The Pardoner tottered astride his horse, still noticeably disturbed by hearing what the night had held, steadying it in the midst of the square as he addressed the crowd as an authority on the whole matter, despite having not even been there. His sunken face and demeaning disposition twisted as his pale lips yammered and green eyes darted like some lizard. Even in such pressing affairs as this he had found time to put on his miter and robe and even powder his face to look more presentable. Adimus wasn’t sure of what he spoke, but it seemed accusative.

Killien stood there with his father Eichgun speaking on what had happened. Everyone was amazed and thankful. After such a gaping wound and all that blood, the fact that he was up and about and talking at all seemed impossible. Tolten said it was a miracle, a boon of mercy from a believer. Eichgun was, after all, one of his most devout followers.

“What do you think he’s saying?” Adimus whispered even though it was just them.

“Be still!” The old man snapped, tugging the boy’s peeking head toward him for now a third time as he straightened the young man's tartan, a parent dressing his child.

The broad light of the new day had allayed the fears of the villagers. Nearly all of them stood to hear what the Pardoner had to say, save for Adimus, Bearach, Luloch, and Dyrshul, who stood peeking out of the den window of their house atop the hill.

A thick haze of smoke permeated the den, between the puffing of nervous pipes, the burning of a hastily stoked cooking fire, and subsequent burnt breakfast that had come from it. Such noisome odors always gave the boy a headache.

Adimus had pondered the need for such a hearty meal, cooked hours before the sun rose, but now it was made to him quite clear. He was sweating from it, being wrapped in his thick wools and and long sleeves, the large ruck sack slung across his back slipping from the unease with which it laid across his shoulder blade. Bearach had strapped it with a belt at his hips to distribute the weight but it wasn’t helping.

It dawned on him when he'd found the rug beneath the rocking chair had been disturbed, and a hempen pouch of talismans prepared for him: A charred rowan wand with a handle made from the leather of a cow who died of old age, adorned with a tassel of blackbird feathers. A laquer-smelling potion of charcoal, meadowsweet and yarrow, with several unidentifiable notes of an animal nature. Acorns from the tree outside, suspended in a tincture of powdered salamander floating above the pulled teeth of a white horse who had been struck by lightning--It was an upsetting accident for the Cayden, who owned the young colt, a tragedy of course, but Luloch acted as if he’d won the lottery that day.

Someone rapped loudly on the door. “Anwell!” Luloch opened it, grabbed the old man and pulled him into the room. He started to slam the door shut behind him. “Tolten’s looking for you!” It was common practice for the brothers to scream at each other as they were both a little hard of hearing, but this one was out of imperativeness.

Luloch’s face twisted, a wrinkled bag of disappointment, outrage, and solemnity all tied up with angst. He nodded “I know it...I know it.” He looked over at the boy. “We’d best not keep them waiting, he might get suspicious...” He didn’t need to make an excuse, Adimus understood. Luloch put his hands behind his back, as he always did. He walked over to him and looked him up and down, examining what he wore, he gave another nod of approval. “You’ll do fine.” The man gave him a pat on the arm and then he was off. Bearach had fled off out back before the exchange had even happened. Adimus was sure he’d say he was getting his horse ready, but it was really to hide his face.

Anwell sat down in Luloch’s old rocking chair beside the fire. “So...How’s your Pa taking the news?”

“Well...” Was all Adimus said. He always hated those kinds of questions, the ones that were almost rhetorical but carried some expectation of being answered.

Anwell sort of caught the inkling of frustration in the boy’s voice, but ignored it, he never never could tell when anyone was uncomfortable, as anyone privy to his dirty jokes could tell you. “So, this Faeth’s going to take you under his wing, eh?”

“I hope.” The lies came out perfectly now, though this lie did seem to share a ring of truth about it, from what Luloch had told him. “And Argent says I am going to be able to speak to the High Lords of the Clans about...you know.” He gestured toward the old man.

Adimus watched as the old man hobbled down the hill to meet with the priest, trying not to let himself feel mournful. There were always moments in his past where even though he didn’t realize it at the time would mean far more to him later, and he always remembered them whether he wanted to or not. He wondered if this were one of these moments.

