“Can you fix it?” He held the gray cloak out before him. Crusted with mud, the tail was ripped and torn. On the right edge, halfway up the cloak, a circular hole marked where a bolt nearly killed him.
“No one can, Ardwin.” The old man never looked away from his workbench. A blue robe covered his frailty, falling from him in wrinkles of folded fabric. A book lay open on the bench, between an assortment of odd tools and foreign instruments. “It was made with Elvish magic–it will mend itself. Now, let me tell you about the job I have for you.” Deathless eyes turned on him–gray and tired. “You have another question?”
“All I have are questions,” Ardwin said, turning, leering at the rows of bookshelves that encircled them.
“Ask me your question.” Alatar turned back to his work.
“I just want to know more about the cloak. Where did it come from? Who made it?” Ardwin paced about the cluttered room, careful not to trip on a pile of books or a lonely stool.
Feeble hands trembled as they tightened a bolt within the folded steel of a large bear trap. “I know very little about it. It was a gift." He grunted as the bolt slid into place. "And it has served you well. What more do you need to know?”
Ardwin sighed.
Alatar set the bear trap aside. He stood up and leaned over the desk, running eyes over its surface and the numerous contraptions piled atop it. “I wish the elves would work with me. At least return my letters! There’s so much they could tell us. They hold a giant sword over all of mankind, Ardwin." He spun around. "They’re not as tranquil as they put on! One day, when Alexandria and Fergonia have bled themselves dry, the elves will swoop in and exterminate us!”
“You mentioned a job?” Ardwin asked. He wasn’t in the mood for mad ramblings about elves.
“You will help me?” Alatar asked. Gray wooly brows crawled his wrinkled forehead.
“You’ve always helped me,” Ardwin replied.
“That’s because you’re a good man, Ardwin.” Alatar paused to stroke his fluffy gray beard and stare into nothingness. “Now, listen: someone has stolen something from me–something powerful! A weapon that will turn the tide in our favor. That will help us win the war and put us on even ground with the elves and their magic!”
“A new magic?” Ardwin asked.
“No!” Alatar huffed. “Something more powerful–something we humans can understand and control–” He raised a bony finger to the sky. “Science!”
“Science?”
“I’m calling it 'Igni’s Powder,' after the dwarven God of the Forge and Fire. Much like the firepowder of the dwarves, yet explodes with a much greater ferocity! It is splendid, Ardwin! Oh, the things I can build with it are innumerable! The ideas I’ve had are intoxicating! I must have it back!”
He sounds like he lost a toy. Various metal gadgets and wooden machines sat in dark corners, gathering dust and cobwebs. “Who would break into the quarters of the Court Mage?”
“There are three suspects in mind: Sir Rommel Poole, Lady Nancy Drake, and Lord Fargus Thornburrow. All three visited my chamber last week. I’m looking to fund my research and acquire more ingredients to make Igni’s Powder, so I invited them for private demonstrations. The demonstrations went well–perhaps too well. I believe it impressed one of them so much that they hired a thief!”
“You invited Lady Drake, but not Lady Caterina?” Ardwin asked. “Is the King upset with you again?”
“That boy is growing more impatient with age–not less." Alatar threw his hands in the air. "Your brother is my worst employer yet. I fear for my position every day.”
Ardwin didn’t particularly like Alatar, but the old mage was a powerful ally and, without the old man, Ardwin would be considerably weaker. “You say the powder explodes?”
Alatar nodded. “It is far more volatile than any dwarven concoction.”
“It could do a lot of damage,” Ardwin said.
“Yes, yes, it could.” Alatar locked eyes with Ardwin. “It could change everything. You must get it back.”
“I’ll try.” Ardwin threw the damaged cloak around his shoulders.
“Thank you, Ardwin. You must find the powder, but also the schematics! They took everything. They were thorough.”
The wind caught in his cloak like a sail, sending Ardwin soaring across the Royal District.
Ardwin jumped from tiled rooftop to rooftop, invisible under his magic cloak. Even here, where the nobility and the royal family slept, the night sky was his domain. He stopped atop the tower of a guard barracks. A guardsman stood watch beneath the roof, unaware of Ardwin’s presence. Sir Rommel will be in the barracks. I doubt Rommel took it, though. He’s a warmonger, but he’s going back into the field soon. What would he do with the powder? He’s not a scholar or an alchemist. Even if he had it, Rommel would likely fumble it and destroy himself. He’s the least of my concerns.
