the two of them apart, sending the witch stumbling away. Valerie, however, immediately turned on him, that blood-slick shard seeking his throat now as she grappled with him. Her blazing eyes drilled holes into his as he spun her, trying to wrestle away from her surprisingly strong grip. ¡°Imssskrrrm! Imssskrrrm!¡±


    He spun her, seized her hands. She wormed away from him, and her shard tore a line across his cheek. He roared in pain, and shoved her away as hard as he could, and sent her flying, sprawling across the well.


    She did not fall in; the well was too narrow for a person to easily topple into. Her legs lay draped over one side, while the back of her skull cracked across the other, and she looked up in a daze.


    What happened next would depend on who you asked.


    Martimeos heard a voice.


    YOUR REVENGE IS PURCHASED, VALERIE. YOU PLEDGED YOUR SOUL TO ME AND I CLAIM IT NOW.


    Elyse always swore that she heard nothing intelligible, but rather only heard another low, growling moan vomiting upwards from the well.


    They both agreed on what happened next, though. Valerie snapped, as if she were being suddenly folded in half by a giant invisible hand, her legs going about her ears. The crack of her spine breaking sounded like a rotten tree finally toppling over. Blood gouted from her mouth, a red wet hole. And then she shot down the well, dragged down it, with a terrified wail, and Martimeos could not stop himself from thinking but now I will never know what the Art carved on her face meant.


    He thought he heard in her wail a tinge of regret. Perhaps she went to her fate knowing what she had done, what she had sold herself to, how she had damned herself. But perhaps not. Perhaps he was just imagining things. Most likely she died stupid and mad.


    The wail disappeared with a splash, and Valerie Tuck was heard from no more.


    ===***===


    Martimeos and Elyse stumbled away from the well, half-running, supporting each other as they did so, back across the field, to where Elyse had left behind Minerva to watch these two mad young people in wide-eyed horror. (For her part, Minerva would always deny hearing any voice or seeing Valerie snap in half. She would always insist that she simply fell down the well. She never wanted to acknowledge the awful fate that befell a woman she had seen grow from a babe into adulthood).


    It was quieter, now. A surreal calm settled down over the farm, a queasy silence that did not seem to belong, given that they had just seen a woman broken in half and dragged away to horror. Crows, driven away by the initial commotion, were returning to the field, cawing lazily to each other as they drifted down to alight amongst the trampled pumpkins and peck at their guts. Martimeos wondered what they might say, if he could understand the crow-speech. Most likely nothing but complaints about how their meal had been disturbed. Birds rarely paid attention to the doings of man, unless man was trying to hunt them. As a general rule, most birds were disdainful of anything that could not fly, and thought such things barely worth talking about.


    His mind was wandering. It was what it did when he had just seen some awful bloodiness. When the fear-fire faded from the blood and all that was left was the reality of ruined bodies and death. It was not the first person he had seen die, and not the worst death he had seen either, but he thought the sight of Valerie folding in on herself, the pop of her spine, would stick with him. He supposed, at first, that Elyse was quiet in contemplation of this too - perhaps she had never seen anyone die before - but that was not it. She was quiet in stewing fury.


    ¡°You are a complete imbecile,¡± the witch hissed at him. He glanced down at the her in surprise. She was not looking at him. Instead she stared straight ahead, frowning, a hard look in her eye. ¡°An imbecile. Why did you run towards that well? What did you think you were going to do?¡±


    She sounded so furious, and oddly hurt, that he wasn¡¯t sure what to say. ¡°I¡­was not under my own power when I did so. I was drawn to it.¡± When her silence persisted, he went on. "It...the foul thing in that well, it spoke to me. After a fashion. It spoke of Valerie wanting revenge. I think it meant to use me somehow, but I was able to throw off its call."


    "Revenge, was it," she murmured. The witch squinted at him, now. Spots of color stained her cheeks, and she worried at the dark ring she wore with the thumb of her hand. ¡°I did not feel drawn to it at all. Minerva neither.¡±


    Martimeos remembered the ugly thoughts that the shattered thing in the well had hooked him by. Heat rose to his face as he remembered his shame. If such a thing hooked people by their bloody thoughts and wishes, he probably shared company with murderers in being drawn to it. ¡°Perhaps I simply have more cruelty in me than you do,¡± he said softly, then regarded her again. In a way, the fact that she had not been drawn to the well was another circumstance vouching for the witch¡¯s trustworthiness.


    Elyse, however, merely snorted at this. ¡°Is that so? If you make me run after you like that again, wizard, I think you¡¯ll find I have enough cruelty in me to make the Dark Stranger weep.¡±


    He was about to say that she had not needed to come after him if she did not want. But he considered what might have happened if she hadn¡¯t. He would have been left stupefied by that well, and very likely Valerie would have simply tipped him over without even knowing. Would the shattered one have let her do that? Wasn¡¯t he supposed to be ¡®the instrument of its will¡¯? (Whatever that meant, he was very much determined not to be that). He glanced back towards the stone well and shuddered. He thought that very likely for a thing like the shattered one, its appetites came first and foremost. And so to the witch he merely said, mildly, ¡°I thank you for the rescue. You likely saved my life.¡±


    The witch huffed, then stared at him, then down at her hand, still toying with her ring, and then shrugged her shoulders. ¡°You saved mine, so one good turn deserves another,¡± she grumbled. Then she grimaced at the hem of her dress, spattered with stinking black pumpkin-gore. ¡°I will say that you owe me extra for making me tread through that foulness. Fah!¡±


    ===***===


    They would rejoin with Minerva, who would regard the wizard and the witch with both awe and hope. They would get answers from her, in time, for Minerva was not like the other villagers in Silverfish. A long and hard life had blessed her with wisdom and canniness where it had left others dull and numbed by what they had seen. She respected the Art, as was often the case for those who worked with herbcraft, which was mistaken for the Art by the ignorant often enough, and often put apothecaries in the company of wizards and witches. And she was too old and had seen too much to let shame still her tongue and make her keep secrets.


    And while they walked away with her, supporting her on each arm (at least for a while, before Martimeos had to ask a neighbor for a horse to carry her, for her feet failed her), none of them looked back at the farmstead of Valerie Tuck. If they had, they might have noticed someone sneaking out from the woods that bordered her croft, to approach the old well.

 Old Powers

    <h2 style="text-align: center">15. Old Powers</h2>


    Martimeos sat in the common room of Night Fisher inn, smoking his pipe, sending rings of blue smoke towards the ceiling. Elyse sat nearby, and idly she worked the Art in glamor, turning his smoke rings black. She had asked again how to blow rings with smoke, and he had tried to show her, only one puff upon his pipe had set her into a coughing fit. So, reluctantly, she had contented herself instead with toying with his smoke-rings.


    They were both still covered in the rotten pumpkin-gore that they had trampled through at Valerie Tuck¡¯s farm, which stank so that even Cecil did not want to be near his witch for long. Before them sat a plate of buttered biscuits, long since grown cold, gone untouched. The witch had said that she did not want to eat while she felt so filthy. Martimeos, on the other hand, simply did not have much of an appetite. There was too much on his mind.


    The well. The thing in the well. The shattered one. He lingered on the things that creature had said. Though to tell the truth, that wasn¡¯t really what was on his mind at the moment. He was wondering whether they¡¯d have to flee Silverfish before night fell.


    ===***===


    Rescuing Minerva had been an ordeal, and so had been getting her back to town. Valerie had had the old woman tied up in her cellar for more than a day, it seemed. While Fortune had surely smiled upon her in her rescue (Valerie had never spoken to the old apothecary about her plans, and they had not discussed it for her sake, but both Martimeos and Elyse agreed: Most likely, Valerie had meant to feed Minerva to the well) it had not left the old woman in the best of conditions. She had only managed to go down the road some ways in a shuffling, panicked walk away from the Tuck farmstead. And then, even with the support of Elyse and Martimeos, and the witch loaning her the fae-stick to use as a crutch, the old apothecary had become too pained, winded and weak from hunger to walk.


    Martimeos had considered carrying her, but she would certainly be too heavy and the distance too far. Instead, the old woman had directed him to the nearest farm she knew that was still occupied and which might have a horse for them to ride. He did not like the idea of leaving Elyse and Minerva alone on this strange road with the horror of Valerie¡¯s farm barely out of sight behind them, but he was the fastest runner and so he was the one who had to go. He had whistled for Flit, and fortune smiled upon him that his familiar was actually near enough to hear it. He had given the cardinal directions to circle around the two women and come flying straight to him if anything happened to them. He had given Elyse his crossbow and told her how to use it. And then he had set off in the direction Minerva had told him about, to the farm of Jace Polk.


    The Polk farm had been well off the main road; at a walk it would have taken a good part of the day, and the quickest way to it was to cut through eerie country. Old abandoned farmhouses and fields overgrown with thorns, through puddles of fog and past black, dead trees. Even running as fast as he could, he had time for fear. What if more of this wasted and thicketed land was haunted by demons, or ghosts, or something else? How many horrors lurked in the wells here?


    It was the way of the world now. Things had grown more dangerous everywhere, but it seemed the further west he went, the sicker things became. The land around Pike¡¯s Green, his village of birth, was not like this


    (though it would never be the same   again)


    Martimeos had shook this broken thought out of his head, and his thoughts turned instead to what the thing in the well had said to him. What revenge did Valerie Tuck have need for? What had happened to her family? The same thing that happened to the rest of Silverfish, he thought grimly. But who would she be avenging herself upon? Why had the thing in the well seemed so satisfied, although it had failed to control him? Your revenge is purchased. What had it known? Eventually, though, the thoughts gave over to the roar of blood in his ears, and he had focused only on sprinting, on stretching his long legs out over as much land as possible, on leaping over thornbushes and freezing streams and ditches.


    He had made it, breath ragged and heart pounding, to the farm of Jace Polk. The man was a sheeptender, and Minerva had just been at his farm to tend his diseased flock. Martimeos had recognized the signs of spivy, the wasting disease that slowly turned sheep into bald, stick-thin horrors of oozing sores, barely looking like sheep at all by the time the disease killed them. Polk¡¯s sheep look like they were deep in the plague, and Martimeos doubted that half of them would live past the winter.


    Jace Polk had turned out to be be a gnarled and gap-toothed old man who answered his door with a suspicious swiftness, carrying a club in his hand and demanding to know what this stranger was doing on his land. Martimeos had recognized his sort; he knew men like this in Pike¡¯s Green as well. The sort of men whose faces looked like soft leather draped over hard wood; the sort of men who would rather die than let their children tend the farm before they were in a grave. Only, Martimeos realized, Polk probably had no choice in the matter. He could see no signs of the man¡¯s family, see no signs that anyone lived on this farm except for him. And again, no sign of children. When Polk died, it would be just another empty farm dotting the land.


    Martimeos had tried to explain, as quickly as he could, about his urgent need, without giving away too much that would raise uncomfortable questions from the old man. Minerva had been hurt out on Valerie Tuck¡¯s farm, and had need of a horse to bring her back to Silverfish. What had it been? Bandits, of course. No, she was not on the Tuck farm, she was already down the road. No, he wasn¡¯t sure what had happened to Valerie (this, at least, was the truth, in a way).


    It was no good, of course. It never was with these sorts of men. The kind of man Polk was, you could pledge innocence on the voucher of Demesque and Karilail themselves, and they¡¯d still want three neighbors, two cousins and a brother to attest to the good nature of the child-gods. To be fair, it was not exactly an easy tale to swallow that Martimeos was peddling him, and he doubted any farmer in the world would be trusting enough to give up their horse to a stranger who swore to his need.


    But his words and his manner were, at least, convincing enough to save him a bludgeoning from Polk, for which he was thankful. The farmer might be old, and thin, but the cords in his arms spoke of a long strength forged in them by countless years tending his fields. No, Polk had gotten his horse instead - a tired but healthy-looking dun mare that he called Ioletta, a surprisingly fanciful and foreign-sounding name that Martimeos had not expected out of a staid farmer like him. Polk had also, as he mounted the horse, made sure that the wizard had seen that he had a sling with a stone already in the pouch, before telling him to lead on.


    And so Martimeos had run back, having waited just long enough for the soreness to settle into his legs and now need to be run out again. Fortune had smiled again that Polk was actually a decent rider and was not phased by the sometimes rough land they had to cross, steering Ioletta, old as she was, to leap across stream-carved ditches where necessary. It was no miracle of riding, but there were many farmers who rarely used their steeds for anything more than pulling a plow or the occasional simple walk into town.


    Martimeos had been breathless and sweat-drenched by the time he had come back to Minerva and Elyse. He could tell from Polk¡¯s wide-eyed stare and stunned silence that the man had never really expected that he¡¯d see Minerva; he suspected he was being led into a trap or ambush. Blessed Fortune that he had had the bravery to risk it anyway. Minerva had been quick to explain that she was quite all right, and no, these young people were not ruffians, they were her rescuers, and quite kind too.


    That had quite the effect on Polk, who apparently put much stock in the apothecary¡¯s opinion. He had even given Martimeos and Elyse - well, mostly Elyse - a toothy, approving smile as he dismounted his horse and helped Minerva on. ¡°Should we try and put together a search party for Valerie? What happened t¡¯ya, anyway? Was she carried off?¡±


    Martimeos had shared a glance with Elyse. There would be a need to explain what had happened at the farm, and he was sure that the witch, like he, had come up with a few potential stories. But before either of them could say anything about it, Minerva settled the matter for them with complete and unerring finality.


    ¡°Valerie is dead,¡± she had said off-handedly, with a frank weariness, even as Polk still helped push her up onto the horse.


    The farmer had listened in pale shock, and then in open-mouthed gawping horror, walking beside his horse and listening to Minerva tell the tale on her way back to Silverfish. The apothecary had been unsparing in her brutal detail. She had gone to Valerie¡¯s farm to apply the salve she had to the woman¡¯s scarred face - those wounds would never fully heal, no matter how old - when she had been knocked out from behind. When she had awoken, she had been tied up in Valerie¡¯s cellar.


    Valerie herself had not said much to her. Valerie never said much, of course; her mouth was too mangled to speak very clearly. She had been pensive, even hesitant, in what she was doing, but she had admitted to killing Mercy. Minerva, even in her candor, said that with faltering reluctance, and Polk had reacted like someone had just punched him in the gut.


    She had mentioned the well, too. The noise that had come from it, at least. She did not, or could not, know what Martimeos did and what Elyse could guess at, but she at least knew something was not right with it. Martimeos wished that she hadn¡¯t. Things such as this¡­demons, and other powers haunting the land¡­they had a way of making folk panic. But to his surprise, Polk took this in stride. ¡°I knew something was wrong with that well,¡± he muttered. ¡°You could see the land about it going rotten. And she was always by the damn thing. I thought she was trying to fix it. I told her she ought to have filled it in and dug another far away from it.¡± His expression grew dark, and he spat. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose it matters, another wicked thing here. What worse could happen?¡± And then he had glanced at Martimeos and Elyse, and his look had gone furtive.


    Martimeos spoke up only when Minerva mentioned how he had gone to the well after it had made its unearthly noise, and he had shot the apothecary a warning glare that he hoped Polk did not see as he did so. He merely said that he had felt himself being drawn to it, and had felt hypnotized before Elyse had shaken him out of it. Polk had merely nodded sagely. ¡°World is full of darkness like that, lad. Calls to you, it does. You¡¯re lucky your woman has some steel in her spine. Plenty of others would have fled.¡± Elyse had merely laughed, amused, and said that he certainly was lucky that she was by his side.


    The farmer had merely said a prayer to Demesque and Karilail when he heard about Valerie¡¯s death. Minerva had, thank Fortune, not said anything about them working the Art. Martimeos had been afraid for a moment that she might.


    But all this story-telling had not done wonders for them when it came to keeping quiet. The moment that they had made their way back into Silverfish, Polk had told them that he trusted them to lead Ioletta to the Night Fisher inn, where Ritter should stable her. And then he had scuttled off, disappearing quickly into the fog, and unless Martimeos missed his guess he was off to flap his gums and spread rumors.


    And of course he had not missed his guess. Even before they had been through with stabling Ioletta, people had come stumbling out of the mists, one here, one there, a couple here, peering at these two strangers. Some of them called out to Minerva, asking if she was alright. By the time that they had actually made it to the door of the inn, there were around a dozen folk - more than he had ever seen in one place in this village - standing in the inn¡¯s courtyard, beneath its colonnades, watching them, and now he could feel the anxiety from them. They must have heard that these strangers had saved Minerva. But they had undoubtedly also heard that these strangers had killed Valerie. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    A low, worried rumble had followed them into the inn, and he could feel the weight of their stares as he closed the door behind him.


    ===***===


    Martimeos knew how quickly stares and whispers could turn into anger and clenched fists. To always be leery of the fear of that was what it meant to be an outsider, not truly one of them. Oh, on their own, and when spoken to face-to-face, most folk were reasonable and could be dealt with. You look a man in the eye, and he starts to see what a silly thing his fear and hate was. Most men, anyway. The world was already full of enough danger to go looking for it in your fellow man who simply wanted peace.


    It was when they banded together that things became dangerous. The same man who would shake your hand if you spoke to him alone would swear you were a demon in disguise if the rest of his fellows were shouting it. And so often they did not need much of an excuse. Those who practiced the Art knew it well, as did merchants, and all others who found themselves in strange places amongst folk not their own. Sometimes all it took was the simple fact that you were an outsider, and they were suffering. Or sometimes a single voice in the crowd demanding blood could become, in a terrifying instant, a majority. Sometimes even those you thought you knew would turn away from you.


    Ritter and Minerva had gone out to talk to the folk in the courtyard and reassure them. It did not settle Martimeos¡¯ nerves that they had felt the need to do this even before Minerva had settled in at all, or had something to eat. The woman had recovered somewhat during her ride back, given water and freedom from fear - he thought the old apothecary probably had more steel in her than anyone else he had seen in this village - but still, it did not bode well at all. They were strangers, nosy strangers, and they had just killed one of their own farmers. The fact that Minerva vouched for them might have carried weight with Polk, but would it carry such weight with everyone?


    And Ritter. Would the innkeep speak up for them? He glanced out the window, but the old mercenary and Minerva stood at the far end of the inn¡¯s courtyard, in the shadows of the colonnade, and they spoke in hushed tones that he could not hear. He could not see the faces of those they spoke to, either, only that there were less than there had been at first - six people left out of the dozen that had once gathered near the inn. Perhaps that was a good sign? Or perhaps Ritter had sent out runners to gather more bodies, and they were tying the nooses for their necks right now.


    He sighed, and remembered his shame, remembered what it was about him that the shattered thing in the well had been able to take hold of. His hate had made him vulnerable, had allowed the thing in the well to draw like to like. He had allowed that hate, and his paranoia, too much free reign since he had come to Silverfish. Something about the town drew it out of him. It became burdensome to suspect everything and everyone. Even Elyse, his heart kept shadows of suspicion for, though she had proven faithful and true time and again. He would tamp down on his darker thoughts, then. Though he was still glad that the inn¡¯s fireplace was crackling with a merry flame. If they come through that door in anger and with ill intent, I will set this whole inn ablaze.


    Elyse, for her part, was silent. If she had any thought to speak, it was dimmed by the grim look on Martim¡¯s face. Instead she played with her shadows and glamor on his smoke-rings and watched him, thoughtful.


    ===***===


    Eventually, the folk who had come to Night Fisher Inn in curiosity over the strangers dispersed (Martimeos watched them go from the window, discreetly, and breathed a sigh of relief when they did).


    When Minerva came through the door, she was chewing on what looked like a honey-glazed biscuit with one hand (at least someone had seen fit to bring her food) and sorting through the herbs in her pouches with another. She had a determined look about her, and to look at her you¡¯d never think that earlier in the day she had been tied to a chair, except for the ropeburn around her wrist. Though even this was more faint than you¡¯d expect, with Elyse having worked some of her healing Art on them. Ritter, on the other hand, trailed after her, and he seemed pale and sickened. He hadn¡¯t heard what had happened, before he had gone out to talk with folk, and likely he had just heard it from Minerva¡¯s mouth right there.


    The innkeep looked at Martimeos and Elyse, sitting in a smoke-filled corner, and rubbed his chin, eyes troubled, and opened his mouth as if to say something. Then he shook his head, and said, ¡°I¡¯ll go and bring you some food, and some wine,¡± and then disappeared into the kitchen.


    ¡°How did folk take the news?¡± Martimeos asked, as Minerva sat down at their table, sending the smoke that drifted around them gusting away in great billows.


    The old woman sighed, and finished the last of her biscuit, dusting crumbs from her frock. ¡°The same way folk take any news in this village, these days,¡± she muttered. ¡°Numb. Looking like dead fish. All except poor Finnel, he cannot stand to hear of any violence, even simple talking of it. He ran back to his Lady when he realized what the story would be.¡±


    ¡°Did they believe you, though?¡±


    Minerva glanced upwards, hearing the concern in the wizard¡¯s voice. He was clenching his pipe in his teeth, and his eyes were as dark as a shadowed forest. ¡°You don¡¯t have to worry, lad,¡± she replied softly, though not without an edge of fear in her voice. ¡°They believed me, and Polk was out there telling folk how you practically outran his horse in fetching help for me. They aren¡¯t happy, but they aren¡¯t casting blame at your feet.¡± She smiled, the first genuine smile Martimeos felt he had seen from anyone in Silverfish, and some of the tension went out of him. He thought that in the old woman they might have their first true ally in this village.


    Ritter came out then, with a platter carrying a loaf of bread, a large pad of butter, a bowl of mustard and pickles, along with a large jug and four cups. He set all this on the table, hesitated a moment, and then pulled up a chair, pouring everyone their share of wine. ¡°Mercy and Valerie both gone,¡± he murmured as he did so, shaking his head. ¡°May the Gravetender spare them from the Dark Stranger.¡±


    ¡°The Gravetender?¡± Elyse asked curiously.


    ¡°Just a god they keep, in Farson¡¯s Pass.¡± The innkeep drank down his cup as soon as he had poured it, and then poured himself another. ¡°So,¡± he asked slowly. ¡°What was it? A demon?¡±


    Ritter nearly jumped when Martimeos spoke in answer. He had been studiously avoiding looking at the wizard. ¡°I think there are likely many who would name it so,¡± Martimeos said slowly, ¡°but I am not so certain.¡±


    Both Minerva and Ritter looked surprised at this, but Elyse only nodded thoughtfully, which surprised him. Had she been able to tell, even without having talked to the thing in the well? Perhaps she had a good sense for sniffing out demons. That came with the Art, too, a feeling for them, but it was sharper in some than others. ¡°This is known to those who work the Art,¡± the witch spoke up in explanation. ¡°There are those who would say of anything strange, ¡®this is a demon.¡¯ But a wizard or a witch, they know that there are many powers in this world, and a demon is that which comes from another place. From Outside. Not of our world.¡±


    ¡°If not a demon,¡± Minerva said softly, ¡°then what?¡±


    Martimeos puffed on his pipe, and the soft red glow of the bowl twinned itself in his eyes. ¡°My former teacher,¡± he began after a time, smoke curling from the edges of his mouth, ¡°Traveled quite far, in his time. Far off to the west, there is a place called the Caean desert. You have heard of it?¡± Minerva shook her head, but Ritter nodded, fascinated. ¡°From what he told me, ¡®tis a dry and desperate place, but there are folk who eke out a living there. Either they are banished there for being mad, or the sun bakes the sanity right out of their heads. But they are strange.¡± He sent a plume of smoke billowing up towards the ceiling. Could they possibly be more strange than the people of this village, though?


    ¡°One day, one of these madman guides my teacher to what he swears is a demon. It is a pit dug in the ground, dug deep where digging is hard, in land where to strain yourself is to invite death beneath the glaring sun. In the center of the pit is a large, red boulder, and other madmen are strewn about, either dying of thirst or merely staring at this rock. My teacher said he sensed no presence at first, but when he chipped at the boulder, blood flowed from it. And when the light of the moon shone upon it, it would awaken, and whisper vile blasphemies in three different voices. My teacher spoke to it, and it said it was old, older than the mountains, but he thought it was something of this world. It tried to gain a foothold in his thoughts, touching his mind, but found no purchase there. The madmen, though, it was in them, in a way, he could feel it. Though he said he could not tell whether it was their madness which it exploited, or whether their madness fed the thing somehow. He fled before the thing could order the madmen to kill him. It was, he said, an Old Power of the earth.¡±


    A silence settled over the table. There were tales of the Old Powers; detritus left over from an age so long ago that whatever had named them was long dust. There had never been anyone to be able to say what, precisely, they were, and they seemed disparate in nature. Alain the Dweomer, half-mythical progenitor of the Aurelic Crown, was said to have faced an Old Power before he became King; some stories said merely that it was a monster ¡®made from starlight¡¯, while others said that upon its defeat Alain had kept its head, and it whispered knowledge of the Art to him. Another, very old story said that on the very western edge of the world, where the land turned to gray seas that none had ever sailed across, (except for Hooloon the strange, Hooloon the necromancer who came to torment and beguile before disappearing as mysteriously as he had come), that there where the land ended, there was a severed head as big as a barn in those last white sands, and it too spoke secrets of the Art that none else knew; this was an Old Power. The only thing all the stories seemed to agree upon was that these Old Powers were ancient beyond remembrance, and they hated the gods. Some said they were a race of monsters the gods found so vile that they cast them down in destruction, a relic of a time before man. Another theory held that they were the denizens of the dark places of the earth, far beneath the ground or in deep water, living unseen. Or that they were gods themselves, little gods of the monstrous creatures of the world. Many folk thought of them as demons, and that was perhaps all they needed to know. But they were of this world, and not any other.


    ¡°And you think this thing in the well was an Old Power, as well?¡± Ritter spoke up after a long moment. If the man had truly traveled with wizards, perhaps he had heard of such things before.


    ¡°It spoke to me,¡± Martimeos replied quietly into what was suddenly hushed silence. ¡°In its manner. It said it was very old, and that unlike the gods, it would answer Valerie¡¯s prayers.¡± He paused, giving the innkeep a meaningful look, one that made Ritter distinctly uncomfortable. There was something a little wolfish in Martimeos¡¯ eyes as he spoke. ¡°Her prayers for revenge. Perhaps it was that very thirsting for revenge that awoke the thing. Going by her face, I would say she seemed like she had a lot to wish revenge for, though I could not say what it was.¡±


    ¡°We will have to¡­to fill in the well¡­¡±


    ¡°Do nothing of the sort. Send no one near it. At most, place a sign warning people away. Just leave the farm abandoned. Why not? Like so many others around here.¡± Martimeos¡¯ voice was harsh, unforgiving. He was suddenly angry, but not at Ritter, or not only at him. ¡°I know not what befell you here, but it seems to me you¡¯ve accepted death. What¡¯s one more empty farm?¡± He downed his wine, and then grabbed the jug and poured more.


    A tense silence fell over the table, and it was Minerva who spoke into it. ¡°You have not told them, have you,¡± she asked gently. Her steady gaze settled on Ritter.


    The innkeep¡¯s face was ashen. ¡°No,¡± he croaked. ¡°No, I have not. It¡¯s not for outsiders to know.¡±


    The old woman placed a hand on his arm, and Ritter looked at it, stone-faced. ¡°I think they deserve to know, don¡¯t you? That they might not walk around in ignorance.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps.¡±


    ¡°You know they work the Art,¡± she went on, even more gently than before. ¡°They might be able to tell us something¡­¡±


    ¡°Then you tell them, Minerva.¡± Ritter stood, and he was not looking at any of them. He looked as grim as a soldier who had just been ordered on a death march. There was something there in his voice that Martimeos had not noted before. It was a grief well-hidden, but for it to show through in a man like Ritter was, a grizzled old mercenary, it must be intense indeed. ¡°You tell them. I won¡¯t have the evil soiling my tongue. I¡¯ve heard it too much, and I have no stomach to hear it again.¡±


    They watched him walk stiffly away, out the front door of the inn, a wounded man who could not hide it very well any longer. Through the window, he could be seen striding through the courtyard until he disappeared into the mist that came creeping in again, now that the day¡¯s sun was past its peak and no longer strong enough to burn it.


    Minerva looked for a moment as if she wanted to go after him. But in the end, she merely sighed.


    Then she turned towards Martimeos and Elyse, and told them of the curse that had befallen Silverfish.

 The Curse

    <h2 style="text-align: center">16. The Curse</h2>


    It went like this:


    Silverfish had a wizard, once.


    It was a long time ago, perhaps twenty years or so, that two men had come to Silverfish up from Farson¡¯s pass. This was the White Queen¡¯s Land, in those years, and it was the time before her madness. Silverfish had signed a concord with Her Majesty, along with Cross-on-Green, a few years back, signing over their independence to her rule. It was done without the threat of arms, for she offered protection and the policing of roads by her knights, to rid them of bandits. This had put Silverfish close to warfare - the White Queen¡¯s armies marched through the One-Road Wood to the Freetowns of Dorn - but in those days, it had seemed that she would surely conquer the Freetowns, and swiftly. They had not yet banded together in the Durnholde Concord, and the worst days were yet to come.


    Into this frontier village had come Ritter, when his hair still had some color to it, and with him had come his close friend, Ezekiel the wizard. Both flush with coin from having served as quite accomplished mercenaries, they had recognized when they were starting to get too old for the rigors of an active war. Ritter had no taste for being the sort of commander who stayed in his tent and away from danger, and Ezekiel had long harbored a desire to delve deeper into the mysteries of the Art, and not just in service of battle.


    ¡°Silverfish was growing in those years, too,¡± Minerva told them. The words were pouring out of her. She wanted to tell this tale. Unlike everyone else they had met here, she wanted people to know. Or at the very least, she wanted them to know. ¡°We¡¯re named after what people wanted from us most, and believe it or not, merchants, they¡¯d pay a pretty penny to our fishermen. If things kept on, there was a thought that we might even outgrow Cross-on-Green. Some even thought that we might grow together, merge with the town. Might even become something close to a city.¡±


    In those heady days of prosperity, even those villagers born in Silverfish, reserved by nature, were more open to outsiders. Barges plied Nust Drim with trade, the fog had not overtaken the lake, and if the Queen¡¯s knights looked down their noses at folk, well, they kept the roads safe. People were glad to welcome two very wealthy retired mercenaries, and delighted when Ritter used his wealth to restore some of the Hallic ruins and turn them into his inn. Ezekiel, for his part, took up residence in the manor of the Hallic Prince Tennelyan, supposed lover of V¨¦reline Valoir, who had built the domicile out on Rook Island, in the midst of the Great Lake of Nust Drim, in her honor and for her love.


    ¡°Why the manor, though?¡± Elyse was enraptured by what she heard, leaning forward, hanging on Minerva¡¯s every word with wide eyes. Martimeos was more quiet, leaning back in shadow, pipestem in his mouth, expressionless. ¡°Was he really wealthy enough to clean all that up? Did he have that many servants?¡±


    Minerva gave a soft laugh, crows feet wrinkling the corners of her eyes. ¡°No, child. Old Zeke never cleaned the place up, as such. They were wealthy mercenaries, but not nobility. He only took part of the house, part of the first floor and the cellar.¡± The cheer went out of her face, and her expression became more stern, deep lines of worry in her cheeks. ¡°He chose it because Tennelyan - if there ever was a Hallic prince by that name, sometimes I think it¡¯s nothing but a story - well, if he were real, they say he built the manor on top of a site of power. The Art, you understand. Old things, from times gone by. Part of his bid to convince V¨¦reline to marry him, or so it goes. I don¡¯t know if Tennelyan were real, but Zeke sure found plenty to occupy his time there.¡±


    Yes, of course. It would be that, wouldn¡¯t it. There were places that you could find such. The Art was woven into stone and steel and stranger things besides. The Aurelics had left things behind, of course, but there were older and more unusual ruins, too; from before the long rule of the Aurelic Crown, all the way back to the fabled time when man had lived beneath the ground, or even before, things forged when the world was ruled by monsters. The Art could seem strange between two people working the same craft, and it could seem so much more strange between two peoples separated by thousands of years and an alien tongue. It could be dangerous to toy with such powers, but only a coward would refuse the thought entirely. Did Ezekiel, adventurer and mercenary, sound like he had been a coward? Martimeos didn¡¯t think so. Suddenly, with a sinking feeling, he felt like he already knew the rest of the whole sorry tale.


    For years Silverfish had known peace and good fortune beneath the Queen¡¯s rule. Night Fisher inn was often full of customers paying good coin, and men from Farson¡¯s Pass, if they were nearby, made it a point to come and visit Ritter¡¯s new business, and to see Ezekiel as well. It seemed good that the old building had, at least once, known light and love and music and laughter. Perhaps, if it had kept going, the Hallic kingdom might have been restored as it once was, lakelords of Nust Drim bowing now to the White Queen instead of the Aurelic Crown. A grandiose dream, certainly. But the sort of dream folk longed for.


    It hadn¡¯t lasted, of course. And looking back there had always been signs, whispers, seeds of what was to come that would, in time, bear bitter fruit. The Queen¡¯s march against the Freetowns of Dorn was not going as she would have liked. They had pushed her forces back nigh-miraculously time and again, even though she sent her blizzards to blight and freeze their crops. And now the Freetowns had rallied under the banner of the Durnholde Concord, a pact by which they swore to set aside their differences and to push the White Queen out of their lands for good.


    Slowly, slowly had the darkness settled. It was taxes, at first. The White Queen demanded more in taxes to support her faltering conquests. Then more. Then yet more. Her knights - nobly-born from her heartlands, true Queensmen - began to take a heavier hand in trade. Folk must sell a certain portion of their produced food to the Queen¡¯s armies, and must do it at a certain price. The Queen¡¯s bondsmen could demand shelter and housing from folk, and confiscate their homes in extremity.


    Then, a new law that men could be summoned and must respond to muster and join the Queen¡¯s armies. And then men were so summoned. Again and again, and again. And each time, the Queensmen marched away men who were younger and younger than what they had taken the first time, and older and older as well. The Queen¡¯s knights, not so long ago praised for the safety they brought, began to eye everyone with suspicion. A gibbet was constructed in Cross-on-Green, and more and more folk were brought forth to hang. The charges were always the same. Treason. Sedition. The Queen¡¯s knights confiscated the property of those they executed.


    What had once just years before seemed like the start of a prosperous new era withered and wilted. Coin dried up, and so did trade, with so much of it going to the White Queen¡¯s coffers. Folk were suspicious of one another, always wondering if a neighbor might accuse them of treason for speaking their mind, and they fled from the sight of a Queensman. At least, that was how it was in Cross-on-Green, where Queensmen were garrisoned, and which might come under siege if the war¡¯s fortunes truly reversed themselves.


    Silverfish escaped the worst of it. Trade still dwindled, and merchants'' lake-barges sat idle by the piers, eventually scuttled or rotted through and sunk from neglect. But so focused were the forces of the Queen on holding Cross-on-Green that they rarely visited the smaller village, except to take more men as conscripts. That was bad enough. Still, Silverfish got its fair share of visitors. Ezekiel would entertain traveling wizards, and old mercenary friends still came to visit Ritter.


    ¡°We thought it was the darkest days, when Coxton Praet came to visit Ritter and Zeke,¡± Minerva mused. ¡°If only we knew how much worse it would get.¡±


    Martimeos gave a start. ¡°Coxton Praet? The huntsman?¡± He still had not managed to meet the man. Coxton might have fled his home in the forest, but even in taking residence here, he woke early in the morning, when the stars still shone, to be among the trees, and did not come back until dark. He was a man who truly did not seem to like being amongst people.


    ¡°Aye, but before he was a huntsman, he was a mercenary, from Farson¡¯s Pass, just like Ritter and Zeke.¡±


    Had he been? The wizard couldn¡¯t help but wonder how things might have gone, then, had he actually met the man out in the middle of the woods. Would their conversation have turned to the subject of the past, or would he have found something, some clue, that told him who Coxton used to serve? It seemed unlikely¡­and yet still, he could not stop a distinct vision from forming in his mind. One where he met with the huntsman, alone in the woods, discovered his past, and killed him. And then, when he came to Silverfish, with fresh murder in his thoughts, the shattered one in the well would have been able to seize him, and make him its slave. A path not taken. It could just be idle thought. Or perhaps not. Perhaps the vulture-men, demons though they had been, had done him a boon. Perhaps Fortune really was looking out for him, in its laughing, roundabout way.


    Minerva had never known Coxton, but she could tell that something had happened to him. He didn¡¯t seem like a mercenary with steel in his eyes, like Ritter or Zeke. He seemed like a broken man. He came bearing news of the siege of Durnholde; the White Queen had attempted to take the very Freetown the Durnholde Concord was named for, and thus break the men of Dorn. The battle had gone on for over a year, and according to Coxton, it had been a disaster. However much they had bloodied Dorn, the Queen¡¯s forces had been bloodied much worse. Coxton was convinced it was all done, now. The Queensmen had lost their minds, he said. Their Queen was cracked, and they had lost the war. It was all over except the dying. The Queen, she¡¯d have to be satisfied with what she already conquered, because another atrocity like Durnholde and the souls of the dead themselves would come for her.


    ¡°Some of the things he said,¡± Minerva whispered. Even now, the old apothecary looked somewhat frightened. ¡°I think he must have lost his wits. He was ranting and raving¡­entire fields covered with the dead, forests of headless men on pikes, folk burnt alive¡­¡±


    Martimeos could only keep a grim silence. He had been to Durnholde. He believed it. Whatever Coxton said, he believed it.


    Coxton¡¯s appearance had touched off a huge row between Zeke and Ritter. Minerva wasn¡¯t sure what it was about exactly, but she thought she had the jist: Ritter, upon seeing Coxton, had felt pity move his heart, and had wanted to venture out to make sure that, at least, the mercenaries of Farson¡¯s Pass that were in the Queen¡¯s service were taken care of. Zeke had objected, and violently: He felt as if the Queen¡¯s forces had gotten their hands on him again, once they got a measure of his power they¡¯d never let him go until he was as broken as Coxton was. A good wizard could be as useful as a hundred men. Even the most unlearned mageling could be good in a war. A little warmth, a little mending of boots with charms; these things could keep men marching far longer than they otherwise might have. And Zeke was far from unlearned. He was a man of power. When Nust Drim would flood, he would drive back the waters and keep Silverfish from being swept away; after bad storms, he would come to the mainland in a little rowboat and lift the trees from roofs with the force of the Art. This was not idle, trivial craft, but Zeke did it easily. It was likely that and his isolation on the island that had stopped the Queen¡¯s forces from conscripting him yet.


    There had been shouting, and curses, and Ritter had called Zeke a coward to his face. ¡°And it was all foolish men nonsense,¡± she muttered, giving Martimeos a sideways glance as if he might start in on some foolishness right this very moment. ¡°Ritter and Zeke stopped talking, and the wizard went and holed himself up in his manor, and all for what? Ritter, he tried to convince Coxton to go with him, but Coxton wasn¡¯t in any shape to go back to war himself, and it wasn¡¯t long before he went to go live in the One-Road Wood anyway. And what was Ritter going to do? One old man, all alone, abandon his inn, take up his sword long past his time, was he going to save anyone? No. He would only get himself killed. So he stayed anyway, and he stayed angry at Zeke exactly because he knew the wizard was right.¡± She shook her head. ¡°Foolishness.¡±


    It was then that the real darkness had come.


    Little Tana Evett had been the first to go. Others weren¡¯t so sure about that, but Minerva was. ¡°She was a bright, cheerful, dutiful child,¡± the old apothecary murmured, and though she had told her sad and bloody tale so far with no sign of distress, tears appeared in her eyes now. ¡°We would lose children to the lake every now and then, you see. Usually the very foolish ones, who go swimming out further than they can make it back. They thought this happened to Tana, at first. But I was suspicious right from the start. She was a smart child. Too smart to drown like that, even if she were very young. Still, people looked for her, and when they didn¡¯t find her, they mourned.


    ¡°People started to worry when the second child went missing not soon after. Leo Polk.¡± That had been the same last name as the farmer who had bought them in; Jace Polk, who Martimeos had run to fetch help from. At their questioning looks, Minerva nodded. ¡°Leo was Jace¡¯s grandson,¡± she said sadly. ¡°He had such a happy family, once. His son married a woman who journeyed here from far out west; she was a strange one, with an accent that sounded like she was singing, but she knew horses better than anyone else here, and could trade with the best of them. Veretta, she was called. But his son died fighting the Queen¡¯s War, and Veretta¡­well¡­¡±


    Suddenly, Minerva was weeping, and it almost seemed as if she was having trouble breathing. She only waved them away when they rose to help her, though, and after a few moments of dabbing away tears from red-rimmed eyes, she continued on. She did not say what had happened to Veretta, however. ¡°After Leo disappeared,¡± she continued, ¡°Folks began worrying a little more. They thought perhaps children had found some dangerous new jumping place into the lake, with hidden rocks; or perhaps some strange currents had opened up in Nust Drim, or even a creature of some sort was preying on them. Some folk were certain that some of the children had to know what had happened; that two little ones just wouldn¡¯t disappear without some of their friends seeing. But none of the children knew anything, and they were getting more and more frightened. We told them to stay away from the lake.


    ¡°When the third child disappears, panic sets in. Ada Tuck. Valerie Tuck¡¯s only daughter. Well, only one that survived. She had other children, but they all died young of sickness or injury. Ada was her last, before she got too old to bear any more, I suppose. The girl grew up strong, and Valerie always said that Fortune had finally smiled upon her and given her a healthy child. And now she was gone, just like that. She was fourteen years old, on her way to womanhood; not so young, like the others. Nobody thinks these children are drowning, anymore. Nobody¡¯s looking at the lake. Now they¡¯re thinking the children are being taken, and they¡¯re looking at each other. Who could be able to take a child like Ada without anyone noticing? Some say she would have put up a fight if someone had tried to take her by force, raised some cry, and so it had to be someone they knew. Others are saying it must be an outsider to blame. They tell the children to stick together, to never be alone, only trust their parents, even a neighbor might be dangerous¡­


    ¡°Then it happens again. And again. Two in one day. Within hours of each other. Thane Lockett and Elinor Crayton. They¡¯re both gone, just like that, and worse nobody seems to know how. Even though folk were supposed to be watching their children, even though children were supposed to be sticking together. Little Thane, he was barely more than a babe, and under the watchful eye of his parents in their own home, when they took their eyes from him for but a moment, so they say, and he vanished. They tore their house down - actually began tearing apart the walls - looking for him, but it was too late. He was gone. Elinor though, was even worse. She was with a group of friends, and no adults looking after them, and because she disappeared and none of her friends know how, now you have some folk suggesting that it¡¯s some of the children themselves who are doing this, that some of them are little murderers.¡± Minerva shook her head slowly in disgust. ¡°I knew what was coming, then. I think everyone could, in a way. Some of the older folk, they were scared, they were angry, but they kept their wits about them. But others, the parents, the ones who had children who were disappearing, they just lost their minds. I don¡¯t even know that it mattered to them who to blame. Just someone needed to be held responsible.¡±


    ¡°Everyone came under suspicion. You had neighbors calling the Dark Stranger down to curse people. Even praying to the Dark Stranger, right out in the street, saying they¡¯d give anything to have their son or their daughter back. Well, if you ask me, the Dark Stranger did visit us, but not in the way anyone wanted. People were fighting, hurting each other in the street, damn near killing each other. Breaking into each other¡¯s homes, setting them on fire. Ritter near had his inn burned down for being an outsider, and he had been here for years and years by that point. Folks lynched an innocent merchant, for no other reason than he happened to be in the village at the wrong time. I had people I¡¯d known all my life come into my shop and accuse me of chopping up children for potions, and I think the only reason I lived is because they figured out someone else to be angry at.


    ¡°See, Zeke had still been holed up at the manor, and no one had seen the man for quite some time, now. So four lads, they get the idea that they are going to go row out to his home and have a chat with him. Pure foolishness, on their part, because if they were going to go out to accuse Zeke of stealing children and he actually had been the one doing it, there was no way a mage of his power would be letting them leave alive. But went they did. And only one came back. He can¡¯t say what happened to the other two, but he saw Zeke himself, and he swore he was dead. The wizard, he said, was a ghost.


    ¡°Children are still disappearing the whole time this is happening, and now people are sure that either Zeke is the one doing it, or that something killed Zeke, and whatever that was, that¡¯s what¡¯s doing all of this. So out go two boatloads of parents, the ones who have lost their only children and have nothing left to lose, rowing out to the island.¡± Minerva paused, to take a deep breath. This was all coming out in a rush, and her own voice was growing quick, as the panic of that time was coming back in echo or memory. ¡°I told them it was a stupid thing to do. But nobody listened, nobody cared, and what could I say? Could I look an aggrieved parent who had lost everything that mattered to them in the eye, and tell them not to take a chance on vengeance? A dozen folk, in all. And eleven of them never came back. The only one who did?


    ¡°Valerie Tuck. We found her floating in a rowboat between the shore of the mainland and the island. Three days later. Just there one day, with her face carved and skinned so that I could barely believe she was alive, and with no memory of what happened. Or so she always said, when she could say anything at all.¡± The old apothecary gave a long, weary sigh. ¡°It was a miracle that she lived. Some of my greatest healing. Perhaps I should never have bothered.¡±


    Martimeos remembered those eyes blazing with hate, even as she was pulled down into the well, into the dark, into forever with the shattered one. She had sold her soul, damned herself, for revenge. Perhaps she might not have remembered exactly what happened, but he thought she probably had some notion of who, or what, was responsible.


    ¡°...Either way, that was the end. Nobody wanted to be in a village where their children could be snatched away from them at any moment, mayhaps by a mad wizard, mayhaps by something even worse. Everyone who still had a child to lose, everyone who planned on having a child, they packed their things and left. The only ones who remained were those who had lost everything and could hope for no more children, the old, the childless, the madmen. So you see, then, why the Art is not thought of so fondly ¡®round here these days.¡±


    Minerva fell silent. But it was a fragile silence, one that could be shattered like glass if only one of them spoke up. The old woman did not want them to speak up. That much was obvious. She had told all she really wanted to tell. But those poisonous thorns were digging into his thoughts again, and Martimeos needed to hear it all. He needed to hear what he already knew was the truth. It was obvious enough. The awful, terrible, total truth had to be said aloud. ¡°That wasn¡¯t all that happened, was it.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Minerva said in a hoarse whisper, and there were tears in her eyes again.


    ¡°Then tell what happened next.¡±


    Elyse was looking at him curiously, then back at Minerva, her brow knitted. She didn¡¯t understand. But it was so, so obvious to him. Maybe he had become too used to the black nature of the times.


    ¡°Well,¡± Minerva said, and now she had a cloth out to dab at the tears running channels down her face, and she was speaking through hitching sobs, but he was going to make her say it, damn it, it was going to be said out loud instead of hidden in fog, in whispers, in the ramblings of madmen, it was going to be said out loud. ¡°Well, when people packed up to go, where do you think they went?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Elyse gasped in sudden shock. Now she understood.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Minerva replied miserably. ¡°Cross-on-Green.¡±


    Blackened shells of buildings, looming over empty streets, never to know comfort again. A tree¡¯s branches weighed down with corpses.


    ¡°A-and¡­not long after¡­th-the news came of the White Queen¡¯s death, and¡­¡± That was all she could say before she buried her face in her hands.


    And that was it, wasn¡¯t it. There had been no salvation, in the end, for these cursed and doomed folk. Those who had fled in hopes of saving their children had instead been chased into the teeth of something worse; an implacable demon of thousands of sickened minds, of thousands and thousands of marching feet, a demon that held ten thousand blades and burned and ruined and slaughtered and had not stopped, perhaps could not stop, until the one head that had worn the crown was dead. And so the living children and folk of Silverfish had burned, and all for nothing, nothing, nothing.


    So it was with the White Queen, in the end; death to even those who had sworn loyalty to her. Death even after she had already died, and for what? Perhaps simply because those who served her could no longer think of what else to do. He raised tired eyes to gaze around the common room of Night Fisher inn. The black cat, King, stared at him from across the room. In those yellow eyes, he felt like that damned cat had seen everything that his master had done and was mocking him with the knowledge.


    ¡°How is it that none came for him?¡± he said, mostly to himself, but Minerva heard him.


    ¡°You have to understand,¡± she was saying. ¡°The day it happened¡­Ritter used to have a banner for the White Queen hanging on the walls, here. The day we heard the news, he took it down and burned it. And¡­and¡­the others¡­¡±


    Suddenly, he understood perfectly. Of course, none had sought revenge on Ritter. What revenge was there to be had? They had all been servants of the White Queen, many of them had likely served in her armies, others had most certainly voted for or advised on signing over sovereignty to her. Who could blame him without blaming themselves? And who was left with the flame of vengeance in their heart, with all those young so effectively purged? And the shame of it all had bound their tongues. Who would want to tell an outsider of the awful, bloody thing they were guilty of? Suddenly, Valerie Tuck seemed absurdly admirable.


    ¡°So that is it, then?¡± Elyse asked. The witch looked pale and drawn, and her expression was that of someone who had just taken an unexpected blow to the stomach. She asked like one who was expecting that there would be worse to come.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Minerva said, and then shook her head, denying her own words. ¡°Except for poor Finnel.¡±


    ¡°Finnel.¡± The haggard, starving-looking man who worshiped the Lady of Calm Waters? The man who had been the first to greet them to this damned town? What special Hell has he earned?


    Minerva''s shoulders rose and slump, in a great big ragged sigh. Out with it all. ¡°Finnel, he¡­when the Queensmen came to press him into service, Finnel fled. We thought for certain that he would have been caught and killed for treason, or¡­¡± she trailed off, not knowing what other fates might have befallen the man. ¡°But he didn¡¯t. He was gone for years and years, but¡­not so long ago, half a year ago, he came back, and when he came back, he had a wife. A strange woman, who he said he had met in a land across the seas¡­she was so beautiful, a tall, graceful thing, she looked like she was dancing even when she was just walking¡­oh, and damn him, damn him, he had a son with him¡­¡±


    ¡°How could you let him bring a child here?¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t know!¡± Minerva wailed, and here it was, the final damnation of this entire miserable place. Finnel might have fled out of some noble sense of defiance against the Queen or he might have fled out of simple cowardice, but the one man who would not serve the Queen would share the same fate as the rest of them, wouldn¡¯t he. ¡°He came back in the night, and before we knew he was here, it was too late, too late¡­¡±


    And what else was there to tell? Finnel¡¯s wife, grief-stricken, had hanged herself, and Finnel, having lost his son and the love he had traveled across the world to find, had shattered. He began hearing voices, swearing that the Lady of Calm Waters was speaking to him, and these days barely ate anything anymore. He spent all his time in the old Hallic temple on the shore of Nust Drim, and it was likely a miracle that he had not hanged himself as well.


    It was sickening. Martimeos felt disgust and a long, slow, aching pity, having heard it all, and yet he also felt that this was something that had to be heard. He could feel those thorns scratching the inside of his skull; he felt as if he looked outside he would find that they had grown up all around the inn.


    ¡°And the thorns?¡± Elyse asked, and he almost leapt out of his skin, staring hard at the witch. Had she read his mind? But no, she was looking at Minerva instead. ¡°You said you know something of herbcraft. The thorns that have overrun this place, they cannot be natural.¡±


    But Minerva merely shrugged, a crooked smile beneath tear-reddened eyes. ¡°I honestly don¡¯t know, child. Perhaps they are not. I call it corpseblood, for the ichor it bleeds looks like old blood. It began to grow here shortly after the White Queen¡¯s death. That¡¯s when the fog came, too, and I had never seen it before, nor heard any tale of it from any other who practices herbcraft. What could it be? Perhaps the Dark Stranger thinks we have not suffered enough, and has decided to curse us further? If the thorns are the second act, I have to say I think it is a weak followup to the first. If they overgrow us all, it is certainly not as bad as taking away our children and sending so many of us to our deaths.¡± And then he heard from her the same thing he had heard from his old teacher. ¡°Some folks say the world¡¯s just getting tired, getting thin, getting old. Maybe that¡¯s all it is.¡±


    Martimeos rose, and Minerva looked up at him, and he felt ashamed at himself for the anger that flared in him when he saw the hopeful look on her face. What hope? What hope could he offer her? Surely she didn¡¯t expect to ever see the missing children again. She seemed like a sensible woman. Too sensible to believe that there could be any hope for them. They must be dead.


    And yet, weren¡¯t there the tales? Tales of children snatched by the fae, not to be killed but to be raised by them? Perhaps it would bring people comfort, if they learned that their children, while stolen, still lived. And there were other stories, weren¡¯t there? There were the tales of clever Jack Rabbit and his wily foe, the fox Quick Red, who forever tried to hunt him. They were meant as fables for children, and yet some of them touched on reality at times. And in one tale, Quick Red chased Jack Rabbit into a cave, only to get lost within it and find that, once he had finally stumbled out, one hundred years had passed while he had only aged a day. If it could happen in the stories, couldn¡¯t it happen in truth, through some strange working of the Art? The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    It could, but it would be foolish to hold out hope for such a possibility. But he thought he knew what she wanted to hear. A wizard and a witch, shouldn¡¯t they be able to say something, anything, about what had happened to them? If they knew the Art, perhaps they even knew of some way to undo what had been done. Perhaps that was why they stayed on, here, in this dying and doomed village. Simply to know, and to perhaps one day see their doom unmade.


    That look of hope stung, and the truth, though it was necessary to have it out, made him feel filthy. More filthy, anyway, than he had already felt from being at Valerie Tuck¡¯s farm. ¡°A grim tale,¡± he said to her, as gently as he could. ¡°I am sorry to hear it. It certainly explains why Valerie might have sold herself as she did.¡± He looked away from her; he could not stand those eyes, and he would not give her promises he could not keep. ¡°I will think on it, for a time.¡± At any other time, he might have smiled inwardly at himself for speaking in such a manner; just as one might expect from a mysterious wizard. But now he was too urgent to leave, he could not stand to be here any longer. ¡°If you might excuse me. I think I must go find a place to bathe and wash my clothes.¡±


    He wished he had not said what he did. Minerva saw hope even in his promise to think on it, when he had meant it as a way to dismiss her. He strode away, quickly, his furred cloak flapping behind him, and he was out the door even as the apothecary¡¯s voice called out behind him that Ritter could heat water for a bath if he wished it.


    ===***===


    A hot bath would have been tempting, more than tempting, at any other time. The chill of autumn had truly settled in, and Martimeos did not think there would be any more temperate days. He kept his black-furred cloak becharmed against the chill even during the day, now, and when he took it off, sometimes the chill of the wind bit through his leathers and down to the bone. Hard frosts and bitter snows, he thought, were in store; harder than they had seen since the Queen¡¯s War had ended. Those years had brought truly bleak winters, and it was said that the Witch in the West was responsible. And it had certainly seemed that they had earned a reprieve once she had died.


    But as tempting as such a bath might be, he simply could not stand for it right now. He couldn¡¯t stand to be in Silverfish at the moment, in fact. The old bloody tale had seemed too damned familiar, and more despicable than ever. He had started his journey in the Freetowns of Dorn, and had seen the death the White Queen had dealt, and never had it rankled his heart so as it did seeing it in Silverfish and Cross-on-Green. Perhaps it was the sheer stupid senselessness of it, here. Dornmen had died, but at least it could be said they died spitting defiance at the Queen, died for their own liberty, died with nobility and purpose. And they had won, as terrible as the toll had been. Here? It was just death, senseless death, black death for nothing.


    And what had sickened more than the story were his own thoughts, for it would be a lie to say that there was not a part of him that thought that they deserved it. They deserved it for selling their souls as they had. A dark part of him had received the tale with glee.


    But of course, this was nonsense. The children themselves were not to blame. They had no say in whom their parents had decided to swear fealty to, and it was not any sort of justice that they should be killed. And even those full-grown had likely only done what they thought would let them continue to live in peace. Such unworthy thoughts could happen from time to time, of course; every man had the voice of wickedness in him. It could be ignored. But this time, Martimeos had found himself shocked at just how persuasive those evil little whispers of thoughts had been, and shame burned in him for it.


    It was this damned village. And his damned dreams, with the thorns, always the thorns reaching in, and the voice that should not be there whispering to him. He could not say why the nightmares that had plagued him in his youth might return here, but they were worse than they had ever been. Could it be that this was like the tree, in Cross-on-Green? Could it be that there had been so much simple death here that the world thinned and the Land of the Dead drew close, such that spirits might find their way here and wander the living world? Then why would that voice find him here, of all places? That voice had not found its death anywhere near this place.


    He whistled for Flit, hoping that his familiar might be nearby, but he was not. Flit had found a lady-cardinal - or perhaps more than one - and these had taken his interest. A wizard¡¯s familiar was usually brighter and larger than most of its kind. Flit was no exception, and his vivid scarlet plumage and vigor caught the eye of ladybirds. And it was (or so Flit had claimed) an honor to mate with those who partnered with a wizard, those touched or called by the Art. This was not the first time that Flit had been thus distracted. Martimeos did not know how many eggs and children the cardinal had left behind, but he suspected it was no small number.


    And so he shook his head, and stalked away quickly, not wanting to be by the Night Fisher inn any longer, not wanting to stand in the shadow of the thorn-wreathed tree standing in its courtyard. He tried not to look at the buildings that he passed by, the homes both abandoned and not, and if any folk walked the street or watched him, he saw them not.


    He came down to the shores of the great lake of Nust Drim. Though the mist was returning at the end of day, it hung low to the ground and curled around his ankles. The golden light of the setting sun caught both the clouds above and the fog hanging on the surface of the lake, twinning in the water, and for a moment Martimeos could only stop and stare. It was beautiful, achingly so, the light and the lake and the dark trees beyond all blurred together by the fog, and it all seemed like a dream. Perhaps it was not the Land of the Dead that was near to this place, perhaps it was the Land of Dreams. Life itself was a dream, or so said the fae. That fog was in his head too, alongside the thorns, and it had only grown thicker as he lost more sleep.


    He wandered along the edge of Nust Drim for some time, out along its western bank, and as he did he felt as if he were melting into that light. The further he walked from Silverfish, the more it felt as if some sickness was draining away from him, dissipating in that luminous mist. The thorns retreated from his mind even as they retreated from the land, as well; the blackthorn, the corpseblood as Minerva called it, none grew here, out along the further edges of Nust Drim, only the reeds and the blackened leafbare maples of autumn.


    Eventually those gave way to the comforting green of a pine barrens, and Martimeos stopped. Here was as good a place as any. A pressure had left him, and he felt more relaxed than he had been since he had first come to Silverfish, but he still felt filthy. In body, mind and soul. His clothes still had the black remains of rotten pumpkins from Valerie¡¯s farm flecking them, and he could feel the lingering touch of the shattered one when it had slithered amongst his thoughts. Old Power or no, whatever it was, it had been vile.


    He stripped, and at the shore of the lake first he washed his clothes, and when he was done he touched them with the flame of the Art, delicately so that they might warm and dry themselves. In some cases, the black pumpkin-gore that clung to them was not easy to clean off, and and he grabbed fistfuls of dead brown pine needles to scrub it from his boots. The pine-scent drifted up from the needles, and that too was comforting.


    When he was done, he stood at the edge of the water and took a deep breath. The water was calm, and clear, and the lakebed by the shore hard-packed sand. Quickly, and without hesitation, he waded in.