It was apparent that Anwell was just making idle chit-chat until he could segue into more serious matters. “You know, the Pardoner thinks that the Bag-bug..the bea...that creature, was Named. Conjured. By a witch. Said that’s how they’re most often made. He’s calling for the Princely Stewards to summon the Order of Jasmine. And that’s the least of it.” He shook his head.

No one answered him. It made Adimus worry all the more.

“We’re ready.” Bearach’s voice broke the awkward silence.

“Well,” the man gave a smile. “Good luck.” Anwell stood. “And you travel safe now.” he added, poking him in the breastbone. “The Ruined Roads is a dangerous place.”

Dyrshul ran and gave him a hug as soon as he opened the door. “Where are you going?” Her muffled voice sobbed within his coat.

“I...I don’t know.”

“Don’t forget, Pa said to take the sword.” she reached for it on the mantelpiece. Adimus had protested, knowing well now more than ever that they might need it, but they insisted. Luloch slapped her hand, though not maliciously. “How many times have I told you not to touch that!?” There were many.

Bearach handed it to him. “You got the coins I gave you?” Adimus nodded. “Your waterskin and your wits?” the man asked. “Of course.” He beamed at the boy for just a moment. “Don’t worry, son. The smoke’ll clear and you’ll be back before you know it.” Bearach always called him son, even when there was no one around. “You’ll be back in time for Longnight presents and eggnog.”

He had almost walked out the door, when he felt the dangling bejeweled statue dangling from his brooch and remembered. “I must Slake before leaving.”

“Of course, of course child.” Said Luloch. He looked at Bearach, who quickly he cleared a table, mostly by knocking its contents on the floor. “Come now. I’ve already milk prepared.”

He was handed milk in a simple tea cup, missing a conspicuous amount of from it. He saw the old man’s milk mustache. “You’re not supposed to drink the milk before it is offered!” he shuddered.

He wiped his face with his sleeve. “I was just tasting it. To ensure that it was a worthy offering. I’d heard Bessie got into Niall’s onions the other day.”

Nabbing the mug from his hand he quickly said the prayer. And jettisoned the beverage out of the window.

Quickly he said the prayer and was out the door. Before he knew it he too was swept away down the hill. Alara and Argent both stood outside to escort him. He heard them whispering on the way down the hill. "Did she threaten to curse us if she didn't come?" Alara said to the bard.

"That's bigotous hogwash." Argent simply replied. Adimus pondered only a moment of whom they were speaking, for when they turned a corner there she stood.

The pack at her side was hers, the one she'd entered the village with so long ago, the bow and quiver of arrows she carried that were not.

Alara’s arms crossed with impatience at the slowness of the proceedings as they passed the crowd, herself glancing over her shoulder to see the caravan making its way over, and Tolten outpacing it. “We need to hurry.” Laina said, a worried look on her face. Finally they'd started to move, and Tolten was snared by Luloch, no doubt on purpose.

“Don’t you worry about the Pardoner.” Argent assured him when they’d trailed behind the others. “I’ve spoken to Lord Pembroke. If he so much as looks at your family wrong while you’re gone he’ll be wheeled off to Cairnfang before he can blink.” He knew something, more than he let on, something he shouldn’t. Adimus fought his raised eyebrow.

Eichgun Lathern himself was in his yard as they passed his house. He waved and smiled exuberantly as they walked.

Adimus felt like a peeping tom, but he’d seen Laina from atop his hill visiting them just before dawn, he guessed to make sure they were okay. Miraculously he too seemed much more than able to get around. He was glad to see him on the mend so.

Even the uneven dirt path which led from behind the boy's house to the back of the Green Beat felt wrong, as it always circled the other way when he marched. The jarring footfalls and rocks made his head throb and his already weary feet ache.

Alfred, Tirlag and all the others were there waiting for him.

“Welcome aboard, emissary of Balfour.” Torrin tipped his hat.

Thadeus Pembroke himself stood talking to Torrin von Krasad holding the reins of a horse. It was the horse from the night before. Off-handedly he handed the reins to the boy. "Aethan is his name.” said Lord Pembroke. “Keep him well.”

Aegent handed him a small leather envelope from his breast pocket, branded with a seal of griffon holding a key in its mouth "Here is his license--you'll need that."

Adimus brow curled until he saw the small bag of coins at the man’s side, covered in squirrel fur.