If it's powerful enough to end the Fergonian struggle, then it could win a civil war and cement a new royal dynasty. Nancy is a Drake, cousin of the Pendragons, the blood of Arthur. She has a distant claim to the throne. And Fargus Thornburrow is an ambitious man. The Thornburrows are Lords of Tarwic City, wealthy and ruthless. This could get ugly. Both Lord Fargus and Lady Nancy know me as a servant of Lady Caterina. If I go directly to them, they’ll recognize me. Ardwin thumbed his chin, looking down upon decadent mansions and beautiful gardens. Despite his apprehension, Ardwin shoved off the tower’s roof and shot into the cool sky. The wind felt good against his skin. He rose up, up, up. He hovered high above the buildings, the walls, the cobbled streets, and the flower gardens.
I could assume a new role–just for tonight. I’ll pay a visit to the mansions and have a look around.
Chainmail clinked and rattled, weighing heavily on his shoulders. He tugged at the black and red tabard fitted over his armor. His hand found the large leather satchel attached to his belt, stuffed with his magic cloak. He knocked on the gatehouse door.
A little window slid open. Two eyes looked between iron bars. “The dragon is red, the circling gold. The sky is?”
“Dawning,” he answered.
“Right. What’s your name?” The faceless eyes asked.
“Jacob, sir. It’s my first watch. I can’t tell you how excited-”
“Enough of that!” The little window slammed shut. The gatehouse door jarred, then swung open. A burly man with brown hair and a big beard burst through the doorframe. “The last thing we want at House Drake is excitement! Do you hear me, whelp?”
“Y-yes, sir! My apologies, I-”
“You nothing! That’s what you are. A whelp, a hatchling, a maggot!” The burly man barked. “I can smell the green on ya! You’ve never smelt the blood of a battlefield before, have you, whelp?”
“N-no, sir…” Jacob’s chin sunk into his chest.
“Useless!” The bearded man marched up to Jacob and looked down at him. He wore a nasty scowl, his thick bushy brows furrowed. “Where are your papers?” Jacob retrieved a scroll tucked between belt and tabard and handed it to the man with a quivering hand. The big man read the scroll. His brow lifted ever so slightly. He smiled and held out a massive paw of a hand. “The name’s Captain Lemour. Welcome to House Drake, Jacob…?”
“Freewater, sir,” Jacob squeaked.
Lemour bellowed laughter, sending his belly into a bouncing fit. “No need to worry, master Freewater. House Drake is old and powerful. That’s why we get fresh recruits like you. Excitement is the last thing you’ll find here, though. You came to the wrong place if you were looking for glory.”
“What?” Jacob asked.
“Sorry, boy!" Lemour smacked his shoulder. "You can transfer after six months of service. We serve the crown, not the nobles. And the King likes to move us around.”
“Well, at least I won’t be killed." Jacob lowered his eyes. "My mother always said-”
“That’s the spirit!” Lemour clapped him on the shoulder again and laughed. “Now, supper is served in the east wing, where you will find the barracks and your bed. Your watch tonight will be… let’s see.” Lemour scratched his head. “Ah! We need a man in the privy!”
I’ll be inside the mansion!
“We’ve all served privy duty. It’s a ‘right of passage.’ Don’t worry, it’s not so bad! The trick is peppers.” Lemour winked at him.
“Peppers?” Jacob asked.
“Shove them into your nose. It will keep you from smelling shite all night!” Lemour laughed. He clapped his big belly with his fat hand. “Off with you, now, maggot! To the privy with you!” Jacob walked toward the gatehouse. “What is that?” Lemour asked. “Are you hiding wine already? What’s in the satchel?”
Jacob turned. He walked over to Lemour and opened the satchel. “It’s empty, but, if you must know, Captain, I plan on raiding the pantry before I begin my watch. That way, I don’t feel the need to abandon my post.”
Lemour glared at him. He smiled with horse-like teeth, then laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. “Jacob of the Privy! Hero of House Drake!”
Jacob shook his head and marched into the dimly lit gatehouse, where half a dozen guardsmen, adorned with shiny chainmail and beautifully stitched tabards like his own, greeted him. Disillusionment filled their faces. All nobles–like Jacob. They sought the glory of working for a greater family, only to realize the stalemate near the top. At a certain point, there was a bottleneck, where the nobles became trapped and could no longer maneuver politically without starting a civil war. Stagnation may be the only thing saving the kingdom. And Igni’s Powder could change that–could tip the scales in favor of one house or another.