    It was as cold as he knew it would be, from when he had washed his garments. He quickly submerged himself, holding his breath, keeping his eyes open in the dark and then rose, gasping, brushing back the long wet strands of his hair from his eyes. The cold seeped into him, into his guts, into his flesh. But it was not the death¡¯s grip of wintery ice. It was the brisk embrace of cold that stirred the blood, quickened it and set it racing, and which cleared the mind. The poison in his thoughts left behind by the shattered one was swept away, and the fog in his head cleared, as the cold poured into him and his blood roared with heat to fight it.


    He felt more clarity of mind than he had felt since had first come to Silverfish. He still felt tired, yes - nothing but sleep would cure that - but he could think more clearly than he had been able to, and was sharper and more aware of the world. If he had not been, he might not have heard the twig snap behind him.


    Martimeos whirled around, but he could see no one in the shadows of the pines. His eyes went immediately to his sword and his crossbow, lying next to his drying clothes, and he began to make his way back towards them with haste. ¡°Who is there?¡± he cried out, but the words died on his lips. He stopped his clumsy scramble back towards the bank as Elyse stepped out from behind a tree.


    For a moment, he merely stared at the witch, and she merely stared back at him, unblinking. ¡°How long have you been there?¡± he managed, finally.


    Elyse gave him a look that was very deliberate and just a tad too considering for his liking. ¡°Long enough, I suppose.¡± Her eyes had a mischievous gleam to them, reflecting the golden light of the setting sun.


    Martimeos felt his cheeks burn, and she actually smiled at that. Memories of sunlight catching in golden hair drifted through his mind, and he sank further into the water to hide himself. ¡°Did you really come here to spy on me bathing?¡±


    ¡°I did no such thing,¡± the witch snapped back at him, crossing her arms. ¡°But you did not seem well, wizard, after hearing Minerva¡¯s story, so I¡­I followed you. I was worried for you.¡± She gave a start after she said this, and then her smile turned into a fierce frown and a glare for him.


    ¡°Why did you not say anything to me, then?¡±


    ¡°You were well out of the village already before I spotted you. I was not going to run after you. I was tired.¡±


    Martimeos noted that this did not give an excuse or an explanation for why she had spied on him, then. She had used glamor to hide from him too - he could recognize the lingering feel of it, now that he was looking for it. He was about to say something about this, but whatever words he had for her were choked off when she bent and began lifting her dress above her head. He whirled around to face the lake, but the glimpse he had got of her pale, bare legs already dimmed the clarity of mind he had found. ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    ¡°Bathing,¡± she replied from behind him. She sounded annoyed, and also a touch amused.¡°Or did you think that you were the only one who wished to do that?¡±


    He could hear the witch wading into the water behind him. ¡°It is not normally customary for men and women to bathe together, you know.¡±


    ¡°Those who work the Art give up all custom,¡± she replied lightly, and he flinched as cold water hit his back. She had splashed him. ¡°Mother never cared what I wore or didn¡¯t wear in our swamp, but she did have me dress when visitors came to see her, especially as I got older. I knew folk could be odd about it from stories, but it is funny to see. ¡®Tis a body, not a viper. Do you fear that if you look your eyes will be put out?¡±


    There was no sign from her speech that she was deep in chill water. She sounded as if she might be taking a bath in a gentle spring stream. Meanwhile, his own teeth were chattering, and the initial fiery response of his blood was beginning to die away to simple numbness. I should look at her, and see if she really is as unconcerned as she says. Instead, he waded back to shore, trying his best to avoid her, not thinking about the slender white glimpses in the corner of his vision. He knew the witch was odd, certainly, but this was a new height of strangeness for her.


    She was right that working the Art and wandering the land meant that you gave up your own customs - a wanderer must be ready to bear witness to the strangeness of other people¡¯s ways. And when he had traveled the Freetowns of Dorn, customs could change from town to town, and some had seemed very strange to him. He had come to one town called Lerremat where the custom for folk was to kiss each other on the mouth simply to greet one another, and that had baffled him. He had not come across any towns where men and woman bathed together, though, and he thought it likely that Elyse would be in trouble if she tried that pretty much anywhere.


    He picked up his cloak - though it was not yet dry, it was at least warm - and wrapped it about himself, and then set about gathering wood to build a fire while she bathed. When he returned, she sat cross-legged atop a rock, dripping wet and careless of her nudity, with her washed dress stretched out beside her. She laughed as he threw his cloak at her. ¡°I am not cold, wizard. You should keep it if you are.¡± So she said, but she immediately wrapped it tightly around herself and threw the hood up, wriggling her shoulders into the fur. Perhaps she did feel some effect of the cold, after all.


    He struggled to pull his breeches on (still wet, though warming) to cover his shame, something that the witch unashamedly watched with interest. Why he even bothered at this point, he did not know. He made to pull on a linen undershirt, as well, but even as he raised his arms to slide into it, Elyse blurted out, ¡°What is that awful scar from?¡±


    There it was. There was the question that was always asked of him, eventually. Everyone who ever saw him with his shirt off, for the rest of his life, would ask him about it. The thick line of purple scarflesh that crawled like a snake across his back, all the way from his left shoulder down to his right hip.


    The witch was standing now, and walking towards him. Her eyes were very intent on his face, and he did not know what he could read in them. They held his own with some strange pull. ¡°I could feel it, you know. Whenever I healed you, I could feel that wound.¡± He knew. He had been healed by others before, and they would always remark on it. His expression was stone, and he could not tear his eyes away from hers. He was not even aware of the sight of her body as the cloak fell open and she reached out with one hand, as if to touch his back.


    And then, all at once, he turned away from her and pulled the shirt down over his head. ¡°A Queensman gave it to me,¡± was all he said.


    ¡°When?¡±


    He could be as dark and secretive and cold as an abandoned wolf-den with his back to her. But when he turned to face the witch, her dark blue eyes - not cold, like so many blue eyes were, but full of a laughing warmth - those eyes were on his again, and he softened. There was a voice in his mind cursing him for a fool, for letting a pretty girl worm her way into his head. That was probably why she undressed in front of you. You¡¯re thinking with your nethers, and no good decisions ever came from there. This cautioning voice was loud in his thoughts, very often loud enough that he knew he had to temper its words most times. But it was quieter when it came to Elyse, for it was hard to remain suspicious of someone you had come through great danger with, someone who had saved your life and whose life had been saved by you. That she was pretty had nothing to do with it.


    Still, he would not tell her every painful detail. ¡°During the Queen¡¯s War,¡± he said. ¡°Some of her forces managed to maneuver in secret to Pike¡¯s Green, which had been supplying her enemies. They struck at a few villages. Eventually they were routed, but not before I got the scar from them.¡± There. It wasn¡¯t so bad when you put it like that, was it? A few brief words describing what had happened. They were insufficient, but words would always be insufficient in describing what had happened.


    The smell of smoke, burning flesh, thick in your mouth, oily. A large yellow moon hanging in the night¡¯s sky like a demon¡¯s eye, watching him. The screaming, so fierce that it barely seemed human, you would never think that your neighbors might have made those noises as they died. Dying and dead friends. Ruined faces and blood that looked black in the moonlight.


    These were all old, deadly memories, but they were just that now, old. They still came to mind whenever he spoke about it, but he could talk of it, and keep an even temper while he did so. At least, now he could. In Silverfish he had not been able to, and it bothered him that it was so. What was it about that place that made the memories so much worse?


    He thought that she might ask more about what had happened, and dreaded it, but to his surprise she did not. Instead, she asked the other question that healers had for him about his scar. ¡°Who healed you?¡± This, he could not answer. It raised too many questions, got too many tongues wagging. It could bring trouble for himself, or the one who had done it.


    ¡°What caused that scar cut you deep, wizard,¡± Elyse went on, when it became obvious he was not going to break his silence. Her words were weighted with wonder and awe. ¡°I do not see how it did not kill you. Assuming the miracle that you are not dead, the wound should have left you crippled and maimed, even under the care of the most learned in the healing Art. And yet here you are. Standing though you should not be able to, healthy, vigorous.¡±


    He could not answer her, but neither did he want to give her any lies. So, instead, he moved around her to begin building up a small campfire to warm themselves by while their clothes dried. Within a little circle of stones, he stacked a tent of sticks of dried pine on a carpet of dead needles, and touched them with the flame of the Art. Within moments, white smoke was drifting upwards, and in the next an orange flame licked at the wood.


    Elyse sat down next to the fire as he tended it, until it was going well enough to eat away at the portions of a fallen log¡¯s trunk that he went and fetched, her eyes always on him, watching over the flames, her face a shadow in the curls of his cloak¡¯s hood. And, thankfully, she did not press him. Though he almost felt as if he could feel her hungry curiosity now, and truly, he could not blame her. It was a hunger to know how something was done with the Art. He wanted to know himself. He was not sure that this curiosity of hers would stall itself in the silence. But there were other things for them to talk about.


    The sun was closer now to the horizon, though that simply made the sunset more glorious. Tennelayan¡¯s manor - Ezekiel¡¯s manor - was a dark shadow against the dying light of day, out amongst the waters of Nust Drim. Disquieting to see, now that he had heard what had happened there. ¡°So,¡± he asked, as he joined Elyse in sitting by the fire, ¡°What do you make of Minerva¡¯s story?¡±


    ¡°Make of it?¡± The witch seemed almost startled by the question. ¡°I¡­had not thought much on it. Other than that it was monstrous, what was done. I¡­¡± She looked at him, for a long moment. ¡°I am very glad that this White Queen is dead,¡± she said finally, and there was a gentleness in her voice that made Martimeos feel a great embarrassment and shame.


    He cleared his throat, and looked away from her, back to the fire. ¡°She hopes that we can lift the curse, you know,¡± he said.


    ¡°What?¡± She seemed genuinely baffled by this. He had thought it obvious, from the old woman¡¯s manner. Perhaps she really was raised in a swamp, with no one but her mother to talk to. She did not seem very skilled at reading people. ¡°I don¡¯t know how she can expect that. We are young, there is much of the Art we have yet to learn¡­¡±


    ¡°The common folk do not think on that. One who practices the Art, they are like a craftsman; we have an eye for the Art and its workings, and they do not. Think of a cobbler just beginning his trade - he likely has the sense to spot a good boot from a bad, and the knowledge to know one whose craft exceeds his own. But those who don¡¯t work it, they have much more trouble. Such it is with most folk and the Art. There is much that they do not have the sense of, to know what a mageling might handle, and what is something that a man of power might have wrought.¡±


    Elyse merely frowned at this. ¡°I think that I could tell a good boot from a bad.¡±


    He snorted, stifling himself when the witch gave him a sharp look, and only just managed to stop from letting loose a full-blown guffaw. The witch could tell a good boot from bad? Her boots were sad, misshapen things, cured skins held together with rawhide lace. He did not know how she could stand to walk in them. They might be serviceable, certainly better than wrapping your feet in rags at least, and he had seen worse, but he thought she only managed with them through long years of her feet having adjusted to them. ¡°You ought to get yourself some proper boots, someday,¡± he told her. ¡°Then, I think, at least in wearing them you might know the difference.¡±


    ¡°Mine are proper boots,¡± she muttered. But she glanced behind her, to look at her shoes, and then to look at his much larger, more properly-made ones, and when she turned back to the flames she was thoughtful. ¡°Well. Unless you know something I do not, there is nothing we can do to help their curse.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± he replied. ¡°If I could, I would, for the children¡¯s sake if no one else¡¯s, but I don¡¯t even know enough to be certain about what might have happened.¡± He looked out over the lake again, to the shadow of the manor. ¡°Even without the curse, I might have wanted to visit it, to know what relics of the Art that had been found there.¡±


    ¡°And your brother? Do you think he might have gone there, when he was here?¡± When Martimeos did not answer this, after a moment, she went on. ¡°What was your brother doing here?¡±


    That was a question that had crossed his mind more than once, as well. ¡°He¡­after Pike¡¯s Green was attacked, he set out with some friends to fight against the witch in the west,¡± he began.


    And what then? In the Freetowns of Dorn, it had not been easy to track down word of his brother. Too many men killed, too many lost, and the land a maze of the scars of battles and unmarked graves. He had thought, for a long time, that he would never find any evidence of what had happened. That he would have to return home with unanswered questions. But his travels had brought him eventually to Durnholde, or what remained of it, the broken ruins of what had once been a city, where it seemed that the burnt and destroyed buildings outnumbered the people who actually lived there.


    There, the problem had not been that nobody knew his brother. There, the problem was that everyone claimed to have known him, once they had puzzled out that his brother had fought there, with no way to sort those telling the truth from those who merely wanted to fleece him of his coin. But finally, on the words of a crazed drunk, he had gone south from Durnholde, eventually to the village of Congar. And Congar had no answers for him, but they did have Mother Pris, and the tale of a demon that he could put the question to, a tale that had led him into the One-Road Wood.


    He had always wondered, all the while, if he had actually had a trail, or if he was chasing after rumor and phantoms. It was why he had gone to the Dolmec, at the last, in hopes of answers. To find that he had indeed been on his brother¡¯s trail was a relief. But even now part of him still wondered if the demon had found some way to lie. For what was his brother have been doing here? What would a man who fought against the White Queen be doing journeying into her territory while the war still went raging on? What would you think of any other man, who had just been put through the teeth of a slaughter, and now ran towards the enemy with open arms?


    But that was not something Martimeos could countenance. He could not see his brother turning traitor. He could not see it even crossing his mind. But why then had his brother come here¡­? Had he come here? There was still no sign, no evidence that he ever even had. All of this was still on the word of a demon.


    ¡°Martim?¡±


    Martimeos startled out of his reverie. Elyse stared at him from across the flames, looking puzzled. ¡°Apologies,¡± he told her. ¡°Lost in thought, I suppose. He might have been tempted to visit the manor, perhaps, but not, I think, if he knew who was there. I do not know what he was doing here, but I suspect his aim in these lands was to remain as hidden as possible.¡± It was irritating to have not seen the manor, irritating to not look beneath every stone, but continuing to search the farms, in fact, might be best. The Dolmec had said that he had come to Silverfish, but who knew how a demon thought of human dwellings? Perhaps his brother had never come into the village proper at all. Perhaps he had taken refuge with a sympathetic farmer, or hidden himself in an abandoned farm. He hoped this was not the case, with how many of those seemed to be totally overgrown with the ¡®corpseblood¡¯ blackthorn vines. Would he end up having to work himself at burning those away, just to see a barn that may or may not hold a trace of his brother? He did not relish the thought.


    This was, at least, what he thought in the part of his mind that reasoned, and cautioned, and sought the most likely path. But he could not help but remember the words of the shattered one in the well, at Valerie¡¯s farm, that he would be the instrument of her revenge. And a laughing voice in the back of his mind whispered to him that the manor called, and he would not leave this place before he visited it. But at the moment, he buried these voices; he had no wish to think himself the unwitting servant of some Old Power, and he was not here to risk his life for the redemption of Silverfish.


    He realized he had been quiet for quite some time again, lost in his own thought once more. Across the flames, the witch was staring at him once more, but now her expression was unreadable. ¡°I get the impression that you are keeping secrets from me, wizard,¡± she said, her voice barely above a whisper.


    ¡°You must let me keep some of my secrets,¡± he told her. ¡°What is a wizard without them? And besides, I am sure you have some of your own.¡±


    He had said this in jest, and thought that she might react in anger. Instead, her cheeks reddened and she looked ashamed, casting her eyes to the ground. ¡°I¡¯ll show you a secret,¡± she said after a moment, and moved to kneel beside her drying clothes, casting aside his cloak carelessly as she did so, to rummage through the pockets of her dress.


    He convinced her to dress once more, with her laughing at his insistence all the way. But once she had finally slid into her dress, she pulled out from one of its many inner pockets the figure of a small, fat frog, made from baked gray clay, and hollowed so that it might serve as a flute of sorts. He remembered this, though he had not thought on it much since; it was the gift that Elyse had gotten from the Traveling People that she had met when they passed through Cross-on-Green. It had the touch of the Art upon it, though he still did not know what it did.


    He gave her a curious look as she took his hand, and led him to the lakeside, but she would not say what this secret was. They sat down on the edge of that water, careful not to get their newly-dried clothes wet, and the witch drew her legs up beside her and placed the frog to her lips, as if she were kissing it, and placed her fingers clumsily upon the holes formed in its back.


    She was not well-skilled with the flute, but she did not need to be. When she played notes upon the curious little thing, nothing happened at first. But before long, the calm, flat surface of the water before them began to stir, rippling, dancing with the golden light of the sunset, pushing this way and that, as if something were moving just beneath the surface. But nothing was, Martimeos knew, for he could sense what was happening; the Art of the frog-flute was touching the water. When the witch stopped playing, the ripples died away not long after the notes did, the water flat and calm once more.


    He grinned unabashedly. There was a simple joy to be found in the puzzling out of the Art.¡°Well! We know what that does now, at least. Though I wonder if it is all it is meant to do. When did you discover this?¡±


    ¡°Not long after I was given it,¡± the witch admitted sheepishly, as she handed over the frog to his waiting hands so that he could inspect it. ¡°When we were camped outside of Cross-on-Green, I played it by the creek there. It was a bit harder to tell what it was doing with moving water, but I could feel the Art working through it. I have managed since to work out how to do some of what it does on my own.¡± She raised a hand towards the lake, and after a few moments, gentle ripples appeared on the surface of the water once more. Less than what the frog had wrought, and not as strong, but there, and the product of the Art too.


    She had kept this secret from him? He could not help but feel a bit wounded. Whatever else, he had thought that they had become companions in the Art; they had promised to teach each other what they knew, and Martimeos would not have thought that she would keep such things from him. He would not have kept it from her. ¡°But why did you not tell me?¡±


    Elyse gave him a defiant look, crossing her arms, though her cheeks reddened once more. She eventually looked away as he simply continued to stare at her, awaiting an answer. ¡°Because you were being stubborn and secretive at the time, and I did not feel like telling you,¡± she muttered. ¡°Sometimes asking you simple questions can feel like pulling teeth from a serpent. So you see, you have told me some of your secrets, and so I share one of mine with you. Fair trade.¡±


    So that was how it was. It was true that he kept his secrets from her, but he had thought their time together with the Art had been a bright spot untouched by all else. The witch had a quick wit, and he had thought it a simple joy to learn with her. That it might have been something she would bargain with for some reason hurt, though he could not see the reason why it mattered to him.¡°I see,¡± he replied sadly.


    But the witch whipped her head around at the sound of his voice, and when her eyes touched his she frowned. ¡°Oh, do not look so forlorn,¡± she cried, and then slammed her mouth shut, eyes widening, almost as if she was surprised at herself for the heat in her voice. She paused, looking at him for a few moments, as if unsure what she was going to say, until with some apparent effort she tore her eyes from his and looked at the ground. ¡°I did not mean to keep it from you. I know we promised to teach each other what we knew of the Art. Let me teach you now.¡±


    And so they spent their time by the lakeshore on a reprieve from the cursed village, playing with the Art. Martimeos took his turn to play on the frog-flute, and while he could carry a tune far better than Elyse could, it did not seem to matter, though perhaps it only meant that they did not know the right song. Someone had made this, after all, and he did not think that they had made it to simply cause water to swirl around itself. Then again, who knew what reasons someone might have had to make such a thing?


    He could feel the working of it upon the water, and when Elyse worked it as well, he could see what she was doing. And it seemed that, for the first time, they were in agreement. In other workings of the Art, they saw things differently; Elyse did not think of fire as a devouring hunger, as Martimeos did, and Martimeos could not hear the red song of the body as Elyse could when healing. Even in glamor, which they had learned the most about from each other, they saw things very differently, with Elyse seeing the working of it as the twisting of shadow and Martimeos seeing it as the tricking of the eye and the lying to of the mind.


    But in water, in the working of it, they saw things exactly the same. To work with water was to dance with it. A slow, gentle dance, a sweeping dance that bore both the water and you with it. You could not push the water to do what you wanted, otherwise you would simply knife through it and it would part around you. But it was always dancing itself, always, even when the surface was calm it slowly danced beneath, in currents like billowing lace caught on the wind, and if you joined in this dance with the Art you could, after a fashion, take the lead, and steer it where you wanted it to go. And it was a wonder, a delight to find that they both knew water in the same way. They could only dance with the water a bit, steer it but a little, since they were both so new to the working of it. But they found that in knowing it in the same way they could better help each other understand. Martimeos wondered if, perhaps, this was what the frog had actually been for. To teach, to get two people to see the working of water in the same way, or if he and Elyse simply thought the same on this matter.


    But either way, the joy of the Art was with them. In the long ago age when it was said that man lived in ignorance and primitive brutishness in the caves of the earth, knowing nothing of the Art, when they first crawled out of that darkness, when they first touched the Art, this must have been the sort of joy they had felt. It is said that any can learn the Art, and some do; there are crafty old merchants who might know a glamor or two that can make their wares seem more appealing, and perhaps a fortunate gambler might know a charm of luck that has some true power in it. But it is when your soul is seized by the simple pleasure of working the Art, when it seems as impossible to live without as it would be to live without love, that is what makes one a wizard, a witch, or whatever a practitioner of the Art might call themselves.


    That golden sunset slowly faded from the sky as the sun sank, turning from gold to a deep purple as twilight came on, and their fire had faded to ash before they became aware of the encroaching darkness, and realized they ought to be making their way back to Night Fisher Inn. They laughed as they returned to the village, chiding themselves for their own foolishness, and their hearts were light. And Elyse repeatedly told him that she would not hide what she knew from the Art from him again, and just as he had not known why that had saddened him, he did not know why it was important to the witch that she tell him that. But even though she had hidden something from him, she seemed so sincere about it now that he believed her.


    And Martimeos, as he walked back to Silverfish, back to that damned village, back to the curse, he could feel the thorns creeping into his mind again even as they came back to where the wicked vines grew. But it seemed to him that they struggled to take root in his thoughts now, that they could not poison him there as easily as they had before. This village did do something to his mind, and it was likely just the simple darkness of it, of what had happened to its people and what its people had done to themselves and to others. But joy and laughter could prove a shield against such things, and for the first time since he had come to Silverfish, Martimeos slept soundly, and no nightmares plagued him.


    Later, he would think back on that night, on those few hours of respite he had, on the joy and laughter he had shared with Elyse that had lightened his heart. And he would think that if it had not been for that time, he likely would not have lived.

 Coxton Praet

    <h2 style="text-align: center">17. Coxton Praet</h2>


    Elyse woke the next morning to light streaming in through the window and Flit¡¯s song worming its way into her foggy dreams. It was as beautiful a day as Silverfish had seen since they had been there. For once, the mist was not coming in off the lake, and the sun was not hidden behind a cloudy sky. Though, she thought to herself as she stretched and pulled on her dress, she could appreciate that mist and fog a bit more now. It might make this village into a dreary, shadowy maze, at times, but the way it had caught the light of the sunset last night had truly been gorgeous, and she did not think it would have been half so impressive had the mist not been there.


    She stepped out into the hallway, and saw Martim¡¯s door closed; when she listened, she thought she could hear the wizard snoring behind it. She was glad that she might be awake before the wizard was. When she thought about last night she could not help but feel a twinge of embarrassment, and she thought that it might be worse if she saw his face.


    It was not that she had undressed in front of him. Her mother truly had not cared, living in their swamp, how little she wore, and her blood ran so hot that she had preferred going without much of the time. She had picked up on the concept of modesty from the books she read - the Aurelics had placed much stock in it, and it was always treated as a very solemn or shocking event when V¨¦reline Valoir disrobed and was seen by someone in her stories; when it was not a lover seeing her, she reacted with wrath and cursed the one who had spied on her. But this had always seemed very silly to Elyse, and while she knew that people put stock in such things, she could not feel why they should, and so undressing in front of him had not bothered her. She had wanted a bath, and she had also wanted to see the wizard blush, and that was all.


    No, that was not what embarrassed her. It was how bad she felt about keeping the working of water a secret from the wizard. But more than that, it was how damned sad the wizard had looked when he learned about that, and how much that had rankled her heart. It was true, Martim had a handsome face, and it looked much better with a smile or a blush upon it. And he had looked particularly striking last night, with the sunset aglow on his wild hair. But it had saddened her to see him sad, and that felt strange to her, and it had gladdened her to see him glad when later they had worked the Art together, and she did not know what to make of this other than to feel a thread of embarrassment when she thought of it.


    Down the stairs, in the common room, it was strangely quiet. Well, for an inn of this size, she supposed that the usually-empty common room was always strangely quiet. But in the mornings, Ritter could usually be heard puttering around in the kitchen, making a meal for the meager few guests he had. But there was no meal laid out today, and the innkeep nowhere to be seen.


    She frowned, puzzled, at the lack of food, and spent some time peering around the tables and counters wondering if she had missed it. She did not have much idea of coin, but she had the vague sense that the meals were something that were paid for, and felt a slight irritation that they were apparently not receiving any breakfast today.


    After a few moments of frustration, she stepped outside, into the inn¡¯s courtyard, greeted by the thorn-festooned tree that stood in its center. The mist was not entirely absent this morning, but it pooled low, not coming up much further than her ankles. She peered into the shadows of the colonnades that surrounded the plaza, looking to see if she might spot the innkeep, but all she could see was Cecil, who strolled up to greet her and curled around her legs, purring.


    Her familiar was large, almost too large to carry comfortably, much larger than most cats would be; but she picked him up anyway, appreciating the feel of his rumbling in her arms. ¡°Perhaps you may catch us something today, to cook,¡± she whispered in his ear, scratching his mane. The Night Fisher Inn had not let them go hungry; there had been plenty of bread and cheese, but as far as meat went, it was mostly fish from the lake. It was very good - much better than the fish she had been raised on, the mudwallows and whiskerfish of the swamp - but one tired of fish, eventually, and there was little of red meat on offer here other than that which was oversalted and dried.


    Cecil blinked at her, slowly, with mysterious yellow eyes, his pupils thin slits. Then he leapt down from her arms, tail twitching in the air, slowly strolling off, as if to let her know that he was in no hurry to obey her, but he just might find the time to set about the task she had asked of him. She had no worries, though. There might be some things that her cat would refuse to do, but she had not found them yet, and she knew he took the matter of being well-fed very seriously, and he liked hunting besides.


    As he walked off, though, she thought she caught movement from the corner of her eye, and just the faintest sound of footsteps from the edge of the plaza. Looking, though, there was no one there, and when she walked to the arched entrance to peer cautiously where she thought the sound had gone, she was greeted only with an empty street.


    It was, perhaps, just another curious villager. When she had gone off chasing after Martimeos last night (and hadn¡¯t you told him that you would not chase after him again) there had been a couple of those still lingering about, watching the inn, watching the inn. Wondering, no doubt, about the strangers who had brought back their apothecary, not that she had had the time to put the question to them. Perhaps one decided still to come ogle at the curiosities the next morning as well, but had gotten scared when they actually saw her. It was nothing worth worrying about, except that she still could not shake the feeling of being watched.


    Moving her way back to the inn door, she strained her ears to listen, to see if there was any sign of someone, but there was nothing but the sound of her own footsteps. She was about to simply go back inside, but instead she paused and regarded the door, for a moment. She had been quite impressed with the carving in it at first. The horseman, carrying away what looked to be some form of noblewoman or other highborn lady, whilst strange men in plumed hats and carrying polearms struggled to stop him. But the more that she saw it, the more she disliked it; it was not a very welcoming scene for an inn, she thought.


    ¡°Do you know what it is?¡±


    Her heart leapt into her throat, and she spun around so quickly that she nearly tripped over her dress.


    Standing behind her was a little man, not all that much taller than she was, which for a man made him very short indeed. He had a long, bushy beard which may have once been black, but was now more peppered with silver. He wore what looked to be deerskin, stitched together with rawhide lace, and a fur cap made of something she could not name, perhaps a fisher or marten. Despite his short height, he was broad-shouldered, and from what she could see of his arms, they looked thickly muscled for someone of his age. His eyes reminded her of Finnel¡¯s, though. That glassy stare that was not all there, as if he was always looking inward, or at something that could not be seen. Whoever he was, in the few short moments she had spent in idle thought, looking at the door, he had managed to come within an arm length¡¯s of her without her hearing a sound. ¡°Who are you?¡± she demanded.


    He looked at her again, doffed his fur cap - he was completely bald beneath - then gave her a nervous bow. But he did not say anything, after. He merely wiped his long and crooked nose on his cap, and then looked at her, mouth opening and closing as if not sure what he ought to say. ¡°Do you know what it is?¡± he asked again, nervously, his eyes shifting from her space, to some place behind her.


    ¡°What? The door?¡± Elyse glanced quickly back over her shoulder, then back to the curious stranger. She did not want to take her eyes off him. ¡°Are you deaf, man? I asked who you were-¡±


    But he ignored her. He was looking at the door, with a sad, dreamy smile. ¡°Long time ago,¡± he said, interrupting her, ¡°back before the Aurelics conquered this land, they were naught but a collection of small farming villages in the heartlands of Mannus Aurum, well before it was tamed, before any of the grand spires rose, before any of the founding stones for their cities had been laid. And in those days, long before their glory to come, they were subject to the cruel whims of the Horde of Nud, the Horde of Black Banners, savage folk who knew nothing of building, who knew nothing but plunder and terror.¡±


    She had been about to interrupt him right back, but there was something about the way he talked that enraptured her. His nervousness and strangeness had melted away and disappeared, and he seemed to swell, become larger than he was. He had the manner of a raconteur, and it reminded her for a moment of Ritter. Only, the innkeep could spin a good yarn, while this man¡¯s voice, while it did not boom, it was rich and deep, and it held her, in a way, at bay. She closed her mouth and listened.


    He had not paused for her to make this decision; he continued on, his eyes affixed to the door. ¡°The Nudmen were cowards, and always came on horseback, to strike swiftly and then flee, but they were endless and ranged far, and none were safe from them. Among the Aurelics, there was not yet much in the way of royal blood, but there was noble and beautiful Serafina, daughter of the Duchess of Namiere, and lover and betrothed of Alain the Dweomer. She was brave as well, but it was that bravery that doomed her. For when the Nudmen raided her lands, her bravery drove her to be amongst the men who fought and died for her; to be by the side of Alain, who was then but a soldier, to let them take heart in her presence, and inspire them to deeds of valor. And in doing so, she caught the eye of one of the chieftains of the Horde of Black Banners, a vile brute known as Churr the Weeper.


    ¡°Entranced by her beauty, Churr vowed that he should have her; and, cleverly, he lured her and her men out with small skirmishes, spreading her armies thin, and then came at her encampment in force. That is what the door shows; Churr capturing Serafina, her men trying in vain to defend her. Alain was not at her encampment that day, having been drawn out into the field by the warlord¡¯s cleverness. It is said that when Alain heard of her capture, in his wrath he set his own tent ablaze, and against the orders of his commanders he set out with his men to save her.


    ¡°But it was too late, for the Nudmen knew of nothing but cruelty. Churr had earned the name of the Weeper because, in all the wicked ruin he wrought, he wept, seeing the beauty in what he burned but not knowing how to make it. He forced Serafina into marriage and tempted her, said he would make her the Queen of all the people of Mannus Aurum, if only she would order her craftsmen to teach the people of Nud how to make the artwork, the goldwork, the stonework that he so envied but which he only knew to undo or steal. But of course, Serafina refused him, and in her shame at having the brute force himself upon her, she killed herself.


    ¡°Churr wept when he discovered her, another beautiful thing that he had only been able to destroy. But he was not so saddened that he had been moved to do her proper honor in death, for it was the custom of his people to leave the dead tied to a pole to be picked apart by buzzards, and so it was that Alain found his love. It is said that he went half-mad with grief in finding her, and killed two of his own men before he calmed, and he swore on the spot that the Nudmen had forged their doom that day. If there is any happy ending to the tale, it is that the Dweomer had spoken truth like a Telling. Years later, Churr would become the last Great Chief of the Horde of Nud, and Alain himself would unite the folk of Mannus Aurum against their black banners.


    ¡°It would be the first of the Aurelic conquests, and their bloodiest. Alain would order the Nudmen killed to the last wherever they were found; he would burn their great tent-cities to the ground, and it is said the very earth itself groaned beneath his workings of the Art and swallowed countless number of the Horde whole, alive and screaming, to be buried in forever darkness. It is said before the end that Churr the Weeper himself knew the doom of his people had come, and tried in vain to ride out to western lands with the last of them, but Alain worked a plague upon them that killed horse and man alike, and Churr himself died coughing and weeping, without even the honor of combat to send his soul to the Hells. And what was left of the Nudmen were cursed forever to wander the lands.


    ¡°Alain had his revenge, and in gaining it, became the first High King. It was only the start of his glory, but even then the seed of his fate had been planted. For he never forgot Serafina; he never loved again, and though many would have borne his child regardless, he would not have it. He could not stand the sight of a woman, only seeing in them what he had lost. He became the Mad Mage-King, his mind lost in the Art and his grief, and though he ruled and conquered for many years in this manner, his blood is forever lost to us. And it is said that a curse of madness followed the Aurelic Crown forevermore, and would surface itself from time to time. But those are other tales.¡± The spark in the man¡¯s eyes dimmed, though he lingered on, looking at the door with the story locked inside.


    Elyse had been listening in wonder, and then in awe. They had been simple words, and the telling had not been too long, but the way in which the story had been told was entrancing. This man had spoken with such flourishes and with such a rich tone that she felt she had known the folk in the tale. She thought she could picture brave, foolhardy Serafina, the dread she must have felt as her encampment was overrun; smell the blood and sweat of the men who had died to save her. She could know, in the depths of her soul, the despicable Churr, impotent to do anything but destroy and knowing it, perhaps knowing that it would eventually spell the death of his people, but powerless to do anything other than weep. And the rage and grief of Alain, driven to madness for the rest of his life by the loss of his one true love.


    The man before her, as he told the tale, had become grand himself, in the telling. Despite being short, and old, and clearly not all there, despite his bare garb of skins and furs, he seemed almost of noble stature. Except now, that he was done, it seemed to be pouring out of him. He shrank in on himself, and his eyes, so sure, so bright when they had been in the midst of his telling, were dimming, becoming glassy and unfocused once more. ¡°Are you a bard?¡± Elyse cried out, almost wondering if it would all pour right out of him and he¡¯d be no more, feeling that she must get the answer from him urgently before that happened. She could think of nothing else the man could be. She had heard of them in stories; bards whose works were half-Art themselves, who could in the tellings of tales bring entire courts to tears or move the heart of a King. Some said that there was no half about it, bards were wizards, and it was some working of the Art that gave them their power. She had felt no Art at work here, but if she was not a witch herself, she could believe that there had been.


    At her words, the man had seemed to stop wilting, just a bit, some spark remaining in him. ¡°A bard,¡± he laughed softly. ¡°A bard. I suppose there were some who called me that, but I always thought the title far too grand for me.¡± He blinked at himself, then at her, and all at once the nervousness came back into him. ¡°It¡¯s just a silly story, anyway. Who knows if it even happened. There are other tellings of it you can find, and with just as much proof that they are true. Some say Serafina ran off with Churr of her own accord. Some say that Churr killed her, rather than that she killed herself. Some say Alain killed her. It¡¯s all silly stories.¡±


    Elyse did not know what to think of this; she had heard stories before that had multiple tellings, but had never heard them told so. She knew, of course, that it was all just words, but such a hold had the man¡¯s speech had on her, so clearly could she have pictured it all, that she had to bite back on the urge to insist that no, the way he told it must be the way it happened, it must have been true. ¡°Well, I do not think stories are silly at all, even if they are not true,¡± she said instead. She eyed the man and wondered if he were mad. Some said the mad were seized by spirits, or touched by the gods, and that the madness could occasionally come with great gifts. Perhaps that was why he told so well and strong. And he did seem to have the manner about him. ¡°I love stories myself, even if they are not truth.¡±


    The man¡¯s eyes turned to her, and all the anxiousness seemed to sweep out of him in an instant, to be replaced by a cold fury, his lips drawing back in a half-snarl. It was an expression that seemed well at-home on him.¡°You think so, do you? I used to think as you did, child. And then¡­and then¡­¡± Just as suddenly as it had come, the fury was gone, and he was blinking owlishly at her once more, until he looked away from her, as if he could no longer bear to look. ¡°Just a child. Just a child. You¡­are not what I expected,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°I am certainly not a child,¡± she snapped at him. ¡°Now I ask you again who you are, and do not go trying to distract me with a pretty story this time.¡±


    ¡°Me? Myself?¡± It seemed for a moment as if the man might not remember, but then his eyes lit up. ¡°I am called Coxton.¡±


    ¡°Coxton Praet?¡± Elyse asked, and the man nodded. The huntsman, or so it had been told, that Martimeos had first wanted to meet in the One-Road Wood, only to find his home overrun by demons. She was somewhat surprised to see him in the midst of the village. From all they had been told, he was a recluse and a loner; since his home in the wood had been attacked he had taken up residence in one of the houses on the edge of town. But they had never come across him in their searches or their talkings with the folk of the village because, as Ritter told it, Coxton could not stand to be around people. He would leave his home well before the first light of day, and not come back until black midnight, spending all his time in the woods just to avoid being near the village. Though part of her wondered now, speaking with the man, how much of the truth was that people simply could not stand to be around Coxton, as well. ¡°Well met, then. My name is Elyse.¡±


    The man looked happy to have heard his name, and happy to have heard hers. He leaned in so close that Elyse almost felt the urge to back away from him. His breath had an oddly sweet scent to it that put her on edge, though she could not name why. ¡°And you are a witch,¡± he said, in a confidential whisper, giving her a knowing wink. ¡°Isn¡¯t that right?¡±


    For a moment, she felt a panic, wondering how he might have known this. But she remembered then that Coxton had been one of the mercenaries of Farson¡¯s Pass, and that Ritter, too, had been able to know them as what they were. If one could tell by sight, then perhaps the other could as well, though she could not think what it was about her that gave her away. ¡°How are you able to tell that?¡± she muttered.


    He did not respond, simply laying a finger alongside his nose in an odd gesture that she was unfamiliar with. ¡°And you are here with¡­him. The wizard. Yes?¡± Again, he did not wait for her answer; he read something in her expression that gave it away. ¡°Yes. You¡¯ve been here this whole time, haven¡¯t you? Right here this whole time.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s wanted to speak to you, in fact. Well, as much as he wanted to speak to anyone, I suppose.¡± If the man knew she was a witch, it stood to reason he¡¯d know Martimeos was a wizard.


    Coxton froze at that, then grew very, very pale. ¡°Speak to me,¡± he said, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°The wizard wants to¡­speak to me?¡±


    ¡°As much as anyone,¡± she repeated, but this didn¡¯t seem to register with him. He stared at her as if she had just told him that the Dark Stranger himself had come to claim his soul. She considered for a moment. Talking to the man was like trying to seize on a butterfly, fluttering here and there in a chaotic wind; if she did not take the chance now, it seemed likely that they might never get the chance to talk to this man, not unless they tried getting up when the moon still shone to catch him before he left for the forest. And he seemed odd, but harmless enough. ¡°He is inside. Might you come and speak to him? He is likely awake by now, and you would gain a wizard¡¯s favor by doing so.¡± She tried to put on her best charming smile, though she hadn¡¯t had much opportunity in her life to practice that yet, and most who saw it would have snorted at the obvious baseness of it. ¡°And you might earn a witch¡¯s favor if you told some more stories. I should dearly like to hear them.¡±


    Coxton did not snort at her. He merely stared, pale, clutching his hides, and then, slowly, a calm, beatific smile crossed his face. ¡°I am glad I got to tell one more story,¡± he murmured. ¡°Yes. Bring me to him.¡±


    ===***===


    Restless winds blew over the shattered ruins of Coxton¡¯s mind, his heart beat like a war-drum, his eyes seemed to rattle in their sockets as he followed the witch, fool girl, innocent child. He had meant to kill her, had thought he had needed to kill her, had wanted to kill her, for she had come with him, the wizard, and there could be nothing but the working of death with her, with him. But some part of him had seized his tongue to speak to her, and when she had spun to face him, that same part of him forbade him, that same part of him could not do it, some part of him had stayed his knife-hand, and instead had spoken aloud the story, the foolish story, the bloody story, and she had watched with such open-eyed wonder, listened with such raptness, that he knew he couldn¡¯t, he couldn¡¯t kill her. He did not know what he had expected, but not this, not this smiling, happy creature with strange blue eyes who loved the story, the first story he had told in years, waiting to burst out of him it seemed, his tongue ready to take up the habits he had long ago.


    It had felt good, far too good, far too calming to speak the words, to tell the tale, for a moment, for a blessed moment it had seemed as if the broken shards of his thoughts had knitted themselves together. There had been a time when he had wanted this so desperately, so frightened that he could not do it, he could not think clearly, so frustrated that his thoughts so often flew away from him and down dark paths that left him morose or weeping, that he would have done anything, pursued any path to undo it. But the years of loneliness, of living out in the One-Road Wood, of going weeks and months without seeing another human soul, they had done their work, and Coxton was quite convinced now that he was hopeless, it was over for him, he would never again be sane, never again be whole, his time in the wood had knotted dark roots into his mind and pried apart the pieces and they¡¯d never be put together again now. He had been surprised that there was enough left in him, enough left of who he had been to even know the story. He had spent years damning the stories, setting torch to them in his mind, because he knew the truth now, he knew the bloody damning truth of the stories, and it sickened him that they had ever fallen from his tongue. He was a storyteller once, but now he was nothing but a huntsman. It was all there was for him to be. His two great talents had been storytelling and killing, and really one led right to the other. But if he must kill, no longer let it be his fellow man, let it be a useful killing, done for furs or food.


    Except that he was planning on another killing now, wasn¡¯t he, he had come to wreak bloody death again, hadn¡¯t he? He was, and it tore at his soul to know it, tore at his soul that he should break his promise to himself to never again raise blade or bow against his fellow man. He had even knocked out Ritter, tied the man up and left him trussed inside his stables, and Ritter was a friend, no not a friend, had been a friend, but he saw it in Ritter, he saw it in him yes, Ritter still dreamt of glory, still dreamt of blood, he did not know, he could not see that the stories which had been told to them had all been lies, lies, lies, damned lies. He had not fought when the fighting had gotten its worst, he had not fought when true war and death stalked the earth, he had fought in his pissant little skirmishes and thought he knew war was gold and glory, but it wasn¡¯t, war was a breathing, red, bleeding thing, a thing that screamed and howled and burrowed itself into you and caught you up in hooks and never let you go.


    He felt himself teetering over the edge of a red abyss, one that had swallowed him so many times before, and his well-practiced numbness that he had gained in his isolation let him step back from the edge. The pretty girl was smiling at him, pointing to the bookshelf Ritter kept in his inn, telling him how much she loved the stories there, and did he know any of them? She had read many in word, but she would love to hear some spoken by him. She led him to a table, and fussed and pouted and said she dearly wished for some breakfast that they might share but that Ritter was not here, not around (tied up trussed up with a damp red spot on his head that oh gods please let it not have killed him why had he done that). He had almost killed the pretty girl too, had come within moments of it, and why, and why, and for what? Because of the wizard, the wizard, some part of him still cried out for justice and vengeance against the wizard, the one death that would be justified, and would it still be justified if it took innocent blood to purchase?


    But it was too late now. Far too late to reconsider, too late, always too late for him. He was here now, in the lion¡¯s den, in the dragon¡¯s teeth, he was here in the face of death and his only hope was surprise. He told the pretty girl that he was not much hungry anyway, and she nodded, and told him that she would go and fetch the wizard, and he nodded, and as she walked away he felt his own death inside him, death like a great black shadow that seeped into his blood and was more than fear that coursed through him, it was the certainty of his doom. He would die here, he knew, he would die either way, but the one thing he might do before he died, the only thing he might do is put paid to the stories, and put an end to the wizard, the monster no stories had warned him about, just as no stories had ever told him what war really was, they had dressed it up pretty in makeup and prostituted it to him, they put cheekshade and powder on war and called it GLORY and HONOR and hoped you did not notice until it was sucking your blood dry, and he with his damned stories had helped, he had been one of those selling war as a beautiful woman to young men who were dead, all dead, all dead now.


    Even before the witch began her way up the stairs, his hand snaked beneath his hides to grip the hilt of the long knife there (the long knife that he had nearly dragged across the neck of the pretty girl, pretty Elyse, the pretty witch who smiled at his stories, who said he wasn¡¯t a monster as well). He felt death in his blood, felt death in his hand, and the certainty of death in his thoughts bestowed upon him that strange calm that befalls the doomed, the clarity that comes to those who know they will die, who see their death coming. All seemed to move slow, in a soup, in a fog, and his thoughts turned back to what had brought him here, to this ending moment.


    ===***===


    Coxton had been born in the city of Farson¡¯s Pass, where the red cliffs raised high above crowded streets and the dawning sun made them so bright that they appeared splashed with fresh blood, fitting, he thought, fitting for a town ruled by mercenary houses with so much blood on their hands. But while so many there were born into it, born into knowing they would be made for war, one way or another they would be made for war, that had not been Coxton¡¯s fate. No, he had been born to the poor and the desperate, his mother a prostitute and his father a nobody, a shadow he had never met. Where the mercenary lords dwelt in Farson¡¯s Pass, there the streets were wide and plazas beautiful and tiled with artwork and all was perfume and brightly colored flags of the dozens, hundreds of bands who made up the soldiers of fortune, but where Coxton was born the streets were narrow, not really streets at all, and always flooded with filthy water and stinking and rotten and eventually that rotting stink had crept into his mother¡¯s lungs and she had coughed herself to death.


    Foolish, idiot boy that he was, he had thought it good fortune at the time, for his mother, like many who grew up in those dark and dirty places, had forbidden him to take work as a mercenary. He had thought the mercenary lords great men, then. They had grand houses with grand histories fitting of the grand legacy of Farson¡¯s Pass. The city¡¯s story was that the dread necromancer Hooloon, in the depths of time, had come out of the west with an army of slaves and summoned demons and dark undead creatures, and the hero Jak Farson and his company of mercenaries had turned them back here, where the Bloodcliffs narrowed to a singular pass, they had held it there against tides of wickedness and later built a fortress there against any who would try again, and centuries later it would serve them well as the Aurelic Crown came against them, and it was a point of pride that Farson¡¯s Pass had been where the conquests of the Aurelics had been stopped; they never took the city, and they would never go further west, the mercenaries of Farson¡¯s Pass had told the mighty Crown who all swore allegiance to where their sovereignty came to an end.


    The mercenary lords and their great Houses each had stories grand to match, Houses founded by the companions of Jak Farson, and they claimed that all could win GLORY, all could win HONOR, if they had the skill. There was no real nobility, Jak Farson himself had been born a simple carpenter, and his companions had been thieves and prostitutes themselves before they forged their name in history forever. And they kept their books, they kept their stories, they did; the mercenary lords had a grand tradition of storytelling, they kept great archives, and every man or woman who served as a mercenary had their names written down in them, and during festivals the greatest stories would be told, and Coxton, foolish boy that he was, he loved and listened to the stories, he wanted his own stories, and he would memorize them and tell them to his friends in the secret dark places when the adults were not listening, and he could never understand why so many in those low places hated the mercenaries, except that now he could, now he could, his poor whore of a mother had only been trying to warn him but he was too stubborn young stupid to listen.


    So when his mother had died he had gone to join the mercenaries, joined for GLORY, for HONOR, but most of all for MONEY, and the happiest years of his life had been there, proving himself, as gold flowed into his pockets and he made new friends, away from the low places, the mercenaries and the Soldiers of Fortune and the Knights of The Balanced Coin were his friends now, and he learned to wield sword and bow and spear, and they were hired on as guards for merchant caravans, to uproot bandits, he had even been to the edges of the long and dark wastelands of the west to put a tribe of the madmen who dwelt there to the sword all for the coin of the strange and secretive rulers of the City of Bells, and they had all told themselves that their days were full of death and their nights were full of dancing and singing and stories, and Coxton himself had poured his soul into their telling, sweating and prancing before campfires, in taverns, in their encampments, just to make them see what he had thought was good and true and right.


    But it hadn¡¯t been, it was all lies, they thought they knew death but they didn¡¯t know the slightest damn thing, did they, they had not known death and war at all, they had known its whisper and its echo and its slightest shadow before the White Queen came to them, borne in a silver carriage and with an accompaniment of long lines of knights in gleaming armor, snow-white cloaks and banners streaming behind them so she had come, and the Queen herself was pale and deadly grace, (beautiful but a sorceress a witch who could freeze your heart in your chest if she so wished it) in white dress all done up in silver thread that gleamed as brightly as her crown, and the only spot of color about her was her lips, painted red and smiling, always smiling, that blood-red smile, as she came before the mercenary lords to tell them that she was waging a war of conquest (true war this time, she would show them what true war was) and that she would always have coin for them, always have need of them, if only they would swear never to fight for her enemies (victims).


    And perhaps it was because Coxton had come from the low places, had come from those narrow and dark streets where the wicked dwelt, but he was wary of her from the start (WHY HAD HE NOT SCREAMED HIS CAUTION AT THEM WHY), for he had seen her red and bloody smile before, had seen it in the face of every thief who thought it sport to threaten a child for what meager coin he had, seen it in the face of the man who owned the home they lived in, who charged them rent and when they could not pay would come to his mother and say what shame it would be for the boy to be set on the street, children do not do well without a home in this city, no they don¡¯t, hadn¡¯t she better come up with twice the coin in two weeks or it would be a real shame what happened, and always with that smile, that smile in the face of a dozen demons-in-human-flesh. But the mercenary lords had only ever lived in the high places and they did not know that smile, they had never had that smile aimed at them before, that smile that promised I am going to hurt you badly and there is nothing you can do to stop me, and so they had agreed to the White Queen¡¯s terms in a night of fires and festivities and the Witch, the Queen, the Sorceress, she had presided over all of them as they sang and danced and belted out their stories and in all the shadows that jumped and flickered over all, never had she stopped smiling.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    And then her tasks, her bloody tasks had come, and at first the mercenaries, his new friends, his comrades, at first they had thought and at first it had seemed that it all would be worthy of stories, worthy of GLORY, that it would all just be as their grand adventures of routing bandits and skirmishes with talking lions had been, full of laughter and HONOR and death but oh they were so brave weren¡¯t they, they would face death when it came! They sallied forth to the Freetowns of Dorn and sometimes even their reputation alone could force a surrender, and that was when Coxton had first seen that the stories he told, the stories they spread, they were not merely a lark, a laugh, they were not stories for the sake of stories, but they were weapons as well. There had been battle and blood in the service of the White Queen, and love and laughter and even grudging respect between the mercenaries and the Freemen of Dorn, and this was all as the stories said it should be, all as the stories had said it would be, except that Coxton even in those days could see what the others did not. He could see the fear in folk¡¯s eyes as the mercenary lords would give over a captured village or town to the care of the White Queen¡¯s men, he could see the gibbets that her bondsmen would begin to build even as they marched out successfully, off to another grand and glorious battle, and he could hear the whispers that nobody else seemed to (except of course they could hear them, couldn¡¯t they, his beautiful friends could hear them they just pretended not to), whispers of hangings, of beheadings, whispers of massacres, whispers of an entire village put to the sword to make an example so that others may not resist their oaths to the Queen, he heard these things and he had done nothing except laugh along with his friends and he was damned, damned, damned.


    It was in those years that Ritter and Ezekiel had left, before the worst had come, and perhaps that was why Ritter (pray that he lived, pray that his brains were not addled) still held fond memories of that time. Coxton had known the two men; he had made a name for himself but not as much as Ritter and Zeke, their story, two boon companions from their youth, ever by each other¡¯s side, with Ritter the practical, hardheaded one and Zeke his dreamy, absent-minded friend with a romantic nature, he had known them as characters from their stories but not really as men (but not many in Farson¡¯s Pass seemed to appreciate the difference did they). Ritter had passed the command of his band to his son, and the younger Ritter Coxton had known quite well, and how could the father not have seen the doom he was sending the son into? Had he not worried, had he not cared, had he not seen the signs, had he not heard the whispers, did he not know the damnation marching towards them inexorably through time? Except Coxton knew exactly, he had seen the signs himself and not known them, he had seen the signs the first moment the White Queen stepped out of her carriage and why had he not cared, why had he not screamed for it all to stop?


    For slowly, surely, like the beat of a war-drum the darkness marched toward them. What were once whispers ceased to be, what was once hidden in secret was now done in the open; they saw the trees with their fruit of corpses, they saw the gibbets hanging full, they saw the headsman¡¯s block bloodied and the men (not even men barely men barely old enough to call themselves men) pushed down in front of it screaming for refusing to serve the Queen, they saw the crosses that lined the roads with dying men nailed to them, they saw the famine-withered corpses where the White Queen had brought blizzards and freezing dark winter to ruin people¡¯s crops. The Freemen of Dorn no longer greeted them with respect, the Freemen would no longer surrender to them; the Freemen hated them now, as much as they hated any Queensman, and they hated Queensmen such that they would die to see one in the grave. And the worst of it all was how the Queensmen smiled at them now, the knowing grin on the faces of their commanders as they passed by on horseback amongst all the death and ruin, as if to say, Yes, this is what we¡¯ve done. What will you ever do about it? With that same damned smile their Queen herself had, all those years ago when she brought their damnation to them on ink and paper.


    Something might have been done. Something could have been done. But nothing was done. For where Hooloon the Necromancer had failed, where the Aurelics had failed, the White Queen had succeeded, she had conquered them, she had made them hers, not by any force of arms but by binding them in guilt. And through the wickedness that had always lived in the hearts of the mercenary lords, the wickedness his mother had seen, that she had tried to warn him about, for no longer were they the grand storytellers welcoming all that he could remember from his youth, but they were the White Queen¡¯s enforcers, she had paid good coin and all those who broke their contract were guilty of treason, as far as the mercenary lords were concerned, and oh, some left, some fled, the noble ones, but Coxton was not a noble one, was he. He could have gone over with the men who quit their positions, the ones who had gone over to the Freemen, but he had not, he had stayed, slowly hating himself, slowly hating the others, his once-friends but now mute witnesses to this horror, and he had thought it could never get any worse and Durnholde had been his punishment.


    Durnholde. A city of the Freemen, a city of high walls and an ancient fortress built back when the Aurelic empire was young which still stood, buttressed by the Art and grander than anything any could build today, a city of stone when he had first seen it and a city of ruin when he had left it. It was that ruin that loomed large in his mind, those were the ruins his thoughts swept over constantly, tracing along every toppled stone, unable to stop, unable to turn away from the thought of it until finally at long last his mind had taken on the shape of them and he was ruin, too.


    The White Queen, frustrated by the long resistance of the Freemen, had gathered her armies to capture Durnholde, the greatest of their cities and the center of the concorde between the otherwise independent Freetowns that stood now together against her. So the wise said, so the stories would say, but Coxton thought he knew the truth, he had seen her when she visited the field, he had seen her cry Art to the skies, seen them obey her command, seen them grow black and heavy and as the cold descended, never to lift, as the wind howled and the snow began to fall he had seen the mad lights in her eyes and that blood-red smile and he had known then that all she wanted now was sacrifice, was blood splashed on the stone, was death. And death had been there in Durnholde, waiting there for him.


    Durnholde was a pit born of two people¡¯s madness. The madness of the Queensmen and their Queen, and the madness of the Freemen themselves. For the Freemen had decided that this was the place, this was where the Witch in the West would be turned back. It was a foolish obsession of the White Queen to capture the well-fortified city, and the canny captains and commanders of the Freemen had realized her mistake and their opportunity; though it would be a slaughter, they could make her pay for every inch with barrels of blood and so it was a clever decision to hold onto the city as much as they could and make her pay dearly for it. So the wise said, so the stories would say, but again Coxton thought he knew the truth: What the White Queen had done to them was so offensive to the spirit, to the very souls of the Freemen that they were prepared to pay any price to spit defiance in her eye, they would have fought like animals even if had meant they would all die to the very last, and in their desperation and hatred of her they called upon all the dark powers and they had answered their call, the wizard had answered their call.


    The siege of Durnholde had not ended when the walls of the city were breached, through trebuchet and mining and the great roaring flashes of heat and light that the Queensmen said were not the Art but could be nothing else, great booming roars that tore stone bricks into splinters that could easily kill a man. No, the Freemen fought them even in the streets, every building, every house a small fortress now, and over all of them the grand fortress of Durnholde loomed, and every foot purchased was done under hail of fire from the windows of homes, under hail of fire from ballistae shot from the crenellations of the fortress, until the blizzard and storms had grown so thick that it blinded them, and for months it had raged, and it was here in the dark streets, choked with snow and blood, that the wizard had stalked.


    Coxton had only ever seen him from afar, but that was enough. To see the wizard was death, had been death for so many, and he did not know how he himself had survived. A tall man in a dark coat with long, wild hair, the wizard had smiled too, smiled like the White Queen had, and where the White Queen had brought down the clawing death of freezing winter, the wizard worked with shadow and flame and Coxton could not think of it, would not think of it, even now he could not bear to make himself remember the sights and the sounds, the howls of his friends burning alive, the desperate animal screams that did not even sound human anymore (Lasset had still been alive even with all her flesh, every inch of her blackened and the only way he had recognized her was her eyes and the dagger she held, he could not even know if the sound she had made had been thanks as he had put a sword through her, so died the witch they had tried to get to stand up to the wizard), and even worse were the ones who were eaten by the shadows, they stepped into the dark and they were simply not there anymore, without a sound, and you never knew which shadow might simply unmake you, and even worse, even worse, were the dead who moved-


    He had died, he thought, he had died and he was in the Hells, because otherwise the gods and the very world itself should put an end what was happening all around him, every day. Men went mad, and there was no depth of depravity that went unplumbed there. Coxton could remember only in shattered, broken images. A street full of staked heads. Some had turned to cannibalism when the supplies ran out (you did too, didn¡¯t you Coxton, it was not some it was all and you did too, but you weren¡¯t like the others, you would not eat it unless you could pretend it was something else) and he could remember them ghoulishly leaping upon a corpse preserved in a snowbank, hunger and constant fear driven all dignity and shame out of them. Talking to a man throughout a long, dark night, only to awake and find that the man was now one of the moving dead and wondering, forever after, when he had died, or had he been talking to the dead the entire time?


    And always, always, always the threat of being found by the wizard, and always the death that would follow. It was not a war, any longer, in Coxton¡¯s mind, in the minds of many, it was torment, Durnholde became a world unto itself, a warren of stone, an impossible labyrinth of ruin, and the wizard was the mad king of this place, he must be Hell made flesh, impossible to be real, and wherever he went there were screams, and this would never end, he was in the Hells, he was in the Hells and all he could do was suffer until the wizard found him and obliterated his very soul, annihilated him from existence-


    And then it was over.


    It seemed impossible that it might have ended. But there it was. One day he awoke to find a Queensman prodding at him, wondering if he was a corpse, and he was told that the Freemen had withdrawn from the city, and the White Queen had claimed victory. Coxton was astounded to find that merely six months of his life had passed by in that Hell of his. It had felt like an eternity of madness, of darkness, of cold and fear, and in a way for him it would be, because all of that was pressed into his soul and would be a part of him for as long as he lived. But even as shattered as he was, he could see the writing on the wall. He thought that maybe everyone could, after Durnholde. It was a victory that had defeated them. He did not need to see a disposition of forces to know that simply too many had died, to see men whose spirits and souls were broken, blank eyes staring at a world that they would never be able to see the same again, eyes knowing too much, seeing too much, men which had known nothing but horror for too long. And so then, finally, long after he should have, far too late to save his own soul, far too late, he had fled. He had fled with all the romantic stories burnt to ashes in his mind, he fled now knowing war, true war, knowing now what those stories had been meant to conceal, and the taste of them would be bitter on his tongue, his tongue that should be cut out for the lies it had told to the young to seduce them into this madness.