He shot a stare back, aimed at the top of the hill. Bearach held a beaming folded-armed look of pride that could dispel any useful protest. Dyrshul jumped, waving with both arms. The scowl melted into a smile in spite of it all. This was the moment. He looked back, regretfully.

“Thank you, Milord.” If Adimus had learned two things in the hills of Ormond, it was the importance of honorifics, and to not besmirch a gift; life was sometimes harsh in the hills, and if anyone gave anything to another it was out of the purest kindness of their heart, and it had better be cherished. Adimus cherished it all.

* * * * *

Broad and forgiving, yet steep and treacherous where it gave, the road which descended from the hills of Balfour was just the first of the uneasy terrain between here and the Daldista Plateau. It had been used to move an entire army in ages past, yet year after year the roads became more swallowed up by nature, eroded by rainfall, covered by mudslides and caved-in openings of old caverns and aquifers. This was made known, as but a few hours in and the journey had already come to a screeching halt, where an old tree had fallen.

It was alive when it had--the roots still partly clung to the ground before it; it was now dried and leafless, a mute testament to how little The Ruined Road was travelled, much less kept.

Not even Lord Pembroke went this way when he would come to Balfour, though his hometown was closer heading this way. Instead he made for Pardoner’s Pass, a longer yet better guarded passage which led to the other side of Macmearion county, and much more easily to Adaire. Adimus felt it was perhaps a case of special pleading on the boy’s part, and he felt a little at fault as he stood there in the road, staring at the old thing. Everyone gathered around in the interim, the first time they’d actually gone to take a breather, as they watched Pembroke’s guard Ambrose (one of the volunteer 'lost souls' from the night before) and Alara hack at the obstacle with their camp axes.

Laina stood too, hands on her hip, all the while still glancing back toward home as if perhaps Tolten might suddenly materialize from around the bend...Adimus didn’t have to ask why she’d come along.

Finally, perhaps if only to give herself something to do, she hopped into the wagon and popped open the large chest of provisions Maev had given her and started going through them.

Adimus too, paced restlessly. “You are sad.” Alfred said, glancing up at the boy after a moment, after Laina had left. He was sittibg cross-legged on the edge of the wagon with a rather large tome in his lap. "Do not worry about the Pardoner," again was said, this time by the wizard. "I have signed an affidavit that should corroborate your family's innocence.”

"He is sad! The legendary powers of a Faeth.” The Argent guffawed " 'Lo as his mystic insight pierces the veils of the mind that lie beyond the perception of mere mortals!” The Bard never seemed to run out of energy, restlessly pacing between all of them, contributing quips to every conversation at every pass.

Alfred dismissed the comment as he watched him scamper off when it was made known he wasn't welcome.

“You’ll get to see them again. Don’t worry.” the Seer assured him.

“Is that a premonition?” Laina’s voice echoed from inside the carriage. She pulled out a potato with a questioning look.

“An educated guess. As soon as they uncover the actual reason all of this happened, you’ll be able to return.”

Adimus couldn’t help but look concerned. He hadn’t thought of it until this moment.

“What is the actual reason?”

Alfred didn’t look up. “...This Slaugh Oiche business your grandfather keeps talking about, no doubt.”

Alfred watched his response, which came out as an involuntary sigh of relief, and he couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that the answer the man gave was a test.

“...Who knew even tiny hamlets like that had such politics?" Alara said to Krasad. Apparently everyone had heard, thankfully.

The bard interrupted again. “Well, ladies and gents I have good news and bad news.” He took off his hat solemnly. “The bad news is that it’s going to take the rest of the evening to clear the way.” He gave an awkward pause, no one was biting. “The good news is that we’ll have plenty of firewood.” He frowned when the delivery fell flat, flopping his hat back on with disgust.

With a sigh Alfred put his hands on his knees and rose to stretch. Then, as if just remembering, he turned and pulled something from satchel. “Here, I borrowed this from you. Hoped you wouldn’t notice.” He recognized it well: it was his tablet, and the small larger bag with all his wooden styluses.

“Thank you.” Adimus had never even thought about it in the rush, but he was glad it came with him.