A foul stench permeated the hall, clinging to the stones and the tapestries. “It’s not always going to be like this," said Doyle, a short lordling with a blonde bowl cut.
“I should’ve joined House Timberwood,” Jacob said.
“You and me both, Freewater." Doyle took a bite of an apple, chewed, then swallowed. "I think I’ll transfer to House Poole next spring. They take half of their House Guard on campaign with them and Lord Poole is one hell of a general."
“That’s because everyone wants them dead,” Jacob informed. "Everyone but the king."
“You’d know, wouldn’t you, Freewater? You’re a Southie, too!” Doyle chuckled. “I don’t see why everyone hates the Pooles. They’re loyal to the crown and they take what scraps the crown leaves behind." Young minor nobles had a knack for arrogance and verboseness. They were excellent informants, despite their ignorance. "The water is rising for House Poole.” He took another bite of his apple, cleaning the core.
So, that’s what Alatar sees in Rommel–a rising star.
Doyle turned, pushed the privy door open, and threw the apple core into the center of a hooped opening. It disappeared. “Mind if we shove off?” he asked.
Jacob startled. “What?”
“We do it all the time. Don’t worry, Freewater.” Doyle looked in each direction of the darkened hallway. “Everyone’s in bed. I’m going to raid the pantry. Are you in?”
“I most certainly am not in, Doyle, we’d be abandoning our post!”
“Shush!” Doyle brought a finger up to his lips. “Look, if you’re so worried about getting into trouble with Lemmy, then you can stay here with the shite. I’m going to smell the bread and the butter and the leftover supper. If anyone asks for me, tell them I’m using the privy.”
“Doyle!” Doyle walked away, disappearing into the shadows of House Drake. Finally, he thought.
Jacob darted into the privy chamber. He stripped off his tabard and out of his chainmail. He retrieved his cloak of invisibility from his belt satchel. It was well past midnight, and the mansion was asleep. A mere handful of guards manned the watch. He didn’t need the cloak, but it made things easier. The hallway from the privy led past the barracks, where his fellow guardsmen slept, and the pantry, where Doyle rummaged, to a spiraling staircase. Atop the steps, a darkened hallway led to the dining hall, past the kitchens. The serving maids will be up soon. They always awoke the earliest to prepare breakfast for the nobles and their fellow servants. I may have an hour or two.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
Wind stirred his cloak. His feet were light and quick. Moving like a specter, he bounced, more so than ran, through the mansion’s halls.
If the powder is here, it will be in the Lord’s chamber or his vault. I hope the code is still the same. Lord Barron Drake spared no expense on security. His vault was dwarven make: its locks impossible to pick, its door sealed by magics and mechanisms that the Court Mage couldn’t decipher. Thankfully, Nancy can’t keep a secret to save her life.
He turned a corner and came face to face with a woman. He leaped off the floor, flapping his cloak to steer away from the crystal chandelier above. Shooting into the air, he turned and landed on the ceiling–crouching.
The world turned upside down.
She’s tall. And looks frail… elvish? She ran right under him, moving swift and silent. He flipped forward and fell lithely to the floor. House Drake doesn’t have a house elf.
Curiosity got the better of him. He gave chase.
The Noble District was not a place for petty thieves. The she-elf moved with the grace of a cat, climbing iron fences and stone walls, bouncing from mansion to mansion, wall to wall, avoiding watchdogs–both human and inhuman. She clung to the shadows like she was born to them. And knew the night roads well.
Who does she work for? His cloak carried him across the roofs above. He watched, keeping a fair distance. It was futile, of course. Ardwin had encountered more than a few elves in the field. Their senses were like that of animals, making them perfect scouts or spies. Even with his invisibility, the she-elf’s ears would hear his feet or the wind rustling in his cloak. The she-elf turned down a narrow alley between two stone walls. Lawns full of flowers, trees, and grass decorated their interior. Two mansions sat nestled in their private forests, separated by a line of stone. That leads to House Cartier!
He shoved off the roof and allowed the sky to swallow him.
He landed in a tree, within the grounds of House Cartier, a few feet away from the servant’s entrance. Sure enough, the she-elf sprinted across the lawn and found the hidden door behind his tree. He did not recognize her. The Cartier house elf is in Goldhill. Did Caterina hire a professional? Caterina… you should have come to me.