    He could not remember the time after he had fled very well. His thoughts seemed so blackened and poisoned that he barely seemed the world around him. He thought he had been robbed, at some point, and beaten at another; he could remember the brief moments of kindness, remember a woman dabbing his forehead with a bloody cloth, remember an innkeeper letting him sleep by the fire in the common room, he could remember drink, wine and wine and more and more wine, wine so dark it seemed nearly black. He could remember a sweet voice that whispered into his ear, whispered when no one was there, whispered even when he was alone on the road, and the whispers became stronger with wine, and the voice told him that it was too late now, he was broken forever, the burning in his head would last forever, the guilt that seized him so that it seemed he could not breathe, it would all last forever and the only real respite, the only mercy, would be the gentle kiss of death, to open his veins and let his life¡¯s blood spill, and one night alone in the midst of a field, beneath a wide expanse of endless stars, in trepidation and terror he had asked the whispering voice who it was and it had answered I am Ysonne, and I am the goddess and lover of broken souls.


    But he had not listened (though he should have, he should have, but if anything a gentle and quiet death was more than he deserved). And eventually he had come to Silverfish, following the tales he had heard of the Night Fisher inn, hearing it run by Ritter and knowing that if he could do anything, anything at all with his miserable waste of a life, with his wicked lie-dripping tongue, if he could do anything he could finally use it to tell the truth and to tell others, warn others away from the madness, to tell them there was only death in the service of the White Queen, that the war was lost and she was mad enough that she didn¡¯t care, she¡¯d soak the land in blood for nothing, to flee, to quit, that even if they had not cared for the lives that the Queen had trampled they should care for their own. Ritter could send out birds, he could send out warnings to old friends, such that still lived, far away from the reach of the mercenary lords he could tell people to burn their contracts, he could use his inn to shelter the mercenaries who quit the Queen¡¯s service, he could do, should do so much.


    Ritter had listened to his warnings, his arms crossed and face stern, alone in the dark comfort of the common room of the Night Fisher inn, and even before Coxton was done giving them he knew they had been for naught. He had cursed his tongue and so now, it seemed, its power was taken from it; he could not use it to persuade the man of the awful, gut-sick cold folly and horror of it all. No, he could see, he knew that Ritter¡¯s mind was still bound up in the stories, he still thought fondly of the war, he still thought of it as the laughing glory and graceful dance with death that the mercenary lords had taught him it was, the stories Coxton¡¯s tongue was made for, he could not make the man breathe in the corpse-stink, make the man feel the cold grip of shadows, make the man see the blood in the snow, he could not make him feel the horror in his bones of seeing comrades burnt alive. He could believe the war was lost, though, but that only made Ritter want to foolishly sally forth, to rejoin the fight, to make sure that the men of Farson¡¯s Pass might be protected as well as they could be while keeping the honor of the contracts intact. And Coxton could only stare in wonder at the man who remembered a Farson¡¯s Pass as it used to be, who did not understand that the only sane thing was to damn the contracts, damn the HONOR, damn the GLORY, there was none here, the mercenary lords of Farson¡¯s Pass would rather see their young dead, the stories were all in flames, all filthy ashes and Ritter simply could not see and Coxton wept at his impotence to change his mind.


    Ezekiel had seen, though. When Coxton had talked to the mage, the man had simply nodded silently along to his words, and that one sweet moment of triumph had been worth resisting the whispers of Ysonne. In the stories that he had heard of the two of them, Ritter had been known as the clear-eyed strategist while Ezekiel was called the starry dreamer, who ignored the world and only saw the Art, and who always needed his boon companion Ritter by his side to keep him grounded in reality. But Coxton thought that Ezekiel must have been clearer-eyed than the stories told of him, Ezekiel must have seen the darkness encroaching before he left, must have seen what Ritter could not or would not see (and wasn¡¯t that always the way, the stories were lies, lies, even when it was not for any purpose they were lies).


    The stories did not lie about the great love that Ritter and Ezekiel had for each other, though, and so Coxton had thought that the mage might have been able to bring his friend around. But Ritter would not see. He would not see the truth, he damned the truth and damned himself, he refused to hear of what was being done in the name of the White Queen, refused to see that the only thing to do now was to abandon the vows made to her, to abandon the contracts that the mercenary lords of Farson¡¯s Pass thought were worth more than the blood of their men. He shouted at them, then screamed at them that they were both cowards. And while this meant nothing to Coxton (for he knew, he was a coward and worse if not for the reasons Ritter thought, he was dung), Ezekiel had been gravely wounded by this and Coxton could not help but feel the deepest knife of sorrow twist in his heart for the man. For that fateful night in the inn, where they held council alone in the common room, in the shadows where candlelight had shown only their faces and where disagreement had spilled over into shouts and ire, Coxton had seen one thing quite clearly. Ritter loved the stories more than he loved Ezekiel. He thought more of GLORY and HONOR than he did of his boon companion. Ezekiel had seen it as well, and he thought the man¡¯s heart had been broken by it.


    He could do nothing but watch as the two were driven apart, and all for Ritter¡¯s foolish pride, and for what? Ezekiel holed himself up in the manor that he had taken as a home, so near across the waters of Nust Drim that it could be seen, but impossibly far, as certainly none could approach it without his knowledge and consent. And Ritter, what did Ritter do, anyway, when he had realized that neither Coxton nor Zeke would be going with him on his fool romantic quest, what did he do? Did he sally forth alone? No, he remained in Silverfish, and he would walk down to the shore of the great lake and stare out at the manor, stare at it for hours, and he would come back bitter and sharpen his sword and mutter to himself about going but he would not go, he would never go without Zeke and he would never apologize, either. And Coxton would stay with him, stay with him in one of the rooms of his inn which was empty even in those days, until the day when Hell visited Silverfish, too.


    For the wizard came.


    Coxton had been sure he was in the midst of a nightmare, the day he had spotted, from a distance, the butcher of Durnholde walking down through the road that stretched out from the One-Road Wood, through Cross-on-Green and into Silverfish, and then certain that he must be mistaken. Part of him had thought, had hoped, that the wizard had died in Durnholde; they had victory there, as bitter and untrue a victory that had been, and in the end the city had been fully encircled. But he had dared, he had dared (even now he could not believe his mad daring) to get closer, and he knew what he had known for the truth even from a distance, it was the wizard, a long leather coat flapping dustily behind his long strides, wild dark hair, and that cunning smile, that bloody smile, the smile of the Queen, the smile he had seen in Durnholde, he had that smile for everyone he had met, and the wizard had come to bring them to the Hells.


    He knew it, and he should have said something. He knew it and he should have screamed, screamed warning, but he was a coward, he was dung, he was worthless, a worm, the gods ought to have thrown his soul into darkness rather than let him walk this earth, he should have listened to Ysonne so he would never have known this final shame. For he had followed, staggering along the street, struck dumb and silent, his mind refusing to believe what his eyes were telling him, watched as the man paid for a boat to bring him and his companions out to Ezekiel¡¯s manor, clutching at his clothes and trying to work a throat that seemed to have seized on him.


    And then the wizard, as he stepped onto the boat, had turned and seen him, that smile was for him, and Coxton had broke, had turned and ran, ran with nothing but the clothes on his back, his mind full of nothing but a frantic white fear that muted all thought, for the wizard had not merely seen him but knew him, the wizard knew him, he knew, and it was like having a needle driven through the deepest part of him, he should never want to be seen by a man such as that, never want to be known, to simply be known by him was to invite the Dark Stranger into his home.


    He had gone to Cross-on-Green at first, but he could not bear to see the faces of other people any more. Everyone must know, he thought; everyone must see his naked wretchedness, must see all that he had done and did not do, and in every face he saw an accusation, in every face he saw the hatred and disgust that he knew he deserved, he was befouled in the deepest way possible and all could tell. And so he had fled there, as well, and went to live in the One-Road Wood, among the ruins that the Hallics had left behind, their waystations and inns that they had once kept for weary travelers, now all fallen to rot. He had not wanted to hear, oh but he had heard, he had heard, for as much as he tried to avoid people he had heard, travelers brought news of what had happened in Silverfish. This was the Hell his cowardice had purchased them, this was the damnation the wizard had brought to them, that he had brought them. He heard later of what happened to Cross-on-Green and he knew, too, that the wizard had done this, he had done it all and just like he had with the Queen, Coxton had let it happen, saying nothing. It was small consolation that the news came too with a herald of the White Queen¡¯s death.


    Ysonne whispered to him again, in those days, and not merely whispered; while he was alone in those woods, she spoke to him, as clear as day, she visited him, if he was not merely going mad; she would come into his home, nude and pale and beautiful with long raven hair, twin black snakes painted into her skin, except that they moved, curling around her legs and arms, and she would speak of such things that would make his soul ache with longing. She said that she loved him as she did all wounded and broken souls, and he had been so long without knowing love, so long knowing only guilt, that the mere thought of that made his knees buckle. She would love him forever, she promised, if only he could summon the courage for suicide; by hanging, or opening his veins, or however it happened, for she was the goddess of merciful death. It was not the Hells that would await him, Old Scratch the Chainmaker would not take his soul, but she. An eternity of unthinking, unfeeling darkness, comfortable unbeing, with her, if only he could prove his dedication and his love to her, and it was such a small thing, wasn¡¯t it, such a small thing she was asking for her love in return and the eternal rest of his soul. And he saw Old Scratch as well, the jailer of the damned, never in his waking hours but in his dreams, his dreams where he was weighed down with searing, burning-hot chains of black iron.


    How he had resisted the call of Ysonne then, even Coxton himself did not know. He harbored no illusions anymore that he might be of some use to someone, to anyone. Perhaps part of him simply wanted to live, and to live his mind must be occupied very much with surviving, here. The world was quiet, now, and travelers few, and to live alone here meant that much of his mind must be occupied much of the time with the simple act of making do for himself. Wells to be cleared, that he might drink; traps to be made, traps to set, catches to skin and cook, skins to stitch into clothes and clothes to be mended, wood to cut for fires that he might not freeze, all the acts of living, and the years of being alone, going months without seeing another human being - he was less now, he knew, than he once was; his mind did not think of many things, but these simpler thoughts were less fertile ground for guilt and pain and darkness. Ysonne¡¯s whispers grew quieter, she visited him less frequently, and eventually she stopped, and his dreams were quiet too; he did not dream at all, he dreamt of nothing.


    And so he had lived until the woods became strange, and he had been driven out of his home by the vulture-men demons, who came to him in the night with their strange screams, tearing open his door; but by then Coxton had honed himself into a fine hunter and had heard them coming, and had slain two of their number, one by bow and one with a knife to the throat before he had fled. He would have gone north, to Congar, where Mother Pris knew him at least; she was one of the few who still traveled the One-Road Wood on occasion, and had made a habit of stopping by to see him when she did (Inhuman she might have been, but Coxton did not care. He barely saw himself as worth of being called human anymore). But he had been harried southwards, south where the fae haunted the woods, he knew, so he had followed the road instead, and eventually came upon Cross-on-Green and, finally, back to Silverfish.


    He had been surprised to find folk still living there. He had been back once or twice, in the years since the green shadows and the long silence of the forest had numbed his thoughts, trading furs for fish, and he thought that certainly they must abandon the place soon. No one could live there, no one could raise a family there, it was doomed. But now all overgrown with black bramble, many of the houses that were left beginning to fall into disrepair, it was barely recognizable. He was likely barely recognizable himself, for that matter. He was not the man he had once been. He gave his warning of demons in the wood to Ritter, and then he had taken up home in one of the houses on the outer edge of the village, cutting away black thorns that had crawled up the door, and disliking that he must take up residence here; already he could feel dark thoughts from long ago worming their way into his head once more.


    He did not want to see or speak to people; he howled, growled and cursed at those who knocked at his door, and he would leave to go into the forest while the moon was still bright in the sky and not return until it had risen again, longing only for the quiet of the woods that he had lost, wondering how he might go back, when he might dare to scout out whether the demons were gone.


    He might have never known that the wizard had come back if he had not returned early, the night before, when his bowstring had snapped (his replacements had all been in his home out in One-Road Wood). He had gone to the Night Fisher Inn to ask Ritter if he might have some, or the materials for the making of one, when the wizard had come storming out of it, cloak fluttering behind him as he went stalking down the streets. Coxton had been struck dumb once more, his mouth going dry. The wizard, his hair was shorter, and the wicked, knowing smile was missing, but there was no mistaking that the face was the same. He had remained there, frozen, until the witch, the pretty girl, had come out of the inn as well and gone chasing after the wizard.


    Coxton had gone back to the house he had claimed, and he had not slept a single moment last night. He had sat in the one creaking old chair that whoever had abandoned this place had left behind, and he sat, staring, at the floorboards.


    Why was this happening? Why had the wizard come back? Had he come to work another dark magic on the village? What more could he possibly do here that he had not already done? But Coxton would not believe in coincidences now, no, no. If Ysonne had spoken to him, perhaps another god had seen fit to grant him mercy. He would have never known about this at all if his bowstring had not snapped, and his bowstring ought not to have snapped - it had been new, and he knew the maintaining of it, and yet it had snapped anyway, drawing him back here just in time to see the wizard. Perhaps Fortune was giving him a chance at redemption. Perhaps the god which governed the toss of the coin had smiled upon him in its silent, serendipitous way. He had failed to stop one smiling butcher, the White Queen, and later had failed again to stop another mad killer, the wizard, when he came to Silverfish. He was being given a third chance to do something now. All the other times when he had failed to do anything, when he had stood by as the blood had spilled, when he had been silent when he ought to have spoken, his great sin knowing the right thing and yet never doing it - he had not escaped his responsibility for these things in the forest, and here it was again.


    If he might do anything, anything worthwhile with his life, it might be to see the wizard dead.


    ===***===


    He had thought so, at least, it had seemed so perfectly clear last night, so right. Fortune must be showing mercy to his damned soul and giving him an opportunity for redemption. It must be so.


    But then came the reality of what it would take, this morning. He had met Ritter out by the stables, tried to explain what must be done, tried to explain his reasoning. But his words had come out all wrong, and the innkeeper had first frowned and then stared at him with wide-eyed alarm, and then told him to stay away from his guests, and would not listen, kept backing away as Coxton plead with him to see reason and why would his damned tongue not work right, why could it only speak well when it spoke of the lying stories, and then when Ritter had turned away from him (he was fleeing, he was fleeing) Coxton had grabbed a shovel and cracked the handle of it over the man¡¯s skull (there was blood, was it too much blood?) and tied him and gagged him and left him unconscious in one of the stalls (or perhaps dying perhaps he had killed him oh please please please no).


    And then he had spotted the witch in the inn¡¯s courtyard and he thought he must kill her, she must be either the wizard¡¯s lover, or apprentice, or perhaps merely a fellow traveler in his dark Art, and if the wizard must die then certainly she must as well. He could not imagine, could not think that the wizard would have a companion who was not as bloodstained as he was. But even as he snuck up behind her, some part of him had struggled, had cried out No! And took hold of his tongue, and before he knew it he was not slitting her throat but rather telling her a story, and in her innocence he had begun to doubt. She was young, young like the men who had died in Durnholde well before their time. What was he doing that he had nearly killed her? How could he have lived with himself if he had let her throat bleed out into the cobblestones? Is this what Fortune had in mind for him?


    These doubts gnawed at him now, even as he crouched in the shadows by the staircase in the common room of the inn, his hand wrapped in a knuckle-white grip around the bone handle of his knife. He could hear, on the floor above him, the sounds of two pairs of footsteps, now - the lighter, gentler ones of the witch, and the heavy dull thud of someone much larger. The footsteps of his doom. He wondered if all those who saw their death coming felt such doubts. It seemed such a cruel thing, to die questioning, to die unknowing. And yet he had seen the long sweep of his life, and it seemed even more cruel that he might die without even the chance to redeem himself. If not for that, why else had he resisted the sweet whispers of Ysonne? Her promised kiss, her promised love, if only he would do what he so desperately wanted to do anyway? Why else had he remained, in this life of woe?


    The footsteps grew louder. They were at the top of the stairs. Coxton coiled himself, every muscle in his body tensed like taut rope. The wizard had wanted to speak to him, so that meant that the grinning bastard knew already that he was there. Why the wizard might want to speak to him, Coxton could not imagine, but he could believe that the wizard might know him personally, though he had only seen the man from a distance. Of course the wizard knew him, because he was a demon in the flesh, he was the arbiter of Coxton¡¯s Hell, he was the shadow that haunted Durnholde and Durnholde haunted him. A voice inside of him wailed that he needed to stop.


    Footsteps descending the stairs. The moment of his death had arrived. He held his breath and remained as still as he possibly could. The world narrowed to a point. All he saw was the foot of the stairs before him. All he saw was the back of the wizard, dark tangled hair, cloak of black glossy fur, as he stepped into view. Just a moment until he cleared the banister. Just a moment until he could strike.


    ¡°Coxton?¡± the witch¡¯s voice called out from somewhere above him, and then he moved.


    He stepped forth as silently as quickly as a snake, with his knife held ready in one hand and the other one outstretched to seize the wizard¡¯s hair. He meant to grip it and pull the man¡¯s head back and cut through his throat in one swift movement. He had tested the floorboards around the bottom of the stairs while the witch had fetched the wizard, knowing which ones creaked and which ones did not. He knew exactly where to step to make no noise. Which was why he thought it was so sickly funny, when it all came to naught because of an absurdity.


    Just at the moment when he reached forward to seize the wizard¡¯s hair down to the scalp, the man¡¯s head pitched forward in a sneeze, and his fingers instead seized only enough to give a painful tug. And then he knew immediately, and for the first time, what age had done to him.


    For though he stepped forward immediately with the knife to plunge it instead into the wizard¡¯s back, between his ribs, to reach his wicked heart, the younger man reacted with a speed that Coxton simply could not have matched. The wizard whirled, and a pair of dark green eyes, questioning eyes, shocked eyes were suddenly staring at him, and Coxton¡¯s knife-hand was tangled in the folds of his flapping cloak, straining vainly to pierce flesh, and a voice inside him screamed for him to look, to look, to look-


    But he could not look, he could not think, his one moment, his one chance for redemption, and why would Fortune have taken it away from him on a whim? Why? So he launched himself forward, tackling the wizard, sending him sprawling across the floor, and the witch was screaming behind him now but he didn¡¯t listen because he was so close, he was so close, this had to be done. He was on top of the wizard now, and a wild fist that seemed to come out of nowhere hit him hard, and he tasted salty blood, and he could feel the strength of the man and knew it was only half a moment before he was thrown off and then it would be all over, all done, he would die and he would die for nothing, his redemption come down to such a thin scrap of time (the voice inside him was screaming in panic for him to stop, stop, stop, stop, stop), and so in the flurry of the man¡¯s limbs around him, flapping cloak and swinging arms, he sought out the throat, the throat, and he pressed his bright blade there and -


    In a single, clear instant, he saw it. He saw the face staring up at him in terror. Saw the blood welling up already around his blade, and knew that it would only be the matter of the slightest push to kill. But he couldn¡¯t. The voice inside him screamed that for the love of his own soul, he could not, and the voice inside was right.


    And that moment¡¯s hesitation was all it took. The wizard threw him off bodily, and the knife went flying from Coxton¡¯s hand as he crashed into a table, the breath driven out of him, and then the wizard - so quick, young men were so quick, so strong, he had once been that quick and strong and true, back before the world had ruined him - the wizard was up with a sword in one hand, and holding the other to his bleeding neck, and the witch was there too, with a dagger, and she did not smile at him any more, no, she looked at him with confusion and terror and it was only right. It didn¡¯t matter anymore, let them both kill him right now, right here, let their cold steel slide into his fevered flesh, he deserved it, he was done. He was a fool, he was a fool, he was a fool.


    He slumped down on the floor, laughing hoarsely, as the wizard and the witch looked on in confused shock. He could not help but laugh. Fortune had led him astray. Perhaps the only merciful god was Ysonne. Was there ever a soul more wretched than he? ¡°You¡¯re not him,¡± he croaked, laughing, hot tears carving a path down his cheeks. ¡°You¡¯re not him, you¡¯re not him, you¡¯re not him.¡± And then he put his face into his hands, and shoulders hitched as his laughter became weeping, and he wept, and wept, and wept.

 A Strange Light, Across the Lake

    Part Three: Into the Black


    <h2 style="text-align: center">18. A Strange Light, Across the Lake</h2>


    The somber darkness of the night, swallowing up the common room of the Night Fisher Inn, was interrupted only by the faint glow of a candle, barely able to fend off the darkness, and the breathing orange embers of Martim¡¯s pipe, flaring to life as the wizard took a pull from it and dying down as he breathed out smoke in a great cloud. He did not bother with his tricks now, not caring if the smoke were rings or not. The wizard was silent, and had been silent for quite some time. And Elyse, sitting across from him, reading by candlelight, had been silent too. Silent, though there was much she wanted to ask of him, but the wizard had been so lost in thought and she herself did not know how to form the questions. She could feel, though, that there was some thread hooked on his heart now, a rope that had snared him and pulled at him, unseen.


    Or perhaps it was simply that the fear and the shock of Coxton¡¯s attack this morning had left her jittery, even now. It had all happened so quickly, and if it were not for the slightest twist of fortune she might have seen Martim¡¯s throat cut before her very eyes. But what had shocked her the most was that she had not seen the danger in Coxton at all. She had been beguiled by his beautiful words, by the lovely way he had of telling a story, even though she had seen the madness in him. She looked across the table, to Martim, to the thin red line across his neck - it was a shallow cut, to be sure, but even the best healing she could work had not been able to close it yet - and then blushed. She had nearly led the wizard to his death in her incaution, and it rankled at her. The wizard had said nothing of it, and she thought he would probably laugh at her if she brought the notion up, but the guilt twisted in her heart just the same.


    But finally, she put aside her uncertainty, and set down her book - tales of the Aurelic empire¡¯s early days, and the Nudmen, that she had looked for among Ritter¡¯s collection after hearing Coxton¡¯s tale - and broke the silence that had stretched between them since dusk. She must know at least one thing. ¡°So,¡± she said. ¡°Your brother was a wizard, as well?¡±


    Martimeos turned his head slowly to stare at her. He could see little of the witch in the candlelight, other than her face and her hands. ¡°Yes,¡± he said simply, but inwardly he grimaced. It was less for the witch - he did not mind so much if she knew, he supposed - but too many others knew that now, too many others whose tongues might flap or whose thoughts might go askew.


    After Coxton had attacked him - Martimeos still shuddered at that, he had been a hair¡¯s breadth from death, and all that had saved him was that a madman had come to his senses just in time - the ruckus had drawn both Minerva and Ren out of their rooms. They had bound the hunter, and gagged him to stop his babbling, but not before learning of where Ritter was. True to Coxton¡¯s word they had found the innkeep tied up in the stable, with quite a nasty split in his scalp. Minerva and Elyse worked their healing with herbcraft and Art on both Ritter¡¯s battered skull and his own injury. The cut across his neck, while in a delicate place and a hair¡¯s breadth from deadly, was superficial, though the witch had insisted on healing it for him, and Minerva had given him a salve as well that would keep it clean.


    Ritter, on the other hand, was in a worse way. The innkeep had regained consciousness by the time they had gone to fetch him from the stable, but the back of his head was drenched in blood, and he was groggy, unfocused, and Minerva had pushed him firmly down into a chair and told him to stay. They had drawn water to boil for bandages, steeped in the heady, thick aromas of various leaves that Minerva had added, and after wrapping his head in these and Elyse working what Art she could, the apothecary had given the innkeep a tea, examined his eyeballs, and declared that he should be alright.


    It was then that they had turned their attentions to Coxton, bound and mute and weeping, it was then that they had put him to the question, and Martimeos wished they hadn¡¯t. He was glad that the questioning happened, but he wished that he might have interrogated the man alone. For once they had ungagged the man and he had babbled out his apologies, once his feverish and half-mad words had calmed and slowed, there was truth in Coxton¡¯s words, and useful truth too, but the way he had painted and shaded the truth had not been to Martimeos¡¯ liking at all.


    They had listened to Coxton¡¯s blubbering tale, his explanation for why he had come to them with murder in his heart, and in it were the answers that Martimeos had been looking for. For Coxton had been at Durnholde during the bloody siege, had seen his brother there, and then later had seen his brother come to Silverfish - and so the Dolmec had spoken true, his brother had come here in years past, when the Queen¡¯s War still raged. And he had come here to visit Ezekiel. To Martimeos, that was all that mattered, that was the only useful thing the man had to say, and as far as he was concerned they could have stuffed the gag back in his mouth and jailed the man for attempting to kill him. Or hanged him, that would have been fine too.


    But Coxton could not tell his tale without speaking nonsense, as well, nonsense that made Martimeos¡¯ blood burn, nonsense that got the thorns creeping back into his head.


    ¡°Was he as skilled with the Art as Coxton made him out to be?¡± the witch went on.


    Except, of course, that was not what she was asking. His brother had been very clever and very skilled in the Art. His brother was who had first introduced him to the Art. But however skilled and capable his brother had been, that was not what she was really asking. ¡°If you are asking whether he really made the dead walk in Durnholde,¡± he snapped, and could not keep the anger from his voice, ¡°If he were a necromancer, he never told me. Nor do I think he was the one to curse Silverfish, nor the one to burn down Cross-on-Green.¡± He regretted the anger in his voice, but he had said as much already to Minerva, and Ritter, and Ren. It was nonsense, the ravings of a broken madman, and he hoped that they saw it for what it was.


    He had no doubt that his brother might have put Coxton and his fellow slaves to the Queen through suffering in Durnholde, in fact, he took a certain amount of pride in that. And he had no doubt that the dead walked there, too. He had been to Durnholde, and even to this day the very bones of the earth there were haunted; in a place of so much death, it was not unusual for the world to grow thin, for ghosts and spirits to arise as the Lands of Death grew close. But, clearly, the man had left the pit that the city had become cracked in the head. They knew already that the Queensmen were responsible for burning down Cross-on-Green for certain, that to claim it was his brother was a lie. And they already had the oddity of people spotting Ezekiel¡¯s ghost when the children had gone disappearing. But it was the dangerous sort of lie, the sort of lie that might get them caught in a noose. He thought that Minerva had believed him, and Ren, well, the thief was not even of Silverfish, and he doubted whether the lad cared all that much besides.


    Ritter might have been a problem. But the man had stared at Coxton for a long time, a very long time, as Martimeos had given his explanation. In the end, the innkeep had quietly said that he thought Martimeos had the right of it. Truth be told, Martimeos almost grudgingly admired the old mercenary for it. Ritter wanted to believe otherwise; Martimeos could tell by the man¡¯s eyes that he wanted to believe something that absolved his friend of responsibility for the curse, something to cling to. And yet the man had the heart to admit to himself the hard truth. Perhaps the long years had helped him in admitting it. Either way, Ritter would not throw his belief after the word of a madman (And Coxton, in his babbling and sobbing, was clearly mad), no matter how much he might like to, no matter how much he may not care for Martimeos personally. He may have been the White Queen¡¯s slave, in the past, but he had some sense and honor to him. Still, Martimeos could not help but wonder what doubts the man harbored. It would go very poorly for them, he thought, if Ritter began to take Coxton at his word, insane though it might be.


    Elyse shook her head at Martim¡¯s answer. That hadn¡¯t been what she had meant at all. She could understand the wizard¡¯s anger, though, or at least she thought she could. Coxton had been scourged in Durnholde by Martim¡¯s brother, that was clear, but she did not know that she had much pity for the man¡¯s weeping herself. Wasn¡¯t that just what war was, and how could he expect any less, when it was clear the White Queen had driven people to starvation and freezing when it suited her? Whatever had happened in Durnholde, it had stained him, and he could not bring his mind away from it, seeing echoes of it everywhere. But some of the things he had described seemed the acts of one very mighty in the Art indeed - flame which came alive, which burnt quickly through flesh, and engulfed entire buildings of stone, turning them into ovens; or shadows into which people walked and never returned, nights where the man next to you screamed and disappeared, torn away by something unseen. There were tales of mighty works of Art, of course, in the days of Old Aurelia, or in other stories, but so often it had seemed that these must certainly be some boasting on the part of the author or whoever told the story, and always they were told of days so long ago. But Martim had not contradicted anything Coxton had said, and it made her wonder. ¡°I believe you in that, wizard,¡± she told him. ¡°But was he the one who mended you?¡±


    Martimeos gave a start at the witch¡¯s question, and knew immediately that even this had given something away to her, given her an answer. He looked closely at Elyse once more. He could not tell what she was thinking. Candleflame danced in her eyes. ¡°He saved my life,¡± he replied eventually. ¡°He did not do it alone, but I think without him, it might not have been done at all.¡± Foolish wizard, telling your secrets to a pretty girl.


    She reached out suddenly, and grabbed his free hand, the skin of her hands so warm against his, she herself so very warm, as she always was. He felt the familiar tingle of the Art as she closed her eyes, and he knew then that she was listening to the Red Song, the song of life in his veins, what he still could not hear. Feeling, he knew, along the wound in his back, tracing along that worming scar. She opened her eyes again and stared at him very intently. ¡°He must have been very powerful, indeed,¡± she murmured. ¡°He worked a wonder in you, I think.¡±


    ¡°Well, perhaps it is not all as wonderful as you suppose. After all, you have much to learn in healing yourself.¡±


    The witch gave him a very frank stare, and then she actually laughed, and her laugh was such that he could not stop his lips from twitching into a smile too. ¡°If I were a simple bricklayer,¡± she told him, ¡°I might not know how to build it alone, but I think I would recognize a building as a wonder if it stood as tall as a tenday¡¯s walk was long. Such is it here.¡± She paused, and then the laughter was gone, and she seemed more serious. ¡°Do you really mean to go?¡± She did not let go of his hand.


    He knew what she meant. Did he really mean to go to the manor. To row across the murky waters of Nust Drim and visit Ezekiel¡¯s home, where a mage much more learned than them - or, at least, what remained of him - resided. He knew the danger of it, but he also did not see any way around it. That was where he would find answers about where his brother had gone. He was sure of it. ¡°Let us see what Ritter has promised us, and then I might know my path better,¡± he told her.


    She nodded, but he thought she must know as well that now there was only one path forward. He could almost feel it, the Art whispered it to him, and he thought too that she must feel it as well. Some named Fortune as a god of the Art as well as chance and luck, and perhaps this was true, for what he could feel in the Art was a serendipity that had led him here. If Coxton had not fled from his home, he probably would have been murdered by the man in the woods, and that would have been the end of the path. What he cursed as bad luck had been Fortune smiling upon him. He was not a godly man, but it would be foolish to scorn the love of one, as strange a god as Fortune might be.


    ===***===


    What Ritter had promised them was to see a glimpse of Zeke¡¯s ghost, so that they might know what it was, and perhaps see with the eyes of a witch or a wizard what normal folk might not.


    The day after they had listened to Coxton¡¯s meandering tale (and after they had locked the man in Ritter¡¯s cellar, which contained a small room that served as gaol, for what few prisoners the village might have had to deal with back when Silverfish still lived and breathed), Martimeos had declared his desire to visit the manor. Minerva was unabashed in her delight for this idea, nodding and smiling, and it was clear the old apothecary clearly thought that a wizard and a witch out on the island might do well for the village. Ritter, however, had urged caution.


    The innkeep, having recovered somewhat from Coxton splitting his scalp, had seemed wearily resolved to the idea that they knew everything, now. Martimeos even found himself having some pity for the man. If he was as close to Ezekiel as both Minerva and Coxton said¡­it was a hard thing, Martimeos knew, to lose a friend, and it must be harder still to see him blamed for such monstrous crimes, and still force yourself to admit the truth even when another offered you an excuse. And it was hard to keep your contempt for a man who seemed to have genuine concern over whether you lived or died, though Martimeos knew that, probably, the innkeep¡¯s concern was more for Elyse than it was for him.


    ¡°D¡¯you want to get them killed?¡± the innkeep had snapped at Minerva¡¯s approving murmurs. ¡°Remember what happened to Valerie, and all those fools who rowed out there with her?¡± Martimeos certainly could - the image of Valerie¡¯s scarred and Art-carved face, looking more like one of the dead than the living, stood large in his mind, and her snapping, cracking, bloody end. He had no wish to end up like that.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you try barking at me, Ritter,¡± Minerva snapped right back, her hands on her hips. ¡°I¡¯m not one of your old soldiers. Don¡¯t you think that, knowing the Art as they do, they might be able to do something?¡±


    Ritter had merely rolled his eyes and snorted. ¡°They are too young for such, woman. Wizards and witches are not born with the Art in their blood. And I do not want any more death!¡± This last came as a strangled yell, and the innkeep had blinked in surprise, as if he had not meant to be so loud. ¡°I do not want any more death,¡± he repeated, quietly.


    And yet, for all of the danger, Martimeos was intrigued. Others seemed to have accepted that it really was Ezekiel who must have been responsible for the disappearances of the children, and to him it seemed likely, as well. And yet what had happened to the man? For Martimeos, he wagered it was something to do with the relics of the Art that supposedly lay beneath the manor. The tale of seeing his ghost, and the disappearances, the deaths, the scarring of Valerie¡­ ¡°Is there anything else known of the man? Of Ezekiel? Of what happened to him, or anything, really? Even the slightest detail may be important.¡±


    And Ritter, reluctantly, had told him. Zeke, he said, could be seen some nights, from this shore of Nust Drim. The spirit of the mage appeared with some regularity on one of the shores of Rook Island on which the manor stood. ¡°Not dangerous,¡± Ritter had told him. ¡°Or, at least¡­I¡¯ve gone out there, to watch him, from time to time, when the fog was not so thick that it would hide the island entire¡­¡±


    So they spent an idle few days waiting, waiting for the time that Ritter said that Zeke might appear. Flit offered that he might fly to the island and see what was there himself, but Martimeos had forbidden him from doing that before, and he was glad he had. His worry earlier had been of the fog that lay thick on the lake and came billowing into the village, and the tales he heard from the bargemen that still served to bring trade there from other villages on further shores of the lake; the tales and the cautions they gave sounded grave. Ships lost in the fog, sunk, men drowned if they swam out too far, and he wondered now whether it was the world growing thin, or something that perhaps Zeke himself was working. He had only let his familiar fly such that he could see both shores at once, and never have one out of sight, and with this the cardinal could report back only little more than Martimeos could see with his own eyes; there was a family of crows that lived on the island, apparently, and a duck nesting grounds on the other side that seemed long abandoned. He was glad for his caution, now, knowing that it was not merely the fog that they had to worry about, but a wizard of some power too, or what remained of him anyway. If Flit had drawn close to the island, and if Ezekiel had spotted him, as a wizard he would have known a familiar right away.


    He and Elyse spent their time practicing the Art. The witch struggled to learn sigils, and he struggled to know what she was doing wrong. He had started her with the learning of the sigils which he himself had first learned - those which he would inscribe around himself while camping, which would alarm him if someone approached him meaning to do him harm. His old master had called these one of the ¡°Sigils of Intent¡±. And she had the writing of them correct, as far as he could tell, and yet there seemed to be no power in them. When he had first learned their writing, that had been all it took - merely by scribing them, writing them in the correct order, the Art had filled them, blazed within, as if the symbols were the Art. And yet hers were powerless. It must be something in the way they were drawn - a sigil must be made just so, it was not enough to merely have the same symbol, the symbol must be made in the same way - and yet he could not tell what was wrong with what she was doing.


    She was not the only one with frustrations, though, for try as he might he could not hear the song that was the first step in healing with the Art, the red song that she spoke of. He could not hear it in her body, and he could not hear it in his own body; he could not hear it in Cecil or Flit¡¯s body, when he had tried it on them. And some of what she talked of sounded strange, to him, that when she heard the song in herself she could feel so much more than when she didn¡¯t - the very slightest stirring of the air she could sense on her skin, or the most minute shifting of clothing. But Martimeos did not know that he would ever still his mind enough to be able to sense such things. The body was meant to ignore these sort of things, or so it seemed to him - only when something was truly wrong should the body intrude on the mind, as in injury or illness. And so this strange awareness and sensitivity the witch spoke of, he could not grasp, though he would not give up on trying; to heal with the Art was a very useful skill indeed. He wondered whether this was the way his brother had thought of it.


    In glamor and flame they made more progress, even though they did not see eye-to-eye on what they were. Elyse thought of glamor as the dancing and weaving of shadows, while to him it was the trickery of the mind, but even so he found his practice with her sharpened his abilities with it. He could make a crow appear, for a brief time, that could fool Flit, and it became easier to enchant himself such that people¡¯s eyes would pass over him. And the witch did better with the flame, as well, but she said she thought of it as the flames and smoke dancing, and could make a leaf smolder and turn black with her working of it, and set a torchlamp to flaring higher for a brief moment. She seemed to think of much of the Art in terms of song and dance, and there were others, he knew, who thought of it in the same way - wizards or sorceresses who sang the Art into working, and some of these sort would disguise themselves as bard. Which is why it was amusing to him that the witch seemed to have no talent for such things herself. She could not play the flute well, and her singing was discordant, and when he asked if she liked to dance, she told him that actually, growing up in her swamp she had never learned to do so. And then, to his surprise, when he had asked her if she would like to, she had blushed brighter than he had ever seen from her and declined, and then gone to her room shortly after. How could she be so embarrassed by a dance, when she had so casually undressed in front of him? He had meant for nothing more than to show her the steps to a barndance jig.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    It was not as if they did not already dance together, for that was what it was like when they worked the Art with water. They danced together with the Art and with water, a graceful, slow dance as of yet, but he could see already that they might steer it faster, with power. The working of it was strange, though. They brought up a bucket of water to his room, and sitting at the edge of his bed tried to work it with the flute, but it barely responded beyond the tiniest ripple on its surface. The dance within it was small, and he had the sense that they must be small themselves to dance with it, or their work with the Art must be very small and fine, and yet they did not know how to do that. It was much easier instead to dance with larger bodies of water, and so they went away from Silverfish and to the shores of the lake to dance together with it once more, and it was joyful enough that they spent nearly an entire day doing this without seeing where the hours went until twilight gloom came upon them.


    When he was not working at the Art, he was playing at a game of Foxes and Hens with Ren, and though the thief might look young, he was better at the game than Martimeos might have thought, often able to trap the fox when he played as hens, or capturing more than half the hens when he played as the fox. He was more clever than he appeared at first glance in general, Martimeos thought as he watched the child-faced, blond-haired lad move a smooth white stone and capture yet another hen, which made it all the more curious that he had not fled, yet. He had told Elyse that he wished to have someone to travel with to the nearby town of Twin Lamps, and perhaps he had told the truth about that, and was simply hoping that their path might see him there safely. Or perhaps he had other ideas. Martimeos saw how Ren¡¯s eyes followed Elyse across the room, whenever she would walk through, watching and considering.


    The witch, somewhat to Martimeos¡¯ disapproval, had a habit of visiting Coxton down in his little gaol-room in the cellar. ¡°You are right that he is wretched,¡± she told him, when he asked her about it, as she was coming up from the cellar one night, ¡°And yet he does have the tongue for stories, and tells them well.¡± She sighed, and raised the candle she was holding, that it might cast light down into the darkness of the cellar, and frowned down at it. ¡°It is a shame,¡± she murmured sadly, after a moment.


    He snorted. ¡°What is? That he is imprisoned? I am not convinced that if he were let loose that he would not simply try to kill me all over again.¡±


    Elyse gave him a look as if he were being very foolish. ¡°No,¡± she replied. ¡°It is¡­¡± she struggled for a moment, as if she didn¡¯t know how to put what she was trying to say into words. ¡°It is just a shame, is all,¡± she finished weakly. ¡°I think that he might have been a good storyteller, and a happy one. Now, when I talk to him, sometimes he wants to tell stories, and other times he just weeps and says his tongue should be torn out.¡± She glanced at him, and added quietly, ¡°I think it is a shame what this Queen¡¯s War did to folk.¡±


    It was a shame, she was right about that. A black shame that had sunk into the very heart of the land. Martimeos could have some feeling for what the Queen had done to her own folk; he still had the shame in him from when his heart had been hardened and numbed to mercy for them. But one such as Coxton, he could not. He could think of it, for certain. He could hold the idea of Coxton¡¯s suffering in his head, the torment he had been put through, but he could not make himself feel that it was a shame. The children of Silverfish had deserved mercy. Even their parents, though they had taken up a foolish oath to a wicked master, deserved some degree of mercy. Finnel, who had run from the Queen¡¯s service and still lost a child when he returned, he deserved mercy. One such as Coxton, though, a man who had sworn to serve the White Queen for coin, who had seen her bloodiness, had seen her cruelty and stood by and did nothing, he deserved what he got. He deserved to be broken.


    The dreams returned to him now, as well. They were not as bad as they had been before, not so bad that he could not sleep, but they were there, waiting for him, when he laid his head down upon the pillow.


    No shadows now, no distant laughter, no voice that should not be there whispering to him. He dreamed of the maze of black thorns, the ground of fractured shale rock, the starless night sky and the fat, heavy yellow moon, but all was silent now as he moved amongst the thorns. Still, he felt that something was there, as he moved along the endless maze, something was watching him, something was waiting. It was only quiet now because he was close, and drawing closer. And as he walked amongst the tangles of thorns, he could not help but feel as if he was walking someplace familiar, walking home.


    ===***===


    The time came when Ritter told them they might see Ezekiel one night.


    ¡°Now, this might be,¡± he told them, raising a lamp that was a little iron cage for an orange flame, as they gathered outside of the front door of the inn. The shadows of the flame danced over the scene of Churr¡¯s capture of Serafina, and made the Nudman warlord look even more wicked than the carver had shaped him. His head was still wrapped in bandages, but cold blue eyes were sharp again, and he peered out at the night, where the mist drifted around the streets and was illuminated by gentle moonlight. He looked very much like the soldier he had once been. ¡°Fog¡¯s not so bad, but it¡¯s been some time since I¡¯ve gone out to see him myself. But around this time, he¡¯ll be out for a few nights in a row.¡± He looked back, and then frowned. ¡°This is going to be a bit of a walk. We¡¯ll be back late.¡±


    He was talking to Minerva, Elyse knew. She had thought, at first, that it would be just her and Martim going out to witness what Ritter had to show them. But Minerva had said she wanted to come along as well, and she stood right next to the youngsters in her dress of thick brown wool, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow at Ritter¡¯s comment. ¡°I probably walk more in a day gathering my herbs or going out to the farms to treat folk¡¯s sick then you do in a year sitting on your bony arse in your inn, Jak Ritter,¡± she snapped. ¡°I¡¯ll walk just fine, don¡¯t you worry.¡± Elyse barked a laugh, and strained to contain it beneath a grin as Ritter whipped his head around to stare at her. He had asked for quiet. He didn¡¯t want this little procession of theirs attracting eyes as they went out of the village.


    ¡°That¡¯s as may well be,¡± he muttered. ¡°But even a little walk at night¡­well, you know what they say. The land is strange, these days¡­¡± he ran a hand through his short-cropped silver hair, and darted his eyes about. ¡°One-Road Wood isn¡¯t so far away, and there are demons there. And what you told me about the¡­the thing, at Valerie¡¯s farm¡­may she rest in Karilail¡¯s love.¡±


    ¡°And Demesque¡¯s grace,¡± Minerva replied quietly. ¡°I know. I know you want to keep us safe.¡± Ritter gave a start at that, and muttered, touching the sword he had bucked to his hip. ¡°But we¡¯ve got two strapping young men for that, too, and one of them a wizard besides, and a witch-¡±


    ¡°Hush, woman! If someone hears-¡±


    ¡°No one is going to hear,¡± Minerva told him sternly, ¡°Barely two dozen people live here anymore, and they¡¯re all sleeping by now because most of them left are old. And if anyone did hear, and made a fuss, all it would take is some hard words from me and you and they¡¯d step in line.¡±


    Ritter raised his lamp high, to peer at the woman, who merely stared back at him unblinking. ¡°You could have been a sergeant, Minerva,¡± he told her. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s go.¡±


    Most folk might have been sleeping, or otherwise shut in their homes, in this chill autumn night - they could see the orange lights of fires flickering through a number of windows, where folk had hearths blazing - but Ritter still took them out of the village and far away as quickly as possible, rather than walking through it; into the sparse woods and meadows, where they stepped high over tall grass and thorns, and eventually came in a wide arc down to the shores of Nust Drim, which they followed along. It was the same path that Martim had taken when he came out here, and indeed it was not long before they passed by the remains of the fire that he had made when they had bathed together. Elyse gave the wizard a fierce grin, and even in the moonlight she could tell that the memory of it embarrassed him, which was no small source of delight. ¡°Do you know anything of what Ezekiel did, in the manor?¡± the wizard asked, breaking the silence, refusing to look at her. ¡°Did he ever speak of the Art he worked there, or did you ever see anything unusual from him? What crafts of the Art was he skilled at?¡±


    ¡°Eh¡­well¡­¡± Ritter hrrmed a bit, scratching his head, his forehead wrinkling as he concentrated in thought. ¡°I am no expert, you see. I know a bit of what wizardry is, but mostly I saw Zeke working what he called the soldier¡¯s sorceries - fire-making, wound-salving, boot-mending and the like. The drawing forth of water where there was none, or the cleaning of dirty water. A dozen little charms that would keep men marching and happy, where they would have fallen to sickness or become miserable without them. I knew him to do other things on occasion, though. I have seen him make men collapse, unable to rise, though I do not know how he did it - there was no sign of what work he had done. And he could move the tides of Nust Drim when the lake flooded.¡±


    ¡°He never spoke of his work in the manor, though?¡±


    ¡°He did,¡± Ritter conceded, ¡°But I never knew much of what to make of it.¡± Though it was dark and his back to them as he led the way, he seemed obviously and at once reluctant to speak, glancing back at them hesitatingly. ¡°He¡­ah, well, you know what they say of those who work with the Art, as they grow old¡­¡±


    ¡°Certainly,¡± the wizard replied, at the same time Elyse said ¡°I know of a lot of nonsense that folk speak.¡± Ritter glanced back at them, face illuminated by lamplight, quiet and searching, while Minerva¡¯s mouth quirked up in a smile. Martim, for his part, simply frowned at her, then shook his head.


    They both knew what Ritter spoke of. Those who worked with the Art were usually seen as strange, unusual, but how else could those who wandered the lands and were strangers everywhere be seen? But it was more than simple strangeness and wanderlust that came upon you with long years working the Art, it was madness. Or so the legend went. There were many opinions on what this madness actually was. Elyse had read those who claimed that the madness was nothing more than the ignorance of the common folk towards the Art, and that as you delved deeper into its mysteries the more difficult it became for those ignorant of it to know what you spoke of, and that this seemed like madness. And there were the stories of the Mad Mage-King, Alain the Dweomer.


    ¡°I had thought,¡± Ritter went on, ¡°That¡­that maybe, perhaps, the madness was what came on him¡­it was why¡­¡±


    Martim gave her another cautioning look before continuing on. The wizard really did too well at hiding his thoughts from others. She knew that he thought this was all nonsense. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he replied carefully, ¡°though I do not think so myself. The strangeness that comes upon wizards in their grayhair years is not of the sort that would make them a killer where before they had not been. And becoming a spirit is a bit of a step beyond merely getting some gray hairs, I should say. But even if you did not understand, might you tell me what he said?¡±


    Ritter sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, and raised the lamp higher to peer into the shadows, as if afraid that someone might be listening. There was nothing there except the fog curling around the pines, and the luminous glow of the moon softly blurred upon the mirror of the lake. ¡°I don¡¯t remember everything. But I thought of it, much. The things he said. After¡­¡± He fell silent, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, barely above a whisper. ¡°He¡­spoke to me of the Outside,¡± the innkeep replied at last, speaking slowly, dragging every word out of his chest. ¡°He said there were¡­other places. Other worlds. That he could see. That he wanted to reach.¡±


    Martimeos was quiet, on hearing this, and he exchanged a meaningful glance with Elyse. Worlds other than this one. Even in these days, when the world grew thin, and in some places the bounds to the Outside were unraveling, there were many folk who did not know of this. Demons came from the Outside, from these other worlds, and some said to walk too far into the fae-woods was to make your way to another world as well, a world of endless strange forests. But even those who practiced the Art did not know, for certain, the nature of these things, and most folk did not know to distinguish them; like they did not know the Old Powers from Demons, it was a particularity of the craft of the Art. And meddling with such things could be very dangerous. You could not open a door to the Outside without attracting the attention of what lived in the other worlds. Or what lived between them.


    ¡°He had long spoke of this,¡± Ritter went on. ¡°But not long before it all¡­went wrong, it seemed to me he had some new thought on it. He spoke of¡­tuning. I don¡¯t know what he meant by that, but he said he must be tuned, somehow, to the other worlds. He went on about the mind, body, soul and spirit¡­at that point, though, I did not know what he was saying. He seemed excited, though. But then¡­¡± he sighed again, and in it was the weight of all his years. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I did not speak to him for some time before the children began disappearing. I couldn¡¯t know what was on his mind then.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Martimeos said quietly, and said no more. And so then they continued on in silence.


    The woods by the shores of the lake of Nust Drim had a beauty all their own, even when autumn had stripped the leaves from most of the trees and the wind promised that the bite of winter was not long off. Just as the mist had caught the golden light of a sunset and bathed the lake and forest in gold, now it held the silvery light of the moon, and it was an eerie, colder beauty, but beauty all the same. Flit winged above them, at a distance, the silhouette of a bird in the sky darting from tree to tree, when he could be seen in the dark, and Cecil snaked gracefully between the trunks of trees, watching his witch, his eyes catching the light and seeming to glow in the darkness. Dry and brittle undergrowth crunched beneath their boots when they were not passing through patches of pine which suffocated it beneath a blanket of needles. They followed through the remains of a packed dirt path which had been long-disused and which, in spring, would probably disappear beneath the green.


    ¡°It is the same path that children here used to follow,¡± Minerva said sadly, when Elyse questioned who had used it, whose feet had beaten the dirt down hard. ¡°This is where they came to play.¡±Martimeos could almost wish that he did not know the answer. The quiet of the woods seemed heavy, knowing that once it had been broken by the laughter of children who were gone now, who would never live to know adulthood.


    The land sloped upwards, after a time, and they walked up the hill, to the crest of a rocky cliff that dropped down to the waters of Nust Drim below. The cliff was not so far, though, not so far that adventurous youth would not dare each other to jump off it, and Martimeos thought that was exactly what the children of Silverfish must have done. For there were signs, here, that this had once been a favorite spot of theirs. A circle of stones lay in the center of it, now half-buried in dirt and leaves, and a nearby oak tree was scored with years of carvings. Some were declarations of young love, others simply a name, or initials, proclaiming ¡®I was here¡¯.


    ¡°There I am,¡± Minerva said softly as she moved towards the tree, running her hands over a part of the bark where the names were faded and old. She bore a wistful expression, and her eyes glimmered for a moment, as if soft tears were held in them, but she did not cry.


    ¡°Who was ¡®Nestor¡¯?¡± Elyse asked, peering at the carvings over Minerva¡¯s shoulder.


    The old apothecary laughed fondly, and the glimmer in her eyes became sharper. ¡°My first love. First husband, too, I suppose. He was a fine man, but didn¡¯t last me very long, I¡¯m afraid. He never lost his love for horse races, and one day his horse stepped in a gopher hole in the middle of one. It broke its leg, and poor Nestor, he broke his neck.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Elyse said, somewhat taken aback by the casual manner in which the old woman spoke. ¡°I¡­did you not love him very much?¡±


    The witch frowned at him as Martimeos coughed noisily into his cloak, but Minerva simply laughed at her question. ¡°I loved him fine, girl. It¡¯s just been many years. And you learn eventually that dying is simply what men do. They¡¯re in love with death.¡±


    ¡°Very wise words,¡± Ritter said dryly. ¡°And from one who would certainly know what¡¯s in a man¡¯s head, and better than any man himself, no doubt.¡± Martimeos snorted, and the innkeep hung his lantern from a branch of the oak. The small circle of its light made the shadows dance as it dangled and swung, and he pointed then out over the lake.


    The shore of Rook Island, on which the manor lay, was not far from this spot, and the moonlight was such that much of the island was visible. The island itself was a hill, with the manor on its peak, and the slope facing them was swept with leafbare oak and maple and patches of green pine, down to a rocky shore. Still, it was dark, and Martim gave the man a dubious look. ¡°Are you saying he will be there? And we¡¯re meant to see him from here?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll be able to see him, wizard,¡± the innkeep replied. ¡°You¡¯ll be able to see him. If he comes, tonight. Now we must wait.¡±


    How long to wait, Ritter did not know. He knew only that if his old friend had not made an appearance by the time the approaching light of day turned the sky gray, then he would not show. The cold was hard, especially on the old ones, who could not conceal shivering now that walking was not keeping their blood up, and so they built a small fire in the circle of stones, but kept their backs to it so they might keep their night eyes, and waited.


    They were not waiting very long.


    It was nothing but a light in the forest, at first, a bluish light of something moving between the trees out on the island, seeming almost like moonlight itself. Ritter spotted it immediately. ¡°There he is,¡± he whispered furiously into the dark silence they had waited in. ¡°There he is. Look, see!¡±


    Martimeos thought at first that perhaps it was a will o¡¯ the wisp, or some other sort of fae-light, as he watched it move a winding path down the slope, only catching glimpses of whatever the light was between the branches of the trees. But eventually, the light moved out from the cover of the forest, moved out to the edge of the shore of the island, and he knew immediately what had happened to Ezekiel and what had happened to Silverfish.


    It was a man. And though the island was some distance out, they could see him clearly in the night, for he glowed like the moon. He cut a tall and slender figure, though they could not see more of him from this distance, and he seemed to walk with a certain grace and dignity of movement. He seemed at times to blur and fade, as if he might dissipate into the mist which surrounded him. Martimeos squinted at the figure. There was something odd about it. Hard to tell, from this distance, but¡­suddenly, he blinked.


    ¡°He is upside down,¡± Martimeos said.


    Upside down, and crooked. His head floated above the rocks on the shore, and his feet hung in the air, treading on some unseen surface that ran at an angle to the actual ground. When the wind blew to them from the island, it carried with it the distant notes of a strange, discordant hum.


    Ritter nodded, and spoke in a whisper that nearly died beneath the wind. ¡°Sharp eyes, wizard. I couldn¡¯t tell, from this distance. I¡¯ve¡­well, I¡¯ve tried rowing out, to get closer. To call out to him.¡±


    ¡°Foolish man!¡± Minerva snapped.


    The innkeep ignored her. ¡°He never responded, though. Like he couldn¡¯t hear me at all.¡±


    Even as they watched, the man walked above the shore, until it seemed as if he must be floating above the water itself. He pointed at something, back at the hill, though what he could be pointing at was unseen to them, and then he moved back, and seemed to climb a set of stairs that none of them could see. For time unknown, the sight of the spirit entranced them, as it seemed to interact with objects unseen, and even at times seemed to speak, gesticulating with its arms, and all the while over the wind a soft and odd chiming hum, like no instrument they could name, was carried to them across the waters. And then, just as soon as he had come, Ezekiel was gone; he was back among the trees, his haunting blue light growing dimmer and dimmer.


    The wind moaned.


    ¡°That¡¯s him,¡± Ritter said again, and now his voice was hoarse, and he wiped his eyes to hide his tears. ¡°That¡¯s him. I got close enough to tell before, it¡¯s him. I don¡¯t know why he¡¯s upside down. I figure that maybe it had something to do with the way he died.¡±


    ¡°I know why,¡± Martimeos said quietly.


    The others turned to look at him, but he barely felt the weight of their eyes. ¡°Well, why, then?¡± Ritter asked after a moment.


    Martimeos shook his head, his expression grim, and turned his back to the island. ¡°He¡¯s not a ghost,¡± he answered. ¡°He¡¯s not even dead. He¡¯s a glimmerling.¡±

 A Most Unusual Wizard

    <h2 style="text-align: center">19. A Most Unusual Wizard</h2>


    ¡°What¡¯s a glimmerling?¡± Minerva asked, huffing, drawing her skirts up around her to travel quicker, as they began their walk back to the village. ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of one of those.¡±


    ¡°Neither have I,¡± Elyse murmured, and Martimeos could feel her eyes upon him, bright with moonlight, wondering, questioning.


    Ritter, though, was quiet, waiting for an answer, simply staring at the wizard. Martimeos walked along, quickly making large strides along the path, lost in thought. A glimmerling; Ezekiel was a glimmerling. He had known it the moment he had seen the man walking upside-down, as he was, known it when he had heard that discordant hum carried to them across the wind. Finally, he spoke. ¡°A glimmerling is...something that can happen when a wizard goes Outside, to another world, and...comes back the wrong way.¡±


    They all digested his words for a moment, but he knew by their silence that he had not explained it well enough. ¡°A passage to Outside¡­.it isn¡¯t just like a door, see,¡± he continued. He drew his sword halfway from its scabbard, and then slammed it home. ¡°The blade, the sheathe is its home. It is shaped for it, it is where it belongs. Such it is with folk and their own world. When you come back, it¡¯s like putting your sword in its sheath. You miss by a bit, and your sword is still going to be in the same general place it should be¡­.but it¡¯s still obviously wrong.¡±


    ¡°So are you saying he¡¯s halfway Outside and halfway here?¡± Elyse asked cautiously, drawing confused and nervous glances from Minerva and Ritter. They did not like that even one of those who knew of the Art might be ignorant of this. Martimeos merely shook his head at her.


    ¡°No. He¡¯s all the way here. He¡¯s just here wrong.¡± He paused for a moment on their path, to look out at the island. No light shone there, now, other than the touch of the moon upon its dead trees and the flat stone of the manor. ¡°And that can be very dangerous.¡±


    He walked again, and fell silent once more, deep in his own thoughts, until he was pulled out of them again. ¡°How is it dangerous, then?¡± Minerva asked him.


    Martimeos puzzled over this for a bit, silent for long enough that Minerva actually asked the question of him again. ¡°Think of it this way,¡± he said finally, though unsure of his words. ¡°You can play your favorite song on the flute. But it¡¯s going to sound very different if you play it on the harp, or the fiddle. And more different still, if you keep the tune, but change the strings.¡± This was drawing blank stares from Minerva and Ritter, though Elyse was nodding thoughtfully. ¡°In the same way, when a glimmerling comes back wrong, it might see the world, changed just a bit from how it actually is. Perhaps the colors of it seem wrong, or it might see the world entirely differently from the way we do. So much that it walks upside down. Or,¡± he added, after a moment, ¡°kidnaps children without even knowing what it¡¯s doing.¡±


    Silence once more. ¡°So,¡± Ritter said, and his voice was tired, tired with defeat, the defeat of someone who had known the truth long ago but could not help but hold out hope, who was now seeing that hope crushed. ¡°So. It really was Ezekiel who was taking those children, is what you¡¯re saying.¡±If you are telling the truth, but those words went unsaid.