As the day wound down Alara and Tirlag (it was her turn, they said) unpacked the tent in which the count and the merchant lord slept. It was indeed crowded in either wagon, and not everyone would’ve fit. Moreover, it was a place in which Thadeus and the merchant couple speak dire business in hushed whispers, to which outsider ears dare not be privy.

To Delaney’s delight they removed the small bird from its cage.

Delaney played with it. picking it up and tossing it into the air, letting it flap its wings.

She laughed as it followed her along and she threw bread crumbs at it. Tirlag and Alfred watched her interactions with it, both with an inexplicable look of interest on their faces.

“What's with the duck the wizard keeps?” Adimus overheard Argent asking Alara. “Is it an Implement of Magic?”

“Yes. It’s a Magic duck.”

“...Like a witch’s familiar?”

“Yes. A familiar spirit.” Tirlag answered for her, she’d overheard too apparently. “Shows his divine dominion and esoteric mastery over...bread.” she grinned a grin of such distain that it frightened the bard away again.

Soon campfires dotted the hill of the Ruined Road: the lords and Ambros had their longfire where they cooked mutton (Anwell’s, had he seen it butchered Adimus would’ve known its name) and drank from a keg of Tawny Lass, Maev’s signature brew. Alara had a meager yet functional cooking fire, and the adventurers had the one which they sat about, which Adimus and Laina had helped build.

Stolen novel; please report.

As night settled in, Delaney coddled the bird to sleep, holding it in her tiny arms. In an almost whispered tone she sang to it.

Adimus sat only close enough to hear. Her voice was unlike anything she’d ever heard before. It was as if several voices came out at once, her having complete control of each of them, harmonizing them into a haunting melody. The words the choir sang Adimus didn’t understand, but he’d never heard anything so beautiful. When the bird was finally asleep, Alara was sure to take it and put it back in its cage.

Aethan was up too, tied to a nearby maple with the other horses save one, munching on barley wheat (Bearach had purchased feed for it as well). Alara circled the camp by the firelight with the other horse from the wagon. It was still painted as a skeleton, and scared the wits out of Tirlag on the first pass much to the cat’s amusement.

Adimus had come to know that the old, decrepit one, the one that most often held up the whole group, was Argent's. It was a Dwyer mule, of a breed and stock so poor that it held its own colloquialisms, infamous for being frail and scrawny; historically, possibly more of them have been eaten than ever put to good use.

It had been Alfred’s suggestion to delegate a watch, a fact which made everyone a little uneasy. Adimus had insisted he take it from Alara to share the burden, who took three longest shift, but she proudly declined.

Tirlag and Delaney whispered secrets astride a plunky log, glancing glares hotter than the burning coals beside which they sat when anyone who came too close. Alfred read by the firelight, with a quill and ink and parchment nearby. He took notes every few moments, scribbling down something on a piece of parchment which he had lying atop yet another book.

Laina stood, munching on a few peanuts while she waited. It hadn’t occurred to him until then, bar food makes decent trail rations. Adimus cracked a few of his own, throwing the shells in the fire. He silently thanked Maev in his head again, as he had several times that evening; it could’ve well been nothing if she hadn’t snuck it in Torrin’s bags before departure that morning. His stomach was curtling, as he hadn’t eaten since this whole thing started.

Quietly he sat and drew patterns with his tablet, trying to keep his mind quiet, having removed his plaid to sit on and later use as a blanket. The hissing and cracking of the fire helped; the pops and wafting sparks from the poplar always reminded him of the fireworks he’d seen in Ederton and the fragrant smoke of the burning poplar that made him miss sitting by his hearth at home, in winter while he sketched. Laina sat by the fire as well, watching their pewter pot of potatoes boil.

She hadn’t talked since everyone had come around, if he could only manage to stick around prying ears for the entire trip he’d be in the clear. But sometimes, he knew, silence was more telling than words.

"It's a fair night."

"Mmm." She nodded.

“Where are we going?” he said finally.

“I don’t know.” Laina answered after a moment0. “Where does this road go?”

Adimus weighed again whether it was another one of those rhetorical questions, whether she was being sarcastic, or whether she was simply asking. Then, warmly handing him the bag of peanuts with a smile of revealing mischief and excitement, he knew.

“To Kainden. Or Adaire and Hewnyleigh.” he answered not helping but giggle.