After the elf entered, he jumped down from the tree and waited, listening through the door. When he no longer heard her footsteps, he entered House Cartier. I’m not dressed to play the role of Allister. I’ll have to rely on the cloak.
The servant’s entrance led into the kitchen, on the first floor. The kitchen led to the dining hall and the servant’s quarters. Their servants will raise the alarm if they find a strange elf skulking about. He moved into the dining hall–invisible. Three long tables stretched down the hall. Fine chairs of stained wood, with inlaid gold, sat on either side of each. To the left, a row of windows displayed the gardens outside. To the right, paintings lined the wall. A large doorway waited on the other end of the hall. It led to a gallery. A pair of dark-stained doors led into the ballroom. If she’s meeting with Lady Caterina and Lord Edward, the quickest route is through the gallery, but it is guarded. The ballroom would be the wisest choice if one wished to go unseen. He opened a door and slipped into the ballroom. Its empty hardwood floor felt bereft without dancers spinning and stepping about. Windows with intricate metal frames lined the walls to either side. A lone shadow stood at the center.
“Who are you?” Her whisper carried across the hollow room.
The magical cloak allowed him to step lighter than any dancer. He moved closer. “An eye in the dark. A whisper in the wind.”
“What sorcery is this?” The elf asked. “I can sense you. You’ve been following me since House Drake. Are you real?”
Am I real? Which ‘I’ do you question?
“Why are you following me? Who do you work for?” The she-elf turned sideways, spreading her feet, preparing for an ambush.
“I work for no one,” he said.
“Then why are you following me?” she asked.
“I wish to see where you go,” he answered.
“An eye in the dark?” The she-elf laughed. “Do you see what I see?” She lowered her hood. Pointy ears protruded like two blades of grass growing from her head. “I have seen a world of fire and ash. A world where wars are not fought with steel, but with flame. The very fires of creation and destruction. I’ve seen the death of our world. And the birth of a new world–a brutal world–a barren world.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Our people will not survive its destructive nature. Elves and humans alike will fall under the boot of the dwarf, who will take the powder and perfect it.”
“How could you know these things?”
The elf sighed. She chuckled. “Would you accept elvish magic as an answer? Or intuition? Or common sense? Are you that blind, Eye in the Dark?”
“How does working for Lady Caterina help you stop the dwarves from getting their hands on Igni’s Powder?”
“I don’t work for Lady Caterina," the elf said. "I visited Lady Drake, who told me where the powder is.”
If there’s anything the Drakes hate more than the Elves, it’s the Deloriars and their kin. “You’re saying the powder is already here?”
“Yes.”
“That House Cartier stole it?”
“Unless Lady Drake lied to me.”
That’s why Caterina didn’t come to me. She betrayed Alatar’s trust. He thumbed his chin. “If you’re lying to me, I will kill you.”
“If you were going to kill me, then you had plenty of chances in the street. I don’t think that’s what you want. I want to destroy Igni’s Powder. I want to make sure no one harnesses its destructive power. That’s why I’m here. Now, I’ve been honest with you. You can be honest with me.” The she-elf said. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
They slipped down a long, winding stairwell. It was dark, so he moved slowly, knowing the darkness had no effect on the she-elf’s eyes. At the bottom of the stairs, they came to the wine cellar. Stone pillars held shelf after shelf, filled with bottles from the finest vineyards. Barrels of ale sat lined against the far wall. The Cartiers had a pulley system built within the spiral of the steps that operated like a well for the guardsmen’s ale. The wine racks and stone pillars obscured their view, but across from them, at the back of the room, a little light glowed yellow–a candle. Gregory pointed at the elf and then to where they stood. He slipped down a short flight of steps, descending into the room of wine racks. Once hidden from the elf, he allowed his cloak to flare. Toes barely touching the ground, he spun, becoming invisible.
The row of racks ended. A guardsman, dressed in chainmail and a red tabard, sat next to a small table. His head leaned against the stone wall of the cellar. He slept. Above him sat the painting of a large oak tree. Sorry, Kevin. With a cloth and one of Alatar’s potions, he neutralized Kevin. Then, he dragged the unconscious man to the ale barrels, hiding him away behind their platform. The she-elf awaited his return by the stairs.