    Martimeos might have been of more even temper in another time, but he wanted away from these questions already, wanted the space to think his own thoughts on the matter. There was so much that this all changed. ¡°I¡¯m saying we don¡¯t even know if that¡¯s what he thinks he¡¯s doing,¡± he replied, harshly. ¡°But it would explain why he did it. Ezekiel could have thought he was hunting rabbits. Or fighting bandits. He might think he¡¯s walking along a beach, picking up pretty seashells. But he¡¯d actually be making children disappear.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s awful,¡± Minerva gasped, short of breath in trying to keep up with Martimeos¡¯ strides. ¡°To do such terrible things and not even know you¡¯re doing them.¡±


    Elyse reached forward, and tugged on the wizard¡¯s sleeve. He glanced down at her, frowning, then back at the two old folk falling behind, and slowed his pace. ¡°It is terrible,¡± he agreed grimly, as Minerva caught up to him. ¡°That is why glimmerlings are dangerous.¡± He was quiet for a moment, and then said, ¡°Though this is not the only reason they are dangerous, and I cannot actually say for certain that it is down to him. Where a glimmerling is, there the path has been laid bare for other creatures from other worlds. He might have done nothing, and simply attracted a demon here which did the crime.¡±


    ¡°I know of a few demons who might be interested in children specifically,¡± Elyse muttered beneath her breath. ¡°But I have not sensed them in this place.¡± Martimeos nodded at her. He had not sensed one, either, with the feeling the Art gave them for their presence, the feeling of something wrong and crooked with the world when a demon was nearby. And if one had been in this place for that long, taking children from about the town, then there should have been the feel of it, the stink of it all over the place. Though it was always a possibility. He would know better, once he actually made his way out to the manor. Truth be told, Martimeos did not think it was the case, but if Ritter wanted to chew on hope of Ezekiel¡¯s innocence, why not give the man another avenue other than one that would place the blame at the feet of his brother?


    But this thinking led Ritter to a thought that Martimeos had not expected, though perhaps he should have. ¡°Can he be brought back?¡± Ritter asked quietly. He had stopped walking, and the others turned to him. There was an unmistakable note of longing in his voice.


    ¡°Ritter¡­¡± Minerva¡¯s voice was gentle.


    ¡°You say he¡¯s alive,¡± the innkeep went on, his voice growing stronger. His eyes, strong and clear, stared at Martimeos, and the wizard¡¯s face, cloaked by the shadow of a branch, revealed nothing. ¡°He¡¯s alive, and might not even be the one who¡­who did all this, to the children¡­could we bring him back?¡±


    And, finally, Martimeos saw Ritter for what he was. Not as a mercenary, not as a slave to the White Queen. Not as a potential danger, not as one whose beliefs must be managed delicately to steer clear of trouble. But simply as an old man. A tired, lonely old man.


    He considered his answer, and whether or not to be perfectly honest. ¡°No,¡± he said finally. ¡°Once they are gone, there¡¯s no coming back. The only answer is to kill him.¡±


    ¡°But what if ¡®twas not Zeke who took those children?¡± Ritter protested. ¡°We¡¯d be killing him for no crime. Is there nothing that can be done?¡±


    ¡°There is nothing,¡± Martimeos replied with flat finality. ¡°Even if Ezekiel were not responsible for the children directly, certainly his mere presence here was what spelled their doom, if he attracted a demon. And the longer he is here, the more he attracts attention. Eventually he might draw the eye of things that might do much worse than simply steal children. And think of more than the children; think to your own safety too. Glimmerlings are always dangerous. In the state he''s in, Ezekiel might pluck off your head thinking he was merely picking a flower. No, he must die.¡± He moderated his tone, and he was surprised by the degree of honest sympathy that was in it. ¡°Even if I thought it could be done, I don¡¯t know that you¡¯d want me to do it. I think a man might go mad, learning what he had done without even knowing. What he¡¯d been responsible for.¡±


    Ritter seemed taken aback by this, and for a moment there was a fire in him. He clenched his fist, and set his jaw like one looking for a fight, his face harsh and dangerous in the lamplight. But while the man may have been a soldier in his past, Martimeos was young, tall and broad-shouldered, and knowledgeable in the Art besides. He crossed his arms and stared back, wordlessly, at the innkeep. Ritter stepped back, and then age seemed to rush in on him. His shoulders slumped, and the anger bled out of him into the cold night. ¡°Alright,¡± he said quietly, miserably, speaking into the night, speaking to everyone and no one at all. ¡°You¡¯re right. Of course. Alright.¡± It was impossible to tell in the dark, but Martimeos thought the man might be blushing, ashamed. Well, it was his own fault for acting a fool. Still, he had a little pity for the man.


    ¡°Men,¡± he heard Minerva murmuring disparagingly to herself.


    The rest of their walk back to the village was in silence, then, and Martimeos fell deep into his own thoughts. A glimmerling. It explained much, but it set him ill-at-ease that one might be here. More so than he might be simply from knowing that such a dangerous creature was nearby. The forest passed him by as half-glimpsed shadow and cold silver moonlight. He barely noticed that they were back in the courtyard of the inn until Elyse tugged at his arm again, and he shook his head, staring around, half-surprised to find that they walked among buildings now instead of trees. ¡°Hmm? Yes?¡±


    ¡°I asked if you planned to stand out here all night, wizard,¡± the witch said, giving him a bemused look. Minerva and Ritter still stood nearby as well, watching him carefully. ¡°I think we¡¯d all like to know, as well, what you plan to do now.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Martimeos coughed for a moment, and then drew out his pipe. ¡°Well,¡± he said, as he packed the bowl with a pinch of tobacco, ¡°It seems clear to me. I told you I will be taking a visit to the manor. And if I can kill Ezekiel, I will.¡±


    Minerva was glad to hear that, of course. Obviously she would be. She was disconcertingly like the shattered one, down in Valerie Tuck¡¯s well, in that way. Martimeos did not like that the path he would take would so serve an Old Power. There is a risk in serving the dark powers, demons and powers of this earth alike, his last teacher had told him. Even in chance. They should love to tell you that you must do what you planned to do anyway. They can draw power from just the act of obedience. If Ezekiel had been the one to kidnap the children of Silverfish, if he had been the one Valerie Tuck wished for revenge against, then by killing him Martimeos would be doing just that.


    Ritter was less enthused about this, though. ¡°Zeke was a man of power,¡± the innkeep told him. ¡°Not to insult you, of course, but he was much older and long-studied in the Art. Studied enough so that many came to visit him and learn from him. Could you do it?¡± The doubt in his voice was clear.


    The bowl of his pipe flared into life as Martimeos puffed on it. ¡°I think that I could,¡± he replied. ¡°The fact that he is a glimmerling would make the task easier. A mage is still just a man, and a glimmerling a blind one. If he cannot see the world around him because his eyes see something else, a glimmerling might be killed as simply as walking up and putting your sword in him.¡± Doing so might be serving an Old Power, but he had seen enough. He must go to the manor to find his brother¡¯s trail, and if he could put paid to Ezekiel while he was there, he would. He would not leave behind a glimmerling that would take more children, if he could help it. And not just for the children, but to free Ezekiel as well. No man, he thought, would want to live like that, as a monster, without even knowing it. This, Martimeos told himself. Except he knew it was all foolishness. I would have left tonight if I had been convinced no trace of my brother was to be found. ¡°I will put him down, but in return I ask for the right to claim all that I might find there. No exceptions for sentimentality on your part or the part of anyone in the village, mind you. What I want from his home, no questions or protests.¡±


    ¡°Nothing comes to mind that people might want to keep of his,¡± Minerva replied, but her face was stern. ¡°Other than¡­if you find the remains of¡­¡±


    ¡°I am not a ghoul. I should not want to keep those.¡±


    Ritter was quiet, and then he touched the sword at his hip. ¡°I should like to go with you, then,¡± he said, and there was steel in his voice. ¡°If Zeke must die, then perhaps it would be fitting that I should be the one to put him down.¡±


    The man might be old, Martimeos thought, but he was a former soldier, and he was not so old that he could not swing a sword. But to have him at his back? ¡°I do not think so,¡± Martimeos told him, and raised a hand before the old man could protest. ¡°For a glimmerling such as this, I think the matter is simple. Either we take him by surprise in ambush and kill him, or he will kill us with the Art, and it will not matter how many sword-arms we have with us. It will just mean more death.¡± Though that was not the only reason. His contempt for the innkeep had dulled - he could not really bring himself to say he hated Ritter - but Martimeos still did not trust the man fully. Especially not to put down what was left of his old friend. A moment of hesitation could spell death for them both. ¡°If I do not survive, then I would say that you must flee the village with everyone who will go with you, and leave the rest behind. It is deadly to live next to a glimmerling.¡± Ritter¡¯s face had turned sour as he talked, and the old man looked as if he were about to protest further, and so Martimeos added in, ¡°You have been lucky so far.¡±


    Ritter¡¯s objections, whatever they might have been, were swept away by the outraged squawk this elicited from Minerva. ¡°Lucky!¡± The old apothecary swore beneath her breath. ¡°Lucky to have our children taken away! Lucky to have the ones who fled butchered!¡±


    ¡°Yes, lucky,¡± Martimeos replied, his voice harsh enough to make the old woman fall silent. ¡°It could have been much, much worse. There are demons for whom your torment is sweet nectar, and other dark powers besides, woman. You might have begged for the mercy of death for them, instead. So you must leave if I do not come back. Or how long will it be before someone else like Finnel comes, ignorant of the curse, and another child¡¯s death is on your hands?¡±


    They stood in silence, for a time, in the dark before the inn. Through the window, the curious eyes of King, the inn''s black cat, watched them, two green, wary dots in a patch of featureless black fur. The flame in the black iron lamp held by Ritter cast long, strange shadows into the cobblestone street, and Martimeos stayed staring at them, the embers in the bowl of his pipe glowing fiercely, plumes of smoke billowing from the corners of his mouth.


    ¡°When will you go?¡± Ritter asked, finally.


    Martimeos bit down on the stem of his pipe hard, but he swallowed his anger and decided to ignore that they had not assured him of what he demanded. He blew smoke into the air, then coughed. ¡°Tomorrow,¡± he said. ¡°I intend to be done with my business tomorrow.¡± And done with this place. I will tarry here no longer once I¡¯ve found my trail. ¡°I will need a rowboat of my own.¡±


    Elyse remained uncharacteristically quiet as Martim made plans with Minerva and Ritter, plucking at one of the sleeves of her robes, watching the conversation with large, curious eyes. The two villagers said their goodbyes, eventually, with Minerva going back now to her home and shop, and Ritter stepping inside the inn, but Martimeos did not join them. He drew his cloak about him, and stepped off into the night, looking down at the ground, his eyes not seeing her as she followed him, too wrapped in his own thoughts. He walked down the cobbled streets to the pier, where the moonlight reflected off the calm waters of the lake, ice just beginning to form at its banks, puffing still at his pipe, lost in thought. Elyse stood just a bit behind him as he blew smoke rings into the air and caught the silver moonlight much as the mist did, watching him as he stared out at Rook Island, out at the manor that squatted upon the hilltop there. Finally, she said, ¡°Martimeos.¡±


    Martim gave a small jump, then glanced backward at her, as if surprised to find she was here. He frowned as embers spilled out of the pipe in his surprise, and batted glowing orange crumbs away from his cloak in small showers of sparks. ¡°You startled me,¡± he said, giving her an accusatory look, as if she had done anything other than simply walk behind him. ¡°I thought you¡¯d be in the inn. What is it?¡±If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    She felt irritation flare inside her. What was it? He must have been being deliberately obtuse. ¡°How is it that you know so much of these...glimmerlings?¡± she asked quietly. ¡°I have never even heard of them. And my mother was no stranger to the Outside.¡±


    ¡°¡¯Tis not so surprising. They are rare.¡± The wizard kept his tone light, but he was not looking at her. He was looking out across the lake again. ¡°I simply got my hands on a book which spoke of them.¡± He truly must have been lost in thought, because the lie on his tongue could not have been more obvious. She ignored the voice in her head telling her to bite him, and instead reached out and pinched his arm, hard. He yelped, and then glared at her.


    ¡°You are lying to me,¡± she said softly, once she had his attention again. ¡°Didn¡¯t you ever learn not to lie to a witch?¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t you ever learn not to draw the ire of a wizard?¡± he snapped in return, rubbing his arm.


    Elyse laughed derisively at him. ¡°Go on then, mighty wizard. Set me ablaze or make me vanish in a puff of smoke. Turn me to stone. Show me that wizard¡¯s wrath.¡± Sometimes it seemed to her that Martim must lie or keep secrets on sheer general principle. And it plucked her ire now more than ever. And yet what reason do you have to spite him keeping secrets from you, a little voice inside her whispered. When you keep such important ones from him? She gave a start at that errant thought, and guilt nearly drowned her anger.


    Martim did not notice her expression change, though. He hemmed and hawed, chewing on the stem of his pipe, staring at her. But eventually, his frown turned into a bashful grin. Look how he trusts you, the voice in Elyse¡¯s head stabbed at her. More secrets you¡¯ve wrestled from him, all while not giving up any of your own. ¡°Alright,¡± he told her. ¡°Just so you know, I was not lying about the book. But I have...seen a glimmerling before.¡±


    Elyse tried to strangle the voice in her head, to stuff it back down into the dark back of her mind, where it could hide until later, until she tried to sleep, when it could come out with its sharp needles to poke at her skull. Martim did not mind telling her! He wanted to tell, look at that beautiful smile. Why should she mind that he spilled secrets when he wanted to spill them? ¡°When?¡±


    Something about his smile changed, and he seemed to look inward, quiet for a long moment. He glanced back towards the lake, thoughtfully watching some ripples spreading across its mirror-like surface from where some creature had disturbed it some distance out from the pier. He was strangely quiet, and Elyse had begun to wonder if he was actually going to answer her when he turned back to her and spoke again.


    ¡°My brother,¡± he said eventually, softly, ¡°had a knack for stepping Outside. And sometimes he would come back as a¡­as a glimmerling.¡±


    Elyse stared at him, not comprehending. ¡°What do you mean? How did he do this?¡±


    But Martim merely shrugged at her, and gave her an apologetic, sad smile. ¡°I do not know. He never taught me the secret. But he could step through a door, and simply be gone, or sometimes simply go down a path some ways¡­I only know that he said it was possible so long as none watched him do it, though I could never understand the reasons he gave for why. He said that being watched pinned him to this world, somehow.¡± What he was saying was stunning. Was the wizard lying? Was he lying to her again¡­? But she did not think that he was. He was only watching her, the moon in his eyes, waiting to see what she said. But what he was saying was very, very strange indeed. He must have seen the skepticism in her face, because he gave a wry laugh. ¡°Here I am, a fool giving my secrets up to a pretty girl, and she does not even believe me.¡±


    But Elyse merely continued to stare.


    Her mother had consorted with demons, and knew the summoning of them, and while Elyse had only ever assisted her mother in her dark rituals, she knew the doing of what it took to draw something from another world to this one. Where the world grew thin, you might step from one to another, if you knew how to see it; or to bring a demon to this world, you might offer up a sacrifice. To give up something from your world that the demon might understand, that it would consume in its crossing. But always was this done with great difficulty and danger, and never as a small or trivial matter, never as simple as walking through a door. ¡°Where did he go¡­?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Many places.¡± Martim glanced back over his shoulder once more, and his hands dipped into his pocket to refill his pipe with tobacco. ¡°Many places. Sometimes, he would speak of worlds that were close reflections of this one, with only small differences. An old barn that had remained standing against the test of time in our world might be collapsed in another. Others¡­¡± he fumbled a bit with his pipe, muttering under his breath. His hands seemed clumsy, and he did not continue until he had it firmly lit and was puffing away at it. ¡°Others,¡± he said finally, ¡°Others, he said, were stranger. Full of peoples who did not speak any language we knew. Some were simply empty.¡±


    Stranger and stranger. She had heard of worlds such as these, in reading; she had read letters of witches and wizards who spoke of such things. The Land of Mirrors was meant to be another such world, a Land you looked into when you looked at your own reflection, and which was very similar to our own. But her mother, she had known of the demon worlds, where the Outsiders dwelt, from where dark powers came. Not of worlds which were so close to her own. ¡°Did he ever take you with him?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± the wizard lied, but with much more skill than he had lied before. ¡°I was much too young, before he left. He did not want to put me in danger. I merely waited for him in this world.¡± She was sure it was a lie, but she was in her guilt, and she let him have that one.


    ¡°And you say that he came back as¡­as these glimmerlings¡­?¡±


    ¡°He did, yes. But never as a very¡­crooked one,¡± the wizard added quickly. ¡°If you understand my meaning. Perhaps how crooked you come back depends on the world which you visit. If it is very similar to ours, perhaps you cannot come back so crooked at all.¡± Elyse looked out, across the lake, at the manor, and he added, ¡°Never¡­never like that. He was never so crooked that he hurt anyone. And we thought it harmless, because he knew how to fix it. He could make himself see the world right again.¡± She turned her attention back to the wizard as he stepped closer to her. He had lied, then, to Ritter, and with ease. A glimmerling might indeed be fixed. She wanted to think of this, but he held her eyes with his own, dark in the night and full of the moon, and he was close enough now that she had to look up to see his face. And there was something about him, and the night, and the dark of the forest which surrounded them, something was there that felt familiar, but she could not think of what it was, just at the edge of her thoughts..


    ¡°While he was a glimmerling,¡± the wizard went on, and it felt almost as if he were whispering in her ear rather than speaking to her, as if the night wrapped around them and left them alone, ¡°he still saw the world as it was¡­mostly. He could only ever tell me what he saw. Sometimes he said the world was full of colors that he did not think he had ever seen. Sometimes he saw the dead walking among the living, and interacting with the world as if they still were alive. One time he came back and he said he could see, in the distance, a strange city, with thousands of lights everywhere, with towers of gleaming metal, impossibly tall. One time he came back and he said Flit spoke with my voice, and I with his.¡± Martimeos chuckled, lost in memory.


    He did not know why he was telling this to the witch. He had never spoken of this to anyone. Normal folk would not understand, and any who practiced the Art would think he was lying. His last teacher, the gruff and drunken wizard who had come to Pike¡¯s Green to teach him once his brother had left for the Queen¡¯s War, even he had thought that Martimeos was lying at first, and Martimeos had nothing he could to do prove himself. His brother had taken his secrets with him away to the war. But some part of him wanted someone to know, wanted that it should be said, this thing, this marvel was done, and a part of him that flew with laughter through his blood said that this was a secret that should be told and believed. And he thought now that Elyse believed him. She looked up at him, silent in the dark, eyes wide with awe, and the laughing shadow in him said that was as it should be.


    ¡°Your brother must have been a most unusual wizard to travel so easily back and forth to the Outside,¡± she whispered to him.


    He had been. He was. But he knew that was not right, no. No matter how grand it had been, when he was younger, to learn from his brother. ¡°He was a fool.¡± Sighing, Martimeos stepped back from her, and all at once the laughter in his blood stopped. The witch shook her head, as if to clear it. It had been grand. The grand adventures of foolish and ignorant children. ¡°We both were. We did not know the dangers. It...¡± he paused, blowing smoke, the clouds swirling into strange shapes in the pale moonlight. ¡°We were lucky. The Traveling Folk came to our village, and carried with them a collection of books. One an Aurelic treatise on the Art, and the craft of crossing between worlds. Seldom-scribed, I am certain, and for many, forgotten, but my brother, he¡­purchased it, out of curiosity. It was from there that we learned what a glimmerling was.¡±


    ¡°Do you still have the book?¡±


    Martimeos looked at her for a long moment, then looked away. ¡°No,¡± he said. ¡°It was burnt. And a very poor thing that it was, too. It may be that there was no other copy of it. But it served a purpose to correct our foolishness, for there were tales of glimmerlings in there to chill your blood. Even the least of glimmerlings ended in tragedy. In one tale, there was a man who passed through where the world was thin, and came back only slightly wrong. He could¡­.see poetry, you might say. When he looked in his wife¡¯s eyes, he saw stars. When someone was sad, he saw rainclouds above their head. People thought it was romantic. Until he buried his infant son alive, outside of town.¡± Martimeos felt his jaw clench. Funny that words might have had such an effect on him, but the author of the Aurelic text (a wizard, centuries dead, named Nivard) had been quite skilled at getting his point across, and he could still remember the dread he had felt as he turned the pages, or the sickening feeling in his stomach when he came to the end. ¡°When he looked at his son, you see, he saw the greatest treasure he could ever imagine. And he didn¡¯t want anyone to take it from him. It was the happiest ending for a glimmerling in the entire book.¡±


    Silence fell between them, and Martimeos could not help but look out over the ruins of Silverfish. The empty homes, all dark in the night, overgrown with thorns, candles lighting the windows of only a select few. An inn that would never be full again. And all the children gone, caught between a glimmerling and the White Queen¡¯s murderous ambition. The idea that he had once foolishly, ignorantly dabbled in powers that might have led to such calamity was enough to make him feel weak-kneed.


    He was lifted from his contemplation, however, by the voice of the witch. ¡°Why did you speak as if you were going alone to face the glimmerling?" she asked, her voice suspiciously light-hearted. "Do you not suppose you might need my aid?¡±


    Immediately, his thoughts stopped drifting and focused on Elyse. He knew that tone. It was a very odd one, but he knew it. In his experience, it was used by women when they were upset at you, and immediately it let you know that they were upset, but they for whatever reason wanted to pretend that they were not. His father knew how to deal with that tone; his mother had used it on occasion, but his father somehow would know just the right things to say to have her laughing and smiling within a few moments. Martimeos had not yet unlocked the secret of this before he had left home, and so he was more cautious. ¡°It is as I told Ritter,¡± he said slowly, tapping out his spent pipe and tucking it back into his pocket. ¡°Either I take Ezekiel unawares before he can work the Art, or he will kill me and anyone with me. He is very likely blind, and I am confident it can be done. But more people coming along would just mean more people dying if I fail.¡±


    But it was as if Elyse had not listened to a word he said. She stood with her arms crossed, and her face seemed unreadable, but he could sense the anger in her all the same. ¡°Have I not been useful so far, wizard?¡± she asked him. He nearly stumbled backwards as she reached out, quick as a striking snake, only to delicately trace her fingertips along his throat, where Coxton¡¯s blade had come within a hair¡¯s breadth of killing him, and where a shallow, irritating cut still lingered. ¡°Have I not been a boon companion, and healed your wounds? Or perhaps you think I am too small and delicate for such murderous work.¡±


    Martimeos suppressed an impish urge to immediately reply ''yes'', and she glared at him as if she knew the jab he had been tempted to make. The witch was fairly small, after all. But it was not this that he was worried about. He could not help but think of their travels together thus far. Twice had the witch come to the edge of death; once shortly after they had first met, when he had to carry her away from the pursuing vulture-men demons, and once when Valerie Tuck had very nearly pushed her into the well with the shattered one. It was true that he had come close to death as well, and that she had saved his life, certainly. But he risked his life in the pursuit of his brother, it was his task, his errand. And the truth was that while he thought it would be a good thing to put the glimmerling down, that was the true reason he would visit the manor. He might be tempted by the thought of undoing the curse of Silverfish, and he might also be tempted by what he could find at the manor, but if his brother¡¯s trail had not led there, he doubted he would take the risk. ¡°Certainly not delicate,¡± he managed to say. ¡°Simply that I should not want to risk you.¡±


    The witch arched an eyebrow at him. ¡°What an odd thing to say. You do not risk me at all. Did you think I held no interest in seeing the manor that one of V¨¦reline Valoir¡¯s lovers built for her? Or to see what relics of the Art Ezekiel had interest in, in that place? Or perhaps you want to keep what you may find for yourself.¡±


    He supposed that she indeed might have her own reasons for wanting to visit the manor, though he did think that simply visiting it on the rumor that V¨¦reline had once been there was a foolish reason indeed. But the thought of what he might find there tempted him, as well. Only not enough that it might make the difference. Still, could she not simply listen to reason? ¡°I would share whatever I found,¡± he muttered irritably. ¡°Only that this is a job best for one person.¡±


    ¡°If that is so, then perhaps I should be the one to go. Alone.¡± Elyse replied, her tone mockingly agreeable. ¡°No need to wait until tomorrow. I am not tired, I will go right now. You can stay here. Do not worry, I will share whatever I find.¡± She tossed her long, dark hair defiantly over her shoulder at him, the clumsy ribbons tied in it fluttering, and turned to as if to leave. With a muttered curse, Martimeos reached forward, catching her arm, and the witch looked back at him with dangerous eyes. But with a sly smile upon her face. ¡°Oh? Did you not want me to go alone?¡± she asked, innocently.


    ¡°Fine,¡± Martimeos sighed, releasing her arm. ¡°You may come along if you wish.¡± But the witch¡¯s smile told him that she was not done with him yet. She stood on the pier, her arms crossed, tapping her foot on the worn wood, staring at him. He knew her well enough, by now, that he knew what she wanted to hear. He had insulted her, and now she would not have it any other way. Eventually, he threw his arms up in frustration. ¡°Fine. Fine. Elyse, would you please come along with me?¡±


    The witch made a great show of deeply considering his request. ¡°No,¡± she said finally, then laughed delightedly when Martim growled. ¡°A jest, wizard! You sound like a wolf. Yes, we will both go tomorrow. I should like to see what the home of one so powerful as Ezekiel might look like, even if the manor may not truly be in V¨¦reline¡¯s honor.¡± Suddenly she yawned, stretching until her body shook.


    Her yawn reminded him that he, too, was tired, as he stifled one of his own. ¡°It is perhaps best to get a good night of sleep,¡± he said. ¡°For what tomorrow brings.¡±


    ¡°A good idea, finally,¡± the witch replied, yawning again. ¡°Though, Martim.¡± She grinned sharply, teeth glinting in the moonlight. ¡°If you think of sneaking off without me, tomorrow, the glimmerling will be the least of your worries.¡±


    Martimeos¡¯ eyes widened, and he pushed back the half-forged plans he had already been formulating in his head for making his way to the island without her. Elyse laughed at him, and as they made their way back to the Night Fisher Inn, she continued to glance at him and chuckle, unable to contain her mirth.


    ===***===


    The witch might have been in good spirits for what they might face tomorrow. But as Martimeos came into the courtyard of the Night Fisher inn, as he passed beneath the dead tree in its center, and its lace of thorns, he could not help but feel a foreboding, a sense of something reaching out towards him, and in the dark of the night, he dreamed.


    Surrounded by walls of black thorns, once again, except that now, it was not a maze. The ground sloped beneath him, bare and dusty stone, sloped downwards sharply, and he slipped and fell, scrambling, desperate to find some purchase but failing, as he slid into the tangles of thorns. They pierced him, and no matter how he tried to drag himself out, no matter how he tried to free himself, they only seemed to weave themselves around him even tighter, digging their thorns into his flesh, until they ran red with his blood. And they seemed to be endless, breaking, so that he fell ever downward, downward, down where his blood fell, down into darkness.


    But even so he could not help but struggle, for even as he fell, he knew what was in that darkness that the thorns disappeared into. It should not be there, that voice should not be there, that face should not be there, and yet he knew it was, in the dark, in the thorns, watching him, and soon it began to speak to him.


    ¡°It¡¯s been so long, Martim,¡± it whispered to him from the depths, and he screamed and tried to climb, the thorns slicing open his palms, but there was no escape, and he fell, fell, ripped to tatters, and just as he woke up screaming, drenched in sweat, gasping in his bed, gasping in the dark, the final words it said to him echoed in the back of his mind.


    ¡°I¡¯m so glad I¡¯ll get to see you again.¡±

 In the Dark, Below the Manor

    <h2 style="text-align: center">20. In The Dark, Below The Manor</h2>


    Martimeos wanted to remain as quiet and inconspicuous as they could in reaching the island. The villagers here, they might be broken, beaten down, tired, old, but too much of their suspicion had already been roused with the death of Valerie Tuck, and the news of what had happened to Minerva and Mercy. Already, as of mornings, some would find an excuse to linger outside the Night Fisher Inn, hoping for a glance of the strangers, and Minerva was plagued with questions about them. It would not do for them to see the strangers rowing out to the island, it would not do at all - tongues would wag and rumor would spread. No, if this were done, best that it were done quietly as possible.


    And yet the need for a boat necessitated that they gain the suspicion of at least one other, for Ritter had no boat of his own and would need to borrow one so that Martimeos and Elyse might use it. And the way the innkeep handled this, Martimeos was not at all happy with. For a boat might have been borrowed from a fisherman with a pack of lies. And yet what Ritter chose to do instead was to borrow a boat from Finnel, and not by lies but by telling him exactly what their plans were.


    The thin, broken man had already been in the common room when he and Elyse had woken, and he had greeted them both with a downcast demeanor. He did not like outsiders knowing of the village¡¯s shame either, and to Martimeos, this seemed the most cruel thing of all. Finnel had not sinned, like the others in the village; the man had fled the service of the White Queen, and he had no reason to feel ashamed. Yet he was as broken as the rest of them. It was not long, though, before Finnel¡¯s silence and timidity turned into a crooked smile and glassy eyes and praise for what they were doing. On the one hand, if any deserved to know what their plans were, it might be Finnel, who had not shared in the sins of Silverfish, only to lose his son anyway upon his return. On the other hand, Martimeos did not know that the man could at all be trusted to keep what they were doing a secret. Worse still was that he seemed to be under the delusion that his son might be saved.


    ¡°Oh, I know,¡± he said, still grasping Martimeos¡¯ hand, having clutched it in a handshake upon greeting them and not letting it go. ¡°I know. I know ¡®tis not likely that he is to be returned to me. But still, I think that it might be so. The Lady of Calm Waters, I have prayed to her on this, and she has told me that it might well be that I should see him again.¡±


    Martimeos gave the man an amicable nod and extricated his fingers, and then glowered across the room at Ritter. The innkeep did not see him, setting out a large meal as he was, or perhaps he was simply refusing to look. The innkeep¡¯s objections to the whole plan had started once again when he learned that Elyse planned to go along, and had not stopped until the witch herself had told him to forego the nonsense. Minerva had come this morning too, to see them off, and along with her there was Finnel, Martimeos, Elyse and Ren. With enough people for one full table, it seemed almost like a proper inn. One could even count Coxton, still locked down in the cellar.


    The plan was this: They would depart in the middle of the day, when the fog was at its weakest. Thick mist, in fact, was the only thing that might have caused Martimeos to delay a day. If he could not see the mainland from the shores of the island, and vice versa, he would not go. But barring this, Finnel would row his boat to a shore from where the village was not visible, and they would sneak out of the village to meet him there. On the shore of the mainland, both Ren and Minerva would take turns keeping a campfire burning all night to serve as a beacon for them. In the best case, they might not even need to be there long enough to burn more than a log or two. Just enough time to kill a man and search his things.


    ¡°I should think we might be able to leave right from the middle of the village itself,¡± Elyse muttered, as she snuck a scrap of cheese off the table to Cecil. ¡°We are doing them a service, are we not? I would not think any of them would object.¡±


    Minerva had brought up this possibility as well, but Martimeos had rejected it out of hand. Folk could be very strange. Hopes raised and then dashed could quickly turn to violence against the ones who had raised them in the first place. It was a possibility that they might find his brother¡¯s trail in the manor but then find themselves unable to kill Ezekiel. What might happen if they came back to a village who they had promised to relieve of their curse, only to leave them? No, best to do this as secretly as possible. In fact, if all went as he wished it and they did manage to kill Ezekiel, the villagers would not even know of it until they had already moved on. Folk could be very strange indeed, and especially so when they had lived with the memories of the sort of terror and barbarism such as had been inflicted upon the people of Silverfish. There was no guarantee that everyone would react with gratitude. Ritter and Finnel had both wanted to wait by the campfire beacon for them, as well, but so wary was Martimeos of rousing suspicion that he said they should remain exactly where they usually were, Ritter in his inn and Finnel in his temple. Minerva, he had only agreed to because she had the excuse that she was usually out and about, foraging for her herbcraft.


    The waiting was not long, but it was nerve-wracking. Martimeos tried to keep his confidence up about him, and to not think of the risk of death. To kill a glimmerling really could be as easy as killing a blind man, only a blind man would not be able to slay you with a word if he somehow puzzled out that you were there. The day was fine, with the fog not so thick, and burned away mostly by mid-morning, and so they set out a bit earlier than they had intended to. They left in pairs, Finnel first, and then himself and Elyse, to be followed by Minerva and Ren a bit after, so that they would not head out all at once in a large group and draw attention to themselves.


    When it came time for them to depart, Ritter had a brisk, businesslike handshake for him. The man was sore about the fact that he was not being taken along, especially now that he knew that Elyse was going to be going with him as well. He had accepted it, with the excuse that she was a witch and that two with the Art were better than one, but it was clear that the man still wished to go. It was a strange thing, or at least Martimeos thought so, to want to be the one to kill a former friend, and yet mercenaries could have a strange sense of honor. And he thought he understood, in a way. For Elyse, though, the innkeep had a warm smile, and a gift of a honey cake wrapped in cloth. ¡°Fortune smile upon you, and Demesque and Karilail shelter you,¡± he said, ostensibly to the both of them, but he was looking mostly at the witch as he said it. ¡°Come back to us alive, the both of you. I know you may not want the village to know of your deeds before you are gone, but I, at least, will have a feast for you upon your return.¡± Not for the first time, Martimeos was grateful for Elyse¡¯s charms, such as they were. He thought he had a much easier time with Ritter than he might otherwise have, because of them.


    And then, they were off.


    The place where they had agreed to meet Finnel, where they were to row out to the island, was the pine barrens where they had bathed, not so long ago. They knew their way there on their own, now. They took off out the back of the inn, to avoid the courtyard and the stares of the few curious folk there, and went out into the woods as quickly as they could. Their familiars followed discreetly, and joined with them after a time; Flit flying down to ride on Martimeos¡¯ shoulder, and Cecil¡¯s paws soft as velvet even on a carpet of dried leaves, making not a sound.


    ¡°So,¡± Elyse said, as they made their way to the meeting spot, once they were truly amongst the woods and the village had disappeared behind them, ¡°Do you really suppose it will be so easy to kill Ezekiel?¡±


    Martimeos looked down at the witch. She had brought with her the fae-stick that he had given her to hobble on, back when she had sprained her ankle while they were still journeying to Silverfish; she carried the knotted branch over her shoulder like a club. Blue ribbons adorned her long dark hair, which was looking much more well-combed than it had when he first met her, and she had gotten better at knotting the ribbons as well, though they were still haphazard. She looked forward as she walked, seeming uncaring, slight color in her cheeks, but she was afraid. He could see it in her unblinking stare, hear it in her voice that she had made sound just a touch too unconcerned.


    It might have been a last opportunity to convince her that she ought to stay behind, but after some deliberation, he did not take it. He thought most likely that she would refuse him still, and it would be better to go into this in harmony than with an argument. ¡°I do,¡± he replied. ¡°There were times that my brother came back where he could barely tell what was going on about him at all.¡± And thank merciful Fortune that he had never seen the world so crooked that he had tried to kill me. ¡°Even a wizard with all his wits about him might be struck down in ambush.¡± He touched his hand to the sword at his hip, and to the crossbow slung across his back. He might have wished for a larger one; his was good for hunting, but it was small and not so powerful at a distance. He knew the use of bow and sling as well, and had borrowed a sling from Ritter, and carried a pouch of heavy stones to use as bullets, but as far as bows went the innkeep had only had one which had not seen use in years and which would no longer shoot true.


    He tried to keep his mind on the minutiae of his preparations, and to not think about his answer to the witch so much. He tried not to think about his dream. Tried not to think about whether it was a simple nightmare or whether it held some truth to it. It did not matter, either way. He could not shy away from this now. He had to find his brother¡¯s trail. That pulled at him just as certainly as the Art itself had pulled him onto the road.


    And that pull seemed to reach through time, to pull him along through that as well, so that the moments now seemed to pass too quickly. They arrived at the meeting place, and it seemed only moments before they found Finnel approaching them along the banks of the river, his boat cutting a path through the mist that hung on the surface of the lake, his oars dipping quietly and smoothly into the waters. He greeted them with the same enthusiasm he had earlier this morning, and stared in open wonder at their familiars. It was one thing for the man to know that they worked with the Art, he supposed, and another thing entirely to see with his own eyes the reality of that.


    It was not long before Ren and Minerva arrived for the keeping of the fire-beacon, as well, and then, before he knew it, his fate gave him another tug, and it was time for them to depart, time for them to row to the island, time for them to know their destiny.


    ¡°I will pray to the Lady of Calm Waters for your return,¡± Finnel told them, as they stood on the gentle shores of the lake, by the grounded rowboat. ¡°She has told me that she will do what she can for you. She is just a little goddess, now, but she will do what she can.¡±


    Who knew whether the man had honestly talked to some goddess or spirit of the lake, or whether he was simply mad, but Martimeos thanked him anyway. And then, while Minerva pulled Elyse aside to speak some quiet words to her, Martimeos spun at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, only to find himself face-to-face with Ren.


    The thief seemed somber, more serious than Martimeos had seen him before; it made his smooth, boyish face seem more adult. ¡°Good luck, wizard,¡± the lad said in a low voice, grasping his hand, and then his blue eyes darted over to Elyse. ¡°Take care of her, will you? See her safely back. It is a man¡¯s duty to do so.¡±


    Of course, the lad had eyes for Elyse. Martimeos had to suppress an urge to laugh. True, he himself had tried to convince the witch that it would be best to remain behind, but he had reasons of his own for this. Still, he could sympathize with Ren. Those who worked the Art gave up their customs, but they lingered, and he had been raised as such as well; to feel a responsibility for women and their safety, in this way. He wondered, though, what the witch might say if he told her this.


    And then it was time. Elyse sat in the rowboat, with Cecil by her feet, and Flit perching on her hair, and the sand of the shore crunched beneath his boots as he pushed the rowboat out, until the cold water of Nust Drim caught the edge of his pants and he hoisted himself in, and when the boat had settled rocking they were floating free.


    He seized the oars to steady them, and turn them towards their destination, towards the island, and took one last look back towards the shore. Finnel and Minerva stood there, waving, the hope etched clearly on their faces, and for a moment, all other considerations aside, Martimeos hoped purely that he might deliver them from the curse, purely for its own sake. Ren did not wave, but rather crouched by the campfire, watching after them, staring.


    He turned back, where Elyse sat across from him, rubbing Cecil¡¯s shaggy stomach as he mewed piteously on the floor of the rowboat. Behind her, the island and the manor loomed.


    He rowed.


    ===***===


    It was not a far distance to go, and not long before they reached the island, Martimeos leaping out of the rowboat to ground it on a shore of coarse and rocky sand, behind an outcropping of brush. When he turned around to look, he could still easily see the campfire on the shore of the mainland, and could even make out the figures standing by it. They could still see him as well, he supposed, and likely still watched, as well.


    They would not be able to watch for long, though. Here, the island sloped upward, quickly, into the cover of a dense forest. Ritter had directed them where best to land, and here a stone-paved path carved into the woods, overgrown now with grass and weeds between its flagstones but still serviceable. He and the witch followed this quickly, deep into the gray shadows of the autumn wood, and left the gently lapping waters of the lake behind.


    They were silent, as they did so. Martimeos carried in his arms his crossbow, loaded with a bolt and ready to fire, as they moved through the woods. The most dangerous situation would be to stumble across the glimmerling unawares right now, but this was unlikely. Even if the creature - for that was how Martimeos thought of it, now, not as a man, but a creature - even if it were not blind, glimmerlings gave away their presence. Ezekiel had glowed like the moon when they had seen him, and a strange, chiming hum had carried to them across the waters of the lake, and such noise would warn them of his approach. They heard nothing of the sort now. Still, they sent their familiars ahead to scout; Cecil to prowl the woods and Flit into the sky, to tell them of anything unusual.


    For even if they did not run across the glimmerling now, their path was not free of danger. A wizard such as Ezekiel might have some manner of protection; sigils laid into the ground and disguised cleverly to catch the unwary foot. And so they advanced slowly, always careful of the ground before them, open to the Art that they might sense any subtle workings of it. Crows cawed raucously at them from the dead branches of the trees around them, and Martimeos wished that he knew the crow-speech, but even Flit did not know how to talk to them. It made him nervous. A crow had been Ezekiel¡¯s familiar, or so Ritter had told him; but it had died long before they came to Silverfish, felled by a bandit¡¯s arrow, and the mage had never taken another familiar. Or, at least, so Ritter had said, but perhaps he would not know. And the blank, staring eyes of the blackbirds weighed down on him.


    And the thorns were here, as well. The blackthorn vines which so plagued the mainland, the ones which Minerva had morbidly named corpseblood, they choked the space between the trees, and curled around branches, and grew across their path, and Martimeos thought once again of his dream as he stepped over them.


    The island was not large, though, and the path led directly to the manor, and so it was not long before its moss-covered walls were looming above them, above the trees. From a distance, it was hard to appreciate the enormity of the place. If the stories were true, it had not been made to be a fortress, but rather to impress a lover, and yet perhaps it was the Hallic style of thick walls that made it seem like one. They seemed solemn and stern; mournful at having been forgotten and abandoned, with their windows bricked over.


    It was then, when the shadows of the manor¡¯s walls touched them, that they discovered their first oddity.


    On the side of the path, a pyramid of bones had been erected, as if making a small shrine. Rib, leg and arm bones were stacked delicately, interlocking with each other, and the top was crowned with a circular arrangement of skulls - some raccoon, some bird, but most unsettlingly of all, three of which were human. Beyond being merely macabre, the shrine made them uneasy to look at ¨C something about how the bones locked with each other did not seem natural. It did not seem right that a collection of bones so varied should fit in with each other so neatly. They could sense nothing of the Art about it, and so they passed on by, unconsciously giving it a wide berth.


    Flit warned them of the next strangeness before they saw it, fluttering down from a treetop to chirp fiercely in Martim¡¯s ear. The wizard''s eyes widened to hear what his familiar was telling him, but he barely had time to be surprised at the message. As they drew close to the manor, they saw that its thick walls enclosed a courtyard, much as the walls of the Night Fisher inn did, though this one was, of course, much larger than the inn¡¯s had been. And right at the entrance to the courtyard, right across their path, was something very peculiar indeed.


    It was a garden of skulls.


    In the dirt that stood on either side of the path and in the path as well, as if they had sunk into the earth and stone itself, were nine skeletal corpses, many of them nothing more than yellowed skulls poking out above the leaves ¨C though some had skeletal hands peeking out above the dirt as well, and one was buried only up to its chest, with his skull toppled forth to lie before him. Dark, empty sockets stared, still and silent. Martimeos told Elyse to stand back, and cautiously circled the area, giving the corpses a wide berth. The pale, cracked bone peeking out of the dark earth made him think absurdly of cabbages. This was sigil work, he was sure of it ¨C but any evidence of the sigil once traced into the ground here had long since faded, its power gone. Cautiously, he stepped into the circle of corpses. When nothing happened, Elyse joined him. ¡°What happened here?¡± she asked, wondrously, prodding at a skull with her foot.


    ¡°A sigil, if I had to guess,¡± Martimeos muttered, eyeing the bones. He remembered what Minerva had told them, about the folk who had come for vengeance againse Ezekiel, Valerie Tuck among them. He supposed they had just discovered what had been their fate. ¡°Any traces of the Art which was scribed in it are gone, but I don¡¯t think it was meant to kill in itself. Perhaps only to trap those who approached within the earth. Though once that had happened...who knows what the glimmerling saw when it looked at them. Or what it did.¡± He grimaced, crouching down to examine a skull. It bore thin, straight lines in the bone in a strange geometrical pattern, the unmistakable sign of a knife having been taken to it. The patterns looked familiar to what he had seen carved into Valerie Tuck¡¯s face. He shuddered.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The courtyard beyond would have been very grand, in its day. The stone paths wove through plots of apple trees, all planted in a row, small orchards, though they seemed dead beyond what autumn would have made them, some collapsed or nothing but withered dry husks which the crows made their homes in. They were choked heavily by the blackthorns, and it seemed they were being choked to death. In the center of the courtyard was a fountain, and in the middle of it, on a stone plinth, was a carved statue of the Lady of Calm Waters. The artisan who made it had been very skilled; her hair floated as if it was underwater, and every scale on her fish-tail had been finely carved. She had the features of a beautiful, even alluring woman, and she looked down on them with a small, kind smile. Martimeos hoped that Finnel had spoken true. She seemed like the kind of goddess that would offer succor and protection, and he would like very much to have it.


    Her beauty was marred, though, by long years of neglect. The water in her fountain¡¯s basin had gone black and brackish, filled with layers of dead leaves. Reeds grew from it, and moss and lichen crawled over the statue and plinth both. Still, interestingly enough, they could both feel the very faint touch of the Art upon the fountain, so long faded that it could not be certain what it was meant to have done, but still there, like a flower which has wilted and dried but still kept its power. It had the touch of water-working upon it, and Martimeos supposed it may have once been enchanted to keep the water flowing and clean.


    Past the courtyard and the smile of the Hallic goddess lay the front entrance to the manor, up a flight of crumbling stone steps, nothing but a gaping portal to darkness. Surely once doors had actually filled the entranceway, but they were gone now; robbed, or rotten, or perhaps chopped into kindling by some scavengers of this place long ago. Martimeos listened hard, standing by the entrance, but he could hear no sound of the glimmerling, and see no light. He called for Flit in the whistles of bird-speech, and at his request his familiar fluttered into that darkness, the feather-soft whispers of his flapping wings echoing off the interior, and he returned after some time saying that he had spotted nothing.


    Unloading his crossbow and letting the tension go out of the string, Martimeos slung it over his shoulder and from his satchel produced two torches, and lit them with the Art. While he focused the flame, Elyse tried to speak to the trees here, but many were dead, and others in the sleep much like death that they would have for the winter. But just as he had both of the torches finally burning, the witch raised a cry, and he hurried to her to find her standing, befuddled, before a very odd tree. It was young, not yet rising above his head, but where the other trees here were either truly dead or leafbare for autumn, this one appeared to be healthy, thriving even. The thorns had not yet strangled it, and most peculiar of all were its leaves, which it had not yet shed at all and which were an almost startling shade of blue. This, however, compared not at all to what the witch told him.


    ¡°There is a child¡¯s soul in this tree,¡± she said.


    Martimeos very nearly dropped the torches he was holding. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°There is a child¡¯s soul in this tree,¡± she repeated, and he saw that she was just as wide-eyed and shocked as he was. ¡°Or, it is the only thing I can think of. It uses the tree-speech, but it does not speak as a tree would, does not speak of the things they would. It¡­it is hard to tell, because tree-speech is not made for saying such things, but I think that it is saying it is a child from the village. From Silverfish.¡±


    ¡°Can it give us a name?¡±


    Elyse merely shook her head. ¡°No. There is much that cannot be said in the speech of trees. Their words are made for the wind, made of the wind; they speak of the land, of seasons, of illness. It is a very rare tree that even knows what a name is, and the ones that do have a name, they are things that cannot be said. The feeling of what it is to have one¡¯s middle branches weighed down by fierce winds, that might be a tree¡¯s name.¡± She laid a pale hand on the odd tree, and shook her head. ¡°This one, it aches to use the tree-tongue as a man might, but it cannot. It says that it came across the waters, and that it is a human child. Of that at least I am certain. Trees do not have words for many animals, but they do have a word for us.¡±


    Martimeos held the torches out away from him; the heat of them was beginning to make him sweat. Flit darted from his shoulder to settle brazenly in the branches of the young blue tree. ¡°How strange,¡± he murmured, unable to take his eyes from it. Ezekiel must have done this, though he could not think of why, and it was no small work of the Art to make another take on a new shape, though the fae were rumored to be very adept at it. He could sense the traces of the Art here, now, though they were nearly gone - the working of this must have taken place long ago. ¡°Can it tell us¡­anything else, really? Anything about Ezekiel? What happened to it? Are there any other children changed as it is?¡±


    Elyse tried to put the questions to the tree, which to Martimeos merely seemed as if she laid her hand upon the bark of it and closed her eyes. But after a while, she shook her head, and drew back. ¡°It does not know what happened to it, or it does not know how to tell. And it has not seen any others. All I can tell for certain is that it says it has not been here for a very long time. Less time than it takes for all the seasons to change.¡±


    ¡°If it has been here for less than a year, then it must be Finnel¡¯s child.¡± This was certainly a surprise. He would have never thought that the sad, emaciated worshiper of the Lady of Calm Waters might have been right that he would see his son again. Though he did not know if Finnel would be so glad to know his child was turned into a tree. ¡°I wonder if this is what he¡¯s done with all the children. Perhaps they are all trees now, and simply planted across the island.¡±


    ¡°One can hope,¡± said the witch. She frowned at Martimeos¡¯ sharp glance. ¡°What? ¡®Tis not a bad life being a tree, I think. A long life of casting shade for travelers. And ¡®tis better than what might have happened to them.¡±


    She was right, he supposed. But the child-turned-tree unnerved him. What strange things must Ezekiel be seeing, that he would do such? Then again, he might be so far gone that he didn¡¯t even know what it was that he did. He thought of Valerie Tuck¡¯s face, and the runes carved there, and traced into the bones of the skulls they found in the corpse-garden. He doubted Ezekiel had known what exactly it was he was doing then, either. Glimmerling that he was, he might do anything now.


    Elyse offered the tree what little comfort she could give, and Martimeos handed her a torch. They returned to the manor¡¯s entrance, and the yawning darkness that awaited them. To their familiars, they gave the task of scout and lookout. It seemed likely to them that the glimmerling may still make its home within the manor itself, and if it were not within at the moment, now was an opportunity to set up an ambush for when it returned. Flit and Cecil would keep watch, ever from a distance, to see if they might spot the glimmerling and whether it was headed towards them. Though even this made Martimeos uneasy. ¡°Be very careful,¡± he told Flit, but he knew that the cardinal was too brave and too proud for its own good.


    They stayed for a while, lingering, watching Cecil slip between the trees, watching Flit disappear into the sky. And then they made their way into the dark.


    The interior of the manor was cold, dusty stone, and the entrance hall so vast that the light of their torch did not reach the walls when they stood in the center of it. The windows of the manor had been filled with brick, perhaps in an attempt to preserve what was within. The brickwork had crumbled away from one small window far above, and from the gap a single bar of white light stretched across the floor, catching the swirls of dust that their passage sent swirling through the air.


    Any furniture or decoration that may have once been here had long since been taken, leaving nothing but the stone, or the occasional stain of rust where metalwork had been, but there were still whispers of the makers of this place left behind. A grand staircase dominated the center of the entrance hall, and the walls were lined with long basins which may have once held water but were now bone-dry. In bas-relief, along one wall and above the basin, was carved the image of men aboard a fat ship with two broad sails, men who wore long, conical caps and full beards, while in the waters they sailed on, women with fish-tails swam alongside.


    Carved on the other wall, a group of these same men clutching spears and long shields faced off against another group of men, pikemen in long feathered hats. Between the two groups, one of the cone-capped men knelt before a king in long flowing robes and a high, pointed crown. And along the bottom of the carving were the words: THE MEN OF HALLIC NUST SWEAR FEALTY AND UNDYING LOYALTY TO THE AURELIC CROWN. Words in another script ran below this, but neither Martimeos or Elyse could read it - it was in another language, perhaps that which the Hallics had spoken long ago, before the Aurelics had conquered them and made their script the official one.


    These stone carvings were well preserved, and might have been perfect, except for that someone or something had scratched out and carved away the faces of the Aurelic King and his pikemen.


    ¡°Who do you suppose did that?¡± Elyse asked, and her whisper, though low, seemed to echo in the empty darkness around them.


    ¡°The Gully Man,¡± Martimeos whispered back to her, although he had no way of knowing. He only thought it might be so. When the Gully Man had brought forth his army of traitors against the Aurelic Crown, many of those who followed him had been servants of the nobles which pledged their allegiance to it, or so the stories went. And where you could find blasphemy against the rule of the Aurelics, even in the heart of their power where it should not be, there you felt the touch of the Gully Man.


    The witch was staring wide-eyed at the relief, holding her torch close to it so that she might see more of the details, but this was not what they were here for. With a tug on her sleeve he pulled her away.


    Ritter had told them of the space Ezekiel took up in the manor, and how to get there. They passed through what was likely once a kitchen, with its grand fireplace taking up most of one corner. Martimeos imagined that he could still smell the ashes from it as he passed it by, though he knew it was centuries dead. And past the kitchen were a set of narrow stairs into a cellar. As he stepped down these, holding his torch high, the witch behind him and peering over his shoulder, he could not help but remember Valerie Tuck¡¯s cellar, the horror that had been waiting for him at the bottom of those steps, and the darkness he was descending into seemed to grow.


    But there was no mutilated madwoman waiting for them at the bottom of these steps, and the cellar here was much larger, meant for the storing of barrels of wine, not the goods of a farmer. There were no barrels here any longer, nothing but empty stone walls, except that, in a corner, they found their first signs that Ezekiel actually lived here.


    It was simple furnishings, just some bare wooden chairs arranged around a small table, such as a humble man might use to entertain guests. It lay nearby a larger iron bowl which served as a hearth, full of ashes and char which had been burnt not so long ago. And also a much fancier upholstered chair made from woolcloth, and draped over with a large wolf pelt. On its cushion lay a book bound in black leather. He held a torch up for light as Elyse delicately leafed through its densely-scribed pages, but the witch merely shook her head after a few moments. ¡°I think it is a book of history,¡± she told him, as she took her own torch back. ¡°I saw words speaking of a siege the Aurelics laid upon a place called the ¡®City of Bells¡¯, and other things I did not understand.¡±


    She made to slip the book into his satchel, but he shook his head.. ¡°Leave it be, for now,¡± he told her. ¡°We do not want to disturb anything in such a way that it might throw off Ezekiel when he comes by here, if indeed he¡¯d be able to tell.¡±


    As Ritter had said, there ought to be another set of stairs in this room. Beneath the manor lay an extensive basement, half-cave, where they had uncovered ancient workings of the Art while laying the foundations for this place. But it was truly dark down here, now, where not even the light from an unblocked window might filter. And so he and Elyse split up to trace along the walls, to find where Ezekiel truly made his home. And so it was that Martimeos stumbled across something that froze his blood.


    In one lonely, cold corner of the cellar lay discarded children¡¯s toys.


    He stopped and stared at these. The orange torchlight revealed them, dancing fitfully over them in the dark. A blocky horse, clumsily carved from wood, and crudely painted. A doll made from stuffed burlap, with hair of rotting straw. A leather ball, and a pair of small wooden swords.


    Uneasiness wormed its way through his stomach. He had heard the tale of what had happened to the children of Silverfish, and he had sympathy for them. But seeing these toys drove the reality home. How awful it must have been for the children, to have been torn from their families by something they could not stop, frightened of every shadow, doomed either way. It angered him to think of the Art used for such perverse purposes.


    ¡°Wizard!¡± Elyse called out from across the cellar. ¡°Over here. I¡¯ve found it.¡± Martimeos merely looked back at her, in her own island of torchlight across the room. ¡°Wizard?¡±


    He glanced back at the toys, and then tore his eyes away. ¡°Coming.¡± He made his way over to the witch, to find her holding her torch over a small stairwell in the wall, down into a darkness even deeper than the one they already stood in, so black it nearly seemed to bubble up out of the stairs.


    ¡°Did you see something?¡± she asked him quietly, as he stood staring down into that dark.


    He glanced at her. Her eyes were very intent on his face. ¡°Nothing,¡± he muttered. ¡°Nothing important.¡±


    He took a deep breath, as if readying himself to dive into cold waters. And then he stepped down, deeper, deeper into the dark.


    ===***===


    Down here, they could feel the Art. They both could. The lingering taste of the Art, far more ancient than what had been used on the fountain in the manor¡¯s courtyard. Their torches revealed what looked to be a cave system, stalactites brushing their head, in places joining together with stalagmites to form large pillars, and the Art seemed to be in all of it, in the stone itself, melting, dripping away, seeping into the earth itself. They could not say what it was used to craft, not even the slightest guess. They could only say that it was old, extremely old. Not as old as the shattered one that Martimeos had talked to in Valerie Tuck¡¯s well - that power, whatever it was, was born deeper in the depths of time than Martimeos had ever conceived. But this was very, very old, and must have been crafted very, very strongly, for it to not have faded away entirely yet.


    And, as they moved cautiously forward, they realized that this was not a cave. Could not be. It ran too straight, too long at the same width the whole way through. It felt more like a hallway than a cave. There were some places where the cave walls were far too smooth, as if they had been carved, and it branched off far too regularly into smaller caves, each of which were just about the same size. As if each was a room connecting to the hallway.


    And beneath it all, beneath the intoxicating and alluring sense of the Art well-crafted and strong, there was something else that set them both on edge. The sense of a demon¡¯s touch. Small and weak, and barely there, but well-settled into this place, like a faded stain that could never be fully washed clean. It was not here, not now, not waiting for them in the dark, but something had unmistakably made this place its home.


    ¡°Perhaps Zeke truly was innocent,¡± Elyse murmured from somewhere behind him. ¡°Perhaps whatever this demon was, it was this that took the children.¡±


    Perhaps. But he did not think that a demon would turn a child into a tree. Even if it might, why would it have lived in the same space as the glimmerling? The more wicked in their strength a demon was, the stronger they might be sensed, the worse the stain they left behind on the world, and what he sensed here did not seem so large or powerful. Curious.


    The sense of the Art grew stronger the further they went into the cave, strong enough that it began to seep into them. When the Art was strong in you, it could seize your heart, lift you, make you giddy, or so it was said. Martimeos could not let himself taste the joy of it here, though. He kept thinking of the sad pile of children¡¯s toys, and it all felt befouled.


    Eventually, they came to where Ezekiel slept.


    It was in one of the small caves which branched off the hallway, and modest. A simple, small bed lay in the corner, a mattress laid on top of a wooden frame and covered in woolen blankets. Martimeos could feel the working of the Art upon those blankets, a very familiar one - the same which he used to keep his cloak warm, faded now, but worked enough that the threads had taken hold of it. A small lectern and a chair stood there, as well, made of dark polished wood, and a sheaf of papers lay on the lectern¡¯s shelf.


    Martimeos leafed through these, quickly, torchlight dancing over the pages. It appeared to be a treatise on the Art. Curiously, many of the pages seemed to be pure gibberish. Not even words, merely gibberish - chaotic scribblings. Though, as he looked at them, he wondered if they might be in another language. Many of the patterns repeated themselves. If they were, they were in no language he knew, using no alphabet he had ever seen. Stranger still, though, was that he could read the pages on top - it was as if the language it was being written in changed partway through. He briefly read through the earliest words.


    ¡°THE FUNDAMENTAL TETRAD or the GOD¡¯S TETRAD is the Mind, Body, Spirit and Soul. It is the general architecture of what makes up the SELF. Of those who work the Art, many are ignorant of this architecture, and its vital importance in some of the crafts they attempt. Those who wound themselves in the working of our craft are often victims of this ignorance. Injuries to the Body are obvious enough, but there are injuries to the Mind, Spirit and Soul done as well. Those struck senseless or afflicted by moroseness or melancholy have wounded themselves in this way. Knowledge of the TETRAD is of particular importance when traveling OUTSIDE. One must align and attune the SELF with the place one travels to, or they risk the destruction of more than merely their Body, but the mutilation of their Soul.¡±


    It went on like this for some time; the script was very dense. And it was not much further in that it became complicated; like many wizards, Ezekiel had his own style of notation, and what he wrote was nearly indecipherable unless you took the time to learn it, which Maritmeos did not have.