“Kainden is your capital, right?”

“I...think.” Adimus was a little ashamed that he wasn’t sure; he was supposed to be a citizen of Ormond, after all.

“It is.” Alara startled them, slinking out of the darkness, way closer than he thought anyone was. “You need only ask.”

“...What?” he said.

“Where you are going.” Argent replied in a song-songy voice as he danced just beyond the fire’s light. He flourished his special cloak, this time turning it a dark black.

Alfred glanced up at the bard and his cloak, his unreadable glare masked by the fire light reflecting in his spectacles.

Alara sat down beside the boy. The unease was palpable.

“...Where are we going?” the boy repeated.

He flourished his midnight cloak over the fire. Alfred looked up at the bard with a questioning face. He examined his cloak again. “You need to tell me how you are able to do that.” the Seer demanded.

“Dance?” he gave a deep facetious bow and in jest offered a hand to the Seer.

“That cloak.” Alfred rebounded, unflinching.

“I tell you what I know if you tell me what you know.” he addressed the Seer, continuing with the buffoonery.

The Seer’s eyes narrowed. “Concerning?”

“The Spear of Fate.”

Alfred chuckled under his breath, but it was enough to make him take his eyes off his book. Alara’s unblinking golden eyes stared at him now through the darkness.

“It’s a Daldistan legend,” he answered. “and you are a bard of Bowen no less. You know more about it than I, I imagine.” Alfred gave a flustered glance up to Tirlag and Delaney, whom in return shot him a worried look, until their eyes wandered up to Adimus watching the exchange. Their teeth gleamed in the firelight like bloody knives as they smiled back at him.

“Fair enough. ” The bard pouted turning to the boy. “Hewnyleigh.” he answered. “We are going to Hewnyleigh.”

“Hewnyleigh?” Laina said. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” he proudly professed as he spun on one foot. “Do you know?” He pointed at the spectacled man. “Almighty Seer?” he jeered before sauntering off into the darkness when the man said nothing.

Laina checked on the food again, then grabbed it with the sleeve of her baggy beige robe. “Here.” She put the small pot in between them.

“Thanks.”

She had a simple tea cup she’d taken from the tavern with which she’d began to pull a portion out for herself. Adimus had not much more to bother with, an old wooden tankard, and his Skea Dhu to stab at them.

Finally, Alfred snorted in agitation, and, shutting his book tellingly hard, retreated into the wagon.

Adimus unrolled his ruck-sack, which also served as his bed, and sat down. He was no stranger to sleeping outdoors, and it felt good to get off his feet.

They ate quietly. Laina had passed out on a down pillow before his food had even stopped steaming. Adimus, poor Adimus, would remain awake for many hours more, contemplating on all that had happened, wondering and worrying until he felt sick. What did Luloch mean the other day? What does an Imperial Seer want with me? Will paw-paw and dad and Dyrshul be okay? What are we going to do now? Where am I going?

He mused about how he could face down a terrible monster the day before, only to be paralyzed with fear now. Having no control. That’s the real paralytic.

He would only find relief in the wee hours of the morning when in a lapse of conscious vigilance and not without defiance, the stamping feet of time’s unyielding march his lullaby, he succumbed to exhaustion.

* * * * *

Laina arose first with her stole, a blazing vibrant length of cloth the fuchsia-scarlet color of the fiery sky of a lazy sunset in silk. Beneath the blazing red arc of the crescent moon of the dawn she donned it, bowing before it as she covered all but her eyes in reverence. She did this each morning without fail, as sure as a cock’s crow; ‘a man could time his kettle to it’, Luloch had once remarked.

Even when she wasn’t wearing this length of cloth like this she still had it on her, usually in a more peculiar way, tied around her neck like a choker, the double spiral down her right arm to her wrist. She explained that it was a reminder to keep the Law, like it, with her at all times, in mind, speech, and action. Some days she would conceal her face with it all day, and remain silent in contemplation, and explained that not only this, that even those days were just the beginning, and as time went on she strived to conceal her face more and more.

If by chance the sunrise was obscured, then she also carried with her a bronze statue which served as a proxy. She gave worship and offerings to it as well, offering up the prettiest flowers, and incense when she could manage it, though her supply had long dried up, as such commodities were goods with which only the parish on the hill were supplied.