“Let’s go,” Gregory called to her.
They returned to the empty chair, the table, and the painting. Gregory walked up to the painting and removed it. Behind, a square hole sat embedded in the cellar’s wall. In the hole, a metal lever protruded from the wall. Beneath the lever, a small metal keyhole awaited the proper key.
Removing a leather strap from his neck, Gregory retrieved the key to House Cartier’s vault, placed the key in the keyhole, and unlocked the lever. With a turn of the lever, the stone wall slid away, then lifted like a gatehouse.
“How did you get that?” The elf asked.
“Does it matter? If House Cartier stole Igni’s Powder, they would hide it here.” Gregory took the candle from the nearby table and led the way. A short hallway exited into a large cavernous gallery. Its walls were natural stone, its ceiling spiked with stalactites. He walked over to an illuminator and lit its oil-wet wick. The clam-shaped mirror's bronze shed sheened onto a glass mirror, which bounded away into a series of mirrors. The chamber lit up to reveal marble statues posing between tables displaying fine jewelry and exotic weapons, mounds of circlings and colorful gemstones sitting in silver bowls, and suits of armor standing guard over the forgotten wealth. "The Cartiers like to keep a stockpile."
“Just in case a house war breaks out,” the elf said.
“There hasn’t been a house war in three hundred years.” Father Gregory walked down a flight of steps onto a floor made of marble tiles. “The people die for them. The least they could do is share the spoils of their sacrifice.”
“Is there nothing your temples can do?” The she-elf asked.
“There is only one Temple,” Gregory snapped. “And there’s very little we can do. Come. This way.” He stalked across the chamber, following a winding path through the garden of treasures. A massive bookshelf ran along the back of the room, before a section of wall built with brick and mortar. He approached and pulled a leather-bound book off the highest shelf. Its painted cover depicted a moonless night sky–silver stars shone above a hill of dark grass. The bookshelf swung open on large hinges. Light from behind struck a series of mirrors in the small cave ahead. Wooden barrels lined the wall to the right. To the left, weapon racks held swords, daggers, spears, and crossbows. A well sat in the center, fixed with an iron frame. A pulley machine offered a way to lower the barrels onto a boat hidden below. An iron door sat within a thick frame at the back of the cave.
A table sat amongst the weapon racks, littered with parchment, candles, pouches, and satchels.
Gregory walked over to the table. “Only a handful of people know about this room. The Cartier’s old enough to be useful, the Court Mage, me, and you.”
“Do you think I feel honored to be in such company? Greedy nobles and a racist wizard.” The elf chuckled as she followed him to the table. “You’re not so bad, though, Gregory. It makes me question what I’ve heard about the Holy Order.”
“There are good priests and bad.”
The she-elf eyed him. “Are you one of the good ones?”
He plucked a satchel off the table and searched it, but his fingers only found an assortment of circlings. He sat the satchel back down, then searched another.
“You never asked for my name,” the elf said.
Gregory continued his search. “Nor will I. I’ll admit, I am curious, but I fear wasting my breath.” Loosening a drawstring, he opened a small leather pouch. His breath caught in his chest. He pulled a piece of folded parchment from the pouch. Scribblings and letters marked it incomprehensible, but he recognized Alatar’s handwriting. “Here it is!”
“I knew she would send a thief in the night, but I didn’t think she would send her best!” A voice cut through the cramped air of the cavern. Gregory and the elf spun. Lady Caterina stood in the doorway. The gray curls of her hair were like puffy clouds. A bronze tiara sat in the clouds boasting three beautiful red rubies. Two heavily armored knights stood before her. “How long have you been working for House Drake?”
The elf stammered. “I-I-I-”
“Not you!” Caterina shrieked. She pointed at Gregory. “You!”
He drew in a deep breath to still his nerves. “Lady Caterina, I don’t work for the Drakes."
“Liar!” Caterina yelled. “Sir Percy, Sir Blackwater, apprehend the criminals!”
Sir Blackwater smiled. “With pleasure, my Lady.”
Gregory handed the pouch of Igni’s Powder to the elf. “Hey!” Sir Percy yelled. “Damn it, traitor, don’t make us kill you!” Plate armor clanked as the knights sprinted across the cave. Gregory flared his magical cloak, stirring up a gust of wind. The knights stumbled, then slammed against the rocky ground. Their metal suits of armor rang like bells. The wind died down before reaching Lady Cartier. Caterina’s bushy hair bobbed in the breeze.