    ¡°Very interesting,¡± Elyse said. She had crowded next to him so that she might read along as well, and he quickly jerked his torch back before she could notice that the flames from it had scorched some of her hair. ¡°But what is that mess on the back pages?¡±


    ¡°Yes, very interesting,¡± he agreed. He put the sheaf of papers back where it came from for now. At any other moment, it would have been hard to contain his excitement. Such treatises were rare to come across, and a well-written one could be as useful to the learning of the Art as a good mentor might be. He would have spent all he had, down to the last tin penny, to get his hands on such a script, and considered it a good deal. But right now they were still in danger. ¡°But I have no idea what¡¯s wrong with the rest of the script. Perhaps when I read it, I will find the reason. But for now, let us move on.¡±


    It was not much further down, however, that the hallway-cave came to an end, in another small cave-room that jutted out from it. And it became yet more obvious that once, this had not been a cave, for in here the rock was carved into the shape of steps descending into the earth. Rough stone still crawled over it, like mold grown onto the steps, but it was unmistakable that this was what they once had been. But as Martimeos lifted his torch over this, he saw that only a few steps down they descended into water, as if whatever lay below had been flooded. He could not help but feel disappointed. He could feel the Art there, beneath that water, and he glanced away, looking around futilely to see if there might be another way down, as if any way down would not be equally as flooded.


    ¡°Martim,¡± Elyse said, her voice hushed, strangled. He glanced at her, and she looked stricken, unable to look away from the stairwell. ¡°Look. Look close. The water.¡±


    Martimeos lifted his torch high, so that it might cast more light over the water. It was surprisingly clear. And the orange light of the torch, filtering down through the water that had drowned the stairwell, revealed¡­


    Bones. A large pile of bones at the bottom of the stairwell. Small skulls ¨C children¡¯s skulls ¨C dotted here and there amongst the pile, deep within the water, as the orange light of the torch danced lazily over them. Elyse put a hand to her mouth to muffle a string of curses as Martim shook his head and spat. It looked as if the glimmerling hadn¡¯t turned all the children into trees after all.

 Other Worlds

    <h2 style="text-align: center">21. Other Worlds</h2>


    They left behind this grim discovery in a black mood, silent, the darkness which surrounded them seeming more solid somehow, as if their torches struggled harder to throw it back now.


    It had been foolish to hold out hope for the children of Silverfish. They both knew that. They had both, upon hearing of the curse that afflicted the village, known with a certainty that the children were dead. They had both known, with certainty, that even those which had fled the village had met with perhaps an even worse fate. The world could be cruel, and that cruelty had come and swallowed up the better part of Silverfish, and there was nothing to be done. And yet the seed of hope had always lived in their hearts, the hope that folk always harbor against such things, the hope that nothing so horrible might have happened, that the gods might have been kind. And it had sprouted upon finding the tree in the courtyard, the silly, foolish hope that all might still be well, that the children may merely be turned into trees, that at least they would live - and perhaps, perhaps even someone may find a way to return them. But the sight of those bones had stamped down on that sprout and crushed it, ground it beneath its cruel heel. There was only the reality of death that they had expected all along. The Dark Stranger was the only god that smiled on them.


    There remained, though, one final ¡°room¡± in this odd cave for them to explore, across from Ezekiel¡¯s bedroom, and it turned out to be the most curious room of all.


    In one corner of the room, jutting from the rock of the floor, was what appeared to be a smooth bar of metal that ran all the way to the ceiling. Their eyes were immediately drawn to it, and not just because the bar appeared to be made of a metal neither of them had seen before - rainbow hues danced on its surface in the torchlight as they approached, and one moment it appeared to be a strange, dark blue, but they would shift the light and shades of green would blossom across its surface, then yellow, swirling and spreading. No, what drew them to this was that they could sense the Art in this, sense the Art ancient and yet still strong, crafted in such a way that they could not begin to guess what it was for. They could not even tell if it was an intricate crafting or one very simple and yet foreign to them, all they could do was feel the reality of the power in it.


    It was embedded in a smooth surface of rock in the floor that seemed as if it had almost been carved and polished, table-like, so that it stood a few feet above the floor, and part of that smooth surface dipped down into a rounded basin, inlaid with swirls, as if it had been pressed there by a giant¡¯s thumb. It was filled with a murky liquid that looked almost like shimmering, blossoming storm clouds, and the Art was in that as well, and it seemed almost that it called to them, demanding of them that it be used. The strength of it was such that it drove the memory of what they had seen just moments before from their mind, the bones, the sorry bones were forgotten. This was glory in the Art. And yet to those who could not feel such things, it may seem like not much else other than a strange metal bar and a pool of dirty water. Odd, odd enough to rouse interest, but not much else.


    ¡°I have never seen anything like this before,¡± Elyse said breathlessly, her voice full of wonder. Despite where they were, what they had seen, she could not stop a smile from touching her lips, her mind fogged by the ecstasy of the Art.


    Martimeos was smiling as well. ¡°This must be one of the ancient relics of the Art that was spoken of.¡± He felt a sudden, shocking jealousy run through him. Ezekiel had a find such as this all to himself? The sheer good fortune of the man seemed almost unfair. But then the thought of Ezekiel reminded him where he was. The man hadn¡¯t had good fortune, had he. His workings with the Art had turned him into a glimmerling, and now he was doomed and damned. Martimeos tore his eyes from the metal bar to examine the rest of the cave.


    It seemed that Ezekiel had taken great care to clear out this room, perhaps most of all out of any portion of the cave, even more so than his bedroom. If indeed it had been the work of Ezekiel here at all.The broken stumps of stalactites dotted the ceiling, and in many places the floor seemed strangely smooth, flat and polished, much like the stone that the Art-drenched bar rose from, a stark contrast to every other part of the cave. With just a little more work, this would seem a room carved from stone, with barely any sign that it had once been a cave at all. Iron sconces had even been drilled into the walls, and when they each set their torches into one of these, the room seemed almost civilized.


    Along one wall, a section of this flat stone rose above the floor a few feet to make another table, and another plain, simple chair stood before it. And on the table, next to an inkpot and quill, lay a book. Leaving the witch still staring at the strange bar, Martimeos crossed the room to pick the book up. It was large, vellum bound in soft leather, and as he turned the pages, briefly looking over the script, he realized it had served as a journal of sorts for Ezekiel. Here, the man had scribbled notes on the Art, less organized than in the treatise bound in the other room. He saw scraps referring to the bar that lay in this very room, or as Ezekiel had called it, ¡®the beam¡¯, calling it a ¡®beam between worlds¡¯. It was this that had convinced the man that he might travel to other worlds, if only he could unravel the mysteries of the thing. It was interesting, but Martimeos ignored it the moment that he realized what else Ezekiel had used the book for: to log visitors that he had seen.


    He flipped through the pages, frantically, but he realized that much like the treatise in the other room, partway through the notes in the book changed into that odd indecipherable script. He flipped back, back, searching, scanning. A name caught his eye. His heart leapt into his throat. ¡°He was here,¡± Martimeos murmured quietly to himself. ¡°He really was here.¡± Ezekiel had left behind something more valuable than any wisdom or knowledge of the art. The man had left behind solid evidence of his brother¡¯s trail.


    Martimeos desperately wanted to sit down, right now, to read through the logbook, to know, to know for certain right now what it said about his brother, and a part of him said, why not leave? Why not simply leave with it, row back to shore, and leave Silverfish behind? You have what you came here for, you have what you need. But he ignored this petty and unworthy thought, and set the journal down for the moment. They had found much useful, here, much revealing, and yet the most harrowing deed was not yet done.


    He turned back to the witch, who still stood before the bar, the beam, staring. ¡°Elyse,¡± he said, approaching her, ¡°We must now decide how best to lie in ambush. It is clear this is where the glimmerling still makes his home, and I think he will return here, at some point¡­¡± he trailed off as he drew closer to the witch, closer to the beam. The Art pulsed through the bar, like a heartbeat. Like his heartbeat. It was in him and of him, it joined with his blood. He had not realized before how strong it felt. Or had it felt so strong before? Had it changed? A dim sense of alarm rose in him, but quickly it was buried beneath the joy of the Art¡¯s power that burned in his thoughts, in his blood. The colors on the surface of the bar swirled in the dancing torchlight.


    Elyse was not actually staring at the beam itself, he saw. No, she stood staring at the pool of water before it, staring at the swirling clouds of murk, eyes glassy, lips parted slightly, and one hand tugging at her long dark hair. He followed her gaze, although part of him knew that he should not, down to the murky water. Only it did not seem murky to him, anymore. Colors spread across its surface like oil, spreading rainbows like that which stained the strange beam, and then they were not merely on the surface of the water but on the surface of his thoughts, as well, bleeding into him, spreading into his mind, and he had time for only the briefest flash of panic before this thought was obliterated, before all thought was obliterated, for the colors drowned him and he could not think where he was, who he was. He only knew the color, and that someone was there with him, a woman. Elyse, the last tattered scrap of his mind told him, before it was drowned as well. There was only him and another, a sense of such, and endless pools of spreading rainbows.


    In the midst of formless color, for how long he did not know - time had melted into nothing, as well - but eventually, he thought, there should be something other than this.


    I think so too, the woman-presence thought back at him. It feels as if there ought to be. This seems stagnant.


    And even as they thought these things, the colors began to swirl and foam as they had not before, they became solid, folded in on each other, and began to form structure, shapes¡­


    ===***===


    Elyse sat astride a horse in the executioner¡¯s square of Cross-on-Green, watching the Queen¡¯s men lead the prisoners up to the gibbet, peering at the procession from beneath the brim of her snow-white hat. Or at least it served as an executioner¡¯s square now; it was the main plaza of the town, dominated in its center by an ancient oak tree, and normally it would be filled with traffic and merchants shilling their goods, but it had a darker purpose today, and it was taken up now by a creaking wooden scaffold for the pleasure of the hangman. Elyse looked up at the sky, thinking that they should hurry, because they were likely in for a harsh rain soon - it had been overcast all morning, but now the clouds were growing a very dark gray, almost black.  All around the square, men wielding cudgels and shields kept back the common folk, a crowd of dirty, sullen faces. That was not a good sign. Folk who came to watch an execution in silence were biting back on their anger. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t at least some of them be cheering to see such criminals executed?¡± she muttered under her breath.


    From her side came a snorting laugh, and she turned to arch an eyebrow at the man it came from. Roderick Kells was a handsome man, kinder than his harsh, lean features might suggest, and though he was getting on in years (his black hair was streaked with silver) he insisted on wearing his armor to such an occasion, brightly polished until it gleamed like silver, and a long white cloak without the slightest stain draped across his back. When he saw that she was staring at him, he met her gaze with cool gray eyes. ¡°Cross-on-Green did not fare so well in the Queen¡¯s war,¡± he told her, sweeping his hand out across the peasants. ¡°See how many of them are women? They paid a high tax in sons and husbands, and I do not think they like to see more of them hanged. Or, at least, they do not like to see them hanged by us.¡±


    Elyse frowned, and then nodded, turning back to the execution. More than just handsome, Roderick Kells was a wise man as well, wiser than many of the other nobles she had seen serving the White Queen. Perhaps it was because before the war, he had not been of noble blood at all. His service in the war had seen him raised to the title of Earl, and he had been given authority to govern the towns of Twin Lamps and Cross-on-Green and all the villages and lands between. A stunning promotion, and yet she thought it was likely not simply because of his loyal service to the crown, either. Roderick had a son, Liam, that one of the Queen¡¯s daughters was completely besotted with, and everyone thought they were likely to be married. Their new nobility probably had at least something to do with the necessity of royalty avoiding marriage with those of common blood.


    The Earl was probably right, too, though he ought to be careful with who he said such things around. Back when the war had still raged, the touch of the Queen upon the land could be less graceful than it was these days. Elyse still remembered when the Queen¡¯s men had come to her swamp. She never knew why her mother had been so scornful towards them, never knew why she resisted so much. She could remember her mother¡¯s screeches, though. ¡°I have burned her letters, and I would never serve her! How dare she ask this of me!¡±


    The knight-captain who had been sent to recruit her had not been best pleased with this. And though her mother had worked darker crafts with the Art than she ever thought possible - she could still remember the faces of the men she had felled, faces bloated and swollen beyond recognition, choking on their own tongues - eventually, she had been riddled with arrows and killed, and Elyse herself taken prisoner, though she was barely more than a girl, dragged off in shackles, weeping and screaming and afraid. They had killed her familiar, as well, her sweet Cecil, and that had hurt her far more than her mother¡¯s death had. She had eventually been brought before the White Queen, though, and Her Majesty had grown grim-faced when she heard of the treatment she had been shown, and wept bitterly to hear of her mother¡¯s death.


    The Queen had ordered the knight-captain who had taken such violent liberties to be hanged, and then Elyse had been treated almost as if she was another daughter. When the Queen was not busy, of course - she spent much of her time involved with the conquests of the Freetowns of Dorn, and that war took much of her attention until it was done. Elyse had learned of the Art alongside the Queen¡¯s seven daughters, sorceresses all, and had often outshone them - although she had learned not to outshine them too brightly. Cassie was kind and sweet, though a bit of a romantic - she was the one so head-over-heels for Roderick¡¯s son Liam - and Leonora had been friendly as well, but the other, older sisters could be vicious, in particular Morwenna. Elyse shuddered at the memory. She had eventually requested to leave the Queen¡¯s Court, and had said it was merely her wanderlust coming to her, but while this was true, Morwenna¡¯s dark attentions had been just as much motivation.


    And so the White Queen had sent her on a journey out across the lands, to serve as advisor and observer to the lords which now governed her newly-conquered territories. Roderick was the latest, and in Elyse¡¯s estimation he governed most fairly, and yet still his subjects were too sullen, with too much anger in them. Still, she thought she could understand. Certainly she had been sullen and angry when she had first been taken by the White Queen as well. It had taken years of being treated as an honored guest to undo that, and these folk certainly could not expect this. It would take a long time of good governance for the folk who the Queen had conquered to smile when they saw her bondsmen. It was too bad that Roderick was one of the few who bothered to govern very well. It all spelled trouble, as far as Elyse saw it.


    The skies had only grown darker now, the clouds blackening with alarming rapidity. The condemned stood now upon the gallows, five of them gagged and bound, as nooses were placed around their necks. Two of them were older fellows, lean and staring blankly, perhaps uncaring that they were to die - they probably had not had much longer to go before they would have been dead anyway. One was a weeping man who could not have been more than thirty, who stared out into the crowd red-faced. Another was a fat, sickly looking man, too pale, who seemed to sneer down at the Queen¡¯s men with a perverse, condescending glee. But the last¡­


    The last was a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, tan of skin and with wild, long hair that came down well past his shoulders, and though he stared out over the crowd with a seething hatred for everyone, including her, she could not help but feel that she had seen him before. His face plucked at her memory, but she could not think who it was.


    A horn bugled, and cries went out for the crowd to be silent and listen to the word of the Earl, though the folk had not been making much noise to begin with. Roderick unrolled a parchment and began reading out the charges. It was not just any criminals whose execution he would see to personally, and so Elyse knew what the crimes would be. Treason and sedition. The two old fellows were accused of being spies for the City of Bells, out to the far west. The fat man was a cook for the barracks of the Queen¡¯s bondsmen and was accused of no fewer than a dozen deaths by poison. The weeping man was not a traitor at all, merely a man who had murdered his wife and was set to be hanged alongside them. But the young man who seemed so familiar to her¡­


    ¡°Martimeos Cobblespur,¡± Roderick said, and that name seemed so familiar that Elyse very nearly interrupted him with a gasp, only biting back on her tongue at the last moment. ¡°You stand accused of treason by arson, for using your skill in the Art to engulf in flames two field barracks of the Queen¡¯s bondsmen, causing the death by burning of twelve men and the most grievous injury and crippling of fourteen others. Five credible witnesses have also testified that you have robbed graves for the practice of necromancy, and countless witnesses have sworn that you have trafficked with demons, against which you have offered no credible denial or defense.¡± The Earl rolled again the parchment, ashen-faced, and handed it off to an attendant before once again staring at the five criminals with the hard eyes of justice. ¡°All of you, for the crimes I have so listed here, and for any others which may be as of yet unknown to us, have been sentenced to hang from your neck until you are dead. Please prepare the condemned for execution.¡±


    ¡°He is a wizard?¡± Elyse whispered to the Earl, as he rolled the parchment up. She could feel, now, the gentle patter of rain on her wide-brimmed hat. Small drops, now, but the pregnant clouds above them would surely open up worse, soon. On the gallows, the five condemned were being prodded to stand on top of crude wooden blocks. ¡°This¡­this Martimeos? And he has not pledged service.¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± Roderick replied grimly, wiping the rain from his own face, and then shook his head. Even for such crimes as the wizard had been accused of, the White Queen had decreed that those who work with the Art might be spared retribution if only they would pledge to serve her. ¡°I cannot say I am surprised. He very nearly set the gaol alight as well. I do not think such a man would ever keep to his oaths.¡±


    But Elyse barely heard his words. She knew Martimeos from somewhere, she knew it, her mind just would not cooperate and give up the memory. But the thought that she might be about to see him killed rankled her for some reason, twisted her heart into knots.


    All the men were up on unsteady blocks now, and the nooses drawn taut, so that once they were kicked out from beneath their feet they would be strangled to death. ¡°Untie their gags, to give the condemned their last words,¡± Roderick called.


    The Queen¡¯s men did so, unleashing a torrent of cries for mercy from the weeping man. The two old men merely stayed silent, while the fat man would do nothing but spit in the face of the guard who freed his mouth. Martimeos, however, the moment his mouth had been freed, his voice boomed out across the square. ¡°Fools!¡± he laughed at them, looking at the Queen¡¯s men with scorn. ¡°Fools, all! Dogs of the Queen. You would have done better to take my brother instead of me, if you could have. Now you have spelled your doom. He comes for you!¡±


    The crowd stirred at this, but Elyse didn¡¯t notice. It was all too familiar. Martimeos, his voice, his brother - before she knew it, she was stepping her horse forward, through past the men, towards the gallows. As she did so, the wizard turned to her, and all at once, the hatred in his eyes winked out. He looked at her, confused, even as the Queen¡¯s men behind him attempted to gag him once more. ¡°Elyse?¡± he called out.


    That did it. She did know him, and he knew her, and she would not let him be hanged. ¡°Cut him down,¡± she cried out, wheeling her horse around. Roderick was looking at her very strangely; all of the Queen¡¯s men were, in fact. ¡°I said to cut him down,¡± she snapped. ¡°I will not allow him to be hanged, I will not-¡±


    A brilliant line of crackling, burning light suddenly tore down from the heavens with a scream like the very air was being torn apart, and for the briefest of moments the Earl was a shadow ringed by blue flame. And then the light was gone, and he was a smoking corpse on the ground, he and the horse he rode on. A roaring boom shook Elyse down to her very bones, and her horse screamed and danced beneath her, only barely being kept in check. The rain, in mere moments, became a torrential, blinding downpour. Screams arose from the gathered crowd.


    All was immediately chaos. Blurry shapes ran past her, ran towards her, but Elyse tried only to focus on the gallows. She had to get to Martimeos, she did not know why, but she knew that she must. There were more screams, desperate screams, screams of pain, and something out there in the downpour growled, an enormous growl, a growl that she knew could not be human. Her horse screamed beneath her again, and now she nearly lost control of it. Its hooves now splashed through red water, and to her right, she saw a Queen¡¯s man kneeling in the street, clutching at a torn throat, blood gushing between fingers desperately attempting to hold it in. A massive shadow loomed through rain behind him - whatever it is, it must be as big as a house - and he was dragged away, and the terror in his eyes told her that his throat was simply too ruined to scream.


    Elyse could feel the work of the Art behind this, and she knew it was her duty to do something about it, but for some reason it all seemed so distant and dim. Even her fear was a muted, blunted thing. Only one duty seemed real to her, though she did not know why. She must save Martimeos. She made her way to the gallows, water pouring from the brim of her hat as she struggled to hoist herself onto the slick wood. Just in time, as well, as a gigantic something ripped her horse out from beneath her feet, a hulking shadow that she only glimpsed from the corner of her eye before it disappeared behind sheets of rain, dragging her horse away,  its shrieking whinny growing too distant, far too fast. She shuddered, only too aware that she had only made it onto the scaffolding of the gallows just in time. Whatever had dragged her horse away, whatever monstrous creature it had been, it had far, far too many eyes. She stumbled across the platform, nearly tripping, and the first rope she came across was nothing but a torn, bloodied end, as if whatever had been on it had been bitten clean off. ¡°Martimeos!¡± she cried out desperately.


    ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± the wizard answered, a few feet to her left, his voice barely audible over the rain and the screams, and she found him then, found him and took the noose from his neck, helped him step down from the hangman¡¯s block. Something roared behind them, a roar louder than the thunder, but she almost didn¡¯t notice.


    She was laughing with relief, crying with relief, and she didn¡¯t know why, she only knew that she knew this man, that it would have been bitter indeed to see him hang. She didn¡¯t know how she knew him, but she knew he would understand what she said next. ¡°Something is wrong here,¡± she told him, as lightning streaked through the sky. ¡°I don¡¯t know, I don¡¯t know what, but something is wrong, I know you, don¡¯t I? You know me, and¡­it¡¯s all not right¡­¡±


    But even as she spoke, there came the sound of boots on the wood behind them, and they whirled to find a Queen¡¯s man, his white tabard soaked now with blood and mud, one arm hanging limp and mangled and tangled with his chain shirt, but he stared at them with a fanatical determination. ¡°You¡¯ve killed too many friends, wizard,¡± he snarled, as he advanced on them. ¡°I don¡¯t give a damn what dark powers you¡¯ve called upon, I mean to see you dead.¡± In front of him, in his good hand, he held out a spear, and before Elyse could do anything, he thrust it into Martim¡¯s gut.


    Time seemed to slow. The wizard buckled over, blood bubbling from his lips, spattering against the wooden platform of the gibbet only to be immediately washed away by the rain. The Queensman twisted the spear viciously with a snarl of satisfied vengeance. Elyse thought she should be screaming, that she should be doing something, feeling something, anything in this moment, but she didn¡¯t. She only felt a strange, preternatural calm, an empty clarity of mind. Something had caught her eye. The shaft of the spear the Queensman held was not made of wood. It was a bar of a strange, curious metal, colors dancing across its surface, even as Martim¡¯s blood ran down it. She reached out to grab it, and the moment she did the world melted away with the rain, melted away in a swirl of color, and she was pulled¡­


    ===***===


    Elyse stood on the bank of the great lake of Nust Drim on the shore of Rook Island. It was a crisp, clear day, and the forests which ringed the lake were painted in the breathtaking colors of autumn. On the opposite shore, she could see the settlement of Briselac, and the graceful fisher¡¯s boats still casting nets and hauling in catches of silver fish which gleamed and flashed in the sun.


    Suddenly, she felt dizzy. Silverfish. Why did she want to call the village Silverfish? It was Briselac, it had always been Briselac. What an odd notion. Why had it come to her? She tugged at her hair, then looked at the intricate braids it was done in, all tied up with voluminous silken blue ribbons. And her dress, too, long blue silk, and embroidered so richly. Had she ever worn something like this before? Of course she had. She wore something like this every day. Didn¡¯t she?


    ¡°How strange. I thought it might rain. Wasn¡¯t it cloudy just a moment ago?¡±


    At the sound of that voice, all these questions quickly died down, faded away. Elyse turned to smile at the man beside her, looking up at the clear blue sky, puzzled. Martimeos, Aurelic prince, true blood descended from King Alain and Queen Serafina themselves. He was not destined for the throne - that honor would go to his older brother - but to tell true, she privately thought this was probably for the best. Martimeos cared far too much for the Art to pay much attention to his seneschal¡¯s attempts to mentor him in the art of ruling. And besides, if he were meant to rule, he¡¯d never have the time for me. She blushed at this thought, and then snapped at him, ¡°Are you going blind? There¡¯s not a cloud in the sky. Unless you¡¯re going to tell me you¡¯ve learned to listen to the wind for the weather.¡± He turned to frown at her, and she could not bear to look into those dark green eyes for long. Why had she been so short with him? ¡°Perhaps if you think it might rain, we might head back to the manor,¡± she said, more mildly. She cursed herself inwardly; now she just sounded simpering. This damnable man. It was trouble, she knew. Real trouble.


    In many ways, Elyse could not believe the luck that had befallen her over these past few years. If not for Fortune¡¯s idle chance, she would not be here at all. She had grown up in a swamp, alone, with no one but her mother. And while her mother had taught her the Art, she had also been miserable and cruel. So cruel that eventually Elyse could not take it, and had run away from her, north into the lands of the Aurelic Crown. Her mother would not dare to follow her there, she had reasoned; she was a swamp-witch who had fled their rule in the first place, and Elyse had thought that she might find protection there from her mother among the many learned magi of the kingdom.


    Still, she had never expected what had happened. Once in Aurelic lands, she had made camp in the woods for a time, plotting - she had thought that her best bet was to find a magi and convince him to take her on as an apprentice. She had only been hiding in the woods for a few days, living off of what prey her familiar Cecil could hunt for her, when she had stumbled across Martimeos, weak with hunger and hobbling along on a nearly-broken ankle. She had very nearly killed him, at first, worrying that he would give up her hiding spot, but pity had moved her heart when he told her his tale.


    The prince was a wizard, it seemed, and had found the life of a royal stifling, cooped up in his court, stifled by his royal retinue. Seized by wanderlust, had gone off on his own, if only for a time. In trying to avoid the men searching for him he had fled into the woods, and poor fortune saw him now injured, lost, out of supply and desperate. Elyse had thought him quite the pathetic figure at first, with his livery torn and cheeks hollow, but she had fed him and healed him as best she could with the Art. Lost and starving he might be, however, but Martimeos had a charming way about him. And somehow, his charm had pried loose her lips and she had told him her story. So when she brought him back to his family - and he would go back, she admonished him, he was a fool if he would not - she had not only received a reward in gold, but Martimeos had invited her to take up residence in his manor, on an island overlooking the great lake of Nust Drim. ¡°I am sure you will have all the protection you need there,¡± he told her, ¡°And I spend much of my days working with the mysteries of the Art, and two working it are better than one, yes?¡±


    Elyse had taken him up on the offer, and she had to admit that whatever the prince lacked in common sense, he made up for with skill in the Art. And eventually, to sate his wanderlust, he had convinced his family that he should be allowed to travel with a small retinue, and she had gone with him. They had spent their time visiting the subjects and vassals of the Aurelic Crown. They went through the lands of Dorn, who kept their mayor¡¯s councils even as they swore allegiance to the monarchy, to the lands of the mysterious White Queen, who ruled over the snowy, mountain-ringed lands of Nebeltal and was accounted a brilliant sorceress, and whose ambition, it was whispered, was to one day see one of her daughters wear the Crown of Aurelia. One of those daughters, Morwenna, had been quite forward about seeing Martim as a potential path to power, if only she might seduce him. Elyse might have been more jealous had the wizard not seemed so oblivious to her advances. After that, they had  journeyed all the way to the town of Farson¡¯s Pass, whose famous bard-mercenaries still prided themselves on the fight they had put up before eventually yielding and swearing fealty to the Aurelics.


    The problem with it all was this: during their travels, Elyse had fallen in love with the prince. And Martim, even though he was not destined for the throne himself, could not be seen to court a commoner. Already had some of his advisors and attendants had talks with her, ensuring that she knew this very well, sharp words hidden behind the masks that the Aurelics made a habit of wearing when on official business. She could remember a particularly nerve-wracking discussion with his seneschal, a prissy, wiry-thin man, hidden beneath the stern silver-painted mask he wore and the severe black robes he draped himself in. He had given her very obvious hints that they really spent more time together than was proper.


    Martim himself, the seneschal had told her idly, was a romantic, and he may not care if he threw away his position for a peasant, but all the members of his court would then have wasted much time currying favor with him, and that might make them very angry indeed. He was sure that she would not be so foolish as to fall in love with the prince, but certainly she must know how young men are. ¡°I was once one, myself, after all,¡± the seneschal had told her, his idle, conversational tone at odds with the blank, unsmiling sternness of his mask. ¡°Oh, we men can be fools, can¡¯t we, especially when we¡¯re young. It is so simple to capture our hearts. Young women, such as yourself, I have always thought they had much more wisdom. Certainly you would never be so stupid as to throw your heart at him! Our dear prince is kind to the commoners, but you are a very smart and cautious girl, I can tell, and you must know that noble and common blood cannot mix. Just do be careful with our dear prince. I will understand if you must break his heart a bit, though. Fear no retaliation from us on that account.¡± Oh yes, Martim himself might be ignorant of her feelings, but his court certainly wasn¡¯t. Things had not quite escalated to open threats yet, but still, the stares and the whispers were there.


    She had denied her love for Martim at first. She even tried to teach herself to hate him. Wasn¡¯t he scatterbrained? Couldn¡¯t he be obnoxious, the way he would keep secrets, or the way he occasionally lied and thought nothing of it? Wasn¡¯t he a spoiled, soft prince who knew nothing of hardship, and was inconsiderate of her feelings - shouldn¡¯t he know by now that she loved him, and realize the position he had put her in? It was no use, it had not worked. She hated it. She tripped over her own words with him, where once friendship had made them easy-going; her heart leapt when she saw his smile, but even more telling was the jealousy that burned within her. Watching the suitors that came to court him felt like a hot dagger in her chest, and she lost sleep at night thinking of them, despising them. The only solace was that Martim himself was blithely unaware of them, but how long could that remain true? Even if he never loved a single one of them, his family would look to marry him off to some duke¡¯s daughter to ensure their loyalty, or off to some western princess to buy their vassalage. It is not fair. He is mine. Mine!


    They had come out to walk along the shore of Rook Island, and normally when Martim invited her to do such they would talk, talk of the Art, of Martim¡¯s concerns about his royal duties, about what she planned to do herself - the prince thought she may enjoy being a royal tutor for future noble children, an official attendant of the crown, but she did not know that she would put up with a stifling court life if it was not for him. But this time the conversation dwindled off into silence, as she could not seem to stop tripping over her own words - it even got so bad that the prince actually asked her if she was feeling well, and she had no answer other than to feign that she was feeling a bit feverish, so they headed back to his manor.


    Martimeos had been gifted the manor by the lake lords of Hallic Nust when he had searched for a place to set up his personal court far away from the High Court in Mannus Aurum, and supposedly, or so the legend said, it had been built by the lake lord Tennelyan in an attempt to seduce the legendary Aurelic sorceress V¨¦reline Valoir into marriage, centuries ago now. She had no idea whether or not this was true, but it was certainly very grand; winged arms with sweeping colonnades enclosing a large courtyard full of apple-tree orchards and a fountain, enchanted with the Art, which always flowed with clean water. Supposedly, there were caves beneath the manor which had once housed ancient relics of the Art, but those had long ago been removed and taken to the lands of Mannus Aurum, to the capital of Alderin, where the Royal Court held sway. She had heard tales of the glory of Alderin, the tall and intricate spires, so tall that they would be impossible to build without the use of the Art, and hoped that one day she might see it for herself.


    Usually, the courtyard was full of servants, especially at this time of fall; plucking apples or drawing water from the fountain, or the hedge-mages which flocked to Martim¡¯s court practicing their glamors to the laughing delight of young children. But the courtyard was oddly empty, now. Martim, in his usual distracted manner, did not notice - he walked along barely seeing the world in front of him, clearly pondering something. But it very much put her ill-at-ease. And the prince himself could not help but notice when he strolled in through the front doors of the manor and found the grand entrance hall completely empty. It was beautiful as always - the reliefs of Hallic history carved into the walls, the grand staircase draped in soft red velvet, and lit by dancing witch-lights which flitted about the ceiling and sconce-set torches. But the empty silence of it all made the opulent beauty seem too large, too grand, oppressive, even. It was meant to have people in it.


    ¡°How odd,¡± Martim said, noticing at last, once he was a good dozen steps inside. ¡°Where is everyone?¡±


    Elyse didn¡¯t know. But a feeling of dread was building within her. They might have caught the courtyard at an oddly still moment, but there were attendants whose job it was to greet folk who stepped into the manor itself. Where could they have been?


    ¡°Hello?¡± Martim called out, and his voice boomed and echo through the hall, made louder by the work of the Art. ¡°Where is everyone? Are you alright?¡±


    While the prince continued to call out, to no avail, Elyse stepped around the hall, towards the walls. Something was wrong here, something was horribly wrong, something awful was about to happen, she just knew it. ¡°Martim,¡± she tried calling weakly, then abruptly froze, and looked down.


    She had stepped in something wet. Blood, soaked into the thick red velvet rugs, and hard to spot. The silken edges of her long, blue dress were stained by it, now. She dragged her eyes along, following the bloodstains that she could see, now, following them to a far corner of the room, tucked behind the grand staircase. A corner of the room hidden in darkness, where the torch had gone out. A corner of the room where a thin shadow she knew too well stood over the limp bodies of Martim¡¯s servants and smiled at her.


    She screamed, and turned to flee, but the moment she did the grand front doors to the manor slammed shut with a resounding crash. A long, cold wind from nowhere, carrying on it the scent of something foul and rotting, blew hard through the entrance hall, whipping her hair about her head, dousing all the torches, and above their heads the witch-lights winked out. A darkness crashed down upon them, hard, a deeper darkness than ought to be possible even with all the lights extinguished, a dark so complete that immediately she was alone with it, alone, alone with the shadow in the dark -


    Through choking sobs, she worked her Art and crafted a witch-light, a little dancing ball of blue flame that was more glamor than flame, but it barely beat back the dark, the dark where she was, where the shadow was, and she screamed when something grabbed her from behind, screamed and tore away from it, her heart seizing with fear. But it was only Martim, a witch-flame of his own dancing above his head, emerald-green to her blue. ¡°Oh, Martim,¡± she sobbed, ¡°We must flee, she¡¯s here, she¡¯s here-¡±


    The prince certainly knew something was wrong. He had his sword drawn, and all at once he did not look distracted or sleepy, all at once the mischievous grin that he usually wore had disappeared. He looked now as she had never seen him before, grim, ready for violence. He knew, certainly, that someone who worked the Art was against them, but he could not know how bad it would be. ¡°Who?¡± he demanded. ¡°Who is here?¡±


    ¡°Her mother, of course,¡± whispered a dry voice from the darkness behind them.


    They whirled, and in the dark another witch-light bloomed, white and cold, and there she stood, with that same smile she always had, the one that promised pain.


    Elyse¡¯s mother was a distorted mirror of Elyse herself, pale and slender, with long dark hair. She might have once been beautiful, but it was as if a lifetime of wickedness and black moods had etched a mask of hate permanently upon her face. She wore a ragged black dress that melted into the dark, and her eyes were a gray as cold and hard as winter¡¯s love, gleaming beneath a wide-brimmed, pointed hat.


    ¡°Did you think I would simply forget you, girl?¡± her mother went on. Her voice was sweet honey, dripping with false kindness, that Elyse knew could become bitter poison at the slightest moment. ¡°My one and only daughter? Or perhaps you thought to yourself that the magelings of the Aurelic Crown could protect you forever.¡± The smile looked wrong on her face, and the snarl that replaced it seemed much more natural. ¡°Idiot, imbecile girl. Your mother knows more of the Art than these clumsy nothings could ever dream. The blood of Alain the Dweomer grows weak.¡±


    She was going to bring her back. She was going to bring her back and it was going to be worse than it ever was before. Elyse could not bear the thought of it; fear howled in her blood. ¡°You died! You¡¯re supposed to be dead!¡± she spat, as her mother walked towards them, smiling, smiling, the wicked promises behind that smile.


    This actually caused her mother to pause, though her smile never left her lips. ¡°Dead, girl? When was I dead?¡±


    Elyse had no answer for her. Why had she thought her mother was dead? She was, wasn¡¯t she? I can remember her death so clearly. She thought she could. She thought she could remember her mother¡¯s last cursing words, but even as she tried to hang onto it, the memory slipped away from her. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    ¡°Perhaps you wish that I was dead. You have always been an ungrateful bitch of a child.¡± Her mother was advancing towards them again, slowly growing closer in the dark, looking almost as if her face was merely floating towards them. ¡°You had to have known that I would come for you eventually, Elyse. You know what you are. Did you think I would simply let you worm your way into the Aurelic court itself?¡± But then she stopped again, as Martim stepped forth to stand between her and Elyse.


    ¡°If you wish to take her, you will face me, first. She is under my protection.¡± All the warmth had gone from his voice. He had the voice of what he was, now, a prince with royal anger. He had never seemed so noble. Even so, he seemed to realize that this witch might be beyond his abilities. ¡°And if you do still take her, I will do all that is in my power to hunt you down. You may be confident in the Art, witch, but even if you are of greater skill than anyone who serves the crown, you will not survive dozens of magi hounding you. Renounce your claim on her, leave in peace, and I will not pursue you for this assault.¡±


    Elyse watched as her mother stared, with that awful smile growing wider, and she knew, she knew then that they must flee, she must grab Martim and flee, it was their only chance, but it was as if she could not move, her fear rooting her to the spot. ¡°What a brave man,¡± her mother whispered, her voice full of mockery. ¡°What a brave man to so brazenly lie to a witch such as I. You would never let me leave here in peace, not after this. No, I must ensure that nobody really knows what happened here. Give thanks to my daughter, prince. She purchased your death.¡±


    And then before he could even scream, the darkness rushed in and wrapped up Martim, solid darkness with claws and talons, and Elyse felt hot blood flecking her face, and then she was screaming as her prince lay ripped to shreds, to pieces on the ground, his face grotesque in death, so ruined that she could only still tell it was him by the one staring eye even now fogging over, clouding over, and she wanted to tear her eyes away but she could not, could not stop staring at the red wetness that had once been Martim, and the bile rose in her throat and she sank to her knees and was sick.


    ¡°You did this to him, Elyse,¡± her mother whispered, as she stepped over his corpse, and the witch-light which followed her cast awful clarity over what exactly had been done to him as she did. ¡°You and your foolish pride. I warned you, did I not? I will ensure this time that you can never escape. You have proven to me that you do not deserve the use of your legs.¡±


    But before her mother could come any closer, a red blur slammed into the side of her face, and she was thrown off-balance with a curse. It was Flit, Martim¡¯s familiar, his little cardinal, Flit seeking blood-vengeance, and doing his best to peck out her eyes. And then Cecil, her own familiar, her beloved cat, he leapt out of the darkness, gray fury itself, and he latched his teeth into her mother¡¯s throat, and his paws, larger then any housecat¡¯s, carved deep furrows into her face.


    Elyse should have joined in with them. She knew she should have. There was nothing else for her to do. She would never go back with her mother, and her only hope was to fight. But she ran instead.


    She ran. Ran, leaping over the remains of Martim spilled across the carpet, trying not to be sick. Ran harder, when she heard her mother¡¯s howl of outrage behind her, and felt the darkness breathe and roar, as if it was alive. She felt the moment that Cecil died, the life crushed out of him, and she felt part of herself die with him, her soul broken in two, and in that moment she thought perhaps it would just be best to die herself. And still she ran. Blindly, through deepest dark, not knowing where she was going.


    Only, as she ran, it seemed part of her did know. She found herself in the cellar, with the odd thought that it felt familiar to her, but of course it should feel familiar, she and Martim had been down here before, they had spent nights down here drunk on wine, and she had kissed him once but he had not remembered the next morning, oh, mercy, no, Martim¡­


    But there was a part of her that cut through the pain she felt, that directed her to the stairs down into the caves that led below the manor. But why? They ought to be empty. Their relics had been taken away long ago. And yet she could sense something down there, sense the Art, sense it strong.


    Up above, her mother was wailing, screaming the most vile, foul things imaginable, in a rage such as she had never been before, promising tortures that Elyse knew would break her mind and soul, screaming how she would force Elyse to defile Martim¡¯s corpse in the most wretched, sickening of ways, and the sheer ugliness that poured out of her was beyond reason, it was madness. No normal woman would think of such perverse torment. She had trafficked too long with demons. I cannot go back to her. I cannot. I will die, first.


    Elyse dove down the steps, into the caves, and the witch-light with her did little good, barely illuminating beyond the first few steps, and so she groped forward, nearly blind in the dark, feeling the Art grow stronger. She knew not what she looked for, but some part of her told her that this Art was her salvation, that it was the only way she might escape.


    ¡°You¡¯ll learn what it is to live without teeth and tongue!¡± her mother howled behind her, close behind her. She must be at the top of the stairs to the caves. Elyse let her witch-light go out, and stumbled forward in true darkness, bumping into stalactites, some of which cracked and shattered with too much noise, too much noise.


    Suddenly, the caves were flooded with light, like the light of a hundred witch-lights all at once, white and hard and cold, and her blanket of darkness was stripped away in an instant. ¡°There you are, wicked girl!¡± her mother crowed, close, too close, and with a scream Elyse dove into the entrance of a smaller cave to her left.


    A smooth cave, a strange cave. One that seemed carved and polished by the hand of man. And embedded in the rock, a strange beam of odd metal, on whose surface oily rainbows swirled. It was this that she needed, she knew it.


    A low, mocking laugh, very close behind her, and Elyse dared, dared to look back over her shoulder.


    Her mother stood there, on the threshold of the smaller cave¡¯s entrance. Her face was bloodied, ruined, one eye now an empty socket red and wet, and Elyse was proud of the damage Cecil had done before he had been killed. ¡°That¡¯s not going to save you, girl,¡± her mother said, and blood flew from her tattered lips. ¡°Nothing will.¡±


    She may have been right. Elyse did not even know what the beam was. But she dove for it, and her hands touched it just as she felt claws sink agonizingly into her legs, deep into her flesh, and then it all melted, swirled into color, and she was pulled away, away, again¡­


    ===***===


    Martimeos awoke with a gasp from a nightmare, a nightmare in which he had been torn apart by shadows, ripping and tearing him to shreds. He quickly patted himself all over as the fear still ran hot in his blood, wondering if he might feel wet wounds. The pain had been so real. There was nothing, though, and the fear quickly faded.


    After all, to be torn apart by shadows was not so different from what he might expect in the waking world.


    He sighed, and looked out the window, up into the sky. The true moon, the body of Nostra, was full tonight. And so was her dark twin, the false moon Oxxos, his body mottled and gray where Nostra¡¯s was soft, silver-white. Red light, dead-light pulsed from him, drowning his sister¡¯s gentle glow, and bathing the landscape in a dread red hue, making the shadows strange, making the world strange. The dead walked beneath the light of Oxxos, the dead, and worse things besides. Demons, and other creatures of nightmare. And Oxxos was full most nights, these days. He stared up at that red, pulsing light in the sky, from the dread moon. It is the end of all things.


    He had been there when the last of the known fortress-cities had fallen, had been in the streets of H?ddrgost on the night of slaughter, when Oxxos had hung so large in the sky it seemed as if you could see every foul pore in its surface and Nostra was nowhere to be seen. H?ddrgost, with its impenetrable stone walls, hidden among the jagged, bleak peaks of the Demon¡¯s Teeth mountains, could have withstood any assault from the hordes of foul creatures that now roamed the world, and which were occasionally herded into armies by fell wizards who sold their souls, who took the flesh of the dead, the damned, the demons into their own, becoming monstrosities themselves, becoming Gul. But what the invincible city could not withstand was the dead-light of Oxxos in his full wrath, when all the city had been bathed in red, when pale, blind creatures had poured out of every shadow, creatures with filthy grub-skin, creatures that were like a mockery of humanity, in the basic shape of a man but lumpy and misshapen, creatures who would moan in something that sounded almost like human language before they fell on you with gnashing black teeth, hungry for blood. Not just blood, they wanted everything. They wanted to crack every part of you open and feed.


    Martimeos had seen his Captain, Ritter, go down, his throat torn out as hordes of the pale ones fell upon him and began rending and tearing. Ezekiel was dead, too, though he did not know how - he had found the war-mage in the midst of an empty street, untouched except that he was plainly dead, and surrounding him were the crushed remains of dozens of the pale ones, looking as if they had been stepped on by a giant.


    But in the chaos it became obvious, quickly, that the city was lost. It was not merely the guard that was dying, either. Men fought their way back to their homes through the streets only to find that their families had been torn apart and devoured behind their backs. Martimeos had seen men go mad at that realization. He himself had nearly been subject to that cursed fate, but Fortune had smiled upon him. He was one of the lucky few who had made it in time. He sighed, looking down to the woman sleeping fitfully next to him, gently brushing a strand of her golden blonde hair. He had managed to save his wife, his sweet golden-haired Vivian. He could not let these dark thoughts take him. It did not matter if it was the end of the world, he had to hold on for her.


    The retreat from H?ddrgost had been nearly as much as a slaughter as the fight for it had been. Any semblance of military order had broken down, and it became bands of men fighting for themselves, fighting to get their families free, though how free could they be? Even those who made their way outside the city walls, free from the pale ones, were now in the midst of the howling blizzards of the Demon¡¯s Teeth mountains. And every part of the world was dangerous, wicked creatures lurked everywhere. In the high peaks there was the pendergrast, the white-furred stalker which looked like nothing more than a fat, furry, man-sized snake, which would lay beneath the snow and tear off your leg when you stepped on it, and the giant ogres who had a taste for human flesh. Most of H?ddrgost had died in the streets, and he was certain most of those who had not had died in the peaks. There had been others, traveling with them, when they had first fled. It was just him and Vivian now. And they lived, only just barely, because of his skill with the Art. Martimeos wondered, numbly, whether his brother yet lived. He had always been much more skilled with the Art, and yet sometimes, skill was not what mattered. Sometimes it was sheer dumb luck.


    It had been an eternity of fleeing, and it had made Martimeos appreciate, in a way he never had in his life holed up defending H?ddrgost, just how empty the world truly was. Outside of the fortress-cities, the world was nothing but monsters. It was all horror. They had run across endless plains where gigantic birds, with wingspans as wide as a house, had hunted frothing bull-sized dogs, misshapen and deformed and covered in tumors, only they could not have been dogs because their long, lolling tongues were covered in razor-sharp, rasping teeth, and he had seen them devouring boulders just by licking them, scoring the stone smooth with those tongues, and he could not imagine what they might do to flesh. They had come to the shores of a vast, black lake, and seen flashes of something pale swimming beneath the surface, something pale and covered in faces that looked oddly human, too human, which sounded too human when they cried out, pale tendrils of flesh covered with wriggling human fingers, grasping human hands that would splash above the surface to moan in torment before disappearing back beneath.


    They had survived on an hour or two of sleep at a time, always ready to run, eating whatever they could hunt or forage, no matter how vile or despicable. Even the plants in the wilds were putrid, corrupt. He had considered, at that time, whether it might be better mercy if he and Vivian might just end it all on their own terms. A voice had whispered to him in the night, calling itself Ysonne, an ancient goddess from before the time when the world had gone wrong, and told him that she could offer mercy to them both, if only they would have the courage to open their own veins, and the voice had been very tempting. The last of the fortress-cities was broken, they had nowhere to go, and they met no-one on the road. For all they knew, they might be the last humans in a world of nightmare. The aimless fleeing had seemed like it would last forever. Until¡­


    ¡°Are you awake?¡±


    Martimeos turned. There, against the thick-log walls of the home they slept in, sat Elyse, her hair long and wild and matted with mud, filthy and naked and uncaring of such. She watched him intently, her strange blue eyes gleaming with Oxxos¡¯ red light.


    It had seemed like it would all last forever until they had come across Elyse¡¯s swamp. Martimeos had felt the Art at work there well before they crossed into it, a strong and complicated crafting of it that sank into the very land, something keeping it pure, and indeed he and Vivian had found it to be a bastion of normalcy. No demons prowled, and while it was a swamp, of course, the waters and the vegetation did not seem so corrupted and foul. It was a bastion of sanity in the monstrous, wicked world they lived in.


    And Elyse was the wild, primitive witch that lived in it, so far removed from human contact that the only clothes she bothered to wear were bone-carved necklaces that she made herself, or a small loincloth, or more often nothing at all. Her shamelessness did not bother him - he had seen too much, too awful to care whether she covered herself - but he did not know how she stood the cold. It was nearing winter now, and if it were not for the flame of the Art that he used to enchant their clothes, he and Vivian might well freeze, but Elyse did not seem to care at all. If it was some trick of the Art that kept her warm, he could not see what it was.


    According to the swamp-witch, it had been her mother which had so enchanted the swamp, crafting her Art to repel the corrupting influence of Oxxos, at least as much as it could be. Demons would not step foot here, so the witch claimed, and the dead would keep their rest. When he asked Elyse how her mother had come to be here, though, she merely shrugged. She did not know, she said; she had been born and raised in the swamp, and her mother had not told her anything before she had died of illness a few winters back. The only truth she had left her daughter with was that the outside world was doomed.


    ¡°I am,¡± he answered the witch, softly, as to not wake his wife. ¡°What is it?¡±


    Elyse was quiet for a moment, pulling at her knotted and matted hair, her eyes flicking to the slumbering form of Vivian. ¡°Come with me,¡± she said, standing. ¡°You and I, we must talk.¡±


    Curious, Martimeos followed after the witch as she left, leaving out the primitive drapes of hides that served as a door for the small, moss-covered log cabin she lived in, built on one of the few dry patches of land in the swamp. He hesitated for a moment before going out, casting one look back at Vivian, still sleeping, breathing shallowly on the hard packed dirt of the cabin¡¯s floor. They had been here long enough that he did not fear for her safety, leaving her alone - whatever enchantments Elyse¡¯s mother had crafted, they held true - but still, he was nervous to have her out of his sight. But with a sigh, he lifted up the hideskin door and stepped outside.


    The full light of Oxxos beat down on him, the moment he did, the red light oppressive, heavy somehow, and he felt filthy the moment it touched his skin. It was a constant reminder of what had happened, a memory of the bloody night when H?ddrgost fell, lost forever, the last bastion of humanity that he knew, gone. And there had always been whispers that the simple light of Oxxos itself was deadly. Some of the mad sages spoke - or, they had spoken - of a time before Oxxos hung in the sky, when men lived longer lives. Now, folk could expect to live long enough to sire children, but to live much past forty years of age was rare. The flesh would begin to swell into hard, knotted tumors, to putrify, and most chose to take their own lives rather than suffer this horror. Had chosen. He may be the last one able to make that choice.


    Thankfully, the witch herself seemed to dislike the dead-light as much as he did. He followed her as she walked swiftly to the comforting shade offered by a gnarled copse of knotted ash trees, trunks thick with lichen and laden with dry moss. But he stopped, suddenly, on the edge of the shadows. There was something there, something large, dark, staring at him intently with shining eyes that caught the light of the false moon.


    Elyse looked back at him, and gave him a mocking smile for his hesitation. ¡°Do not fear,¡± she told him, reaching out a hand to those shining eyes, and petting whatever lay there. ¡°This is my familiar, Ulmar. She came back earlier tonight, from her scouting.¡±¡¯


    Peering closer, Martimeos felt his heart quicken a beat. Once his eyes adjusted to the shadow, he could see that Ulmar was a large, jet-black cat - larger than him, large enough that if it had wanted to, it probably could have mauled both him and the witch to death before either of them could do anything. But with Elyse, it acted very tame, accepting scratches behind the ears, emitting a low, rumbling purr as it nuzzled the witch affectionately. He had heard of such things before; the ancient, strange bond that some with the Art developed with the creatures of the wild. It had happened but rarely in H?ddrgost, though. The city had had war-dogs when it stood, and cats for the hunting of pests in their stores, and livestock kept in fortified pastures well inside the walls, but these tame creatures would only sometimes choose to make a bond with one of the war-mages. Only two war-mages had such a bond when H?ddrgost fell, as far as he knew, out of well over a hundred.


    It must have been quite the scouting mission, too. He and Vivian had been here for a couple of weeks, and the witch had not mentioned having a familiar before now. At Elyse¡¯s insistence, he stepped forward into the shade and placed a tentative hand on Ulmar¡¯s broad forehead. The gigantic night-cat (or so Elyse called her) looked at him placidly, and then licked his hand with an almost painfully raspy tongue. The memory came, unbidden, of the gigantic dogs he had seen, with the rasping tongues sharp enough to scour stone, and he shuddered. ¡°What did she see as she scouted?¡± he asked the witch.


    The grave, somber look she gave him made his heart sink. ¡°Keep your hand on Ulmar,¡± she told him quietly, drawing close, placing her own small, mud-caked hand on top of hers. ¡°It is best if you see yourself. Close your eyes.¡±


    For a moment, nothing happened. He could sense that Elyse was working with the Art, but the craft was too strange, too foreign to anything he had seen before to tell what she was doing. All at once he felt something seize his thoughts, felt another pair of eyes open in his mind, and he cried out, startled. He was vaguely aware of the witch holding his hand down, keeping it on Ulmar¡¯s forehead, and then through these new eyes in his mind, he saw, he more than saw, he felt, tasted¡­


    Tasted the acrid sting of black-blood, putrid blood on her tongue, the blood of twisted and corrupted flesh, flesh too far gone to be safe to eat. Ulmar looked back at the pair of monstrosities that she had just torn the throats out of. They tasted like they may have once been men, but they were warped beyond recognition now. Bloated and naked and filthy, their faces a mass of bleeding teeth that seemed to grow from every pore. She regretted that she had needed to bite them. She should have let her claws do the work.


    She stalked like the whisper of death through the shadows, through the high grass and the trees, around the shrieking congregation before her, a camp of the foul and wicked things. She crept very close indeed - close enough to see all - but it was not hard to avoid being spotted, as they were practically blind as they were, in the midst of their worship. The false-moon, the red-moon hung large in the sky, and Ulmar could hear the whispers of it - the whispers that men could not hear, but animals could, whispers which she could not understand, but she thought the demons and monsters must. They cried out to it now, more of the fat bloated men with teeth-covered heads, and others besides - black hounds with too-long snouts and whose paws were human hands howled up at it, and a creature who seemed little more than a gigantic mouth, a humongous staring eye, and stubby legs and arms tore at its own flesh in its ecstasy. Too much, too many twisted forms, too many to count, and they threw their own kind onto a roaring pyre, and exulted as they died screaming, always lifting their arms, if they had them, to the dead moon.


    But this was only the start of it. This was only one of their outlying camps. She crested a hill, and lying outstretched before her was a camp of thousands, with hundreds of pyres belching foul smoke and the scent of rancid burning flesh into the air. She had stalked this army for days - had been able to catch its sickening scent on the wind for days before she actually came across it. And she had seen its leader, as well. You might have thought her a woman, at first, if it were not for the fact that she were impossibly tall, towering well over twice the height of any normal woman and the skin of her face far too waxy and pale to be truly living. She wore long, draping robes of snow-white that covered most of her body, and a long, cruel, spiked silver crown. Ulmar had seen her part those robes, once, and had seen that beneath her topmost face she had an entire stack of faces for a neck, five at the least, and perhaps even more. They had cried out, crowing, singing, and Ulmar had been with Elyse long enough to know that there had been the Art in those words.


    It was bad. The path this army took headed straight for the swamp. There had been times before when hordes of such creatures had passed nearby, but never before had one headed so directly in the direction of Elyse¡¯s abode. There was still time for them to change course. Still time. But a warning must be given. Licking the back of her paws, Ulmar slinked away, away, back to chart the journey home.


    Martimeos gasped as the sight was taken away from him, wrenched away, and dizziness washed over him. He nearly fell before the witch steadied him, but he had no time for this weakness. He knew well the urgency of this vision. What Ulmar had seen was an army led by one of the Gul, and what was more, he knew who this Gul was, had heard of her in reports, and could be no mistaking it. She was the White Queen, or what she had become, and was one of the most notorious of all those who gave themselves over to Oxxos. She had been a mighty sorceress, and ruler of the fortress-city of Caerhyl, before she had betrayed her people to become a Gul and opened the city gates to let her own folk be butchered, using their blood to purchase her power. And then, nearly a decade later, she had put the fortress-city of Calais to siege and broken it, slaughtering its people. He knew of no other Gul that had done so much to doom humanity, responsible for the destruction of two of its greatest bastions.


    He seized the witch by the shoulders, ignoring the growl this elicited from the night-cat. ¡°How far away is she?¡± he breathed, struggling to keep himself from shaking her. ¡°Is she really headed here? How long do we have?¡±


    The witch only looked up at him calmly. She has the strangest blue eyes, Martimeos thought wildly, while the rest of his mind raced through the horrors that might await them should the White Queen get their hands on them. ¡°I do not know,¡± she said quietly. ¡°Mother¡¯s enchantments, I thought, did more than merely forbid the demons to enter this swamp. I thought they diverted them as well. Never before have so many come so directly towards me.¡± She paused. ¡°You¡­you know this creature? Their leader?¡±


    ¡°She is a Gul,¡± he replied, releasing her, his hands shaking. Ulmar pushed herself protectively between him and the witch. ¡°Called the White Queen. Perhaps it is because she herself can work the Art that she is not so diverted by the enchantments.¡± He left unspoken the further conclusion, for he was sure that Elyse herself had already reached it. The enchantments likely would not hold if the White Queen were to come upon them. He put his face in his hands, drawing shaking breaths. He had to calm down, he had to hold on. For Vivian. Oh, Vivian. ¡°Why does she come now? Why?¡± The witch had remained safe in this swamp for years, according to her. Why now, so shortly after he arrived, would doom come here?


    ¡°I do not know,¡± Elyse repeated again, sadly. ¡°I do not know why, now.¡± And then: ¡°Perhaps she came hunting you.¡± Martimeos drew his hands away from his face to look at the witch, and she simply looked back at him calmly, still, so calm for what she was saying. She shrugged, and gave no hint of anger or spite. ¡°I don¡¯t know how, or why. It simply seems odd to me that I should have lived here for so long in safety, but the moment I take you in, this¡­this White Queen should seem to decide to come straight for my home.¡±


    ¡°Would you like me to leave?¡± He did not think what the witch was saying was likely. Why should an entire army divert to hunt down two humans? Even if the White Queen had known they were there, why should she send so many after them? And yet, who could say. The demons and monstrosities who now ruled this world did things that seemed so often beyond reason. And if the witch wanted him to leave, he did not think he would have much choice. He looked at Ulmar, bigger than he was, with jaws large enough that they could fit neatly around his throat. No, he did not have much choice at all.


    ¡°No,¡± the witch replied. But she ran her hands through her coarse, matted hair, looking at him, biting her lip, and eventually she spoke further. ¡°Before you, when people came to my swamp, I would drive them away. If they persisted, I would kill them. Feed them to Ulmar. Mother always said that outsiders would simply bring trouble. But¡­¡± she stopped, staring at him for a long, silent moment.


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you do so to us?¡± Martimeos asked her, when the silence went on for too long.


    Elyse still did not answer, tugging hard at her hair. Finally, she said, ¡°I feel like I know you. I had never seen you before, but the moment I spotted you, I felt like I knew you.¡± She paused for a moment, searching his face. ¡°You specifically, Martim. I did not get the same feeling for your wife. Why do I feel like I must know you?¡±


    He had no answer for her. Certainly he could not say the same. He knew that he had never seen the witch before, and had not the slightest notion that he ever had.


    When he did not say anything, the witch went on. ¡°Perhaps they will divert before they reach us. But if I must leave¡­if we must leave¡­to the south, about a week¡¯s march away, there are many ruins; I think that long ago, it must have been a very grand city. Ulmar has always felt the Art there very strongly. I have no place else to go, and I think I should make my way towards them. At the very least, I could satisfy my curiosity about them before I die. But also there is something in me that tells me that I must go there. You may come, as well. I¡­I would like you to come.¡±


    Martimeos felt numb. He could see the horror of the future, stretching towards him. The thought of what must be done had taken root already, and he did not want to acknowledge it. He did not want to think that the world might be so cruel. ¡°I see,¡± he told her, his voice dead. ¡°I see. Thank you.¡± Please. Please let it not be so.