Here, in the quiet of the morning she uttered her prayers in prostration, and danced a curious twisting beat to a rhyme in time to them, one that concerned not just the flightness of feet but the movement and position of her hands, which she held in sacred signs upon certain soundings. None had seen it this dawn save Adimus, who was awake against his will.

The white cobblestones of the path, upheaved in aeons of nature’s course, jarred the wagons as they rolled over them, causing them to lurch and slam loudly on the pavement. Adimus grabbed his head “Ugh.” the dull headache had never completely went away. The boy rode his horse down the path and a kind of drunken slump.

Finally they stopped for a break to feed and rest the horses. Seeing the pain the boy was in Laina gave him a potion. “Take it.”

Adimus protested but to no avail. It was one of Luloch’s: a tincture of powdered willow bark and wild ginseng. Luloch often sold them to Maev to stock, often times to trade for pipe weed or anything baked and sweet, and Laina collected such queer colloquialisms in her travels as souvenirs. “I’ll buy another from him when we come back.” she assured him with a warm smile. When we come back. It did help.

Over the last two days this Torrin fellow had talked the lord Pembroke’s ear off about the prospects of meeting with the lords of Ormond and Menkara, and the potential for ‘trade and prosperity for everyone’. He’d come to Menkara with a mission of great import, of which he was now candid not that he had a potential ally with whom to speak. Adimus learned that the march through the Ruined Roads had been out of necessity, for the country of Torant to the west felt it of utmost importance that he not risk the kingdom of Kessellon finding out; he and Alara carried with him a new and strange substance, a ‘marvel of Khemetastry’ he called it, that in the wrong hands could be devastating. And Kessellon was indeed the wrong hands.

When alight this powdery substance burned violently with great heat and at speed. Adimus had heard of it from Laina. Bruana, it was named. “The Vouxites shared their secret with the people of Pangor Tor, and if the lords of Ormond are interested we will share it with you.” he’d told them.

“Only the weapons, mind you, not the powder itself.” he was sure to clarify. “For it was upon a Geas that they are sworn to secrecy.” the merchant explained.

Argent had scoffed at the notion as the man continued his sales pitch. “He just wants to profit off selling the ammunition from now until the Epochellipse.”

Argent attempted to protest that it wasn’t as simple as that, that there was a very stringent system of licenses that Para’voux levied against the people of Torant for its use, but Torrin, whispering something to the bard in an aside, seemed to have smoothed it over.

“What’s a Geas?” Adimus curiously asked as they marched.

“A Spell of both forbiddence and compulsion, that none who are the subject to-- voluntarily or not--can willfully break.” the Whispermonger explained, sure to say the second part more loudly.

“Like what you did to the Goblyn that night.”

From his look it appeared that he’d assumed he’d used words too big for the boy to understand. “Sort of.”

Alfred came up, with an unbefitting giddy look on his face. “The Cait Shii’s going to use the Pistil!” he announced, curious Argent scampered off.

“...The Fae are bound by strange rules. Most of them.” Alfred’s continued to explain, coming out from the wagon to watch. “Sometimes all you have to do is know them.” There was an uncaught lull and Laina suddenly looked at him.

“The Seelie Fae. Courtly Fae, do, but despite what they lead you to think they are a minority.” explained the bard. “As for the rest? Cunning, esoteric study, and good old fashion bargaining with them.”

“Bargain with a Fae.” Ambrose scoffed. “Dabbling with devilry, that is.” he shook his head.

“You have to know their True Names, is that correct?” said Alfred.

“Yes. Knowing it you can command them, bind them, even call them to your side with the right Spell.”

Ambrose looked sideways at him. “The Pardoner there seems to think that that Totem Wraith was conjured, ‘called to someone’s side’.” Ambrose looked at them judgementally. “He suspects there’s a Changling among the villagers. Only explanation, really, ‘less someone has studied that dark Magic.”

“-So,” Argent butted in. “You say you are an Imperial Seer. Do you come from Shambaya?”

“Why do you ask?” said the Seer.

“Well. Laina! You’re a Mansii. You come from the lands to the north. She tells me she missed it dearly sometimes. ‘Twould be pleasant to have someone with which to reminisce.” he touted.