“Damn you, boy!” Caterina shrieked. “I will have your head!”
Gregory removed the key around his neck. He handed it to the elf, who stood dumbfounded. “Go through the iron door. The path beyond will take you to the banks of the Blackroot. There is a boat, but it takes more than one person to operate it. Travel by foot. If I do not find you, then I hope you will do the right thing.”
“Father Gregory?” the elf asked. “What are you going to do?”
Caterina laughed. “Gregory?”
He looked into the she-elf’s eyes. “I’m going to buy you some time. Now, go! Save yourself!” The knights were getting to their feet. Two more stood waiting behind Caterina. The cave is small. Sending all of her men would make it hard to move and put them at a disadvantage. “Run!” he commanded, walking toward the knights. The she-elf scurried over to the iron door and worked its locking mechanism. He heard the iron creak on its hinges. The door slammed shut.
Sir Blackwater stood tall. “I have waited a long time for this, Allister!” He charged like a bull, swinging his sword, two-handed, in a wide arch.
His magical cloak picked him up, carrying him through the air. He flipped backward. Sir Percy followed, stifling the landing. He came down directly toward the waiting swordsman. Sir Percy swung at him too soon. Allister flared his cloak, catching the wind off the sword, and allowing it to spin him around. The gray fabric shimmered silver. He landed safely, and invisible. “What kind of devilry is this?” Blackwater shouted. The knight spun around. Allister picked up a rock from the floor and jumped onto the lip of the well. He threw the rock at the first mirror in the room. It shattered. Darkness fell upon the cavern. “Where is he?” Blackwater shouted.
“I can’t see anything!” Percy answered.
“Damn you, boy!” Caterina’s voice pierced his ears "Why have you betrayed me?"
“You know I would not betray you!” Allister called.
“Over here!” Percy cried as he stabbed out with his sword, piercing nothing. Allister kicked Percy in the face, causing the knight to stumble backward.
“The powder is too dangerous!" Allister pleaded with his patron, his master. "No one should have it!”
“So you give it to an elf?” Blackwater asked.
“She wants to destroy it!” Allister cried. “And so do I!” He stepped off from the well’s lip, falling into the dark depths. His cloak caught the wind, slowing his fall, and allowing him to land safely on the boat below.
A winding set of steps led him up the tallest tower of the royal keep. Looking out a passing window, he glimpsed the city below. He stopped. The sun stood high, illuminating everything. Looking out over the roofs of houses and businesses, over the walls and towers and guardhouses, over the labyrinthine roads running through and between the buildings, he pondered: Was it worth it? Did I do the right thing? Lady Caterina’s anger may subside, but Sir Percy and the other members of her House Guard saw Allister fight. Allister may be as good as dead because his skills were known to Caterina alone. Will Caterina share my secrets, now? Will I die, too? A chill crept up his spine.
He took a hide strap off his neck and found the key dangling. After unlocking the Court Mage’s door, he entered the room. “Ardwin!” Alatar cried. “Have you found Igni’s Powder?” The elderly man sat at his workbench.
“It was destroyed,” Ardwin said.
“What?” Alatar stood. “How?”
“An elf stole it. They destroyed it that very night–before you sent me to retrieve it.” Ardwin looked at the floor. “I’m sorry. I failed you.” A heavy silence filled the chamber.
“An elf?" Alatar's fuzzy brows scrunched together on his forehead like a long wooly worm. "Of course, it was an elf!" he shouted, then paced around in a circle. "Bah!" He threw his hands in the air, over his head. "I told you! I told you, Ardwin!”
Ardwin crossed his arms over his chest. “You thought one of the nobles took it.”
“So, the elves are growing bolder." Alatar tugged at his beard. "They sent a thief into my chambers! They've gone too far! The King will hear about this!”
Ardwin didn’t bother telling Alatar the truth. A personal attack from the elves was enough to soothe Alatar’s ego and keep his mind occupied. Ardwin offered his apologies and left the old man to his scheming. The royal keep overlooked the Blackroot River. He looked out over the waters, where the night before he had watched the she-elf pour Igni’s Powder into its southbound currents. I’m sure the elves are like the priests of the Temple or the nobles of the city. There are good ones and bad ones. She was one of the good ones. I may not know her name, but I know her.
And if that is true, do names even matter?