    Elyse merely nodded, and then she turned away from him, turned to look out over the waters of the swamp, and after a moment Martimeos left her, returned alone to the moss-covered cabin. The light of Oxxos was waning, now, as the dawn came on, but the dead moon was so full in its strength now that it would be visible even during the day, an ugly, dark blot in the blue sky.


    He pulled up the hides that served as a door, and found inside that Vivian was awake, and waiting for him. He sat down beside her, cross-legged, and tried to smile. ¡°Good morning, dear one,¡± he whispered, brushing back a sweat-damp lock of golden hair.


    She smiled back at him, and his heart broke. She was so beautiful, with eyes the color of a morning sky. But she was too weak to lift her head. ¡°Martim,¡± she said, in a painful whisper, and then grimaced and swallowed. ¡°My love, my love. Why are you so sad, my love? Is something wrong?¡±


    He could not stand it. Not long before they had come to Elyse¡¯s swamp, she had fallen while they had waded across a creek, and gotten a gash across her right leg from a sharp stone. They had kept it clean as best they could, and Martimeos knew some herbcraft to treat wounds such as these, but it had not stopped it from getting infected. He had needed to carry her into the swamp itself, and now the infection was ravaging her. Even with Elyse knowing how to heal with the Art, there was little the witch could do for Vivian at this point. The cruel absurdity of it made him want to tear out his hair. They had survived for so long in a world full of demons and monsters, only for her to fall to a stone, to a simple accident?


    ¡°Nothing is wrong,¡± he told her, as he fetched his waterskin and brought it to lips. Despite the fact that they were cracked and parched, she could only swallow a couple of mouthfuls before she grimaced and turned away. ¡°It is early still,¡± he murmured to her, holding her hand. She felt so frail, so weak. ¡°Sleep, rest more. Later today, you must try eating again.¡± Please. Please let her eat. Please let the White Queen turn away from her path. Please.


    But of course, the world was too cruel for that.


    Over the next few days, Vivian slipped in and out of delirious fever, wasting away before his eyes. He stayed by her side the entire time, though rare were the moments when she could speak clearly to him, and for the most part all he could do was listen to her moaning, give her water when she could actually drink it. All he could do was watch her die. He begged for Elyse to do something more for her, and the witch would oblige him, but all the healing she worked with the Art came to nothing more than a brief respite from the delirium, a few moments where Martimeos could see her beautiful smile again, before she slipped back.


    The thought of the approaching White Queen slipped from his mind. Nothing, nothing she could do, nothing the Gul did to him or showed him could be worse than what he was seeing right now. Until, on the fifth day, Elyse beckoned him aside once more.


    ¡°They are still coming,¡± she told him, without elaboration, her voice as calm as if she were announcing simply that it might rain today. She had sent out her familiar to scout once more, and Ulmar had returned this morning. The night-cat had not seen the armies, but she had smelled them, and known that they were still headed directly for the swamp, and returned double-quick, with all speed. ¡°I will leave as soon as I can, I think. Perhaps tonight, even.¡± She stared at him, as if awaiting an answer.


    Vivian would never be able to make the journey, he knew. And so he knew what his answer was. ¡°I will stay behind, with her,¡± he told the witch. ¡°I¡­I thank you. You have been good to us, for the brief time we knew you.¡± Will you have the strength for it? Will you have the strength to give her mercy, before all the horrors of the world come descending upon you?


    The witch continued to stare, expressionless. ¡°I do not know why,¡± she said, after a while, ¡°But I feel that to the south, in these ruins, my salvation lies. I will live. I will, I know it. But you can live, too, wizard. If you come with me.¡±


    What an odd, forlorn hope. There was nothing to live for in this world anymore. It belonged to the demons and the monsters now. ¡°Thank you,¡± he said again. ¡°Thank you. Truly. But I must be with her to the last.¡±


    The witch did not answer this for some time. Her eyes darted to the cabin, then back to his face. ¡°Very well,¡± she told him. ¡°I think I will not leave until tomorrow, after all. Ulmar brought down a deer, and has dragged its carcass back here. Might you do me the favor of collecting some wood for the cooking of it? I must do some preparing, myself, and it would be good to journey with some provisions. And you could have one last hot meal, yourself.¡±


    Martimeos was loathe to leave Vivian¡¯s side, even for a moment, but he could not refuse such a modest request, not after all the witch had done for them. And so he took a chiseled stone worked into a branch that the witch used as an axe, and he set about gathering dead and dried wood from the old collapsed trees of the swamp, rarely if every having to use the axe itself, lugging it back to throw in a single pile. It was on one of these return trips that the witch grabbed him once more, and nodded towards the cabin. ¡°She wants to talk to you,¡± she said simply. ¡°Your wife.¡±


    Dropping the logs, Martimeos sprinted into the cabin. He knew every word he heard from Vivian now may be her last. He found her there, still laying in the blankets he had wrapped around her, her hands folded in her lap, staring straight up at the ceiling, at the dry moss that grew through the cracks there. Her eyes shifted towards him as soon as he entered, and she murmured weakly, ¡°Martim.¡±


    She looked so wasted, so ruined. Her face looked distinctly skull-like, with hollow cheeks and dark circles around her eyes. And yet she was still so beautiful. And she sounded better than she had in days. He sat down beside her, and took her hand in his. It was so, so light. The gentle squeeze that she gave him, the one he could barely feel, was the best she could manage. ¡°How are you feeling?¡± he asked her.


    Vivian did not respond. She seemed to be gathering strength.  ¡°Martim,¡± she said, breathing heavily, ¡°Elyse¡­told me. She told me¡­everything.¡±


    All at once, everything fell into place for Martimeos, and a dark rage roared within him. The witch had betrayed him, she had betrayed him. He had wanted Vivian to die without knowing the horrors that came. The witch had worked her healing Art on his wife just so that she could die in terror. How sick, how¡­


    But it seemed almost as if Vivian could read his mind. She gave a shake of her head, almost imperceptible. ¡°Martim¡­go. With her.¡±


    Here it was. The awful thought he had was approaching. The moment that he had foreseen, the moment that he had dreaded, was here, now. And he was not prepared. ¡°I cannot,¡± he told her. Hot tears ran down his cheeks, but he did not care. ¡°I will not. I will be with you to the last.¡±


    Tears were in Vivian¡¯s eyes now, too. They had known each other since they were children, and he remembered how awful he had always felt whenever he made her cry. He had to have done it just one last time, didn¡¯t he. ¡°No,¡± she whispered, every word a struggle. ¡°I¡­want to know that you live. I want to die, knowing you will live. Please. Promise me.¡± When he was silent, she sobbed. ¡°Please. Martim. Give me this, at my last.¡±


    What could he say? He knew it was a promise he could not keep. But he could give her the peace of going into the night, thinking that it could be. ¡°I promise,¡± he told her. ¡°I will live. Oh, Vivian, my love.¡±


    She seemed relieved, but words were beyond her now. The breath went out of her, and she lay her head back, wheezing. He lay down next to her, wrapping his arms around her, uncaring of her fever-heat. This awful, sick world. It had robbed him of her. Long before H?ddrgost had fallen, this had already been true. All the moments they might have spent together, which he had instead spent in training, in endless harsh drills, in fighting the wicked, the mad, the corruption at the city walls - all so that it might come to nothing in the end, all so that the city might fall without him being able to do the slightest thing about it. All so that he might have to watch his wife die, so young. Had he not done his duty? Didn¡¯t he deserve something more than this?


    He lay there for he knew not how long, unaware of anything other than her. But after some time, he looked up, to find the witch standing in the doorway, staring at them. ¡°What do you want,¡± he asked, his voice thick.


    Elyse approached him, sat down by him, staring at him. He wondered if she planned on saying anything at all. ¡°I am very sorry,¡± she told him, eventually. ¡°I¡­she¡­¡± the witch seemed to struggle for words. ¡°She loves you very much, I think.¡±


    Martimeos said nothing to this. What was there to say?


    The witch opened her palm. Inside it were three berries, black as midnight. ¡°Gurmwort,¡± she named them. ¡°It¡­give her the three, and it will be a peaceful passing.¡±


    He looked at her outstretched palm. ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± he whispered. Elyse gave him a hard look, and he shook his head. ¡°No¡­I mean¡­will you¡­will you do it for me?¡± She softened, then, and nodded.


    He held Vivian close as the witch fetched a waterskin, and watched, feeling nothing, as she slipped the three gurmwort berries in between his wife¡¯s lips, one at a time, and fed her a trickle of water. Such a simple thing to do, and yet he knew he would never have had the strength to do it himself. Vivian¡¯s eyes fluttered open, and she swallowed, then moaned, and then fell back into unconsciousness. It would be the last time he ever saw her eyes with life in them.


    Elyse left them, without a word. He stayed with Vivian, whispering words of love into her hair, whispering them though he knew she could not hear him, and hating, hating, hating this world, until his grief was too much to bear, too much to stay with, and he fell asleep with her in his arms.


    When he woke, some hours later, it was night. The loathsome light of Oxxos filled the sky. And Vivian was cold.


    He rose to his feet, slowly, carrying her in his arms. She was so light. Lighter than he had even realized, now. There had been so little left of her, in the end. He carried her outside, and he hated that red light on her fair skin, hated Oxxos, hated that it might touch her even now. He knew what the false moon did to the dead. He laid her body on the ground, and with the wood he had gathered earlier that day, he began to build a pyre.


    He barely noticed when Elyse appeared, out of the darkness, with Ulmar at her side. When she spoke, he had no idea how long she had been watching him from the shadows. ¡°You are burning her?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he replied simply. He could do no other. He would not leave her body there for Oxxos to blaspheme, to make her walk again, and he would not leave it for the demons and the monsters to defile and devour.


    The witch nodded. Over her shoulder, she carried a tooka sack, bulging with supply. She was ready to leave. ¡°I can wait for this. But we must go as soon as it is done.¡±


    ¡°Go now,¡± Martimeos told her. ¡°I am not going with you.¡±


    Elyse blinked, then stepped back, seeming almost shocked. Her eyes glanced at Vivian''s body, then back to him. ¡°But¡­did she not¡­she asked of you¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes. She asked me to go with you. And I told her I would. It¡¯s very simple, witch. I lied to her.¡± Martimeos gave a low, dusky laugh. He wondered if, at her last, Vivian had even believed him. She had known him, after all. She knew how much of a liar he could be. But she should never have asked of him a promise that he knew he would never, never be able to keep. He could not live in this wretched world without her. He had no interest in it anymore. ¡°Go. Go find your salvation. It¡¯s for you alone.¡±


    ¡°But¡­Martim¡­¡±


    ¡°I said GO!¡± His shout echoed beneath the empty night sky.


    The witch stared at him for a long, long moment. Her mouth opened, as if she meant to say something. Then she gave a frustrated growl, and disappeared into the night. Ulmar followed her with a flick of the tail. And that was the last he ever saw of them.


    Once he had built his pyre out of dry wood, he laid his wife¡¯s body upon it, and then used the flame of the Art to set it ablaze. Burning the dead had been customary in H?ddrgost, and he knew this would not be enough wood to do the job, normally. But with the Art, he fled the flame¡¯s hunger, hotter, hotter, blazing hot, hotter than any natural fire could be, hotter than a forge. He sank so deep into the Art that he was that hunger that the flame had, and he ate Vivian, ate her so this wicked world might have no more of her, ate her and left behind only fragments of charred bone which he scattered into the waters of the swamp. He would be with her soon.


    He never let the fire die. He gathered more wood to burn, and would not let it go out. Vivian¡¯s funeral flame would burn as long as he was alive, and he sank into the Art to know the flame¡¯s hunger, sank deep into it, and did not sleep. The flame was the last that he had of Vivian, it was the last part of her he could hold onto. He had failed to protect her, failed to keep her alive, but he could keep her flame burning.


    And before the end, his grief and the Art had driven him to madness. This flame, this holy flame, it was Vivian, it was his wife, and he let it burn his skin, let it consume parts of his flesh. When all the monstrosities and horrors of the White Queen finally came upon the swamp, he sat within Elyse¡¯s cabin, scarred and burnt and searing, melted and ruined, with Vivian, his sacred flame, dancing on a small hearth before him. He listened to the approaching demons, listened to them as they came upon him. They knew he was there, knew somehow, and as they approached they cried out in the name of their god, the dead god, the unhuman who had come across the gray seas, who had damned the world and put the false moon Oxxos in the sky, the god who had bled and butchered humanity until this last, until they were nothing, until they were dust.


    ¡°HOO-LOON! HOO-LOON! HOO-LOON! HOO-LOOOOOOOOON!¡±


    He heard this, and he knew that the time had come for him to dance with Vivian again, one last time.


    And so even as the first horror leapt snarling through the door, the flame erupted, hot, golden-hot, eating him, eating the walls, and he was the flame, and he danced with Vivian again. He asked if she might forgive him, but she did not answer. She only knew hunger now, and soon enough, he realized, so did he, and so together they ate the cabin-wood, ate tree and wicked flesh and everything, everything burned.


    They burned so high and so fierce that even Elyse, far, far to the south now, saw the smoke rising into the sky from their flames. She shook her head, and with Ulmar slipped into the tumblestone ruins she had sought, feeling there the Art, and she would find there a strange beam with rainbows dancing across its surface.


    ===***===


    Life after life, world after world, the chaos of color would resolve into clarity and then melt away again, a cacophony of possibilities. And they were there, in each one, Martimeos and Elyse both. Sometimes they had known each other their entire lives, in these worlds; other times they were complete and total strangers, both of them brought together by circumstance, but with some vague notion that they must remember each other. Other times, they were truly foreign to each other, and had no notion of who the other was at all. Strange lives danced before them. Martimeos was a chieftain in the eternal horde of the Nudmen, great, sweeping tribes of horsemen who burned and sacked and slaughtered, and Elyse was one of their whispering, mad shaman, and then it was gone, replaced by a world in which Elyse was hunted through the countryside, condemned for her mother¡¯s dark Arts, and Martimeos was the one who dragged her back in shackles. They were friends, lovers, bitter enemies, and so it was with other folk in their lives as well. And always, it would end with Elyse finding the beam, finding it and the world melting away into formless color once more, and for Martimeos, each and every time, it ended with his death.


    Sorrow, joy, love, hate, worlds damned beyond redeeming and worlds filled with boundless promise. All danced and swirled and faded before them, memories of a thousand unknown lives filled their heads, and it seemed that it would never end¡­

 The Glimmerling

    <h2 style="text-align: center">22. The Glimmerling</h2>


    There was a sharp pain in Martimeos¡¯ face.


    It was very near his eye, actually. That alarming fact sent jolts of dim panic rushing through him. He would not like to lose his eye. And there was an even worse pain in his ankle, throbbing, like someone was pushing hot needles into the flesh there.


    He tried to focus on this pain, on the reality of his body, but his mind was full of color, insistent color, color that demanded his attention. And it was not just color, it was thoughts, feelings, it was something important, or so he thought, but it kept slipping away from him, more and more, the pain a constant distraction. He really must do something about that pain. However important the colors were, they could wait.


    And so he pushed the colors aside in his mind, and it was like clawing his way out of the deepest dream he ever had, like swimming upward through thick honey, and all the way the colors insisted that they must be seen, insisted that they must have his thoughts. Until, finally, he breached the surface, and reality came rushing in like a gasp of desperate breath.


    His eyes fluttered open to barely-lit gloom, a low, weak orange light the only way he could see.


    Another jolt of pain ran through him as something jabbed at his temple. ¡°Damn it!¡± he snapped, slapping a hand there, only to be met with a furious chirp and the fluttering of delicate wings narrowly avoiding his blow. That chirp¡­I understood it. Yes, I speak the bird-tongue, don¡¯t I. In this life. He shook his head. What other life might he have? Dozens, hundreds. A torrent of images swam behind his eyes.


    Dizziness overcame him then, and the world seemed to spin about him. Memories, too many memories, flashed through his mind. Memories of countless other lives which he desperately tried to cling to, but it was like trying to hold on to water as it flowed down a drain. Scraps and pieces of it he clung to, not knowing what they signified. A memory of him charging on horseback, running down a creature that looked like an enormous cyclopic frog; a memory of standing before a tower of glass in the midst of a desert, so tall that it seemed to touch the sky; a memory of blood-drenched snow and an agonizing grief that seemed to tear his heart in two, but he could not remember what the grief was for. There was the lingering awareness of something enormous, so many lives that left their residue on his thoughts. But like a nightmare, a dream, the aftertaste of emotion remained, a drained, heavy feeling, but what had caused it drifted away like smoke. It was gone, and the world - his world, his life, the thought echoed through him - came back.


    His familiar, Flit the cardinal, had been pecking at the side of his face, and as he looked down, he saw that Cecil was chewing at his ankle, as well. ¡°Off, damn you!¡± he snapped, jerking his ankle away as the large cat sank frightfully long fangs into his flesh, even as he watched. He cursed, noticing that the edge of his pants were now wet with blood, and glared at the creature.


    Do not be too cross with them, the thought flittered through his mind. They were trying to wake you.


    Wake him? Wake him from what? Flit was perched on his shoulder again, and chirping frantically in his ear, and as Martimeos listened to the bird-speech, it all came crashing down onto him. Where he stood, in the glimmerling¡¯s lair, and the last thing he had done, looking into the pool of water that filled the basin before the odd beam that resonated with ancient Art. The danger that they were in.


    Frantically, he looked around. The torches that they had placed in the wall-sconces now burned low with flame that only barely formed a blue and yellow nimbus around their end. He reached out with the flame of the Art to stoke this, and the flames leapt up again, pushing back the darkness. How long had they been standing here, such that the torches had burned so low?


    The renewed flames lit up the room in fullness once more, and revealed Elyse, who still stood staring, glassy-eyed and vacant, at the water in the basin that lay before the beam. It was no longer gray and cloudy, but rather swirled with vibrant luminous color that tugged at his eyes. Martimeos turned away, refusing to look at it, and seized the witch by the shoulders, shaking her. ¡°Elyse!¡± he whispered furiously to her, but she did not respond until he bodily spun her around, away from the alluring glow of the water.


    Even then, it took a few moments for light and awareness to come back to her eyes. To his surprise, the moment it did, the moment recognition dawned on her face, she flung her arms around him. ¡°Martim, you live!¡± she cried, the words muffled into his chest. ¡°I thought that¡­that you¡­it was¡­¡± She pushed him back, and looked at him, confused. ¡°It was so terrible¡­why can¡¯t I remember¡­?¡±


    He was sympathetic to her - the echo, the enormity of what he had seen still lingered on his mind, as well. They had peered into other worlds, but the details of each were like ghosts to him now. He would like nothing more than to try to grasp some of these, to try to bring the memories back solid, but they had precious little time now for the witch to get her bearings. ¡°Remember,¡± he told her, gripping her shoulders, his eyes intent on hers. ¡°Remember where we truly are. The glimmerling approaches.¡±


    That was the warning that Flit had been shouting at him in the bird-speech, and they had but little time, now, to prepare their ambush. He shuddered to think what might have happened to them without their familiars. Ezekiel would have come upon them. What would he have seen, with his clouded eyes? Might he have seen them at all? Would they have starved to death, staring into the visions of other worlds, other lives? Or might their bones have joined those of the children in the dark waters below?


    It was the memory of this that steeled his resolve. Whatever might have happened to them, whatever might happen, this wickedness cried out for action. He left the witch to recover for a moment, shaking her head and muttering to herself. Grabbing a torch from the wall, he left the room, going back out into the long cave that formed a branching hallway. A hallway from lifetimes ago. The thought of it made his stomach lurch. A part of him knew he had seen the hallway hours past, at most, but there was the sense that so much had passed in the dream, so much time. Might the pool and its visions have been a trap for them? Martimeos did not think so. Whatever it was Ezekiel saw, whatever he perceived, if he were still laying traps, Martimeos thought they would have encountered them long before this. No, he thought the pool was what had tempted the man. He had unlocked a way to see these other worlds, and had endeavored to travel to them. To live a new life, even.


    Even so, it had acted as a trap all the same. Martimeos had wanted time to plan out an ambush in utmost certainty. Now they were left scrambling in the dark, and it made him nervous. What about the demon that they had both sensed? He might have had time to lay down sigils-


    It does not matter. He put this aside, glancing into the rooms, and the plan for an ambush took place in his head. Simple, he told himself. As easy as killing a blind man. When he came back out into the hallway-cave again, he found the witch there, holding her torch, Cecil by her side. Before he could ask her whether she was ready, she hushed him. ¡°Listen, wizard,¡± she said, her voice barely above a whisper.


    He paused, for but a moment, in the dark. At first, he heard only the breath of their torchfire, the occasional echoing drop of water dripping down from the ceiling of the caves. But then it came to him, faintly, faintly, from a distance. A haunting, lilting hum, discordant chimes.


    The sound of the glimmerling approaching.


    They had little time, now, and so they swiftly prepared. Martimeos gave his loaded crossbow to the witch. She took it, still shaking her head as faded memories drifted through her thoughts, and laid crouched at the end of the hallway, in the room where the children¡¯s bones lay discarded on the flooded steps. Martimeos himself had his sword, and he stayed hidden in the cave that served as Ezekiel¡¯s bedroom. He was quite certain that the glimmerling would come down here, to this end of the hallway, where the bedroom was; where it had experimented with the Art when it was still a man. All the other rooms that branched off from the hallway were empty. Cecil and Flit, he wished he would have had time to let them escape, but if they were to make their way out now their paths might cross directly into that of the glimmerling. Despite Flit¡¯s offers of battle, he convinced them that they might stay hidden in the bedroom as well. Cecil¡¯s claws and teeth might be deadly - his ankle still throbbed - but not so much as bolt and blade.


    The last thing he did was douse their torches with the Art. Who knew if Ezekiel might even be able to see them, but there was no point in risking it. He did not strangle the flame entirely, but left them glowing with dim red embers. Darkness wrapped around them, the total darkness of a cave untouched by sunlight. Martimeos clutched the hilt of his blade, hard, and tried to make his breath as silent as possible. It would be over soon. Just like killing a blind man. It would be over, and they would be safe, very soon. He waited.


    He did not have to wait for long.


    That long, dim hum, those lilting chimes, they grew louder and louder, echoing off the cave walls. And then, from the other end of the cave came a blue glow, faint but obvious in the total darkness. It grew stronger, and stronger, pushing back the darkness, a blue light that was not the comfortable warmth of torchlight, but a blue light that was cold somehow, cold and wrong, a queasy, wicked light. Like the dead light of Oxxos, the thought whispered in the back of his mind, but he pushed it away.


    Martimeos looked to Elyse. There was enough light to see the witch, now, crouching down in the room at the end of the hallway to his right. She sat with her back to the wall, clutching his crossbow to her chest, ready to move on his word. Her wide eyes caught his own for a moment, but other than this she was perfectly still, waiting, waiting as the hum grew louder and the blue glow brighter. The discordant chimes were a din, now, tumultuous enough to push back thought. The glimmerling must be very close. Martimeos risked a peek around the corner, into the main hallway of the cave.


    And there it was. There he was, Ezekiel, tall and slender, halfway down the hallway and headed for them, glowing with a blue light that cast a soft nimbus against the damp and water-slick walls. This close, he could see the intricateness of his dress, the swirling floral designs in the Ezekiel¡¯s robe, the buttons on his ruffled blouse and pants, even the ring he wore on his finger, in fine detail, even as his form faded in and out, first crisp, now indistinct, first almost solid, now translucent. The only thing that was never clear, however, was his face - it was always a pulsing, swirling blur, a faded cloud, which breathed and moved like a heartbeat. He still walked upside down, and at an angle, his feet almost as if he were walking on the upper corner of the hallway , while his head dangled along near the floor. Not Ezekiel, Martimeos reminded himself. He is not Ezekiel anymore. He is a glimmerling now.


    He felt his heart skip a beat as the glimmerling froze, and for a moment he thought he had been spotted, that he was going to die, and he very nearly leapt out from his hiding space to rush at the creature, to at least go down with a fight. But instead, it turned towards one of the empty rooms further down the hallway. And then it spoke.


    Or at least, that was what it seemed. The voice came from far away, as if from down a long, long tunnel. And it was not really speech. It sounded as if it may make sense, sounded almost as if it were a properly spoken tongue, but it was nothing but broken babble, noise. At least that was what it seemed to him. Ezekiel - the glimmerling, the glimmerling - had its arms crossed, and was looking into the empty side cave as if someone or something was actually there, and he was carrying on a conversation with it. What did he see, with his eyes clouded by other worlds? What did he think was there which was not? Or perhaps there really was something there, just something that they could not see, but the glimmerling could. Martimeos was not sure whether he wanted to know.


    Finally, it turned away, and came back down the cave towards them again. Martimeos drew back, once more, and tensed himself, every muscle in his body feeling like a coiled spring. That humming grew so loud now that it seemed to drill itself into their heads, and beneath it they could hear a whining buzz beneath it, like that of a bloodfly. A blind man. Blind and deaf. It will all be over soon.


    And then, finally, the glimmerling passed in front of the cave in which he lay waiting, close, so close he could reach out and touch it. And this close he could see, around the edges of the creature, a faint, crackling outline, as if the air itself was galled by its presence, as if it knew something here was wrong.


    Easy. He¡¯ll be dead, we¡¯ll be safe. Fortune grant it so. ¡°Now,¡± he shouted.


    The moment he spoke, the glimmerling immediately began to turn towards him. So it can hear, at least. From the end of the hallway, Elyse dipped out from around the corner, and loosed the bolt from the crossbow. Martimeos did not wait to see where it had landed. The moment he heard the twang, he pounced, blade-first, and drove his sword into the glimmerling¡¯s chest up to the hilt.


    He did not see where Elyse¡¯s bolt had landed to know whether it had been a fatal shot, but he was certain that he had his sword buried where the heart ought to be. But the glimmerling did not die. No, instead it screamed, a long, warbling scream that came as if from a great distance, through countless tunnels - and then spoke a word that shook Martimeos to his bones.


    And then he felt as if he was being crushed.


    His head felt so heavy it seemed as if it might snap his neck, his cloak felt as if it weighed as much as a boulder, his arms far too heavy to lift, even his fingers felt like they were made of lead. He stumbled forward, toppling like a statue, clawing at the glimmerling to keep himself from collapsing into the floor, where he was sure his bones would shatter under the weight. To his side, beneath the humming buzz, he could hear Elyse struggling to breathe, and he could hear behind him the feeble tweets of Flit, and the strained hisses and spitting of Cecil. He felt like he could barely draw breath into his lungs himself. He tried desperately to raise an arm to grab his blade stuck into the glimmerling¡¯s chest, to twist it and finish it off, but he could not lift it that far. All he could do was claw with fingers that barely had the strength to respond at the place where the glimmerling¡¯s face should be, to perhaps claw at its tongue, to prevent it from speaking again.


    He was slipping down; the hum was filling his head, the blue light of the glimmerling felt like it was cutting into his skull. Desperately holding on to the glimmerling¡¯s robe as hard as he could, he lost his footing. The world spun wildly around him. His heart leapt into his throat as the floor loomed before his vision; he knew with this terrible weight pressing down upon him that he would be crushed against it. Martimeos forced his numb and heavy fingers to claw and tear at the glimmerling''s robe''s, frantically trying to find purchase, until his fall slowed and stopped. He would have sobbed with relief, had he the breath to do so. He was holding on, clinging to the glimmerling as it struggled against him. It felt like it vibrated and hummed beneath his touch as he held on to it, and beneath the drowning hum of the thing, he could still hear a long, echoing scream of pain, and he could feel the hot blood ebbing from it, flowing onto his own leathers. Let this thing die, let it die!


    Something in the glimmerling¡¯s robes tore, and he slipped for a long, horrifying moment before with desperate strength he tangled himself further with the creature, flipping over. He was staring at the ceiling of the cave now, as he struggled to maintain his grip, where the glimmerling¡¯s boots met the rough stalactites above. His vision blurred as he fought to remain conscious; his compressed lungs failing to draw any air, feeling his bones creak under the strain. As Martimeos held on, he noticed that the glimmerling was actually slowly sinking away from the ceiling, being pulled down by his weight. And as his eyes focused, he saw something black and serpentine coiled around one of the glimmerling¡¯s boots. Something alive, and twitching like a tail, and pulled along with it. Something long and writhing, covered with black feathers, torn from the very air almost as if it was drawn out from the wall of the cave itself.


    Suddenly, the glimmerling¡¯s robes tore again, and Martimeos sank down even further. Gritting his teeth, groaning against the strain, he summoned all the strength he could muster, desperately reaching for the hilt of his sword stuck in the glimmerling''s chest. His muscles screamed as he reached upward, struggling against the invisible weight pressing down on him; his arm trembled and shook. Just before his vision went dark, he felt his fingertips brush against the hilt. With all his might, he grasped it, and gave his blade a twist.


    The long, echoing scream of pain abruptly stopped. And suddenly, he was no longer crushed under his own massive weight. He collapsed to the ground with the glimmerling¡¯s corpse, as it all at once stopped being held up under its own power, gasping for breath. The hum faded away, the last echoes of it drifting off into the darkness, and with it went the eerie blue glow of the glimmerling.


    In that last moment before darkness, just before the glimmerling¡¯s light faded away, he saw, illuminated, the creature attached to its foot. It looked like a long, thick snake of jet-black feathers. As he watched, it twisted to face him, revealing a large, sharp black beak, at least a foot long, like a crow¡¯s beak. It opened this, and there was the thundering cacophony of heavy ringing bells, the tolls echoing off the cave walls. A sense of profound wrongness washed over him, and he knew then that this was the demon they had both sensed. He heard Elyse scream in terror. And then they were plunged into darkness.


    Martimeos tried to move, but became tangled with the glimmerling¡¯s corpse. Those bells grew louder, maddening, and then he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his shoulder as the demon struck him with its beak, punching straight through his leathers. He howled in agony as he felt its beak clattering, tearing at his flesh; he tried blindly to grab hold of whatever it was in the pitch black, but his hands passed through it completely. It was as if its body were made of nothing but feathers. For a long agonizing moment Martimeos could do nothing but scream as it burrowed into his flesh with a furious strength.


    Suddenly, there was light again. Elyse had grabbed her torch and she stood somewhere above him, trying to hit the demon with it; as she did, the fanning movements rebirthed a small flame upon it, giving them at least some light to see by. He heard the creature¡¯s call of tolling bells once more, and felt its beak leave his shoulder, flecking his face with his own blood. As soon as he was free, he rolled away, pushing the glimmerling''s corpse from himself, and reached out with the Art.


    The small flame on Elyse¡¯s torch leapt up as he stoked the silent hunger of the glowing embers into open flame. Light bloomed in the darkness, and he could see. The demon was turning, twisting in midair, undulating as if on some unseen wind, aiming that sharp, bloody beak at Elyse now, who swung the torch at it again. It was as long as a man was tall, a serpent of black feathers floating in the air, thick and tapering at the end, its feathers all ruffling as it reared high. The witch swung the torch at it again with an inarticulate shout, but it passed right through the creature as if it had made no contact at all, leaving just some smoking, smoldering feathers. The feathered serpent opened its beak at the witch, and the roar of tolling bells drowned the world. She screamed in panic, scrambling backwards, nearly dropping the torch, as it coursed in the air towards her.


    Something within Martimeos screamed in fear. The creature¡¯s beak was as sharp as a dagger. His shoulder throbbed with pain from its bite, and his blood spattered on the floor. Time seemed to slow, and he could see that wicked, bloody beak coursing towards Elyse with deadly accuracy, the witch defenseless, and he knew it was going to take her in her eye and drive through to her brain, she was going to die, die because she had come with him. And in his fear for this thought, in his loathing for this thought, he reached out with the Art to touch the flame of Elyse¡¯s torch, and his desperate need drove it to higher heights of screaming hunger than he had ever brought it before, and it was his hunger too, his need to save the witch.


    A sheet of roaring flame billowed forth from the torch, engulfing the demon, immediately setting its black feathers ablaze, and it screamed. Screamed like humongous bells cracking and shattering, and it slammed against a wall, crawling against it, as if trying to put out the fire, but Martimeos would not let this thing live. His hunger was the flame¡¯s hunger, and he was not sated. He would devour it. The blaze grew stronger, baking heat searing him, flames bright and merciless. The creature began to spin in the air, desperately trying to put the flames out, shedding stinking, burning feathers everywhere, causing Elyse and Martimeos to back away lest they be burned. Its cry grew shrill and reedy, as its form grew smaller and smaller, until finally, it disintegrated completely, its beak and a burnt black tongue falling to the floor with a thunk as the last of its feathers drifted away to ash. There was nothing else solid to it.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    It was only then that the hunger he felt died, and Martimeos felt his wits returning to him. Never had he felt so close to the flame before. His need, his hunger had never been the same as what he stoked with the Art. He sagged against the wall, catching his breath, panting. It had all taken mere moments, he was certain, from the point that they had first ambushed Ezekiel, but he felt as if he had just run as hard as he could for half a day. He looked at the witch, and for a moment there was silence between them, their eyes gleaming in the orange torchlight, as they both simply breathed. Finally Martimeos swore. ¡°What sort of demon was that?¡± he asked, raggedly, forcing himself to stand on his own two feet. He hissed, clapping a hand to his shoulder as he did so. The pain there was deep, throbbing.


    ¡°It¡­wait.¡± Elyse was about to answer him, but when she drew closer, she noticed the blood coursing down his arm. ¡°Did it bite you?¡± she asked, her eyes wide, leaning in with her torch to see his shoulder.


    ¡°Nowhere important,¡± Martim muttered in reply, not noticing the alarm in her voice. But before he knew it, she was holding the torch to light his face, her large, dark eyes filling his vision. She apparently did not like what she saw, for she gave a small gasp and a curse, and the next thing he knew, her hand was on the side of his face, warm, except for the ring she wore upon it, ice cold.


    ¡°Martimeos,¡± she said urgently, ¡°We have to go. We have to get you back, right now.¡±


    He knew immediately from the tone of her voice that something was terribly wrong. ¡°Should we not at least-¡± he began, but she immediately cut him off.


    ¡°You are poisoned, wizard,¡± she told him. He felt a tingle spread out from where her hand lay on his face, and she shook her head, and when she spoke again, her voice trembled. ¡°You are poisoned, and I cannot stop it. Minerva may be able to treat you, but we must get you back right now.¡± She bit her lip, as she looked at him, and what scared Martimeos the most were the beginnings of tears that he saw in her eyes.


    He remembered again what that voice had said to him, in his dream last night. I¡¯m so glad I¡¯ll get to see you again.


    The witch told him to sit and be quiet, as she went to fetch his sword, her torchlight silhouetting her as she walked down the hallway to the glimmerling¡¯s corpse. ¡°He is most definitely dead,¡± she snapped at him, when Martimeos called out the question to her. ¡°Would you like me to take his head as proof? Didn¡¯t I tell you to hold your tongue? Damn you, we must keep your blood as still as we can!¡±


    When she returned to him, she held out his sword, wiped clean as best as she could on her dress. Cecil walked by her side, as well, and on his back rode Flit, the flight-feathers on one of his wings askew, and he held it oddly. The cardinal chirped proudly about his battle-wound, and looked for all the world as if he considered the cat his noble steed. ¡°I think that Flit may have had one of his wings injured,¡± the witch told him. Martimeos was grateful that an injured wing was all Flit had. He remembered that crushing weight that Ezekiel had woven on him, and wondered what sort of Art that must have been. Not Ezekiel. The glimmerling, the glimmerling, and dead now. ¡°Hopefully, it is not broken. But he does not seem able to fly at the moment.¡± Elyse knelt beside him, and again placed her hand on his face. ¡°You will have to walk yourself down to the rowboat, at the very least. Do you think you can?¡±


    ¡°Certainly,¡± Martimeos told her. ¡°In all truth, I do not feel poisoned at all. Perhaps I was lucky, and avoided the sting. Perhaps it merely bit me.¡±


    Elyse gave him such a look that he thought the witch might be about to lace into him, but her voice, when she spoke, was soft. ¡°You are poisoned, wizard. I may not be able to do anything about it, but I can feel it in your blood.¡± She slid her hand down to his neck in an oddly gentle manner. ¡°Feel my hand, Martimeos. I am your anchor to the world of the living. Do not slip. Let us go.¡±


    She dragged him to his feet, and together they followed the path they had taken, up and out of the dark, their familiars trailing behind them.


    Martimeos truly did not feel poisoned, and at first he was hopeful that the witch¡¯s fears were overblown. But by the time they had gone up the stairs from the caves, and then up the stairs from the wine cellar, back into the grounds of the manor, he knew something was wrong. He had broken out in a cold sweat, and simply walking up a set of stairs had left his breath labored. The pain in his shoulder had lessened, as it was going numb. Elyse stopped him, handing him the torch, and placed both of her hands on either side of his face, staring at him angrily. ¡°Damn you,¡± she snarled.


    Martimeos chuckled softly. ¡°Sorry,¡± he told her, leaning back against a wall, feeling woozy. ¡°I did not mean to be poisoned.¡±


    Elyse blinked at him, startled, and then her expression softened. ¡°I am not angry at you,¡± she told him soothingly. ¡°It is the poison itself I am angry at.¡± He did not dare tell her that this gentle manner of hers scared him far more than her anger. She removed his gloves, and with one hand laced her fingers with his, tightly. ¡°If you feel yourself slipping, focus on the warmth from my hand,¡± she told him. ¡°And listen to my voice. As long as you can feel and hear me, wizard, you live.¡±


    She led him through the manor at a steady pace, never too swiftly, but once they were outside, she cursed, and Martimeos cursed with her. He did not know how long they had been inside the manor, but in the time since, the sun had gone down, and darkness was falling upon them. And the mists of the lake had come in, as thick as they ever were, wrapping them in white so that they could barely see past three strides. The shadowy trunks of the courtyard¡¯s trees loomed up through the fog, and the thorns that wove around them, the blackthorn vines¡­


    The thorns rattled in the wind, and they called to him. I¡¯m so glad I¡¯ll get to see you again. ¡°I¡¯m glad too,¡± he murmured back.


    ¡°What is that?¡± Elyse asked him, immediately peering at his face. The color drained from her as she did. ¡°Martimeos, please, you must stay with me,¡± she told him, and there was more than a note of desperation in that pleading. ¡°Please, it is just a little walk down to the rowboat. Then you can relax, and I will row us to shore. ¡®Tis good we asked for a beacon in this fog, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    She dragged him through the courtyard, past the garden of skulls that lay at the entrance to it, down the path they had walked up to the manor. But even before its walls had disappeared from view behind them, Martimeos felt himself becoming sluggish, the corners of his vision darkening. And he was cold, so cold that Elyse¡¯s hand in his almost felt uncomfortable with how warm it was. Crows cawed above them, flying away as they passed. And from the blackthorn brambles, the voice whispered to him.


    He tried to ignore it. He tried to focus on Elyse¡¯s warmth, as she had told him to; tried to focus on her voice. The witch was talking, it seemed, just to talk. And her words were kind, too kind for her. ¡°What do you suppose it was that Ezekiel did to us?¡± she asked, as she led him down the path, then shook her head. ¡°No, don¡¯t talk. I felt nearly crushed. I thought my ribs might break. You must be quite strong, wizard, to have been able to still move and hold on through that. Valiant, I should say. Think of all the things we may be able to learn, once we come back to take Ezekiel¡¯s notes. And you found evidence of your brother, did you not? You will be back on his trail in no time. Think of that.¡± She glanced back at him, cursed, and then quickened her pace. ¡°Think of all the pretty girls who will be impressed by your knowledge of the Art. Think of their kisses, Martimeos, does that warm your blood? Perhaps I will give you one too. Remember what it is to live, wizard¡­¡±


    He did not know why she was speaking so, but by the time that they had reached the shore, it had all faded away to a dull blur. Elyse¡¯s hand in his no longer felt merely uncomfortable; it felt like her fingers were hot iron bars, scorching him. He was vaguely aware of stumbling in the sand, and Elyse by his side, begging him to get up. Then the rowboat was before him, and he was falling into it, not feeling the pain of the fall at all, feeling so numb, so cold. He looked back, and saw Elyse struggling mightily to push the boat out onto the water. He tried to sit up, to help her, and the last thing he remembered was her screaming at him to lay down, idiot, before he slipped away, fell away into darkness, darkness and sharp black thorns.


    ===***===


    Elyse was almost unable to get the rowboat out into the water. It was not until she braced herself against a nearby stone and pushed it with her legs that it slid and scraped off from out of the brush that Martimeos had hidden it in, and out onto the wet stones and hard packed sand of the shore. Even then, it seemed every time she assailed the back of the rowboat that it would only move a finger¡¯s width. And she knew she simply did not have the time. With every passing moment, the poison sank deeper into Martim¡¯s blood. She dared not look at him where he lay in the bottom of the boat. She feared she might find him already dead.


    There is no point, witch. You know that he cannot be saved. He has come to be with me, now.


    This voice scratched at the back of her mind with the cold whisper of the wind, but Elyse ignored it, not noticing that it was not actually her own. She screamed with frustration and launched herself at the back of the rowboat, pushing with all her might. I will not give up and leave him to die, she thought, lips pulled back in a snarl, sweat dripping from her forehead as she strained and her muscles felt near ready to burst. Not now. Not again!


    She could not remember all the details of what she had seen when she was entranced by the pool of colors, down in the glimmerling¡¯s lair. The memories of other lives and other worlds had slipped from her like the last gasp of a dream. But she knew that she had seen Martim die, in those other lives, watched him die over and over and over again, and she would not let it happen here. What if this is simply another vision, and another death you can do nothing about? She shook her head, defiant of the thought. This was real, this was real, and Martim would live, damn him.


    Finally, the nose of the boat dipped into the water, and she gave a cry of relief as it glided out over the fog-shrouded surface of the lake. She splashed out and clambered over the side of the boat, and immediately crouched over the wizard. He was pale and cold, very cold, and his lips were taking on a ghastly purple color, but he breathed still. Flit nested in the tangles of her hair, and chirped at her forlornly. She closed her eyes, resting her hand against his neck, and listened for the red song, the rhythm of Martim¡¯s body. It was discordant and untuned, all the poison in his blood a darkness, a darkness that seemed to seep and pour into the wicked scar on his back. Such a poison could be resisted for a time, if one kept one''s mind on the glories and the passions of life, but the wizard was beyond this, now.


    He won¡¯t live, witch. He¡¯s gone.


    ¡°No,¡± she muttered to herself. ¡°No, he¡¯ll live, damn him.¡± Martim had saved her life. She had felt what he had done below, when he had summoned flame to engulf the demon. He had called upon the flame much more strongly than he was normally able to, and he had done it to save her. Why could she not do the same for him with healing? Did she not fear for him, was her need not desperate? And yet she did not know what else to do besides work her Art with the red song, and she could not drive the poison from him. It mocked her with its cold indifference to her craft. ¡°Minerva will be able to do something,¡± she told herself. Of course the old apothecary would, she knew herbcraft well. She had to be able to do something.


    Elyse took up the oars to row. And that was when she noticed that the beacon on the other side of the shore was not visible. She looked around, and all the could see was endless gray, luminous with the moon¡¯s silver - they had drifted far out enough now that even the island and its manor had faded behind them. All that she could see was the dark water around her, and gray, all gray. ¡°Useless fools!¡± she cursed. Martim had risked his life, she had risked her life, and these senseless villagers could not have the decency to build them a fire large enough to be seen? They saw the fog, didn¡¯t they? Shouldn¡¯t they know to build a blaze large enough to shine through it?


    Still cursing under her breath, she began to row in the direction that she thought the shore was. She could not move it nearly as fast as Martim had, and she felt more keenly aware than ever how small she was compared to him; he had rowed across the lake and dragged the boat ashore with ease, while she had not rowed for very long before she breathed raggedly and her arms screamed. But her fear for him drove her forward, the rowboat moving smoothly over the surface of the lake, and she looked always for the light she hoped to spot, the flame that was meant to be guiding them back. She rowed until she thought that certainly she must have hit the shore by now, that even if she could not see the flame she ought to be able to see the trees along the bank through the fog. Still there was nothing but mist and black water.


    And something in the water.


    Elyse thought she had imagined it, at first, and ignored it; the way the water swelled nearby, the way the fog swirled where it should not. But as she became more desperate, she could no longer deny that there was something following her. She caught flashes of pale flesh beneath the surface before they faded into the depths, and it could be no fish, she knew. What she had seen was too large. Too unnatural. She continued to row, breathless, pulling at the oars as hard she could, her arms and shoulders burning.


    She screamed as something suddenly scraped against the bottom of the boat, hard enough to set it rocking, and Cecil yowled and hissed and spat as water sloshed over the side, pooling around the wizard, who did not react at all to its chill. The thought of land fled from her mind, then, and she thought only of getting away, away, as far away as possible. She dug the oars in deep. And the one she held in her right hand got stuck.


    No, not stuck, she realized, as she peered over the side of the boat. Held.


    Held beneath the water by a creature there, pale beneath the murk, a creature of dirty white flesh, a shapeless trunk covered in wriggling fingers, and in that flesh a face, a human face, a face that grimaced in pain and moaned as the trunk pulled back, tugging at the oar, and nearly tugging Elyse into the water with it. A face with cloudy, ruined eyes, and broken, shattered teeth, a face that whispered her name-


    Elyse fell back with a shriek, but she could not give up her oars, she could not, if she did she was doomed. And so, scrambling about the boat for some weapon, she found first the fae-stick she had brought with her, that Martim had first given her as a walking-stick but which she always fancied as a cudgel. She took it up and bludgeoned at the pale thing beneath the water with it, smashing at that face, screaming all the while, screaming in rage and terror, and black blood flew from its ruined nose as she broke it.


    Even as she did so, though, a seam opened up beneath the skin, opened wide, revealing a maw with rows and rows of sharp teeth, and those grasping fingers seized her weapon, guided it towards those teeth, and struggle as she might she could not resist them. Until, finally, it closed down on it with a crunch, and Elyse stumbled back, holding only splinters left now of her bludgeon, the boat rocking perilously close to capsizing.


    She had seen this thing before, she was sure. Seen it in her visions of the other worlds. And she knew now why she could not see the beacon-flame the villagers had lit. The dangers of the fog, of becoming lost in it; lost and crossed over into other worlds. The stories of the barge-men, who feared the lake at night and in the mist. She was lost. She had drifted away into another world, through the fog, or she was between worlds, irretrievably lost, worse than having wandered through the fae-woods.


    She struggled to her knees, to look out over the water again. The thing was gone for now, but it had taken one of her oars with it, and her other oar had slipped out into the water in their struggle. Even as she saw it, it drifted away, disappearing into the mist, gone, and she was left stranded, without any way to move the boat. And she knew the thing, demon or monstrosity or whatever it might be, it would be back. It would not leave her alone. It would devour her. It knew her name.


    She twisted the dark ring that lay on her finger, and it was cold, ice cold. ¡°Father?¡± she whispered. ¡°Father, can you hear me?¡± But there was no answer, no matter how many times she called.


    She looked down at the wizard, his face pale, his breath thin and reedy, and scrubbed hot tears from her eyes. She had failed. Martim was going to die, she was going to die. A chill numbness settled into her at this realization, something that strangled her fear, her anger, which cooled her hot blood until even she shivered. She was going to die.


    Yes. There is nothing to be done. He could never have been saved. Do not blame yourself. We cannot all die the way we¡¯d like.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Martim,¡± she told the wizard, sitting down next to him. She reached out to touch his neck. He was freezing cold, now, and the beat of his heart weak. She had not thought that her time with him would have ended like this. But perhaps that was simply the way of the world, now. Her mother had told her, once, that much had been lost of the Art, and it was hard to regain, for the urge to wander it bred in you led many a witch and wizard to die, unknown, in the wilds of a dangerous world. So perhaps she should have expected their fate. Still, it was bitter. A bitter way to die, after they had seized victory against the glimmerling.


    He would not have held it against you.


    Something scraped against the bottom of the boat again, and there was a splash, a large splash, in the fog to her right. An indistinct gray shadow in the fog loomed above them, the size of a large tree, before slithering back beneath the water. Elyse wondered whether or not it might be best to simply take Martim¡¯s sword and grant them both mercy, rather than waiting to be devoured.


    And then, while she was pondering this, she heard it. Someone was singing. A woman, her voice gentle and pure.


    ¡°My love has gone away, away,


    Across the waters, dark and clear,


    To bring me treasure, so did he say,


    To bring me gold, so dear, so dear.¡±


    Her voice was achingly, agonizingly beautiful, and so, so near. ¡°Hello?!¡± Elyse called out, leaning over the edge of the rowboat, out towards where the voice came from. ¡°HELLO? Please! Is anyone there?¡± The woman, though she must have heard, gave no sign. She simply continued to sing.


    ¡°Where is my love? I fear, I fear,


    For too long has he gone to roam,


    Beneath the waters, dark and clear,


    He has found his final home.¡±


    Still, Elyse found hope in it. She must be close to shore, or close to another boat, close to someone that might help her. She could not simply give up and accept her fate, here. The beauty of the song and the flame of that hope burned the chill numbness out of her, and she realized that she may, as yet, have a way to move the boat.


    She reached into the voluminous pockets of her dress, and drew out the small frog-flute. She placed it to her lips, and began to play, and reached out with the Art as well to take the water, to dance with it. She could feel the water, deep beneath her, swirling, dancing chaotically with something, something enormous, that writed beneath her boat, and in her terror she nearly lost the dance. But she kept on, still, blowing on the flute, and the water about the rowboat swelled, and began to push.


    To move the currents of the water to push the boat was well beyond what she had done before. But perhaps her fear and need did for her, with the water, what it had not been able to do for her with her healing. For she gave herself over to the dance, lost herself in it, and the rowboat at first jerked forward, slowly, then faster, more steadily, until at last it was gliding across the surface of the lake faster than she had been able to row it, faster even then Martim had been able to row it. She followed after the sound of the woman¡¯s voice, the sound of the song, though it never seemed to grow any closer.


    ¡°My love, my love, why did you go?


    To laugh and knock upon death¡¯s door,


    Now I¡¯m cursed with widow¡¯s woe,


    To grieve your bones forevermore.¡±


    She danced with the song, and below her, she could sense the thing dancing with the water, as well, dancing with great swirls and eddies as it moved its awful, blasphemous bulk to follow her. But she turned its enormity against it, for she danced with the water as it was thrown about by the creature as well, danced with it and sent its movements to her rowboat, pushing it faster, faster. Until, eventually, with triumph in her heart, she felt the creature fall behind, leave her, its dancings with the water fading away.


    The singing voice had faded away now, too, but this no longer mattered. For now, coming out of the fog, she saw mainland¡¯s shore. It was not the meeting space she had expected, though, the one they had set up with Minerva and Ren, however, but rather the shore that lay by Silverfish itself. She was gliding up next to the half-submerged temple to the Lady of Calm Waters. Who had been singing? She could not see anyone on the shore. But she put this out of her mind. She had more immediate concerns.


    ¡°Help!¡± she screamed, as the rowboat ground itself in the reeds. It was dark, now, but she could still see flames dancing in some windows. She leapt out of the boat, pulling on Martim, but there was no way she would be able to move him by herself. ¡°Help, damn you! Help us!¡±


    Finnel came dashing out of the temple, and the skinny man stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide, when he saw her, though only for a moment. ¡°What - what happened?¡± he asked, as he splashed into the water beside her. ¡°I thought that¡­the plan¡­¡± he tried to hoist Martim himself, but could barely lift him; the wizard was a dead weight.


    ¡°He¡¯s dying,¡± Elyse snapped. ¡°We need to get him to Minerva - go, rouse others! Go, man, and damn the plan! He is poisoned, and will die if we do not get him help quickly!¡±


    Finnel gulped, and nodded. ¡°I¡¯ll go fetch Ritter,¡± he said, and then he ran into the fog, the patter of his feet disappearing quickly into the night. He would be back with help, soon, soon enough, Elyse told herself. Knee-deep in freezing water, she placed her hands on Martim¡¯s neck again, where he lay half-in, half-out of the boat. She could barely feel his heartbeat, and his red song felt so faint, so dim. It will be enough. It has to be enough. He will live.


    Elyse looked out again, into the fog-shrouded streets that Finnel had disappeared into. Who had sung her in? She could see no one, and no one was singing any longer. The only sound she heard now was a gentle splash, somewhere beyond the mist.

 Deaths Door

    <h2 style="text-align: center">23. Death¡¯s Door</h2>


    It was not long before voices reached them, through the fog. Elyse''s cries had roused more than a few in the village, and they came to her, some carrying torches. Old, confused faces, folk that stopped and stared once they saw her and Martim amongst the reeds. They formed a circle around her, watching her from the shore, but none of them approached. They simply continued to stare. Torchlight danced on the surface of the lake¡¯s water. ¡°Help!¡± Elyse cried out to them, but they were unmoving. She slammed her fist into the lake¡¯s surface, and it crackled where the beginnings of ice clung to the reeds, but they did not react. ¡°He is dying, he must be brought to your apothecary, he needs herbcraft and healing!¡± Still, they did not move, and finally Elyse snapped. ¡°Fools! We have just broken your curse, he and I. Will you just leave him here to die?!¡±


    A murmur ran through the assembled folk at the mention of the curse, shocked glances, and then utter silence. ¡°How d¡¯you know about that?¡± asked one old, sharp-nosed woman finally, her hair fine silver and her face wizened with age. ¡°And what do you mean, you broke it?¡±


    ¡°I mean it is undone!¡± Elyse left Martim¡¯s side and rose to her feet, glaring at the folk milling about. ¡°You rotten wretches, move him! Must I beg?!¡±


    But the old woman who had spoken up before was shaking her head, and her eyes were flashing anger. ¡°You¡­the both of you, I knew you weren¡¯t normal,¡± she spat. ¡°You show up here, and the next thing we know, Valerie and Mercy are both dead, and we¡¯re supposed to believe that one killed the other. Anyone who knew those girls knew they¡¯d never have done that! And now you¡¯ve gone off to the island, stirring up trouble¡­¡± The old woman looked past her, into the boat, and her eyes widened at the sight of Cecil and Flit, the cat laying curled by the wizard¡¯s arm, and the cardinal nesting in his hair. She looked back at Elyse with sudden realization writ large on her face. ¡°You¡¯re a-¡±


    ¡°Just what is going on here?¡± a commanding voice boomed, through the crowd, and the folk gathered nearly jumped out of their skins. They parted to let through Ritter, with Finnel at his side. The innkeep had his sword strapped to his belt, and he carried himself with straight-backed authority, his clear blue eyes sharper than ever. ¡°Well?¡± he snapped, and the folk all jumped again, and Elyse nearly jumped with them. ¡°What do you fools think you¡¯re doing? Why are you just standing about? Take the lad to Minerva¡¯s shop. You two. Now! The rest of you clear off!¡± Ritter pointed to two men who, though their hair was starting to go gray, were wide of shoulder and broad-armed from a life of hauling fish.


    The two men that Ritter had pointed to actually took a step forward before the old woman cried out again. ¡°Now just you hold on a moment, Jak Ritter-¡± she began.


    ¡°SILENCE, DOG,¡± Ritter roared, and the glare he gave her was so fierce that she actually gasped and stumbled backwards, very nearly falling over. ¡°There is no time for us to hold on for a moment! A man is dying and might be saved; all else can wait! Now move, you worthless whoresons, move, or I¡¯ll strip the hide from your backs!¡±


    There was no questioning after this. Ritter spoke with such utter, overwhelming authority that the stunned villagers obeyed without question. The two well-muscled men waded out to drag the boat ashore and hoisted up Martim between them, easily. Cecil leapt out from the boat as soon as he was near dry land, and darted off into the trees; Elyse carried Flit, so delicate, on her shoulder. The bird was burbling mournfully, and would not take his eyes from his wizard. Even as this was done, Ritter was still barking orders. ¡°Jace! Yes man, you! Take your horse and go fetch Minerva, bring her back with all speed. You see the fire, across the lake? That¡¯s where she is. Finnel, you come as well. Help carry their gear. I won¡¯t have them being robbed.¡±


    And then the next thing she knew, the innkeep was by her side, very nearly lifting her out of the reeds as he took her by the arm. ¡°Are you injured as well?¡± he asked, his soft voice a startling contrast to the harsh, clipped tones he had used only moments before. When she shook her head, he heaved a sigh of relief. ¡°What happened?¡±


    ¡°There was a demon,¡± she told him, as they walked along. She too did not take her eyes off of Martim. It felt a relief, at least, to see that he would be treated. ¡°It bit him, poisoned him.¡±


    Ritter sighed again, and shook his head, grim. ¡°And¡­is it done, then?¡±


    ¡°Yes. The demon is dead.¡± After a moment, she added, ¡°And Ezekiel, too.¡±


    He stiffened, and missed a step at that, but his face showed no emotion. ¡°Good,¡± he said simply. ¡°That¡¯s good.¡±


    Minerva¡¯s shop was larger than most of the houses in town, but still it felt small, crowded as it was. Tables stood by every window, holding potted plants, and a large shelf took up one wall, lined with mortars and pestles of increasing sizes, pots and pans, bushels of clipped and dried herbs, and even some precious, cloudy glassware, along with what appeared to be two sheep skulls. Dried gourds hung from the ceiling, and it was thick with the pleasant scent of plants.


    The village folk brought Martim to the back, where Minerva kept a sickroom. It was sparse, bare, with nothing but a chair, a well-made bed, and a bucket in the corner. The village folk laid the wizard down on the bed, far too roughly for Elyse¡¯s taste. ¡°Good,¡± Ritter told them. ¡°Now, go fetch some water, and start a fire on the hearth. I know little of herbcraft, but I know they always call for boiling water.¡±


    The two men seemed ready to obey, but one of them paused, turning to Elyse. ¡°Is¡­is it really true? What you said? That it¡¯s gone?¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± she told them wearily. They glanced at each other in wonder, and gave her a nod, before moving to obey Ritter¡¯s orders. She barely noticed their question, in truth, let alone their reaction. Her eyes were stuck on Martim, laid out on the bed. She moved unspeaking to examine his blood-soaked shoulder, and Ritter helped her to take off his cloak and leathers, stripping him to his waist.


    The wizard¡¯s body was a horror. The wound in his shoulder was deep, very deep, and it seemed fresh blood oozed from it with every heartbeat. Where the rest of his body was pale and cold, that wound was scaldingly hot. But what truly worried her was the black tendrils weaving their way outward from the wound, tracing their way across his flesh. Flit jumped across his wizard¡¯s chest, pecking at these, and chirped angrily when he could not snap them up like he might a worm. Elyse listened to his red song, and it was faint, so faint, drowned out by the tolling of bells. She wormed her hand into his once more. She knew this poison, and knew that simple touch, the reminder of life¡¯s warmth, might serve to keep one attached to the world of the living.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Ritter said quietly.


    She whirled on him, glaring. ¡°What are you sorry for? Where is Minerva? Does she not know the meaning of haste?¡± Except, of course, that she knew very well what he was sorry for. He was sorry because he knew there was nothing that could be done. No herbcraft would save someone this far gone. More fool him, Elyse thought fiercely. My Art and herbcraft both may heal him. Martim is strong. It was not long before Minerva arrived, heralded by the sound of galloping hooves, though the wait seemed agonizing. And the moment the stout old woman saw Martim, she began barking orders with nearly as much authority as Ritter had when he dispelled the crowd.