Alfred looked up at him, his spectacles masking his expression again, then after a moment, after looking over his shoulder to check for prying eyes, he answered. “I’m not from Histban. I’m not an Imperial. I was taught by one.” he clarified.

“Taught? Is there a school to learn what you do?” it had inadvertantly worked, as Laina was engaged. “We have such powers of prophecy as well as many others found amongst the Mansii, but women are born with the gift. We do not teach.”

“One can be born with the power to Read?” Alfred asked.

She only shrugged.

Adimus sighed in relief; it was a hard sell, but it had worked.

His demeanor noticeably relaxed when he saw that she wasn’t prying, the topic had caught both of their interest. “I don’t know about prophecy, or whether my family even bore such a gift, I don’t remember much of them, but Psychometry can be taught to anyone.”

“Psychometry?” Laina said.

“What I did to your book at the reeve’s Meet.” at that the priestess’s eyes shot to the ground in embarrassment. “And the coin Tirlag pilfered from the blacksmith. I can tell where they’ve been, who they’ve belonged to. What has been done with them, to them...sometimes even around them. Everything has a history.“

“You didn't know your family.” Adimus said. Suddenly he himself was caught up in the conversation.

“It was a trivial comment that no one would catch, save an orphan himself. Yes.” As soon as it had come out Adimus started sweating; his curiosity was steering him right where he didn’t want to go.

Perhaps it was paranoia, but Adimus imagined the man’s smile manufactured, a veiled to hide that he was more than guessing.

Then the deafing tone of the weapon shattered the silence. Everyone looked to see. It was the strange wand she’d used on the Bugbear. With more than a little frustration on face, possibly fighting the urge to demonstrate on Torrin himself, she’d pointed it at a stump and with the familiar deafening crack blew the thing to splinters.

“Paravoux calls it a Pistil.” the merchant explained.

“As in the part of a flower?” Alfred pondered aloud, eyebrows twisted in scholarly curiosity. His interest pull him away. Adimus exhaled his worry. It would be a while before everyone settled back down, and by that time everyone was ready to carry on, and Alfred would retire back to his spot within the wagon. Maybe Laina hadn’t even caught it. He hoped.

*****

That evening they broke for camp, then came the moment the boy had secretly put off.

He had done it several times before, when on the road with his father on the larger monthly patrols that came always when the Moon of Omens fell dark. Dread filled him, and nervousness, but he would bestill his nerves for the sake of a steady hand, concentrating on the courageousness of his ancestors and his own willingness to give; it was to be done, for blood and milk were the only suitable libations. Better his own, he supposed, than that of another's.

He took the skean dhu from his sock, and bowed his head with a sigh, and rolling up his sleeve spilled his own blood into the offering cup. When he was finished Laina stood there, watching. She said nothing, but he was certain there was something behind the solid of the even expression she kept as she gathered her bedroll, one that he knew must have taken conscious effort.

It wasn’t until they’d come to pitch up their tents again and Laina and Adimus had already cooked their meal, this time boiled peanuts, that the Seer was drawn out of his hole. It was to watch another show this time.

The clouds that blanketed the sky above diffused the glow of the moons, drawing the night in like a curtain, and as it did the steep hill upon which they sat seemed steeper and steeper, until at dusk they sat on the road between an endless climb and a bottomless abyss. In a carrying tone of great gravitas the Bard regaled the two lords:

“The tales of old would say Menkara was not as it is today, but was once it was another way, not roaming bands and conquering clans, Lathnia, it was named, ruled by a man who ruled the land with his wise, wise ways. Well upon his throne in what is now the Drowned Lands, alone.” he began. “He befriended the giant race of yore, who traded in their golden ore, to unite the clans of the Nalanen and open his nation’s door. Quarrels endured before Epochellipse unfurled and unknotted before showers of gold begotten betwixt Neldina’s Spires and nixxed the futile folly of the haughty bands unworthy of such gifts.”