    It all seemed like such a whirlwind, after that. Minerva ordered Martim stripped entirely, and he was wrapped in linen towels soaked in hot water, for his cold flesh, and a compress of ice-cold water for his searing hot wound. When she heard that it was a demon that had bitten him, she cursed, and asked whether Elyse had any bit of the flesh of the creature. When she said no, Minerva cursed again. The apothecary crushed dried leaves into a powder, and blew it into the wound; she ground a paste of berries and leaves in her mortar and pestle, and smeared it over the wasted flesh; she brewed an earthy broth of mushrooms and herbs and fed it to the wizard in gentle sips, stroking his throat until he swallowed.


    Elyse stayed by Martim¡¯s side as this was done, sitting in a chair, holding his hand to anchor him to the living world, listening to his red song. All of this did seem to have some effect on him. He regained some of his color, and it seemed that the black tendrils retreated a bit. Within the song of his body, it seemed the bells quieted, and she did what she thought she could do to aid with the Art, but in truth, did not know whether it had any effect at all.


    And in the end, the wizard lay in the bed, wrapped in the sheets, with his shoulder bandaged tightly, but still he was unconscious. Minerva had long since dismissed Ritter and the other men, and she stood by the end of the bed, her tight bun frazzled. ¡°Well,¡± she said softly, ¡°That¡¯s it, then. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Elyse blinked, then looked up at the woman. She did not like the look of pity that she saw there. ¡°What do you mean, that¡¯s it? He¡¯s¡­he¡¯s getting better, he¡¯s gaining strength-¡±


    ¡°I mean I¡¯ve done all I can do,¡± Minerva told her gently, wiping her hands on her smock. ¡°And this will be the best he¡¯ll ever be.¡± She bit her lip, and Elyse could see tears in the old woman¡¯s eyes, a pitying look that she detested. ¡°I am sorry, girl. I really am. You both deserve more, and I¡¯d give my own hand if I thought it would heal him. But he¡¯s not getting any better than this.¡±


    Elyse rose, her eyes flashing. ¡°How can you say that,¡± she snapped, but she knew very well how it could be said. If this was the best health that Martim could be brought to, well, he was still on the edge of death. ¡°There must be something else¡­damn you, we saved you, can¡¯t you save him?! We saved this entire damned village, isn¡¯t there something you can do?!¡±


    If Minerva was angered by her outburst, she showed no sign of it. The apothecary simply shook her head sadly, drawing in a long, shuddering breath. ¡°We can leave him to sleep overnight. Get some rest. But it won¡¯t do much. And¡­¡± she reached into her satchel, held out her hand. In it lay three midnight-black berries. ¡°Gurmwort,¡± she said. ¡°If he suffers, this will give him a peaceful passing.¡±


    Elyse stared at the black berries, feeling adrift, as if her body were not her own. She glanced back at the wizard. He was pale, his breathing labored, and Flit was nestled up in the crook of his neck. The black eyes of the cardinal stared at her, before he closed them slowly, and went to sleep. All she had done to bring him back. All she had done to find him. And it was all for nothing. No. I will not let it be so.


    In that silence, they both became aware of the sounds of shouts, then, coming from outside of the shop. ¡°What is that?¡± Elyse asked, pocketing the gurmwort berries.


    ¡°Damned stupid foolishness is what it is,¡± Minerva snarled, and stalked way. Elyse gave Martim a reluctant glance, and then followed her out to the main room of the shop, watching as the apothecary carefully selected a sturdy iron pot with a long wooden handle. ¡°Take my advice, and never bet a tin penny on folk¡¯s good sense. Stay back there with your wizard, girl, and don¡¯t you worry about it.¡±


    But Elyse did not do so; she stayed behind the apothecary, peering over her shoulder as the stout woman went to open the door of the shop, standing on her tiptoes to see what was happening outside.


    In the front of the shop, Ritter stood guard by the door, and surrounding him were perhaps a dozen villagers, nearly all gray of hair, dirty-clothed and frowning, some holding torches. Ritter himself was red-faced, and he had his hand on the hilt of his sword, though he had not drawn it yet. ¡°I told you folks to get back to your damned homes-¡± he was in the midst of saying, but he was drowned out by cries and shouts when Minerva opened the door.


    ¡°Minerva! What¡¯s happening? What have the outsiders done?¡±


    ¡°Why do you have them locked up inside your shop?¡±


    ¡°Are they¡­is there really a witch?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s happening,¡± the apothecary shouted them down, slapping her iron pot into one hand, ¡°is that my shop is closed, and if you don¡¯t leave my doorstep I¡¯ll beat you bloody! Don¡¯t look at Ritter, look at me! You¡¯ll wish Ritter had been the one to deal with you once I¡¯m through! I have a wounded man in there, and he needs his rest. I will not have you fools causing a ruckus on my doorstep while he tries to sleep!¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re a witch! And a wizard! I saw their familiars!¡± It was the same silver-haired, hawk-nosed old woman that had given so much trouble by the shore. She stepped forward in front of the crowd, wagging her finger. ¡°And you¡¯ve known it, haven¡¯t you? You¡¯ve been hiding them from us!¡±


    ¡°Hold off, Noss.¡± This was a low, rumbling voice, from one of the broad-shouldered men who had helped carry Martim. He gave the old woman a disapproving look, but she just glared back at him with utter contempt. He shook his head, and then turned back to the shop. ¡°Look, Ritter, we just want some answers. The girl in there told everyone¡­¡± he trailed off, and the crowd quieted, suddenly silent, unwilling to speak of the curse even after it may be gone. ¡°...did they really go out to the island? Is¡­is it really done?¡±


    ¡°Nonsense,¡± spat Noss, her withered face a mask of fury. ¡°It¡¯s a bane, a bane, the Art¡¯s all a bane! How do we know it wasn¡¯t they who killed Mercy and Valerie?¡±


    A murmur ran through the folk assembled there, but Minerva cut it off with a slam of her pot on the stone wall of her shop. ¡°Still your wicked tongue,¡± she bellowed, louder than Elyse would have thought possible for the woman. ¡°I will not listen to this slander! Valerie held me hostage, and she killed Mercy - she told me as much - and planned to kill me as well! All in the service of a dark power which promised her revenge for her family. They saved me!¡±


    ¡°Of course you¡¯d say that,¡± Noss spat contemptuously. ¡°If they¡¯ve ensorceled you. I know how such things work. You¡¯d be their slave now, and -¡± suddenly, the old woman saw behind Minerva, and caught Elyse¡¯s eye. ¡°There she is!¡± she crowed. ¡°There¡¯s the witch right now!¡±


    The crowd of folk muttered to themselves. None of them seemed so convinced as Noss was, but there were angry mutterings, and hot words back and forth between those who agreed and those who did not. Ritter was yelling at those arguing to return to their homes, and Minerva and Noss were both dressing each other down. Finally, Elyse grew sick of their words, and a dark rage brewed within her. These ungrateful, wretched swine. She had no time for this nonsense.


    She elbowed her way out of the shop and cried out, ¡°ENOUGH!¡± She glared at the crowd, fierce and wrathful, and though she stood a good head shorter than the smallest of them they grew silent. ¡°You are right,¡± she told them, contempt thick in her voice, ¡°I am a witch. And the man who accompanies me, he is a wizard.¡±


    ¡°I knew it,¡± Noss interrupted, jabbing a finger towards her. ¡°These outsiders, they came here, and they-¡±


    Elyse spun around to the old woman and called out to the shadows with the Art, and all at once the darkness around Noss grew black as pitch, and her own shadow loomed and wheeled around her. She screamed, and other folk did as well, before Elyse let her shadow go back to normal. ¡°He and I had no interest in your silly little village,¡± she shouted over the dying murmurs and the hushed shock of the frightened folk, ¡°But out of the kindness of our hearts, when we learned you were cursed, we undid it for you. Yes, it is done, and no, I will not speak of it now! You hold the Art against me, and yet you needed the Art to have it broken. I will not tolerate such ingratitude! You have let the curse fester and rot, and the wizard and I have done nothing but risk our lives to heal you.¡± Under their fearful stares, she jabbed her finger back at the shop. ¡°He lies now gravely wounded, all out of his service to you! And you dare, you dare to come upon me with accusations now?¡±


    This last she said while staring directly at Noss, and the old woman¡¯s legs quaked. She still managed to find the courage to open her mouth, but her tone was much more conciliatory now. ¡°We still need to know - we need to know all that¡¯s happened, we need proof it¡¯s undone, we need to know the full truth of what happened with Valerie and Mercy-¡±


    ¡°Wait until tomorrow,¡± Elyse interrupted her, and the old woman slammed her mouth shut. ¡°Since your backwards apothecary cannot heal him, I must do so myself tonight. Tomorrow we will tell you all you wish to hear. But heed my warning! If I am interrupted in my craft - if I hear so much as a mouse¡¯s peep tonight - if any of you dares enter that shop - I¡¯ll make you rue the day you were born! I¡¯ll hex you ¡®til your boils have boils! I¡¯ll wither your crops and poison your lake! I¡¯ll haunt your nightmares! And when he wakes up, he¡¯ll burn your whole worthless village to cinders! Leave not one stone stacked upon another! You¡¯ll beg to have your curse back¡­!¡±


    As she spoke, she stepped forward, jabbing a finger at the crowd; and despite that she was so much smaller than any of them, despite the fact that they were many and she was only one, they shrank back from her. Old faces, tired faces, gray-haired and dull, beaten eyes stared back at her, but she had no pity for them. ¡°Well?¡± she hissed. ¡°Am I going to be left in peace this night?¡±


    Elyse stared at Noss as she asked this, and the old woman¡¯s mouth opened and closed several times. She cast an eye around at the crowd, and none seemed enthusiastic to take her side now. She looked past Elyse, to the shop, where Ritter and Minerva stood, but they had only cold stares for her as well. ¡°Fine,¡± she muttered grudgingly. ¡°You and your man will be given time to recover, for tonight. But you must give us answers after.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Elyse replied. ¡°Now leave.¡± When the folk still milled about, lingering, she stamped her foot and snarled, ¡°I said leave!¡±


    The shadows stretched and loomed; they grew horns and claws that reached out as if to grab the villagers, and with shouts and yells and screams they fled, some of them dropping their torches as they ran back into the fog.


    Elyse did not bother to watch them go. She spun and marched directly back to the shop. Minerva and Ritter looked as if they both wanted to talk to her, but she ignored them. ¡°I don¡¯t give the slightest damn what you do,¡± she snapped, as Ritter said something to her about setting a guard on the door. ¡°Just leave me in peace and let me do my work!¡±


    She slammed the door behind her, and stalked her way back to the sickroom. She was furious; furious at the impotence of the villagers, who had lived in the shadow of such wickedness for so long and now, it seemed, nearly resented her for ending it; furious at Minerva¡¯s impotence to heal Martim, furious at her own impotence to do anything.


    When she opened the door and took a good look at the wizard¡¯s face illuminated in candlelight, her heart sank. What color that Minerva¡¯s treatments had restored to him already seemed to be fading away, and he looked almost corpse-like already, though he clearly still breathed. She pulled the sheets back and saw that, indeed, the black tendrils had begun to spread out from his shoulder again, creeping across his chest, up his neck. She held his hand, so cold now, and she knew even before she listened that his red song was drowning in a cacophony of bells.


    There is only one thing I can do. Mercy please, let me get an answer.


    She looked at Flit, the little cardinal nestled sleeping next to his master¡¯s head, and she reached out to pluck him up. To her surprise, the bird awoke, and chirped in alarm upon seeing her hands reaching out to him, and fluttered his way to the windowsill to avoid her. That was good, at least. Perhaps his wing was not injured so badly if he could still make short flights such as this. ¡°Please, little one,¡± she told him. ¡°Your master is dying, and none here can help him. I will do my best to heal him, but I must have the utmost concentration to save him. Can you leave him alone with me? Just for a little while? It may mean his life.¡±


    Flit stared at her suspiciously with a beady black eye, his crest bobbing up and down, giving short, muttering chirps. It irked her that she did not speak the bird-tongue and could not tell what he was saying. You will have to ask Martim to teach you, once he wakes. And he will wake. He will live. He will. Finally, the cardinal pecked at the stone of the windowsill. She had no idea whether that meant he assented or not, but he did not flinch as she approached, and let her pick him up. Birds were so light, so delicate, she thought, as she pushed back the curtain and reached out to place Flit on a nearby tree branch. The familiar burbled something to her, a long, complicated series of twitters and tweets, and she thought he must be saying something important, but she could only stare back at him uncomprehendingly. Finally, he fluttered away to a higher branch, and out of sight.


    Elyse turned back to Martim, sitting down in the chair next to his bed. She dearly wished that there might be another way, but she could see no other option. She stroked the dark ring that lay on her finger, and it was still cold and dead. ¡°Father,¡± she murmured. ¡°Father, if you can hear me, please answer. He is dying, and I do not know how to save him. Please.¡± At first, she got no answer, and she fell into a bleak despair. That was it, her only option, and it would not work.


    But then her ring began to grow warm on her finger, and in all the corners of the room, the shadows lengthened. And within them, something writhed, and raveled, and spun.


    ===***===


    A long, rolling field of flowers stretched out before Martimeos, as far as the eye could see. The sky was black and dead, starless, but the flowers themselves glowed with their own silvery light, translucent, like ghosts.


    How had he come to be here? Memories whispered to him, but it was like trying to catch hold to the wind. Slowly, slowly, they drifted back, only when he stopped trying to seize them. He remembered the glimmerling, fighting it, killing it, and the demon that came after. But then the witch¡­Elyse, yes, that was her name¡­she had told him that he had been poisoned. And she had seemed very frightened, too. And then¡­


    ¡°I think,¡± he said aloud, to no one at all, ¡°I might be dead.¡±


    He felt nothing at this thought. He felt more surprise that he felt nothing than he felt surprise, or sorrow, or anger at the thought of being dead. And in that moment, then, it made sense to him. He would not like to be dead, but in the end, it happened to everyone.


    You¡¯ll never find out what happened to your brother.


    That was a little more upsetting, but still, he had always thought it was a long shot that he¡¯d get definite answers on that anyway. And it wasn¡¯t true, besides. Most likely, his brother was bones. Maybe he¡¯d meet him here in the Lands of the Dead.


    You will never see Vivian again.


    That stung. He had longed for the days that he might return to sweet, golden-haired Vivian, to her love. And yet there was a tiny part of him that had always known things would never be the same once he went back. The world was full of love that had long since turned to dust.


    Elyse may die trying to save you.


    Guilt roiled him at that one. He had not asked the witch to come with him, damn her. If she made it back safely, he wondered what she would do with his corpse. Would she take care of Flit?


    But all of these were thoughts for the living, and in time, they faded, and he was left with a quiet, cold emptiness, a final calm. He was dead, and nothing mattered much for him anymore. He no longer belonged to the world of the living, had no power to change things there in any way. There was only the Lands of the Dead now, and whatever mysteries lay beyond the veil. The flowers that seemed woven from moonlight stretched out endlessly before him, a sea of silver, of cold and silent comfort, of the end.


    Except, far in the distance, he could see a knot of darkness growing in that waving, silvery sea. And all at once, his newfound emptiness was shattered.


    He knew what lay there, somehow. In that black stain, that knotted blot on the landscape, like a hole torn in the silver light, a hole to utmost darkness. He knew who lay there. He had heard his voice in his dreams. He had tried to deny it, tried to convince himself that it was mere nightmare, that it was simply limited to his dreams; he had foolishly ignored it, not wanting to think of it, even as it darkened his thoughts more and more, and now he was not ready for what lay there. He knew, he knew, he knew it was real, and knew terror as well, and thin panic. He couldn¡¯t face that, he couldn¡¯t, he couldn¡¯t, he couldn¡¯t - The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    The ruined face, the staring eye -


    I¡¯m so glad I¡¯ll get to see you again.


    To his horror, his feet moved against his will, marching him forward, his boots trampling the ghostly flowers, forward, forward towards that knot of darkness in the distance. ¡°No,¡± he moaned, ¡°No, please, mercy, please!¡±


    But it came on, inexorable, the flowers rolled before him. And in this timeless place of death, the distance meant nothing. He was a single step away, he was a thousand steps away, he was as distant as a dim, blinking star. It took but a moment, it took a lifetime, but he was there, struggle as he might, he was there. And he could see what the dark blight was on the fields of the dead, now.


    It was a tangle of blackthorn vines.


    Humongous, impossibly large, so large it seemed they must claw at the very roof of the world itself. There were vines of every thickness, some thin and spindly as he had seen in life, and others were as thick around as a house, thicker, thick around as his entire village had been, and their thorns the size of castles, an entire land of thorns growing like a tumor among the flowers, like a blasphemy, and among them grew countless number of the wicked red flowers, like oozing sores. And high above, looking up to where those thorns stretched out into the starless sky, countless demons flew like gnats among the thorns. The black-feathered snake demon that he had faced with the glimmerling, only an endless number of them, undulating on a breeze he could not feel and they opened their beaks and a scream of endless gonging bells rang forth, forever in that black, in the dark.


    That knot of darkness seemed to breathe, no, to beat, like a heart.


    It was filthy, it was diseased, it was wrong. It reeked of rot and death, the stink of the grave. This wickedness, this gargantuan perversion, should not exist - the gods themselves should not allow it to be, how could it be allowed? Such a revulsion rose in Martimeos¡¯ heart and joined with the terror there, and this was not the worst, he knew, he knew now the worst lay within.


    But he could no more resist the call than he might have willed his heart to stop beating while he still lived. And so he followed a path into the endless labyrinth of vines, the labyrinth he had seen before in his dreams, the path of dust.


    And at the start of the path, tangled in the wall of vines, pierced by a thousand thorns, was a tall and slender man. Blood ebbed from his cuts, stained his fine floral-patterned robes, soaked his ruffled blouse, and soaked into the thirsty earth beneath him. It caked his face, once handsome, even regal, but now torn and tattered, and his eyes stared out a ruin of broken madness.


    Martimeos knew this man, had seen him before. Knew him from his clothes, but he thought he would know him even if he had been naked. It was Ezekiel, the glimmerling.


    ¡°P-please,¡± Ezekiel begged him, blood flying from the scraps of his lips. ¡°You have to tell him.¡±


    Martimeos stopped, only for a moment, to hear this damned soul¡¯s final plea.


    ¡°Please,¡± the man went on, and the blood coursed from his wounds as he strained against the thorns. ¡°Please, please, oh please, I didn¡¯t know, I didn¡¯t know, I¡­I thought I tended an orchard¡­the new buds must be plucked to allow¡­Please! Please, you must tell him, I did not know! Forgive me, please! Mercy, I beg of you, mercy!¡±


    This was his last, agonized howl. From deep within the thorns came¡­some snarl, that of an unseen beast, vast and hungry and full of wrath, a beast too gargantuan to understand. A growl that sounded like the very earth itself was splitting open, far in the distance. An impossible sound. The vines strained, constricted, tightened, and Ezekiel was torn screaming deeper into them, and the screams did not stop until they grew too distant to hear. He left behind only his blood in the dust.


    Better that he might never have known. Kinder that his very soul might have been destroyed than to learn the awful truth. But there was only cruelty and damnation in this place.


    Martimeos was pulled on.


    The path was endless, and winding, and downward, ever downward. He walked a world of thorns, walked a dozen lifetimes of them, and he knew as he did that he was coming to the rotten heart of this place. What light there was in this place died, until the only source of light was himself, a white light that burned from within him but which the darkness pressed in on more and more, and he knew that if this deep and impossible black should swallow that light that his soul would be snuffed out with it. But still he was pulled on.


    Until, finally, the halls of thorns opened up into a room where the walls disappeared into the distance, where the ceiling could not be seen, a monument of darkness, and far off in the distance, in the center of it all, was a small point of light.


    No, no, no, no no no no no-


    But there was no denying it. He could not even scream. His throat seized, and onward he was drawn, onward towards that light, closer and closer, and in the center of it sat a small figure, a child, with shoulders hunched, and barefoot, in simple loose linen clothing dyed a bright blue and green. Light came from the child, much as light seemed to come from Martimeos himself, but this light was stained and yellow, weak, flickering.


    ¡°Hello, Martim,¡± the child said quietly.


    It was him. That voice. The voice he had heard since coming to Silverfish; no, even before that. Since coming to what had once been the White Queen¡¯s lands. How could it have been his voice? What was he doing here?


    But all those questions seemed so far away to Martimeos, now. It didn¡¯t matter anymore. Nothing mattered, anymore. He was dead. He was dead, and he was back with his friend.


    ¡°Hello, David,¡± he whispered.


    The child turned, and Martimeos choked on a scream. He was so ready, ready to see that face, the final, bloody, ruined face he had seen on his friend, the day that the White Queen¡¯s murderers had come to Pike¡¯s Green and carved it open, ruined it despite the fact that David had been just a child, just a damned child, they had butchered him and left him to die, left him bleeding in the grass for Martimeos to find. The face that had haunted him in nightmares for years after, the face that would speak to him in dreams that would wake him in cold sweat and shrieking terror. The face that Martimeos had run from, that dark day, even as David had tried to speak to him through a broken mouth; he had run from the last dying words of his friend, because Martimeos knew that deep down he was a craven, a worthless nothing who could not even offer comfort to his best friend as he died. His best friend who had died alone, and scared, and choking on his own blood.


    But it was not this face that greeted him. This David looked much as he had before he had been killed. The calm smile, the one he always wore whenever he had advised Martimeos against the mischief and trouble that the wizard was always finding himself in as a child. Short, ruffled hair, perpetually untouched by a comb, and large ears that seemed almost as if they stuck out sideways. The only thing that seemed different were his eyes; they were old, tired eyes now, too old to be a child¡¯s eyes. ¡°I thought you had forgotten me.¡±


    ¡°Never,¡± Martimeos said, and the lie tasted bitter in his mouth.


    And it was all for naught, because David knew, too. ¡°You lie. You wanted to forget me. You did forget me.¡±


    ¡°I never did,¡± Martimeos protested, and he hadn¡¯t, not completely, but he would have if he could. The years of nightmares he had, the melancholy that had seemed an endless dark pit that he could never climb out of; he had not wanted to live his life like that, and so¡­


    ¡°You hated me.¡±


    Martimeos buried his face in his hands, and did not try to deny it this time. He had. He had come to hate his friend, the memory of his friend, his friend that he had abandoned to die all alone. The shame of it galled him, it burned him to the core. Even if they had been simple dreams, simple memories, he had tried to bury the remembrance of his friend, out of simple cowardice. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he whispered, but he knew that apologies would never be enough for what he had done. He knew he was damned.


    ¡°You shut me off, and I was here, all alone, for so long. I could see you, but you built a wall between us.¡± There was anger in David¡¯s voice, and it was not the anger of a child. It was the anger of something gargantuan that a child was never meant to be; his face contorted in ways that it never would have in life, contorted in ways that no face ever would have, and Martimeos quailed before it. But then it softened, was a normal child¡¯s face again, David''s face again, with that calm smile. ¡°But I can see you again, now. And I¡¯m so glad you¡¯re here.¡±


    What happened next was a quiet dream.


    The darkness melted away, and Martimeos melted away with it. His memories of the world slipped from him, like tattered smoke born away on the wind. And he wanted this. For as they fled, those memories of a world darkened by fear, ruined by war, he himself changed. His soul shrank, and so did his mind, until he stood by David as a child himself. And all around them was a forest, soft and gentle, sun-dappled and warm, like the forests he had grown up in. Like the forests he and David had spent so much time in, exploring, when they were young. What do I mean, when I was young? I¡¯ve always been young. Nothing else.


    ¡°C¡¯mon, Martim,¡± David told him. His calm smile, and his dark, too-old eyes. ¡°I found a strange boulder I want to show you.¡±


    And so they set off to explore the woods.


    Through streams and gullies they splashed, their laughter echoing through the empty forest. It was not long before Martimeos took the lead, venturing ever deeper; that had been how it was when they were young, too. David was not a coward, but he had ever been the voice of caution, whereas Martimeos would always push them both further, and, perhaps, into more danger. But David, now, seemed content to do whatever Martimeos suggested. So the two adventured, clambering over moss-covered boulders to try to catch the snakes that lived in their crevices; climbing lichen-covered trees, hanging from their branches; diving from the top of a small waterfall into a pond of cool, dark water, laughing and catching the frogs that jumped away from them in panic.


    Time seemed to melt away, as they spent their time there, and Martimeos felt a joy that he had thought he¡¯d never feel again. He could not know it, though, with all his memories of the horrors and the darkness that had robbed him of that joy gone. It could have been hours, or days, or years in that wood. It was a dream, a beautiful dream of green and never-ending, childish adventure, and his friend, his beloved friend, David. And if the shadows of the forest seemed darker than they should have been, Martimeos did not notice.


    At least, at first.


    For at some point - A day? A year? An eternity? - at some point in this hazy green dream, Martimeos became aware that they were not actually alone in the forest. In those shadows, those too-dark shadows, someone watched them. From the corner of his eye, Martimeos saw them. They seemed at first to be other children, always hiding out of sight, always darting away quickly when he would turn his head to them. But when he told David of them, his friend simply smiled in that calming way of his, and said, ¡°Martim, there¡¯s nothing there. You know how the shadows can be. Now come on, I bet I can beat you to that big willow, there.¡±


    And with that, David took off running, and Martimeos took off after him, catching up to his friend quickly - he had always been the better runner. They fell upon each other, laughing and panting. And for a time, thought of these other children fled from his mind. I don¡¯t care about them. No, that wasn¡¯t right; they weren¡¯t there. David said so. Green, sunny haze and warmth claimed his mind again.


    But then there came a time when they walked between the shadows of the trees, and it seemed that David was lost to him. In a moment, between one shadow and the next, Martimeos found himself gone from the green of a warm spring to the chill of autumn, and the leaves of the trees all gone to a brilliant scarlet. He spun around, panicked, but there was nothing there behind him; the path he had walked down was not there anymore, and neither was David.


    No! I cannot lose him again!


    Lose him? When had he ever been lost?


    ¡°Why are you a-wasting your time on this foolishness, wizard?¡±


    Martimeos spun back around again, and there, where once had only been a carpet of red leaves on the gnarled black roots of maples, stood a little man in a scarlet cloak, his face ugly, knotted and twisted as the roots he stood on, his teeth sharp points, and a wicked gleam in his beady eyes.


    ¡°Lob, he did a-bargain with you to find him a new home,¡± the little goblin hissed. ¡°Will the wizard break another promise? Foolish, foolish, to be getting himself a-trapped here, yes? In this¡­dream.¡± The fae wrinkled his nose in disgust, glancing about himself, and then he laughed, rather unpleasantly. ¡°Perhaps Lob can be a-helping you. For a price.¡±


    Something nagged at the back of Martimeos¡¯ mind. A wizard? I am a wizard, aren¡¯t I. I know the Art. And I know this fae. But these were dim and desperate whispers in the depths of his mind, and they soon faded. Martimeos shook his head to clear it, the leaves caught in his shaggy hair falling as he did so. He didn¡¯t know this little man, but he knew a fae when he saw one. ¡°Stay back, for I¡¯ve no quarrel with you, goblin,¡± he began, but his words were cut off.


    A nightmarish screech rang throughout the forest, a maddening howl that no animal or man could make, a deep and terrible roar, and there was outrage in it. The shadows of the forest grew darker, blurred together as its echoes faded away.


    The goblin cursed, and in an instant there was a cruel, curved, rusty blade in his hands. His sharp pinprick eyes darted about the forest, and then settled upon Martimeos once more. ¡°You care for the truth, don¡¯t you? A tricksy thing, the truth can be. A hard thing.¡± Another roar screamed through the forest, and there was such hatred in it that it froze the soul. Lob cursed again, and spat. ¡°Look into the shadows, foolish boy,¡± he snarled, and then he leapt up into the air and never came down, gone. His voice still sounded though, through the wood, fading, laughing, sneering.


    ¡°The truth is in the shadows.¡±


    Martimeos scrambled backwards, turned to run from that awful roar - whatever it was, he knew it could devour him, it could eat him whole - and the next thing he knew, the forest blurred around him between the steps of a shadow once more, and when he stepped out of it the forest was green again, warm and green, the bite of autumn and its blazing scarlet gone, and David was at his side once more. He wore a deep, grimacing scowl, now, one that looked quite unusual on his face. It melted away, though, into his usual calm, cool smile once he noticed Martimeos by his side once more. ¡°Martim! Where did you go? You were here one moment, gone the next.¡±


    ¡°There was¡­a fae¡­¡± Martimeos replied to him, breathlessly, as he caught his friend by the hand and began to pull. David remained rooted to the spot, however, staring curiously at him. ¡°There was - didn¡¯t you hear that roar?¡± Martimeos snapped at him, trying again to tug his friend into motion. ¡°I don¡¯t know what that was, but we have to run-¡±


    ¡°A roar?¡± David merely shook his head. His eyes seem strange. That smile of his seemed to have a tinge of condescending mockery to it that Martimeos had never noticed in it before. ¡°Martim, I didn¡¯t hear anything. You met a fae? Perhaps he was playing a trick on you.¡± His hands flexed, and they reminded Martimeos oddly of talons. ¡°We can teach the fae that this is our woods. Can¡¯t we?¡± He said it as a joke, but there was a strange hunger in his words. His laughter seemed strained. ¡°Come, then. I¡¯m sure it was all a prank by one of them.¡±


    So David said, but as they set off once more among the woods, Martimeos could not get the goblin¡¯s words out of his head. He was a wizard? He could not remember being one, but the idea seemed right to him. The idea had revealed to him an emptiness within that he had not known was there; a hunger, a sense of wrongness, a sense that the Art was his right, if only he knew how. And he could remember the little man¡¯s other words, as well.


    Look into the shadows.


    So he did, because there would always and forever be a part of him that could not help but want to know the truth. The shadows were darker than they were before. Dark enough to make the green, spring-blessed forest seem cold. Dark enough that staring into them made Martimeos uneasy. The longer he looked into them, deeper he peered into the darkness, the more certain he became that there was something there, something terrible, something hidden and shameful in that dark¡­


    ¡°There!¡± Martimeos cried, flinging out a hand to point. ¡°David, look! There¡¯s - there¡¯s one, right now, someone else, there-¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t matter,¡± David told him. His voice was thick, his eyes tired. His face was half-hidden in leaf-shadow, and it looked strangely jagged and broken. ¡°They don¡¯t matter, Martim. Come on.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    Quiet settled between them. The darkness was growing, now, and it seemed to be swallowing up the forest, for all that the sun still shone. David did not respond. He just looked back at Martimeos, unspeaking, his expression unreadable.


    He said before that they weren¡¯t there. Now he says they don¡¯t matter. ¡°What do you mean, they don¡¯t matter? What do you mean by that?¡± Martimeos waited for an answer, but David continued to stare, and then he began to walk again, a few steps ahead of him now, ignoring him. The wind whispered through the leaves, and it seemed to carry language in it, words just on the edge of hearing. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t care what you say,¡± Martimeos called after him. ¡°There was someone there, and I¡¯m going to find out who.¡±


    David stopped, then. He didn¡¯t turn around. He remained standing in the middle of the forest, his hands at his sides, his back to Martimeos. He didn¡¯t say a word.


    Eventually, then, Martimeos turned away from David, turned and looked to the lengthening shadows. He had to know what was there. He stepped into the darkness, and a deathly cold washed over him.


    ¡°Would it have been so bad?¡± David asked softly, from somewhere behind him. His voice seemed like a whisper from very far away.


    Martimeos ignored this. The darkness was deeper than a shadow should be. It rose up around him like walls, eating away the forest, but he did not care. There was something here, someone here, huddling alone in the dark. A small figure, very small, and quietly sobbing. A child, hidden, hiding.


    ¡°Would it have been so bad to stay?¡± David¡¯s voice reached him again. Only now it did not seem like David¡¯s voice. Or any child¡¯s voice.


    Martimeos reached out to the small figure. The moment he put his hands on them, a weak light seemed to pulse from them, and he could see the hidden child¡¯s face.


    And the moment he saw that, the dream ended, shattering around him. The forest, its green warmth, was gone as if it had never been, and the cold reality of death rushed in.


    For Martimeos was not a child, he remembered now. He was a wizard, a dead wizard, and his soul was in the black and cold pits of the unholy thorns, here where no light could reach. He and David were not adventuring, exploring in forests of his youth.


    Their souls were here in this vast, empty dark.


    And here with them was another. The soul of the hidden child, the one who had crouched in dream-shadows, a young girl with frazzled, twintailed hair, wearing a plain, dirtied dress, and she was tangled in thorns as black as night, thorns which held her there in the dark.


    And her face was not a child¡¯s face. Not anymore. Not after what had been done to it. Martimeos felt sick upon seeing it, upon seeing what had become of this sad, whimpering thing, as it looked up to him, piteous and abominable.


    ¡°What is this,¡± he whispered to that endless night, and David¡¯s voice answered.


    ¡°I tried to¡­I tried to be kind with them. Show them the woods.¡± A pause that seemed to go on forever. A pleading note entered David¡¯s voice, as if he knew something was wrong. ¡°I did, Martim. I really did. But¡­I¡­.they¡¯ve¡­they¡¯ve all gone quiet, now.¡±


    Martimeos turned, and there David stood, with dirty light running through him. David of the too-big ears, David of the calm, friendly smile. ¡°They?¡± he asked.


    David waved his hand at the gargantuan darkness, and then Martimeos could see small, dim lights dotting it, like stars. And in each weak pool of light there was a child. Or what might have once been a child. Their faces and eyes were hollow, and some of them, their features were twisted, as if they were being mashed like clay into something new. Some of them had blank skin where their mouths should be. And each and every one of them was trapped, tangled in thorns, but they had long since given up their struggle. They hung limply, like wrung-out rags, and struggled to lift their heads to look at him.


    Martimeos thought the noises they made might drive him mad.


    He could not stand their gaze. There was too much pain in those hollow pits, too much for a child to have born. ¡°David,¡± he whispered, ¡°Who are they?¡±


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you know that?¡± his old friend replied, and once again his expression was not what a child¡¯s would be, and his child¡¯s voice spoke as if wrapped around a far older tongue. ¡°These are the children of Silverfish.¡± The smile on David¡¯s face now was not the one that Martimeos remembered. There was cruelty in it now, a hunger, as he looked out at the torment. ¡°Souls given to me as tribute.¡±


    Was it not enough that these children had been killed? Their very souls had to be tormented as well? Martimeos stared at his friend. How is it that he could do this? A tribute of souls?


    ¡°What are you?¡± he asked slowly.


    The smile vanished from David¡¯s face, and all at once, he did look like a child, a scared one. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he whispered miserably.


    This was David. Martimeos knew, somehow, beyond all doubt. Perhaps it was because in this place where souls were all that were left to them, one''s true nature couldn¡¯t be concealed. Perhaps it was because he felt an odd connection with this¡­this thing, perhaps simply because they had been such close friends. He knew in his bones, in his heart, in his soul, this was David. And yet this was more than David, somehow. Something enormous. Something terrible. More than a simple child¡¯s soul.


    ¡°You have to let them go.¡± Martimeos did not know where he found the courage to say this, down in this pit, but he knew it for truth, and his light flared a little brighter as he said it. ¡°This is¡­this is vile, David.¡± Vile was not the word for it. There were no words for this. All he could do was struggle for a child¡¯s petulant objection. ¡°It¡¯s not fair.¡±


    David stared at him, with that simple, sweet smile, for a long, quiet moment. And then his face became a mask of rage so monstrous that Martimeos thought, for a moment, that his very soul might fly apart. ¡°What¡¯s so unfair about it?¡± he snarled, and his innocent, clear voice lay on top of something deep and rasping. ¡°What has been done to them, that their parents did not do to me? Was it fair when I died? Was it fair that my life was cut short?¡±


    Martimeos shut his eyes. ¡°No,¡± he whispered. ¡°It wasn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I wanted to live, Martim.¡±


    A boiling, screaming rage was there, in the dark. A monument of hatred lay beneath his words, spoken in a voice that no child could ever have, dripping with venom, a rancor thick as pitch.


    ¡°I wanted to live!¡±


    And when he said this last, David¡¯s voice was simultaneously the voice of a child and of something impossibly large, the roar of a bestial god. A sickly light flared forth from him, briefly illuminating the darkness, and Martimeos knew, at last, what it was that was that filled this chamber. For the face that he dreaded, the face that he feared, that he had never been able to look at, that ruined, split face loomed from the dark, ten stories tall, a giant¡¯s corpse, that crooked, bloody jaw, that one ruined eye, and Martimeos heard himself screaming, he buried his face in his hands and sank to his knees. A wind blew a grave-stink across him, and he had seen, in that brief moment of awful, revealing light, seen the black thorn vines that grew from his friend¡¯s wounds, wriggling out of them like worms. And there was hate, there, so much hate, so much that it sickened him, too much hatred for a child¡¯s soul to contain. And he thought, in frantic fear, that this was to be his fate. To have his soul trapped for eternity in this room of death, in this burial chamber that would drive him mad, alone with that face forever, and in that moment he wished that his soul might be destroyed instead.


    The roar died away, and so did that light, but that cold stink, the smell of rot and earth, it remained. Martimeos dared to raise his head, only to find David sitting with his back to him once again, close enough to reach out and touch. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± his friend said, and it seemed like there was genuine sorrow in his voice. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I know you hate to look at me now.¡± His shoulders shook, and there were tears clear in his voice.


    Again, Martimeos did not try to deny it. This David, whatever he was now, he could taste lies. And it would be a lie to say that he did not. Damn him, but it would be. ¡°David, you¡­you should go too,¡± he croaked. ¡°Away from this place. I¡¯ll¡­I¡¯ll stay with you. Forever, now. I have no place else to go. Let us just leave this place, please.¡± He could accept that. He and his friend, together again in the afterlife, forever among the silver flowers, or whatever else the Lands of the Dead might offer. Just not here. Not this. Never this.


    David did not turn around. ¡°No. I can¡¯t leave. And you can¡¯t stay.¡± His voice was very tired. ¡°I thought you might. But you won¡¯t.¡±


    Martimeos rose to his feet, trying to ignore the taste of death in the air as he breathed. He might not stay here, but that did not mean he was going to leave David in this pit of damnation. He would drag his friend¡¯s soul out of here by force, if need be. No matter what he was.


    But even as he stepped forward, he was stopped. Something gripped him around the arm. No, not something.


    Someone.


    Martimeos turned, and though there was nothing but darkness behind him, he saw immediately what it was. Who it was. A man-shaped hole in the darkness, blacker than black. A blackness that grinned, a blackness that knew him, a blackness that reached out and grabbed him with a hand that seemed carved from frozen midnight. A hole in the world that laughed and laughed and laughed.


    The Dark Stranger.


    Perhaps he ought to have screamed. Martimeos thought that was what most people would have done in his boots. But he did not; could not. He felt no terror. Instead, he grinned. Who knew why the Dark Stranger laughed? As the saying went, Nobody did, and Nobody wasn¡¯t talking, but Martimeos could not help but feel that there was something very funny happening, here. There was a joke, if only he could see it. The Dark Stranger said nothing to him, spoke no word, but Martimeos knew, in his head, in his heart, in his soul, in his bones, what The Empty Man wanted him to know.


    Not yet.


    And then, the Dark Stranger began to rise, rise up into the dark, and Martimeos rose with him.


    ¡°I¡¯ll release their souls, Martim,¡± David said quietly, even as Martimeos was pulled until his feet dangled above the ground. ¡°So long as you make me a promise.¡±


    It seemed impossible, but at that moment, Martimeos forgot who he was being held by. A thousand cautions ran through his head about making oaths and promises to spirits, but he didn¡¯t care. David was a pace below him now, and it was agony, agony all over again to lose him, no matter what had happened, Martimeos knew with certainty this truly was his friend¡¯s soul, lost in this endless dark grave, lost in the heart of this prison of thorns. ¡°Anything,¡± he cried out, ¡°Anything!¡±


    David looked up at him, then, and it was no longer the child¡¯s face, the face of his friend in life that he saw. It was the corpse face, the ruined and broken face, the face that had haunted his nightmares, pale and crooked, bloody and wrong. And then Martimeos knew what David¡¯s final words had been to him, what his friend had struggled to say in his last moments, before Martimeos had left him to die all alone.


    ¡°Help me,¡± that face called to him from nightmare, in a whisper beyond death.


    Martimeos forced himself to look at that face, even as it receded into the dark as he was pulled up, up. He forced himself to look at it even as he could feel his mind begin to crack and strain beneath the sheer panic and horror it filled him with. He may be a coward, but he could look his friend in the face to make a simple oath. He could do that much. ¡°I promise,¡± he called, hoarse, his voice shaking. ¡°I will.¡±


    David vanished into the darkness, and Martimeos rose, rose in the hands of the Dark Stranger, rose out of the Lands of Death.

 Troubles Never End

    <h2 style="text-align: center">24. Troubles Never End</h2>


    Martimeos woke to gentle sunshine, and the sound of Flit chirping, wrapped in comfortable warmth.


    And with the echoes of laughter in his ears.


    He looked around, not recognizing the room he was in, sparse and bare, with simply a bed, a chair and small table to fill it. Sunlight poured through a single window and spilled across wooden floors old and worn but well-swept. His clothes lay folded on the nearby chair. His shoulder throbbed as he moved his neck, but it was a dull, muted pain.


    He glanced down at himself. He was wrapped in clean white sheets that seemed to glow in the sunlight. Never had light seemed so soft and sweet as this. And¡­he blinked. Elyse slept with her arms wrapped around him, the tangle of her long dark hair with its haphazard, clumsy blue ribbons, half-untied, spreading over his chest. He looked at this for a moment, still recovering from the haze of sleep, while something nagged him at the back of his mind. Finally he glanced back at the chair, to see that not only were his clothes there, but the witch¡¯s dress was draped over the back as well, and his eyes widened.


    He gave a shout of surprise, but his throat was so dry it came out sounding more like a croak, and his limbs were so weak that he felt that he could barely move them. Still, in his struggles, the witch fell out of the bed with a yelp. She sat up on the floor, naked and uncaring, and glared up at him. ¡°Well,¡± she muttered, ¡°Good morning to you too.¡±


    Memories of golden hair wove through Martimeos¡¯ mind, and anger rose in him for a moment. But he felt too feeble and weak for it to catch hold of him truly. ¡°Why¡­why were you in my bed, undressed?¡± His voice was a dry whisper. He licked his lips, but there seemed to be no moisture in him. ¡°Where are we?¡±


    The witch stood, rubbing her backside, and made no attempt to cover herself. His eyes drifted down to her long, pale legs before he planted them firmly on her face. ¡°We are in Minerva¡¯s apothecary; this is her sickroom. And there was only the one bed here. I did not want to sleep in a dirty, wet dress,¡± she answered him idly, as if this was totally sufficient explanation for why she might have climbed into a bed naked with him, but there was an odd gleam in her eyes. ¡°Besides, you needed the warmth. And you made a good pillow.¡± Suddenly, her face was filling his vision, her deep blue eyes intent on his. Her hands, so warm, were on either side of his face, and a tingle ran through him as she worked the Art. ¡°You are doing much better,¡± she said softly, almost to herself. The witch pulled back from his face to examine his shoulder, running her fingers along the edges of the bandage. ¡°Not fully healed, not yet,¡± she murmured. ¡° But you will live. You came very, very near to death last night, Martim.¡± She drew back from him, still staring at him, biting her lip. ¡°It took very nearly everything Minerva could do for you, and all of my healing as well, and still I thought you might die.¡±


    Memories started to drift back to him, slowly, in broken patches. He remembered the witch dragging him out of the manor, dragging him to the boat, as he grew cold and numb; he remembered thinking that certainly he must be doomed, and perhaps she would be as well. He felt a bit ashamed at that. The witch, it seemed, had more fire and resourcefulness in her than he might have thought. ¡°Thank you,¡± he murmured quietly, between cracked lips. ¡°It seems I owe you my life.¡±


    The witch smiled, pleased for a moment, before it vanished and she looked away from him. ¡°You¡­you owe me nothing, wizard,¡± she said, pulling at her hair. ¡°I¡­you¡¯ve saved my life before, yourself. It is nothing.¡± A pitcher and a crude clay mug stood on the bedside table, and she filled the mug with water and pushed it brusquely into his hands.


    Martimeos sipped greedily at it, and the cool water was as refreshing as rain in a drought. He wondered if he really had been so close to dying. Except he knew that he had. The visions he had seen filled his mind. Yes. Yes, he really had been there, in the Lands of Death. No longer could he deny it, no longer would he dismiss it as simple dreams. It would be an insult to what he had spoken there, and his soul was already too craven to pile on more sin in that regard.


    He really had spoken to David.


    Made him a promise.


    ¡°The creature that was with the glimmerling - ¡®tis a demon, called a Mirrit,¡± the witch went on, sitting on the edge of the bed, combing the tangles of her hair with her hands. ¡°They are drawn to those who die long, lingering deaths, trapped at the threshold of passing on. Their poison is meant to draw out a death, as well. Make it long.¡± She shuddered. ¡°If¡­if such a creature was drawn to the glimmerling, then I fear that the children it took did not die easy deaths. Perhaps best not to let the villagers know of that, though.¡± She glanced back at him. ¡°Is something wrong?¡±


    ¡°Nothing,¡± Martimeos replied, putting the vision out of his mind for now. He put the mug aside and tried to sit up. It was a struggle, and once he had managed it, a tingling fog filled his skull and he felt nearly on the verge of passing out. His stomach growled fiercely, once it had passed. ¡°I could use some water. And I suppose I am a bit hungry.¡±


    ¡°Yes, you would be. Healing stokes the appetite. Let¡¯s see whether Minerva has anything to eat.¡± She rose and, without bothering to dress, went out into the shop. The sounds of her rummaging about came to him as he sat in the bed for a moment, the sight of her slender back lingering in his mind, before he muttered to himself and, with some struggle, managed to push himself out of bed. His legs felt like jelly as he staggered uneasily to the window to open the curtains. Flit fluttered in, immediately, to rest on the windowsill and proclaim in song, in his odd way, that he was glad to see Martimeos lived. He said this as if death might not have been so bad either. Cardinals had a proud sense of honor, and to have died in battle, or from wounds taken in battle, would have been a good death. Flit wore his own wound proudly, his crooked wing, though Martimeos had no small fear that if it healed incorrectly that his familiar would not be able to fly again.


    ¡°Let it rest,¡± he told the little cardinal, plucking him up before he could flutter away again. ¡°I¡¯m afraid you¡¯re earthbound for now, my friend.¡± Flit muttered to himself in a twittering chirp, but finally acquiesced to the advice; he himself did not want to abandon the sky, even if it meant not even trying to flutter any distance at all for now.


    Martimeos placed Flit on the bed, where the cardinal hopped around and pecked at the sheets impatiently. He slowly started to dress, taking time to let the fog in his head clear after he pulled on his pants. He sighed ruefully at his blood-soaked undershirt and leathers, torn through with holes at his shoulder, but he could bathe and get them mended later. He could barely concentrate on his dressing, though. So much occupied his thoughts. The vision of David, and the tattered memories of other lives that remained still in his skull, weak and barely-there, like broken spiderwebs, detritus left behind from the relic of the Art and the visions it had given him. Everything seemed strangely unreal, as if he was not really the one moving his limbs, and he was so weak that it was a struggle to dress himself besides. It was as he draped his cloak about his shoulders that he heard a door open, and then Minerva¡¯s muffled cry from the front room.


    ¡°What are you doing, girl?!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m looking for food. Don¡¯t you have any here?¡±


    ¡°No, you little savage, I mean why are you running about my shop naked?! Don¡¯t you know the curtains are open?¡±


    ¡°Of course I do. I opened them. I wanted some sunlight. Don¡¯t you treat the sick and wounded, woman? You cannot be so peevish about the sight of someone¡¯s body.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not just me, anyone could see!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care. Where is your food?¡±


    There was a shout of outrage, and the next thing Martimeos knew Minerva was bustling Elyse back into the sickroom, huffing, her face red. ¡°I know those who work the Art can have strange customs, but I won¡¯t have you prancing about in all your shame where every man in the village might see,¡± the old apothecary snapped. Then she stopped, and looked in wonder at Martimeos, her mouth agape, absent-mindedly wiping her hands on the front of her woolen dress. ¡°Lad,¡± she said after a moment, ¡°I was certain you were dead. I¡­¡± her eyes flicked over to Elyse. She seemed to struggle for a moment with the fact that the witch was standing in front of a man, disrobed and making no attempt to cover her shame, before she apparently gave up. ¡°You are fortunate to have her by your side,¡± she said, and her tone made it clear that he might count himself lucky in more ways than one. ¡°She healed you where my herbcraft could do nothing.¡±


    Elyse wore a smug expression at first, but then gave a jolt and blushed furiously. ¡°You do not give yourself enough credit,¡± she said quickly, glancing at Martimeos as she did. ¡°I think ¡®twas your medicine that did most of the work, in fact. My Art merely pushed himself over the edge, and his own strength helped as well. He did come very close to death anyway.¡± She frowned, and eyed him disapprovingly. ¡°You ought to be in your bed, still. Who told you that you could get up?¡±


    Something dark rushed forth in his blood. ¡°None tell me what I may and may not do,¡± he laughed at her, before he could stop his tongue. The witch arched an eyebrow and opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her. ¡°Both of you, thank you. I hardly feel as if I were on the verge of death last night. You must have worked a miracle between the both of you.¡± That was true. He felt weak, pathetically weak, but he could walk. Better than being left abed.


    Minerva preened beneath his compliments, and Elyse muttered something about how the poison could have a quick recovery if it was expelled soon enough, and how his own will to live had helped as well. Martimeos blinked at that. His own will to live? He had not felt like he had that, in the Lands of Death. He had felt very ready to leave the living behind. But he supposed his body may have had its own ideas. And the Dark Stranger. He could not help but feel a chill run through him at that memory, though that, of being pulled from the Lands of Death, he could remember the least of all. He could never speak of it to anyone, he realized. There were those who would call him cursed for being touched by the Dark Stranger. Perhaps he was.


    Minerva left them, promising to get them a hot breakfast from Ritter, and while they waited Elyse told him of what he had missed, how she had crossed the lake. He berated himself for feeling a pang of disappointment as she pulled her dress over her head while she told the story.


    She really had come terribly close to death to save him, and it rankled his heart. If she had not needed to drag him back, she could have waited on the island for the fog to clear, rather than to fall into it, and be lost between worlds. She had insisted on coming with him, but it reminded him all over again how wretched it would have been to see her dead because his own concerns drove him to danger. ¡°I know not whose song it was that guided me back,¡± she said as she finished, ¡°But I wonder. I would surely have been lost without it. We both would have.¡± The witch gave him a pointed look. ¡°Do you suppose¡­¡±


    Finnel¡¯s Lady of Calm Waters. He supposed it might have been. Perhaps the little goddess had done what she could for them. Or, perhaps, it had just been a villager who had sung, and then run into the night once they saw trouble. Martimeos was not a godly man - like many travelers, merchants and wizards alike, the god he acknowledged most was Fortune, and Fortune was a fickle god, not the sort to speak to followers. He was more concerned with the fact that everyone in the village knew of them now; knew that they were a wizard and a witch, knew of what they had done. It made him itch. They must go back to the island and retrieve Ezekiel¡¯s notes, as soon as possible. And then leave, preferably without notice.


    But before those thoughts could overrun him, he was brought back to reality by the smell of fresh-baked bread, and soon the apothecary¡¯s shop was full of life. Minerva had returned with Ritter, and he carried with him a large loaf of bread, along with a slab of butter and a jar of honey. Finnel and Ren were there, as well as a couple of other villagers; a pair of large, broad-shouldered men, and a little old hawk-nosed woman who glared suspiciously at everyone, but most of all at Elyse.


    For the most part, though, the villagers could not contain their joy. They beamed and laughed, and seemed more alive than anyone they had seen since coming to Silverfish, though Ritter¡¯s smiles seemed somewhat strained, and it seemed almost as if he had aged a few years since last Martimeos had seen him. The old woman - her name was Noss - was there to remind them that they should not get their hopes up, that they still needed definitive proof, but it seemed many of the other villagers were very ready to believe that the curse actually had been broken, and it quickly became clear why, once Martimeos looked outside: For once, no fog shrouded the lake. It was quiet and still, and the pale autumn sun shone clear in the sky, reflecting off its mirror-like surface. ¡°It¡¯s the first time in years we¡¯ve had no fog,¡± Ritter said, at his side, as he peered out. ¡°I¡¯ve not seen it clear like this in years. And after it had been thicker than it¡¯s ever been, last night.¡±


    Martimeos was not sure what to make of this, and he pondered it as he wolfed down a prodigious breakfast, barely noticing as he devoured nearly half the bread on his own. Flit gorged as well, hopping beneath his wizard and pecking at the crumbs until he was so stuffed that he fell asleep. Such a fog could accompany a thinning between worlds, and this mist certainly had, from Elyse¡¯s account. Perhaps now that the glimmerling was dead, a door between worlds had been shut, and the world was now not so thin. Though there was still the odd relic of the Art that they had found in the caves beneath the manor; certainly something that could give them such visions of other worlds might thin the border between them, as well? Perhaps that was why the mist had been so bad last night, when they had tried to leave. When they had been shown visions of other worlds, perhaps that unknown, ancient Art had thinned the border between this world and those.


    He was distracted from these thoughts. Ren congratulated him on a job well done, and had thanks for him keeping Elyse safe. The thief could not stop staring at the witch, and Martimeos thought that he must really have it very bad for her. Though maybe that was all in his head, since he kept darting his eyes to Finnel, as well. He wondered how the lad would react if he ever learned that Elyse thought little of disrobing in front of others. ¡°If anything, it was she who kept me safe,¡± he said wryly, and Ren¡¯s boyish face flushed red. Indeed, the thief may learn just that. It might be that he would travel with them, if their path took them his way. My brother¡¯s path. Once again he itched to return to the manor, to take what they had left behind.


    He did not have to wait for long. Once their breakfast had ended, Noss demanded that they offer up some proof of Ezekiel¡¯s death, and it was settled that they and some of the village folk would row out to the island to see. Noss herself insisted on going, despite her age. ¡°I will make sure that these fools are not glamored by you two into saying whatever you tell them to,¡± she snapped, when Martimoes questioned whether it might be better for her to stay behind. ¡°You mind me, wizard, for I am not so easily ensorceled! Or perhaps you are lying about having rid the island of Zeke, and you think to hide this from me?¡± Martimeos did not bother arguing with her. Why would he, himself, be walking back into the teeth of danger if he had not finished with Ezekiel?


    Minerva and Ritter would go as well, along with Finnel and Ren, and the two broad-armed fishermen. Their names were Loag and Jayan, and Martimeos was wary of them at first, but he learned that they had actually set guard on the door of the shop last night. And from Elyse¡¯s whispers, he learned of why such a guard had been necessary, and shook his head. That crowd could have easily turned more deadly than any monstrosity Elyse had encountered in the lake. It would definitely be best to leave this village as soon as possible.


    Though he did not know how soon he might be able to make it. Breakfast had certainly returned some of his strength to him. But even so, on their way to the boats, he walked slower than everyone else, and eventually he stumbled, his legs giving way beneath him. ¡°I told you that you should have just stayed behind and rested, you stubborn fool,¡± Elyse muttered beside him, as she helped him to his feet.


    ¡°You may be right, but I am eager to claim my prize.¡± And, he thought, two with the Art on that island might be better than one. Who knew what traps they had missed when they had gone there? It would be far better to have both a wizard and a witch around to herd the villagers and ensure they did not stumble into some strange, dangerous craft. ¡°Perhaps I could borrow your walking stick.¡±


    Elyse huffed as she draped his arm over her shoulder, and then from the pockets of her dress she produced a splintered shard of wood. ¡°I lost it on the lake, wizard. This is all that remains of it.¡±


    He laughed at her. ¡°Why would you keep that?¡± The witch merely gave him an inscrutable look, an odd, sly smile, and then pocketed the splinter once more.


    ===***===


    They took three rowboats out to the island, and tools for digging, as well. ¡°You should bring shovels if you want to take at least some of the corpses back today,¡± Martimeos had told them. Loag and Jayan had glanced at each other uneasily when he spoke of this, but they got used to the idea of corpses quickly.


    There were an awful lot of them, after all.


    They followed the same path up to the manor that they had the previous night. There seemed to be more crows today than there were before, and all were hopping among the branches, cawwing excitedly at each other as the group passed them by. They seemed happy. Perhaps they themselves knew that the glimmerling was gone, now, and thought the island was safer for it. Martimeos had spited them on their last trip here, suspected them of spying, but who knew what the glimmerling had done to them while they were here, too.


    The first sighting of death - the pyramid of bones that the glimmerling had made from both animal bone and three human skulls, which lay along the path up towards the manor - this elicited less of a reaction than Martimeos had expected, except from Finnel, who moaned and covered his eyes and had to be comforted by Minerva. But once they got to the corpse-garden, the buried skeletons reaching up from the leaf-carpeted earth and carved with symbols, gasps arose from the villagers. Ritter shook his head, and Minerva gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. Old Noss merely spat in disgust. ¡°Well,¡± she muttered, ¡°Sure looks like Ezekiel did kill those folk who came to confront him after all. Guess Valerie got off easy.¡± She turned and narrowed her eyes at Loag and Jayan, the two big men staring at a skull, looking queasy. ¡°You two! Put those shovels to work, won¡¯t you? Or do you think it¡¯s going to talk to you if you keep gawking at it?¡± Only Ren looked at the corpses impassively, his face betraying no emotion at all.


    They left Loag and Jayan to dig here and continued on past this, Finnel walking blindly and needing to be guided, for he would not open his eyes until the corpses were well behind him, and they were in the manor¡¯s courtyard, among the dead orchards and the old, stagnant fountain that lay at the center there. Martimeos gave Elyse a worried glance, and the witch returned it - they had told Finnel about his son¡¯s fate of being turned into a tree, and he had only seemed to care that his boy was alive, but who knew how he would react upon seeing the truth with his own eyes?


    But when they came upon the peculiar blue-leafed tree, the man cried out and embraced it as if it were flesh and blood. ¡°My boy, my boy,¡± he repeated, over and over, tears running down his face. ¡°My boy, you¡¯re alive, oh, my sweet, beautiful son!¡±


    ¡°Is this really his child?¡± Noss asked skeptically, casting a sharp eye at the witch. ¡°A¡­a tree? How is it that you know?¡± Ritter and Minerva were silent, but Martimeos saw the doubt in their eyes as well.


    ¡°I can speak to them,¡± Elyse answered in a very no-nonsense tone, and Noss mumbled something beneath her breath. ¡°They have their own tongue, and their own way of speaking, but this one spoke as if with a child¡¯s intent behind it.¡± When Finnel backed away from the tree at her bidding, smiling and crying still, she placed her hand on it and closed her eyes. ¡°I do not think you missed your guess, wizard,¡± she said after a few moments. ¡°The tree¡­it is happy. I think this truly must be Finnel¡¯s child.¡±


    ¡°Is there any way to bring him back?¡± Noss asked.


    ¡°It might be done, with someone who has the right knowledge, but I do not have it, and unless Martimeos knows something he has not told me¡­¡± he shook his head, and she went on, turning to Finnel. ¡°I am sorry, but we have no way of turning him back ourselves. Perhaps if another more learned than us comes here¡­but the longer he stays in this shape, the harder it is to turn back¡­¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s alright,¡± Finnel smiled, and Elyse gave a squawk as suddenly the man embraced her tight. ¡°You¡¯ve done more than I could have ever dreamed of, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you. The Lady of Calm Waters told me that you¡¯d bring me back my son, and you have. I knew she was right about you.¡± Finnel released the witch, and moved as if to embrace Martimeos as well, but a harsh look set him straight, and he settled for a handshake. They continued on without him, then, since the man would not leave his son¡¯s side.


    The interior of the manor no longer seemed so dark as it had the day before, though that was perhaps because they had six folk with flaring torches with them now, rather than two. Ritter sighed upon entering, holding his torch to the reliefs carved in the wall. ¡°It¡¯s a shame that the building is in such shambles, now,¡± he said wistfully. ¡°I always thought that, if my inn had done well, perhaps this place, next¡­¡±


    Martimeos did not think the man would want anything to do with the building, once he saw what lay beneath.


    They grew quiet as they were led down to the wine cellar and into the caves beyond. Martimeos told them to wait at the entrance of the caves, and he went forward with Elyse, to sense if there was anything to sense with the Art. But aside from the relic which had so ensnared them the day before - and which he and the witch did well to never look directly at - there was nothing. Only the darkness, and a corpse. Elyse found the beak of the Mirrit, too, left in the midst of a smear of white ashes, along with its tongue. Martimeos examined these with some interest, as Elyse wrapped the beak around and around again in a bolt of thick cloth. ¡°It will still be poisonous for a very long time,¡± she said, ¡°And Fortune forbid that anyone should step on it.¡±


    It really seemed as if the creature had been nothing but feathers and a beak - there was barely any burnt flesh around the beak holding it together. How did such a creature even survive? Demons did not at all obey the same rules they did. Martimeos also took the opportunity to stuff Ezekiel¡¯s logbook and his treatise into his own satchel, before calling the village folk forward, warning them away from the relic. He was nervous enough with them just being near it, to tell the truth. Normal folk shouldn¡¯t even be laying their eyes on such a craft.


    Soon enough, though, they all stood around the corpse of the glimmerling. His floral robes and ruffled lace now soaked with blackened, dried blood, Ezekiel lay staring at the ceiling, eyes glazed, his mouth wide open, and his expression frozen in terror and pain. Gray hair swept back from his temples, and a long straight nose, slender and regal¡­


    Screaming his last, torn and bound by black thorns¡­


    Martimeos shook his head, and looked over at Ritter, who remained staring down at the corpse, shaking his head. The innkeep looked up, eventually, and his eyes were hard. ¡°Ayup,¡± he said roughly, his voice hoarse and strained. ¡°Yeah. That¡¯s Zeke. That¡¯s him.¡± The old man finally lifted his eyes to Martimeos. ¡°I¡­I really didn¡¯t think you¡¯d be able to do it,¡± he murmured. ¡°To think, I was planning to keep my mouth shut and let you walk right on out of our village, at first. I never for a moment thought you might be able to help us.¡±


    Noss prodded the corpse with a shoe, and then nodded to herself, satisfied. ¡°He¡¯s dead,¡± she declared, as if the matter were now finally settled once she had made the announcement.


    Martimeos knelt to search the corpse, pausing to let a wave of dizziness and weakness recede from him. He tried not to look too closely at the corpse¡¯s face. It reminded him too much of what he had seen in his vision. But other than a few coins, Ezekiel had not carried too much on him. He wore on one finger a golden ring, inset with a large, glittering emerald. ¡°I remember when I gave that to him,¡± Ritter said, with a sad, nostalgic smile, when Martimeos held it up. ¡°The poor fool loved his fine dress and his gold, but he was always misplacing his jewelry. He never lost that one, though.¡±


    At the look on Ritter¡¯s face, Martimeos felt a wave of pity wash over him. ¡°I know I claimed all property here,¡± he said, ¡°But¡­should you like to keep it? For a memento?¡±


    The old mercenary looked at the ring for a moment, and then turned away. ¡°No,¡± he said, ¡°No, wizard, you keep it. I don¡¯t want to remember this.¡±


    Other than that, Ezekiel wore a dagger around his belt. A dagger with a pair of branching antlers etched into the pommel. Martimeos seized this up excitedly, tugging the sheath free, and he hissed in alarm when he slid the dagger free, revealing a dead, black blade.


    ¡°What is it? What¡¯s wrong?¡± Minerva asked, and before he could reply, Ritter said ¡°Dolmec iron.¡±


    He and the innkeep looked at each other for a moment, before he nodded. ¡°Have you seen this before? Did you know Ezekiel had this? Did any of you?¡±


    But all the village-folk shook their heads. None of them had. ¡°I didn¡¯t even know he had that dagger, wizard, and I think I would have remembered,¡± Ritter told him. ¡°I suppose he must have gotten it after we stopped talking to each other. What is it?¡±


    Martimeos ran his thumb over the pommel of the dagger, the antlers like curling thorns inscribed there. ¡°¡®Tis my brother¡¯s crest, here,¡± he said quietly. ¡°This was his, certainly.¡±


    ¡°Your brother has a crest?¡± Elyse seemed bemused. ¡°Do you have one?¡±


    Martimeos carefully slid the dagger into one of his pockets, sheathe and all. ¡°Plenty of farmers claim crests for their family,¡± he said carefully. ¡°Claiming they can trace their blood back to some forgotten noble, or simply making one up for their own pride.¡± This was true enough, and all anyone needed to hear. Martimeos had no idea where his brother might have gotten a blade of Dolmec iron. It was a deadly thing, even for the one who wielded it, and he could not imagine why he might have gifted it to Ezekiel. Or traded it, perhaps. It was just more proof that his brother had been here.


    And then the time came for the sad end to their journey here. They led the village-folk to the back of the cave, where carved stairs sank into water, and both he and Elyse lifted their torches to reveal the small bones sunk in their black depths.


    Minerva gave an awful cry and sank her face into Ritter¡¯s shoulder, sobbing, and the innkeep himself looked away in disgust. Noss merely peered down at the bones, frowned, and then nodded. ¡°Well,¡± she said, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at Martimeos and Elyse, ¡°Well. Let it never be said that Betsy Noss cannot admit when she is wrong. It seems you two told the truth, and you¡¯ve done us a boon.¡± She stuck out her hand, and Martimeos stared at this, confused, until finally he took it and she gave him a firm handshake. ¡°Good job,¡± she told him. She jabbed her hand out violently at Elyse, and glared until she got a handshake from the witch as well. ¡°Not bad.¡±


    And then the little old woman hobbled away, pausing only to snap over her shoulder at Minerva, ¡°Oh, stop blubbering, woman. You had to know they were already dead.¡±


    And then she made her way up the stairs, muttering all the way. She was done with this place. And so were they.


    Ritter carried up Ezekiel¡¯s corpse as they made their way up to sunlight, quiet and grim, and once they were above, laid it down gently in the leaves. ¡°I thought of burying him,¡± he said softly, ¡°but I fear if I leave his corpse somewhere that it can be dug up, it might tempt those who hate him to come defile it.¡± He looked harshly at Noss, who was currently poking and prodding at Finnel¡¯s son. ¡°Perhaps I should not blame them. He would deserve it.¡±


    Martimeos thought of what he had seen of Ezekiel¡¯s soul, the last words that had fallen from the man¡¯s lips. ¡°I do not think that he knew what he did,¡± he told the innkeep. ¡°Not at all.¡±


    ¡°Even so. There really can be no forgiveness for this sort of thing.¡± Ritter¡¯s voice was gruff with scorn, and yet his clear blue eyes simply seemed tired and sad as he looked upon the pale corpse of his friend. ¡°Still. I would not see him disturbed in death, if I could. You can work the Art with the flame, lad. Would you help me burn him?¡±


    Martimeos looked to Ezekiel, himself. A wizard who had gone wrong with the Art, whose missteps had come with the most terrible price. And yet he could not help but feel that there should be some dignity afforded to him, for all that he had done. ¡°Of course.¡±


    And so Ritter had gathered wood for a pyre, with the help of Elyse and Ren. Martimeos rested, sitting on a stump, already feeling lightheaded and sore, watching as Loag and Jayan dug up corpse after corpse from the dirt, the bones falling apart even as they did so, hauling them in sacks down to the rowboats.


    ¡°So, could you really burn the entire village down?¡±


    Martimeos nearly jumped, and then turned around with a frown. Noss had crept up from behind him, and the old woman stared at him now, sharp-eyed and frowning. Elyse must have threatened her with that. He wondered if he should keep up the lie, and decided against it. A threat you could not back up, and which was discovered, was often worse than no threat at all. ¡°No. I am sure I could set some nasty ones, though.¡±


    Noss nodded, as if she had known this all along. ¡°But you are a wizard, though. Though I should say, not as wicked as Zeke was.¡± Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°Zeke was not wicked. He was cursed himself.¡± He tried to explain to the old woman about glimmerlings - about coming back wrong, about seeing the world wrong - but she merely shook her head.


    ¡°It all sounds the same to me. Whether he was wicked from sheer evil or wicked out of his own bumbling ignorance, it is all the same. He was a monster.¡±


    Martimeos had no answer to that. He supposed it was true.


    ¡°You ought to give up the Art, boy. The both of you. You¡¯ve got a pretty girl by your side. You ought to settle down, have some children. If the village really is safe for them now, I¡¯m sure you can get a home here for the price of fixing it up. Mercy, you could get two homes and a farm, I¡¯m sure. We¡¯ve enough empty ones.¡±


    He laughed at her, before he remembered that he and Elyse had pretended to be a newlywed couple as part of their backstory when questioning folk in the village. ¡°You mean the witch? She¡¯s not my woman. And as freely as you may give homes, I cannot stay. I would never give up the Art.¡±


    ¡°So that was a lie, too?¡± Old Noss gave him a shrewd look, and then shrugged. ¡°If you say so, lad. If all Zeke did really was out of pure foolishness, then I hope you¡¯re never as foolish as he was. Or I hope you die before you become so.¡±


    I was a thousand times more foolish than Ezekiel was in my youth, crone, he thought to himself as he watched Noss hobble away. Myself, and my brother.


    Eventually, enough wood was gathered for Ezekiel¡¯s pyre, and Ritter enlisted Loag and Jayan to help carry it down to the shore, so they might burn it close to the water and the fire would not spread to the trees and the dry leaves. He placed his onetime friend upon it, drawing his eyes closed, though he could do nothing about Ezekiel¡¯s awful expression.


    He stood back on the sands, and looked out over the small crowd that milled about the pyre. All had gathered around, not acknowledging that it was to pay respects; some out of sheer curiosity, or because they had helped with the labor. But it felt wrong to walk away from what might be the death rites of a man, no matter how wicked he might have been. Only old Noss stood alone, away from them all, down the shore and staring out over the lake, her arms crossed.


    Ritter opened his mouth for a moment, as if he were about to say something, but then he shook his head. He had no words for them. He threw his torch upon the pyre, and Martimeos fed the flame¡¯s hunger with the Art, and it raged and grew and consumed, and soon Ezekiel¡¯s body was simply a shadow within the flame.


    The old mercenary sat in the sand, and stared at the flames. Eventually, he began to speak, to everyone and to no one at all. He told stories, stories of himself and Ezekiel. Stories of their adventures, of the two boon companions and soldiers of fortune who made their name among the hardened souls of Farson¡¯s Pass. He told the story of the time they had faced Pollux the Stone-Hearted, a chieftain of bandits and madmen who rode in from the far west wearing great feathers in their hair, and who so feared the Art that he sent no less than a dozen assassins after Zeke, who always in his absent-mindedness managed to avoid them out of sheer dumb luck. He told the story of the time they had faced the inhuman witch Oloma, who might have been the death of both of them had Zeke not captured her heart. Dozens of stories he told, and never the same one twice, as they spent the day there, letting Loag and Jayan recover as many of the corpses the glimmerling had left behind as they could.


    And at the end of the day, when the fire had died away to ash, when all that was left of Ezekiel was the scraps of blackened bones, Elyse and Martimeos were the only ones who still sat by him. The wizard had come and gone as he pleased, coming by to tend the flames when he saw fit. But Elyse had remained with Ritter the entire day, listening to all the stories he had to tell. For some part of her knew that the old mercenary would never speak these tales again; that some of them had never been spoken, and if no one was there to listen, they¡¯d be gone, forever lost.


    Ritter fell silent, finally out of stories to tell. And then he spoke to them alone, or perhaps to no one at all, for he still never looked at them. ¡°Zeke and I were friends from childhood.¡± His voice was a rough, smoke-choked whisper. He stared with reddened eyes at the charred remains of his friend in the sand. ¡°Never, in all those years that I knew him, did I think it would have ended like this.¡± And then, even quieter, in a small voice that very much did belong to the old man he had become, ¡°I wish I had apologized to him. Before the end.¡±


    He rose then, and kicked wet sand over the ashes; he plucked up the shards and fragments of bone that remained, and threw them into the lake. ¡°Goodbye, Zeke,¡± he said to the wind, ¡°If the gods are kind, they will know that you were ignorant of what you did, and forgive you. Demesque and Karilail shelter you, and the Gravetender guide your soul to peace.¡±


    Martimeos thought of bloody, tangled thorns, of a last tormented scream, and said nothing.


    ===***===


    They returned that night to the mainland, all except for Finnel, who would not leave his son; and it was the next day that Ritter invited all the village to come to the common room of the Night Fisher inn, to know what had been done. He got both fireplaces blazing against the chill, and cooked a feast of fish and squash and potato, and for one day they saw a glimpse of what Ritter had always intended for his inn to be; full of life, of feasting, of warmth. Except that the folk that filled the inn were not full of good cheer. They were old, and tired, and they stared at Martimeos and Elyse dully, awaiting their words. Some of them had fearful looks, especially for the witch.


    And so they had stood up before these folk and, with Noss nodding along at their side, told them their tale. At least, that of it which the village folk might understand. It was enough for them to know that Ezekiel had truly been responsible for the disappearance of the children; that yes, now he was dead, and the bodies would be returned to them. The response was more muted than might have been expected to the announcement that the children¡¯s corpses had been found, and that it was all over. But then again, many of these folk left behind here were not the ones who had actually lost children to the glimmerling. Many of those who had personally experienced the loss were already dead. Killed by the White Queen, when they fled to Cross-on-Green to try to save their remaining children, or having taken their own lives in their grief, or simply having disappeared over the years. Valerie Tuck had been one of the few who had remained all these years, remained with the precious hate and thirst for vengeance that had consumed her. Her bargain with the dark power in her well had worked out for her, in the end. Vengeance had come for Ezekiel.


    Still, these ragged few who had clung on, they were happy. They cheered the news of Ezekiel¡¯s death, and smiles finally joined the feast then - though there were still those, the wizard noted, who looked at them with suspicion, even as Noss attested to the truth of their words. Folk whispered to themselves where they thought he might hear, and he heard some folk talk with resentment of the dark threats the witch had made towards them, and he knew that even among these smiles and good cheer that they were not as welcome as they appeared. He wished to leave, and soon, if he might. Wine and beer flowed, and for that night, Martimeos and Elyse were heaped with praise Perhaps these that were left were those who wished simply to see Silverfish itself live, and thought now that their village might finally recover.


    Martimeos himself was not so sure. Surrounded by demon-haunted woods, and all the folk here too old for children now. And it was not merely this land. Far and wide, an entire generation had been cast into the inferno of the Queen¡¯s War. Before, there might have been migrants who would move here, to make a life for themselves. Now, who remained?


    And the thorns. The black thorns that still choked the land. The same thorns that he had seen growing in the Lands of the Dead, with David imprisoned in the empty darkness at their heart. They no longer haunted his nightmares at night, now, and he was able to sleep without disturbance. This silence perturbed him as much as the nightmares, though, and still they plagued his thoughts. What were they? He asked Minerva if she had any insight on them, but she knew little herself; she had never discovered any use. They could not be a simple plant, though. Not something that grew both where souls tread and in this world as well. How was it that this was so? What happened within the Lands of the Dead? The thorns had seemed so wrong, so foul, a desecration, a blasphemy. They did not seem like they belonged there. But what could blaspheme death itself, and how was it that the thorns could grow through worlds?


    Help me.


    Martimeos did not know how he could, right now. He did not know what had happened to David, did not know why his soul was in a place so dark and cold in the Lands of Death. He did not know how he had changed, so. But he would. He would learn more of the Art, and whatever had happened to David¡¯s soul, Martimeos would undo it. He would help his friend. He had to.


    ===***===


    Over the next week, the villagers of Silverfish made multiple trips out to Rook Island, to the manor, to fetch the bones of their dead, that they might give them a proper burial. Martimeos and Elyse would accompany them on every trip, if only to guard the village folk from whatever Art might linger on there. And to warn them away from the room with the relic which had so enthralled them. Elyse could tell that Martimeos dearly wished that they might study this, but he was too afraid to touch it again; and so was she, in truth. They had merely been given visions of other worlds and lives, but there was nothing to say that if they were to go near it again, they might not be drawn into other worlds entirely. And while she could only remember scraps of those other lives, now, they were dark and fearful. She wished to live this life, and not any other. ¡°Once you have what you came here for, you must forbid folk from coming to this island again,¡± Martimeos told them, ¡°or at the very least, forbid them from the caves beneath.¡±


    Some of the skeletal remains that were brought back could be distinguished. Others, however, could not; the children¡¯s remains, dredged up from the flooded waters in the caves, were a tangle of bones. And in any case, those remains that might be separated out, the villagers had no way of telling who they might have belonged to. In the end, it was decided that all of the bones must be buried in one large grave, and when it might be done Ritter would pay for a stonecutter to carve the names of all who had died into a single large headstone.


    During those days, when she was not out on the island, Elyse would visit Coxton Praet, still held in the small gaol in the basement of the Night Fisher Inn. She thought the man might be cheered by news of the curse being undone, but upon hearing it he simply wept. ¡°So I might have killed the one who would undo what his brother did to us,¡± he said, and would not raise his head to look her in the eye. ¡°I am a fool. A wretched, useless fool, and I always have been.¡± She tried to prod him to speak more, to tell more stories, but he would not. She worried what might be done with him. Ritter fed him well, and would have liked to release him, but he did not know that he could trust that the man would be safe out of the gaol, and Elyse did not know that she disagreed with him.


    She visited Finnel, as well, at the half-submerged temple to the Lady of Calm Waters. He had refused to leave his son¡¯s side, and so the village folk had carefully replanted him at the entrance to the temple, where now his blue leaves were a bright spot in the village. As a tree, he seemed to be flourishing under his father¡¯s love, and Elyse would come by and speak to him, to tell Finnel what his son was saying. The man was always glad of her visits, and in his broken way he asked her if she might be interested in staying in the village, to serve as interpreter for his son, and was crestfallen when she had to turn him down. She wished she might do more for him, perhaps teach him the speech of the trees. But it would take long to learn, and she knew she would have to leave soon. She did join Finnel when the man offered prayers in thanks to the Lady of Calm Waters, though. Elyse had never prayed to a god before - her mother had certainly kept no faith - but she thought it only fair to give thanks for the favor that the Lady had done her.


    Martim rested during that week, recovering from the Mirrit¡¯s poison, when he was not accompanying the villagers in retrieving their dead, or questioning them about the dagger of Dolmec iron that he had taken from Ezekiel, questioning whether any of them knew the man who had carried that black blade. None of them did. The wizard had been so close to death that Elyse thought it might be quite some time indeed before he was completely healthy. He gained some of his strength back quickly, though, and spent his days reading the journal and the treatise on the Art that they had taken from Ezekiel¡¯s home.


    This latter Elyse read over with him, and it was full of secrets of the Art for them to untangle; it was not merely other worlds that Ezekiel had spoken about in its pages, not merely the fundamental tetrad of mind, body, soul, spirit, that he wrote of, but other mysteries as well, going on at length about an invisible force that bound all things together. Neither she nor Martimeos could understand his notes easily, and frustratingly, there was the fact that halfway through it switched to that strange, garbled language in the text. There was no explanation for it, but the wizard had one: perhaps, after becoming a glimmerling, Ezekiel had attempted to continue to write, only now with his distorted vision, this was what language looked like to him. It was a terrible shame that half of the work was indecipherable, and it seemed somehow sad to her that even the one thing that Ezekiel had tried to leave behind for the world had been ruined by his misfortune. But still, the secrets that they might glean from it were captivating.


    And perhaps they did not want to know what it said, besides. What else might Ezekiel have left behind? Did they really want to read the words of the poor soul, describing what he thought he was doing, when in reality he was the bloodiest, vilest butcher Silverfish had ever seen? It chilled Elyse to the bone to know what the Art had made of him. It was hard to imagine a fate more cruel, more unfair.


    The treatise was not all that they had from which to draw new knowledge of the Art. For while they may not be able to recall fully those memories from other lives that they had encountered in the relic-given visions, there were tatters, here and there, of what they had known. And in those other lives, they had known of Art that they did not know in this one. Even as a half-remembered dream, they were able to pull some knowledge from them, and they worked out between themselves how to create a witch-flame; a glamor of true flame that cast light without burning. It had been an odd thing to grasp, for Elyse; to make light, by making it where the shadows were not. She wondered how it had ever come to her; if those other lives she had seen were anything other than simple visions, anyway. But it was a delight in the Art to learn so, and it seemed certain that they might learn more this way.


    The wizard, though, seemed to fall into a dark mood despite their progress, even as his strength returned to him. He grew in on himself, quiet and reluctant to talk, until one evening, when she returned to the inn, she found him in the empty common room, sitting before a crackling fire. And when she drew closer to the fireplace, she saw that he was burning the journal they had found in Ezekiel¡¯s home.


    ¡°The damned thing is useless,¡± he told her, before she questioned him at all. He was staring at the fire, his arms crossed, his dark green eyes narrowed in cold anger, and he did not look at her. ¡°I found my brother¡¯s trail, for certain. And no clue as to where it leads next.¡±


    She took a seat at his table, and the inn¡¯s black cat leapt into her lap and began to purr. ¡°I think it was probably a very poor thing to burn it.¡± When the wizard did not answer her, she went on, ¡°You still need time to heal. Perhaps in that time, it will be found.¡±


    ¡°I doubt it,¡± he replied sharply, with more vehemence in his voice than she expected. ¡°I got what I asked for from the Dolmec, didn¡¯t I? It told me I would find my brother¡¯s trail here. It never said that the trail would not end here as well.¡± He sighed, and took out his pipe, and within a few moments he was blowing tobacco smoke upward at the ceiling. ¡°I wish to be done with this place.¡± He paused, and when next he spoke, the wizard seemed subdued. ¡°When I leave, will you follow me?¡±


    ¡°Certainly,¡± she told him.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    The smoke hung in the air, and silence, except for the crackling of the fire, fell between them.


    ¡°Why would I not?¡± Elyse asked, her voice light. ¡°I set out to see the world, and I¡¯ve certainly seen much of it by your side. Fae, curses, the manor of V¨¦reline Valoir herself¡­the path you tread is an interesting one. What more reason do I need than that?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve certainly seen that the path I walk is dangerous, then. The world is full of secrets and wonder. Do you not think that you may find them elsewhere? Not by my side?¡±


    Elyse was quiet, stroking the cat in her lap, feeling its rumbling purr. ¡°Do you no longer wish to travel with me?¡± she asked softly. ¡°Have I not been a fine companion?¡±


    Martim turned to face her, and his eyes caught hers. Dark green, like a shadowed forest, they filled her vision, and she felt at once as if the wizard were playing a game with her. He was a fleeting shadow himself, and perhaps that was why he was so full of secrets. It is in him to vanish, to disappear, she thought, and did not know where the thought came from. ¡°Not at all,¡± his voice reached her, as she sat transfixed. ¡°It has been a great boon to have you by my side. I just find it curious, witch. We crossed paths by coincidence in the woods. From that alone you saw fit to follow me, through danger and darkness? Simply to see what mysteries the world had to offer you?¡±


    Elyse thought of the dragonflies she would hunt as a child, in her swamp. How ready they were always to flit away, beautiful and bejeweled but ever-cautious. Is that what I am doing? Hunting him, ever so carefully? ¡°No, that is not the only reason,¡± she told him. ¡°I¡­you have been a fine companion yourself, wizard. I do not think I should have such fortune in choosing another one.¡±


    ¡°Have I been so fine? You have come close to death by my side. I should not like to see you killed for my search, on my account.¡±


    She laughed at him, and reached out and caught his hand. Careful, careful, whispered a voice within her, as his eyes broke from hers to swing down to their joined hands. ¡°I would not have died on your account, should it have happened,¡± she told him. ¡°How absurd to think so. Any injury that comes to me as I follow you comes from my own curiosity, wizard. I vow this to you.¡±


    His eyes came back to hers, watching, twinkling in the firelight, questioning, questioning, drawing her in, and she had the strangest sensation, if just for a moment, of being laughed at.


    And then all at once it was gone, and it was simply Martim that sat before her again. Whatever it had been about his eyes that had so held her was no longer there. The wizard gave her a rueful smile that had the hint of mischief about it. ¡°Well. I suppose I am glad to hear it, then. It has been an easier path, I think, with you by my side.¡±


    Elyse stayed with him for a while, in the common room, watching the wizard blow smoke rings, touching them with her glamor to twist them into new colors. Soon, though, she left him, retiring to her room for the evening, wishing to read. She lingered at the bottom of the steps, though, watching the wizard from the shadows. Wondering about the words she might say to him. She truly did like Martim, after all. It rankled her to lie to him so.


    As for Martimeos, he turned his eyes back to the fireplace, where the logbook burned, where even now it had crumbled to fine white ash. He grabbed a poker that leaned against the stone fireplace, and stirred this, making sure no scrap of paper remained.


    It had not been simple wrath that had made Martimeos throw the journal into the flames. It had been the troubling words that he had found within. He had torn from it all the words that spoke of the Art, of course, though there was much less insight in it than there was in the treatise. He had even kept the gibberish, though he knew not what to make of it. He would not throw away something that might contain knowledge.


    It was the other words within that were so troubling. Ezekiel¡¯s daily journal, of sorts. His logbook. Words that told of who, exactly, had taught Ezekiel to use that strange relic of the Art. Words that spoke of who, exactly, had told the man, in the caves, in the dark, how to travel to other worlds. Dangerous words, if those who found them were looking to cast blame; dangerous words, if folk were to ask how it was that Ezekiel had become a glimmerling. Dangerous words that spoke of a dangerous man doing a dangerous thing. Words that no one needed to know. Not even the witch. Oh, he trusted her at his side, certain and true, not to betray him, as much as he might have trusted anyone. But there were some secrets that simply did not need to be spoken. And about this, he did not feel badly at all.


    ===***===


    It would strike Martimeos as funny, later. How he had been so eager to leave, and yet Fortune found a way to force his feet to move before he was ready.


    The days passed, and the initial celebratory joy faded from Silverfish. This was still an empty village of the odd and the old, and there was still, always, the everyday work of living to be done.


    Still, to Elyse, it felt fine to not hide what she was. She wore again her pointed hat that marked her as a witch, and she tied a blue bow around it. Rare though it was that she would see folk in the streets of this mostly-dead village, those she did see might wave to her, now. There were still some who only glared at her sullenly, though, or sometimes with such fire in their eyes that she began to feel afraid. She would glare back, though. She had helped save their village, she and Martim both, and she would not stand for these folk being impolite. She complained to Ritter of it, and the innkeep had only told her that for some, it was difficult to change their ways. He had also told her, delicately, that the night she had threatened half the village might have fouled some people¡¯s moods towards her.


    She had not meant those as true threats, and she had apologized when the whole village had come together in the Night Fisher inn to hear news of the glimmerling¡¯s death. Well, she had apologized to some, anyway. Still it seemed that some folk held suspicion against her. Elyse did not see why her idle words, under duress, should outweigh the undeniable boon she had given these folk. She had apologized to Minerva too, for calling her a backwards apothecary, and the old woman had merely laughed and said she had heard much worse from folk whose loved ones were dying. She had even made to Elyse a gift of a scrip full of carefully cut herbs, and a note detailing their uses. ¡°You are certainly skilled in healing, girl,¡± she had said, ¡°But you never know when these might come in handy.¡± If she could accept an apology, why couldn¡¯t the rest of these folk?


    This was not the only thing that worried the witch, however. Ren had been acting odd.


    The thief had seemed full of relief when they had come back, if much more for her than for Martim. She thought the wizard might be right when he told her that the lad had eyes for her. It had tickled her, and she even thought it somewhat flattering, at first. But then she began to wonder.


    The thief took in stride when at first he was told that they were not sure where they may be going next, yet, and that if he planned to travel with them, he may have to wait. As time wore on, though, his behavior became more and more peculiar. At times, it seemed almost as if he were avoiding her - his boyish face would grow anxious when she entered the common room of the inn, and he would leave quickly, almost as if he were fleeing from her. Other times, though, he would confront her about when they might leave, and increasingly when he did this he seemed angrier and angrier, as if it were her fault that they were not moving.


    ¡°You are welcome to travel on your own, if you cannot stand to wait,¡± she told him eventually, when he came upon her to badger her once more one night when she sat reading in the empty common room of the inn. ¡°I never promised you that we would take you, Ren, only that we might do so if our paths lay with each other.¡±


    The thief stared sullenly at her. The innocence of his face was spoilt, now, by the dark circles beneath his eyes, and his straw-colored hair was an unkempt mess. His clothes seemed looser, too, as if he had grown skinnier. ¡°You and I should go,¡± he said suddenly. ¡°Just us. Forget the wizard. You want adventure, to see the world, do you not? Let us follow the road south, ¡®round the lake. It goes into lands dark and wild. I promise, you will see much of the world with me.¡±


    Elyse simply stared at him. Where had he gotten that idea? Those words sounded too close to the ones she had used herself. Had he been spying on her, listening in on her conversation with Martim, when she had told the wizard such? ¡°I thought you wanted to simply find a place to be safe and earn your coin. I will certainly not be going off with you,¡± she said incredulously.


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    That seemed less like a question and more like a demand, and her ire bubbled over. ¡°I don¡¯t need to give a reason,¡± Elyse snapped at him, ¡°But I work the Art, and I will learn more of it with the wizard than I would with you. Now leave me be, or I tell you right now, you will no longer be welcome to travel with us at all.¡±


    Ren stared at her again, and then he tensed, and all at once Elyse became very aware that she was alone in the common room with him, at a time when most others were abed. For a crazed instant, she felt as if he was about to seize her. But then it seemed at once as if the anger had gone out of the thief all in an instant; instead he stared at her with a look of horror on his face. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he told her in a gasp, and he immediately turned away from her and ran up the stairs.


    Elyse put a hand to her pounding heart as she watched him go. She felt almost absurd, as she felt its quickened beat. How was it that one she thought so innocent could so suddenly frighten her so? Still, she went to bed that night more fearful than she had before. And she woke up in the small hours of the morning, from a dream in which someone had rattled the lock on her door to her room, staring at the door in the darkness and waiting for the smallest sound, wondering whether it had been dream or real.


    She could not get back to sleep that night, except in fits, and so she had been up early that morning, up with the first notes of Flit¡¯s song. Martim¡¯s familiar was still recovering from the injury to its wing, and instead of taking occupancy on the roof of the inn, now nested in the shorter tree that stood in the center of the plaza before it. Elyse nodded to the cardinal as she walked past the tree, and he bobbed his crest back in return.


    She thought that she would make a visit to Finnel and his son this morning. But though the day was brisk and clear, with nary a cloud in the sky and not a hint of mist rolling in off the lake, she could not help but feel a foreboding as she walked the empty village streets, one that only grew stronger as she approached the temple of the Lady of Calm Waters, beside the whispering reeds by the lake¡¯s gentle shore. Why was it that dread seized her heart? Why did her legs tremble as she walked? Why was she more and more certain that something awful was waiting for her?


    Perhaps she should have turned back, but she did not. She was drawn forward, and it would be a lie to say she did not have some curiosity about what darkness there was to be seen. She came to the temple¡¯s entrance, where Finnel¡¯s son had been planted, so that the tree would be the first thing the man saw every morning. Even in the chill of autumn, Finnel¡¯s son had held onto his blue leaves and even seemed to grow under his father¡¯s love, but now he was silent. And when Elyse placed her hand on his bark, to listen to his speech, he would say nothing to her. He only gave the sensation of dull, aching pain, buried deep beneath his bark, in his core.


    And so, with trepidation, Elyse had entered the temple, and immediately she knew why.


    In the back of the temple, where it opened up to form a pool that joined with the lake itself, Finnel lay face-down in the water, moving gently as the lake lapped at the shore. And the shrine that rose from the center of the pool, the simple stone altar, lay empty. The silver icon of the Lady of Calm Waters had been taken from it.


    Elyse had splashed out into the pool before she even knew it, seizing the man, but she knew already that it was too late. The waters were a ruddy red, and as she turned the poor soul over - so thin, the man was, so light - she saw that his throat had been cut, and no song sang within his body at all any longer, it had all bled out into the water. He was pale now, and cold. She cursed, and blinked back hot tears. The man had been odd, a strange fellow, but she had spent time with him over the past weeks, and in interpreting for his son she had found him sweet, in his strange way. The boundless love he had for his boy, never mind that he was a tree now. He had been a good man.


    She staggered out of the temple, to lay her hands upon Finnel¡¯s son. To see if there might be anything he knew about who had murdered his father. But there was nothing, now, nothing but that sense of hurt, that sense of primal pain. And, she thought dully, there may not be anything ever again. She could not sense that there was a child in this tree any longer. Whatever had been left of the boy in it, he may have simply given up, and accepted becoming a tree, leaving only an echo of his grief. And she could not say she could blame him.


    ===***===


    It had all gone so quickly, once she returned to the Night Fisher inn.


    Both Martimeos and Ritter had been in the common room then, the wizard smoking his pipe and the innkeep setting out a meal of bread and honey. The two men, it seemed, could stand each other¡¯s company now. When the two had seen her, they had both immediately risen, knowing from her expression that something was wrong. Ritter had listened with widening eyes as she told them of what she had found, and then had gone sprinting out of the inn with a curse to see for himself. The wizard, however, had merely smoked his pipe, staring intently at her, his expression growing darker. And then, once the innkeep had left, he said, ¡°We must leave, now. With all speed. Whatever you wish to take, grab it.¡±


    She trailed behind him as he rose to his feet and strode quickly towards the stairs, up to his room. ¡°Now? Why now? Why-¡±


    ¡°Because the village-folk will be looking for someone to blame, and the first they cast their eye on will be the outsiders. It does not matter the good we have done them. It did not win us as many friends as you may think, anyway. Even if they eventually found the truth of who did the deed, they would want to hold us here while they discovered it. And I do not trust the judgment of folk here to deliver justice, besides. Do you?¡± The wizard shook his head and cursed. ¡°Better that we had gone yesterday. A week hence. Damn it!¡±


    And so it was, shocked and numb, that Elyse called Cecil to her. She had always carried very little, and so she went down to the common room, still stunned, and sat at one of the tables, considering the wizard¡¯s words. Would the people of Silverfish really turn on them so easily? When they had done so much for their village? Why not? Not so long ago, some of them were saying that you had already killed two of their number.


    Ritter returned, throwing open the door, but he barely looked at her. Instead, he tore through the common room, down into the cellar, and she heard from him then a muffled, astonished shout. Suddenly fear gripped her, and she raced towards the cellar herself, fearing for the man, but he was alright - ascending the steps, shaking his head, looking ashen-faced, but unharmed. ¡°Coxton¡¯s gone,¡± he said gravely, when he saw her at the top of the stairs.


    This news might have shocked her, were she not still numb from seeing Finnel. ¡°What? How?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Ritter reached the top of the stairs, closing the door to the cellar behind him, but then he just stood, swaying slightly, as if uncertain what to do next. ¡°I¡­I saw Finnel,¡± he explained, ¡°And my first thought was, who could have done this? Well¡­I remembered Coxton, of course, he attacked your wizard, nearly cut his throat¡­and he¡¯s gone, but¡­there¡¯s blood, down there. All over the floor where we kept him. I don¡¯t know how¡­¡±


    He stopped, suddenly, raising his eyes. Elyse followed them. Ritter was looking at Martimeos, who stood now in the midst of the common room with his satchel and crossbow slung across his back, and his sword buckled to his waist. The wizard had his blackfur cloak draped about him and his red scarf wound tight about his neck, and his eyes were wild, dangerous.


    ¡°Ren¡¯s room is empty,¡± he called. ¡°Seems the lad has gone, too.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Ritter replied, flatly. ¡°And I suppose you¡¯ll be wanting to go now, as well?¡±


    ¡°I will be going, innkeep.¡± There was something in his tone that Elyse had not heard before. His eyes seemed full of dark laughter, to almost shout a dare to try and stop him. And for a moment, just for a moment, Elyse wondered whether the wizard was going to kill Ritter, right here, right now. But then he softened. ¡°Do you really think we did this, man? I cannot stay while your folk find the murderer. And are you really certain that they¡¯d find justice for me, anyway? For her?¡± Martim nodded towards her.


    Ritter¡¯s face had been hard stone as the wizard had talked. But at this last, the innkeep looked to Elyse, and his expression crumbled. ¡°No,¡± he said, tired, ¡°No. I don¡¯t suppose you can trust that they would.¡± He ran a hand down his face, pulling at his chin, his eyes troubled, and then he gave in. ¡°Very well.¡±


    Still, he made them wait a moment, while Martim danced impatiently, as he wrapped up for them the bread, and after some rummaging in another room returned with a laden burlap sack that he pressed into the wizard¡¯s hands. ¡°Consider it a reward,¡± he said, ¡°Do not bother to open it now. Which way do you plan on going?¡±


    ¡°South,¡± the wizard replied to him.


    Ritter gave him a shrewd look. ¡°Is that really the way you plan on going?¡± he asked, his voice hard and clipped. ¡°Because I mean to throw them off your trail if folk get it in their head to go looking for the three outsiders that disappeared this day.¡±


    Martim, pressed by the need for haste, growled and gave the innkeep a deep, evaluating look, then glanced between the man and Elyse. ¡°Fine,¡± he finally admitted. ¡°We go north.¡±


    They found themselves ushered out the back of the inn, then, and Ritter took them out through streets where abandoned houses lay, where folk were much less likely to see them. ¡°I don¡¯t know if anyone has found Finnel, even now,¡± he muttered. The temple was out on the outskirts, where folk rarely visited. ¡°I wonder, was it Coxton who did it, or Ren. I¡¯d say it were Ren, since someone took the Lady''s statue, but I don¡¯t know what to make of Coxton anymore.¡± The old mercenary shook his head. ¡°If it were Coxton, you¡¯d best be careful. He was no mean hunter, and he knows how to stalk the woods.¡± Then he frowned, and spat. ¡°But I have to wonder if he¡¯s dead, too. All that blood.¡±


    They came to the edge of town, where the streets and the houses ended; where a long-abandoned field of high, dry grass awaited them, to swallow them up and disappear them. ¡°For what it¡¯s worth,¡± Ritter told them, ¡°I thank you. For what you¡¯ve done.¡± Suddenly, his clear blue eyes were rheumy and wet, and he added, ¡°For Zeke, especially. He would not have wanted to live like that. I hope you find your brother, wizard.¡±


    The innkeep shook the wizard¡¯s hand, and Elyse said, ¡°You must take care of Finnel¡¯s son, for him. Please. Even if he is but a tree now, he deserves at least to live a good tree¡¯s life.¡± The innkeep gave her a warm smile, and she could not help but think that this was a poor goodbye. She had wanted to bid farewell to Minerva, even to Old Noss. It was not much like the stories she knew, to leave this way. ¡°I wish we might have left in better circumstances. It seems wrong, somehow, to leave you in the midst of trouble.¡±


    Ritter gave a dusty chuckle, before he turned to leave. ¡°If you wouldn¡¯t leave until we were free of trouble, you¡¯d never be on your way,¡± he told her. ¡°Troubles never end.¡±

 Epilogue: Go West

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Epilogue</h2>


    And so it was that the wizard and the witch left behind the village of Silverfish, to go out into the dry, dead wilds of deep autumn, where the long, ghostly moan of the wind brought a biting chill that had the whisper of winter in it.


    They traveled in silence, at first, and away from the road, cutting through abandoned farm fields, always ready and waiting to hear someone raise a cry, waiting to hear the gallop of hooves along the road of a party come looking for them, ready to weave their glamor and hide. Flit, still injured, rode on Martimeos¡¯ shoulder - he could not fly well enough to rise into the air and tell them whether there were folk out and about looking for them. Their only pursuer, though, was the wind. Ritter, it seemed, had perhaps kept his word.


    Still, it was hard-going, away from the road. They gave any farmhouse they saw that had smoke coming from its chimney wide berth, and they had to go the long way around the knots of tangled black thorns that had swept across and devoured some of the fields. And Martimeos was not fully recovered from the demon¡¯s poison. He grew short of breath too quickly, and had to stop to rest more often. Still, he thought, he hardly felt as if he had been on death¡¯s door not so long ago. The witch must have more skill in healing than even she knew. He told her so, and she just seemed embarrassed. ¡°You are young, and healthy,¡± she told him, her face reddening as she refused to look at him. ¡°You yourself did most of the work. Ah, do not bring it up!¡±


    It was around midday that they came across the land that they recognized as Valerie Tuck¡¯s farm. They steered far, far clear of it. Though, Martimeos thought curiously, he could not sense the old power there, the shattered one in the well. It had weighed on him, the last two times he had been there; he had been able to feel the thing there, and it should be easier now that he knew what was there, easier to sense it. And yet, he could sense nothing. It seemed now like a normal farm, abandoned to the crows, their caws faint in the distance as they descended upon the broken remains of a pumpkin harvest that no one would ever eat.


    For the most part, though, they were quiet still, even after they thought that they were not being pursued by the townsfolk. The thought that Coxton Praet might be out in the wilds, that the man might, in his madness, want to hunt them. Elyse knew, at least, that the short, bald huntsman could move like a ghost when he wanted to, and the Art could not protect them from a silent arrow. And yet she could not help but find herself hoping that the man still lived, so beautifully had he been able to weave stories. Either he or Ren killed Finnel, though. She could not bring herself to believe that innocent-faced Ren had killed the man, no matter how oddly he had been acting.


    ¡°I am not convinced it was either of the men,¡± Martimeos told her, breathlessly, as they stopped for a break and to eat some of the bread Ritter had given them.


    ¡°Who else would it be?¡±


    ¡°Any who hated outsiders. And for the simple reason that he talked with one.¡± When he saw Elyse go pale with the thought that perhaps she had brought death to Finnel, he added quickly, ¡°Though I think most likely it was one of them. Why else might they have disappeared?¡±


    Sooner than they would have thought, gloom fell upon them, and nightfall approached. They built their camp far off the road, in a dense thicket of barren oaks, and in the shelter of their twisting trunks Martimeos built a campfire. Cecil went out to hunt, a quiet gray shadow, but he could not find anything. That was alright, though, for when they opened the sack that Ritter had given them, they found a bounty of dried meats and cooked fish. Food was not all the innkeep had given them, though. There were also two generously packed purses, filled with fine silver of Aurelic mint and even a few gold coins, as well, the faces of dead and unknown monarchs staring back at them. And, to Elyse¡¯s delight, he had included a bolt of blue cloth, as well as two books. One was the book of tales of V¨¦reline Valoir. Another was a tome bound in unmarked black leather that she had never seen on his bookcase, and when she opened it up, she found it full of stories of the men of Farson¡¯s Pass, the fortunes of the mercenaries there.


    And she thought that she could guess why he had hidden it, and then given it away, for the names ¡°Ezekiel¡± and ¡°Ritter¡± appeared often on its pages.


    Martimeos, for his part, was quiet. Tired, his body more exhausted than it should be from a day¡¯s walk. He hoped he would have his health back soon. He sat by the fire, appreciating its warmth, even on top of that which he had already enchanted into his cloak. Between his fingers, he idly twirled the red maple seed that Lob had given him.


    He had given much thought to how he had seen the little man, when he was bound up in visions at the edge of death, and what it might mean, he could not say. He knew well that the fae were travelers in the Land of Dreams. He wondered if it were safe to be carrying the seed. He wondered if he would be alive, now, if he had not. With a sigh, he tucked it away into his satchel once more, and drew out the object of his true interest.


    In his hands, he held the dagger he had taken from Ezekiel. The black blade of Dolmec iron, with the curling, branching horns etched into the pommel, with points like thorns themselves.


    This had been his brother¡¯s blade. According to Ezekiel¡¯s journal, he had simply been given it as a gift. Ezekiel himself had been incredulous, and so was Martimeos. Why would his brother have given away something so precious? There were those who were frightened to own anything so closely associated with a demon, but his brother had certainly not been one of those.


    He would know. He would learn. He would find his brother¡¯s trail, again. He would learn more of the Art, and he would save David. Whatever had happened to him. In whatever dark place his soul dwells. I can save him, or keep him company forever. The world was vast, and full of darkness and danger, but somewhere through it ran a silver thread, the path he could follow. He thought that, at the end of it, he would most likely simply find his brother¡¯s bones. But at least I would know what happened to him. To find the path, that was the problem. At least, knowing that his brother actually had been here, he now had some ideas on where to look.  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    He laid out many sigils, that night, to ensure that they would not be approached without his knowing, and Elyse wove glamor and shadow to hide them and their fire from the eyes of those who might look for them. And then, in the black of the night, by the comforting, roasting heat of the flame, Martimeos wrapped his cloak around himself and fell asleep.


    He dreamt of a field of silver flowers, and a starless sky. A field of silver flowers that he walked through forever, forever towards darkness, a knot of black, an awful stain on the world that he knew he must bear witness to. It was what he was meant for.


    ¡°Martimeos!¡± came a voice, in a fierce whisper. He glanced behind him, and there, amongst the silver flowers, stood Elyse. The witch was pale, and staring, and her strange blue eyes so fierce they almost seemed to glow. What was she doing here? This place was not meant for her.


    ¡°Martimeos!¡± she whispered again sharply, and with it came the dim awareness that this was a dream. The silver flowers shimmered and trembled around him, and he was roused from his sleep.


    The witch whispered his name again. He glanced over at her groggily, his mind still full of silver. In the dim light of the moon, he could see her huddling against a tree, her face pale, her eyes wide with terror. Then he heard, to his right, very close by, a rustling, snapping noise.


    He glanced over, and there was a huge, hulking figure standing over him, making strange snuffling sounds, clawing at his satchel, its form hidden by darkness. Whatever it was, it had made its way past his warning sigils. He shouted, scrambling back, and even as he did he could feel the sense of wrongness worming into his heart, that sick sense of dread clawing through his guts, and he knew, he knew what it was that waited for him there in the dark, but he could not stop himself from reaching out with the Art to the red embers and hot coals of their fire, could not stop himself from flaring them into a dirty, orange flame that bloomed light and illuminated the creature.


    It was the Dolmec which stood over him. The same one he had spoken to, which had told him to go to Silverfish, its too-large fox face, full of awful life, black lips peeling back to reveal snarling black fangs, those gleaming dark eyes boring into him, its tattered and dirty robes dragging along the leaf-carpeted forest floor, obscuring its misshapen body. From beneath those robes extended three pale arms of dirty white flesh, looking dead and rotten, the fingernails talons of black metal, and where the flesh was torn away, Martimeos could see the bone beneath was made of gleaming black metal as well. In one of those arms, it clutched the dagger of Dolmec iron he had taken off of Ezekiel.


    He knew the danger he was in. But in that moment, the echo of sleep dulled his senses, and burning anger gripped his heart. That dagger was his, he had won it fairly, it was a memento of his brother. ¡°Bastard!¡± he cried, lurching to his feet, trying to draw his sword. But the Dolmec merely laughed, an awful, rattling sound, and then Martimeos found that his bones turned to jelly and he fell to the ground, unable to even lift a hand. To his side, he could hear Elyse collapse as well, cursing under her breath in panicked, frightened gasps.


    The Dolmec laughed again as it shuffled towards them, its arms moving oddly, disjointedly as it did, the shadows from the campfire dancing over its hunched, wicked form. Martimeos felt his heart freeze with fear as the demon stood above him, regarding him hungrily with those glinting black eyes. Eyes from another world, the thought ran wildly through his mind. Eyes that have seen that which should not be.


    ¡°Martimeos,¡± the demon crooned,in its strange, echoing, musical voice. The voice that came from somewhere within it, with a voice that may not have said anything aloud at all. Its fox-head swung to regard the witch, as well, and its animal grin seemed to widen. ¡°And Elyse, as well. So you managed to hunt him, little witchling.¡±  Elyse seemed to try to say something, but managed only a gasping croak, and the Dolmec¡¯s rattling laughter was the only reply. ¡°What shall I do with you? Flay the flesh from your bones? Carve out your hearts?¡± The fox-head swung back, swaying as if on a puppet¡¯s string, to regard Martimeos once more. ¡°Ah, but it is such a fine¡­gift that you bring me.¡± One pale, dead hand held the dagger in its sheath, and another drew the black blade free delicately, lovingly. And then, with a violent, sudden jerk that belied the grace of its former movements, the Dolmec slammed the dagger into its own flesh.


    Its robes bulged and squirmed eagerly, happily around the dagger, and the Dolmec raised its snout to the sky, and seemed to breathe. There were no stars, there. They were in the demon¡¯s darkness, now. And when it drew the dagger away, there was no blade any longer. Only the hilt remained.


    ¡°That was my brother¡¯s,¡± Martimeos said weakly. And then he immediately realized the mistake he had made, as the Dolmec swept forward with suddenly serpentine elegance, and its fangs stopped a mere hair¡¯s breadth from his throat.


    ¡°Never his,¡± The Dolmec answered in its not-voice, ¡°Never yours. It is mine, it is ours, it is always ours, mageling. Would you like to trade for it, fair? I will take your blood as payment.¡± Those black fangs whispered across the skin of his neck. Martimeos knew the slightest cut from them would mean death. And for a moment, death was what he expected.


    But then the demon stood. It threw the hilt of the dagger onto his chest, discarding it, worthless to it now. ¡°No,¡± it said. ¡°You have been useful to us. You will be useful to us. A good hound is hard to come by.¡±


    And with that, the foul creature turned, laughing, rattling, to walk off into the night¡¯s darkness. Perhaps it was the fact that death itself had just kissed at his neck, but Martimeos felt seized, in a moment, with manic boldness. ¡°Wait!¡± he cried. ¡°Wait! You owe me a favor! For the return of the blade!¡±


    The Dolmec did not turn around, but it did pause. ¡°My favor is your life spared, Martimeos. Your life, and the life of Elyse. But you have freed me from this land, and a good hound deserves kindness. And it is thanks to you that I can finally leave this land.¡± The Dolmec continued shuffling, disappearing into the shadows, but as it did, its voice called out to them, strange and echoing through the night. ¡°You want to follow your brother¡¯s path, mageling?¡±


    ¡°Go west, young Martimeos. Go west.¡±

 Some announcements (Book 1 Finished!)

    Warning: This contains no story content! This is a chapter merely containing some thanks, announcements and information about the series going forward. There is also a tl;dr at the very end if you just want the general gist of things.


    THANK YOU


    First off, I want to thank everyone for reading, and special thanks to the people who commented and pointed out errors so I could clean them up. I really don''t know why google doc''s spellcheck didn''t pick up on some of those. I never expected to make it onto Rising Stars, and I am very happy that I did, and that I got a bunch of new readers.


    Also, if you read this story and enjoyed it, please, give a follow, a favorite, a rating (or even better a review), or best of all, tell people about it! There does seem to be an audience for this sort of story on Royal Road, but I think it''s safe to say that it gets less word of mouth than other genres like litrpg. So I make a humble request: if you can - if you think you know someone, or a community, that might like this story, tell them about it. When people hear about this story from actual readers, it''s so much more meaningful than if I go out and promote it myself. I do have a patreon as well, but it''s purely a tip jar right now. Tips would be appreciated, but just so you know, it is just tips.


    Also please, participate in the poll! I''d like to get an idea where people are coming from.


    Alright, that''s enough nagging. Here''s a question:


    What do you want?


    As a reader, what would you like to see? (Other than more story). I know some authors try to make a community around their works. Would you guys want a discord where you could discuss things? (I don''t use discord a whole lot, but I could look into it if people are interested). I know I don''t interact in the comments a whole lot, but that''s because I don''t want to offer definitive answers to speculation and questions there - part of the joy of reading a book (at least for me) is puzzling things out, and having a word of god answer for everything would detract from that fun. As for extra stuff, I''m probably going to add a glossary to this, and I was thinking of occasionally writing (short) stories or fables that canonically appear in-universe - like the tales of Vereline Valoir that Elyse is so fond of.


    And dream big! It doesn''t have to be realistic. Would you like to see a webcomic adaptation? A conceptual instrumental mood album? A bestiary of creatures? A cartoon or anime adaptation? A feature-length film that reimagines Martimeos as a futuristic super solder that dual-wields laser pistols? The sky''s the limit.


    Okay, now for some rambling:


    HOW I WRITE


    In case you''re new and you didn''t know, this story is actually a rewrite of an original draft I wrote 3 years ago. Well, more specifically, what you have seen so far is a rewrite of the first arc in that draft that massively expanded it from 30k words to the 180k word book that you see here now.


    The original draft does have two other arcs that have not been rewritten yet. They are probably going to be much less of a rewriting project than the first arc was, because they actually have some meat to them. (Again, the first arc was originally 30k words, while the other two arcs were around 150k+).


    However, I really recommend against reading the draft.


    You see, when I wrote the draft, I wrote it the way many fictions on this site are written: Releasing chapters as I wrote them. As a web serial, essentially. But by the time I reached the end of the third arc, I was extremely dissatisfied with what I had written. Readers didn''t seem to think it was too bad, but releasing chapters week by week influenced the story I wanted to tell. It locked me into decisions I wanted to go back and reconsider. In some parts, there were details I wanted to go and add in, but I couldn''t because the chapter had already been released. At times, I felt myself bending the plot of a chapter in ways I really didn''t like just so I''d have stuff to release. (Trying to wrap up a chapter in 5000 words, for example, when it really deserved more).


    It all added up to a draft that I really didn''t like by the end of the third arc, though it certainly had its fans. At the end, I was torn between wanting to go back and immediately start a rewrite and wanting to go on to the next part of the story (but building the future arcs on what I considered a very shaky foundation). In the end, torn between these two, and in a very intellectually demanding job, I just simply didn''t have the mental energy to write and I abandoned the story for a few years.


    In fact, I remained torn between wanting to move on to the next arcs and wanting to do a rewrite up until relatively recently. There was something that made me want to really commit to just doing a rewrite, though, so I did.


    This time, I did it differently, though. This time, I wrote it not like a web serial, but like a book. What that means is I had the entire thing written before I even posted the first chapter (though I did give it more touch ups than I thought I would while releasing it).


    And really, I liked writing this like a book way more than as a web serial. I am much, much more satisfied with this now than I was with the original. And going by the reception, it seems to me that people like it much more than the original as well, which I''m very happy about. So I think from now on, that''s how I''m going to write entries in this series; an entire book at once, and not worrying about making the chapters conform to something that would be beneficial to a weekly schedule. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    I still consider this a draft. I want this story to be the best it can be. But it''s now a draft that''s much, much closer to the final product than the original draft was.


    And again - I really, really, really recommend against reading the original draft if you haven''t. There really has been a lot that''s changed, a lot more detail added in, some plot elements will be taken out - you will be reading an inferior version of the story and possibly spoiling yourself. (Sorry original readers)! In fact, very likely I''ll eventually take that rough draft down (If for no other reason that it''s currently confusing for people who are trying to find this story).


    THE FUTURE


    What was it that changed recently that made me commit to this rewrite? Well, it''s easy. Some of you already know this. I lost my very intellectually demanding job not that long ago, and simultaneously needed to find a new place to live.


    It was a very hectic time where I was desperately trying to find a new job and work as much as possible so I could save up money to move. At the same time, I had all this mental energy now and I immediately wanted to use it for writing. At first I was trying to get back into the groove after years of neglect with a new story (City of the Lost), but there was something that changed my mind.


    See, when I was desperate for money, I actually submitted Wander West, In Shadow to a bunch of publishers. I didn''t think any of them would be interested, I was just sort of doing anything I could to try and get some cash.


    Well, some of them were interested.


    By the time they got back to me, I was already more financially stable (though again, tips are welcome!) But it did make me realize that wait, people actually will be interested in buying my books. Of course, I was so dissatisfied with it at that point, I had to do a rewrite if it was going to be published.


    So that''s what I did. I started the rewrite sometime in September and finished it sometime in November, and I included a bunch of the ideas that I had but which I hadn''t included in the original draft. (For new readers, just to give some perspective: David wasn''t even in the original draft. At all.)


    So where do things stand now? I have some offers from publishers, though I haven''t settled on one yet. (And if you are a publisher and you''re interested, feel free to reach out). But look, the long and short of it is this:


    I''m not rich. If I was rich, I wouldn''t even bother with a patreon tip jar. I would release all my content for free. But I''m not, and the time I spend on this hobby is quite significant. I actually took time off in November, from my new job, just so I could really push myself to write between 5-8k words a day and finish up the story. The reality is if I''m going to spend this much time and this much effort on it, I need to make money off of it. And the more money I make off of it, the more I can spend time writing, and the more of it people will get.


    SO WHAT DOES THIS ALL MEAN FOR YOU?


    It means two big things.


    First of all, I will not be releasing the rewrite of the next arc until it''s totally done (or very nearly totally done), and it''s not right now. In fact, I''ve barely started on the rewrite of the second arc yet. (I essentially wrote this whole new 180k word book in two and a half months and really pushed myself towards the end while simultaneously working a whole lot and finding a new apartment, and I really needed some time to destress after it was done). So, for now, other than some side content like a glossary or some occasional short stories and maybe me commissioning some art, this is it. I don''t know how long the rewrite of the other arcs will take me, but again, I do think they''ll be much less involved than the rewrite of this one was.


    Second, I will be trying to monetize this somehow. I''m aiming to get published. But even if I don''t go with any publisher, when new content shows up, I''ll put some of it behind a patreon tier. Maybe give a free sample of the first 5-10 chapters, and then put the rest behind patreon. Though, again, I am aiming to get published.


    Final words


    This series will change over time.


    Martimeos and Elyse are young, and as they journey, they will grow more powerful in the Art. They''ll become more confident in standing their ground. That inevitably means that the tone of the story will change, somewhat. In this entry, basically every enemy they came across, they tried to avoid fighting somehow, and when they could not avoid it they came very close to death. In the future, as they grow, this will not be the case.


    I think that I can anticipate that probably some people will not like the gradual changes. Some people probably appreciate this story exactly because how powerless the protagonists feel so often, and some part of that will be lost as they change. This is a series that will grow along with the characters in it. However, the one thing that I hope I am consistent in communicating is that the world that Martimeos and Elyse live in is one of terrible darkness but also great beauty. I hope I communicated that well enough here. Sometimes my work gets described as grimdark, but that''s never what I''ve been aiming for.


    Anyway I''ll stop rambling on. I wanted to thank you again, sincerely, for coming along on the journey so far, even if you don''t make it all the way through. I hope I''ll see you again in the future. If you have any questions, I''ll answer them in the comments here.


    TL;DR


    Don''t expect new content right away, because I want to write the entire next book before I release it (which is what I did for this one). And do expect that I am going to try to monetize this somehow, because people have shown interest in doing audiobooks and print books of this. I''m sorry, but I need to pay rent, and the more money I can make off this, the more content I can actually pump out.


    But again, thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. I''m really glad that so many people have enjoyed it.