“It would be a grave mistake…” Pulling off his cloak in the same quick spin as he always did, he held it before them, and was sure to shoot Alfred a glance as he did it. Again it turned the vibrant red and gold he most often wore, but as the shadows danced from the flames in the folds of it they began to move in shadowy shapes that acted out the story as it unfolded. Everyone had assumed up to this point that this had all been a bit of local color was for Torrin’s ears, that perhaps something about the folklore of this foreign land had piqued the merchant’s interest, but this was not the case. Alfred stood beside the wagon while Argent shot smug glances at him at him all the while; that was the real show. “All the masses gathered, and the people clamored, to swear their fealty to his banner in the most ardent manner. His territory grew and grew with time, this monster he had made, unto the nation that he gave he had become a slave. His means and riches so thin it begins that the hand so far outstretched be bitten, if there is one thing true said or written it is that you cannot please them all, the same men into his halls he’d let, these clansmen cross and fierce you bet, for swearing to a man they’d had never met they ushered in his fall...the murderous masses amassing mounted without so much an asking a terrible instance of lost innocence passing when their axeheads they did whet. And took his head from his neck.” Adimus watched the macabre scene play out it as the shadows danced.

“His weary son worries warranted, wasting wit wondering why the wily warriors of woe would wonder why they went without, and so stood the prince who took his place, and quelled the pounding at the gate, he mustered his men and once again the savages they did rout, yet perplexed on throne he pondered the fate of his forsaken father, and whether his might be the same when a traveller he met.”

“Tell me your name” he demanded but the stranger upon his spear lent, standing said ‘You bed what you abet. For loyalty, like respect is earned, for we among the Fae, judge by acts and not by right whom we should obey. Nay, how dare you stand and demand that upon my knee I should bend and pay tribute to a man if I know even naught his name.’ he bowed. ‘So. Good. Day.”

“The prince instead of taking his head apologized to him and said, ‘You are right about this life, this rule of shame, how could one swear to a sire if he does not even know his name? Take this burden from me please I do not know my way. Kain the Ancient bowed his head at this unworthy prize and laughed ‘Nay, you shall remain a king this day.’ he said, a glimmer in his eyes. “Look.” And then he wrote the words for all men to abide, risking almost certain death for this gift he did betide, for Fae tell that from verse did All Creation form, forbidden it was for the Tuatha to draw the written form. The prince then read it verse by verse, and in reading this he understood: that a man’s reach should only stretch how far his praise is heard.”

Argent paused, and broke his rhythm to elaborate. “The kingdom thus was split into two

provinces, Lathnia and Ormond. The prince would rule Lathnia, the land of his forefathers, and later be called Menka’aran, the people of the Goddess A’aran, but this other land in the mountain highlands would need a new king.“

“He asked again, just rule these men that I no longer see, for their needs are great and are not met by the unworthy likes of me. Kain refused again, “Perhaps one day I shall return and all your men I’ll lead, but today you are a king, just let me take my leave.” he broke again as purport. “He went on his way. We know now of course that he went off to fight in the Catha Moytura, the war against the Formerians, and kingless, the western reaches of the land beyond the mountains were taken by Mathendon, the first king of Kessellon. But both of those are tales for another night.” They all agreed, some in moaning begrudgement. “A steward the prince placed in his stead in hopes that he return. He ruled along the new lordship with the lessons he had learned. Until one day the steward died much to his dismay, again the land saw turmoil, again began the fray. The king fed up had had enough he’d let the clans then meet. ‘You want to fight, then here’s a tourney in which you can compete.’ The clans obliged, in their eyes the crown of this new land, a fire in their bellies, a weapon for each hand. Until came a warrior from afar Kain’s begotten son, the Nameless Boy of legend, countless in deeds done. The thrice-Geased nameless son of Ethne and the Magic it belied had laid low the Black King of the Baleful Eye. No one dare contest the man who slew his kin and king, to purge the lands of his darkened rule and the chaos it did bring. He held aloft a spear of dread, and gravenly he said. ‘I bear this spear at Kain’s behest for he my father is dead. Gaebolg is its name, Bane of the Eye, and whosoever comes against it surely will die. But strength is not a virtue, and bravery’s no match for wit, for no better by they does one hold a scepter than by any other gift. Instead I pay it to you in turn, to be wielded and remain, in his stead as your new crown that may its possessor reign. The Tuatha shall hide it in your land, that not only the brave, but the kindly, timid, wise or cunning may yet play at this game. And so set out the lords of Ormond, called forth by glory and fame, to rule the land of a king of whom none remember a name.”