“Good afternoon, young sir.” He only barely had an accent, and spoke quietly, respectfully. “You have a good voyage?”

“Ah, yes.” I frowned. What did he want from me exactly? “If you’ve come seeking a review, I give the Scaleshaker top marks, but the captain definitely wanted to hand over several of my body parts to dark elves at one point, and Northril – well, let’s just say we had a falling out. It didn’t agree with me. At all.”

“Ah. You are very funny.” He said it like he’d never so much as smiled in his entire life. “Might I ask your name, young sir?”

“Might I ask yours?”

The man didn’t shrug, didn’t even blink –

“I am… Sergeant Fyorin. Of the Telior city watch. Sir.”

His politeness, the promptness of his reply, they gave me no choice.

Make it look like I feel I have no other choice – that I’m giving away the truth…

“Raz,” I replied, uneasily. “I’m Raz Tormenn. These are –”

“Your brother and sister, of course.” He looked from me to the twins. “The family resemblance… it is strong. Good afternoon, children.” When they didn’t respond, the dark gaze swept over the room’s contents and then back to me.

“The keeper of the inn; she said nothing about this chest.” Sergeant Fyorin pointed at our belongings. “It is checked for contraband, no? The dock guards are usually very, uh, thorough.”

“I – would you like to check it now?” Oh drop, what if ensorcelled weaponry is outlawed? “I – I mean, you shouldn’t, should you? Do you need the proper authorities… I’ll take it down to the docks, if you need me to.”

He was just staring at me, waiting for me to give up, and I sighed, let my shoulders slump in defeat.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re looking for… We’re probably only staying a day, so –“

“Forgive me, young sir, but you are not permitted to leave. The king demands audience. I have come to bring you to him.”

“The king?” I asked, perhaps a bit shrilly. “How does he know about me? What does he want me for?”

“This,” he said, perhaps just a trace of discontent in his voice, “I do not know.”

I looked at the twins, weighing my options, and caught Jaroan’s angry glare.

If I leave them here, the shield will protect them.

Images flicked through my mind – the twins, neatly-stacked sacrifices sleeping on the altar, the darkmage standing over them, claw held aloft –

“They’re coming with me,” I decided, turning back to Fyorin. “My brother and sister don’t leave my side.”

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“Even if you are jailed?” the sergeant asked.

I stared at him. “It won’t come to that.”

I had no idea who exactly I was trying to convince – the watchman, my brother and sister, or myself.

Together the three of us followed Fyorin down to the ground floor and out into the grey afternoon. At first I lowered almost all my barriers, but it was soon apparent that their ill-will was no longer triggering on the azure shapes, so I reinstated the shields as we stepped into the midst of the Telese watchmen, allowing them to escort us through the city. I’d placed a few imps inside the chest to dissuade any would-be thieves that might sneak in for a peek at our belongings while we were out.

The patrol that’d been sent to us was twelve-strong, and, aside from their leader, the eleven other watchmen stayed professionally silent as we were marched uphill – upcliff. They wore heavy cloth armour, swords sheathed at their belts, and everyone melted out of their path, standing to the side and watching as we passed. Soon small crowds formed, drawn to watch as a newcomer mage was escorted under guard…

I was smiling – mostly inwardly, though I could feel it touch the corners of my lips. I tried to quash down the feeling of amusement. It wouldn’t do to let on just how trivial their counter-measures were. Fear had melted into confidence in the face of a paltry opposition.

How easily I could lay waste to the city if I wanted to. I very much doubted Telior’s other two archmages would be able to stop me.

We were guided over bridges and up ramps, being taken ever higher and higher – I soon noticed the places where it would’ve been faster to climb a rope-ladder but the guards didn’t seem keen on that option despite my voluntary surrender.

“We take you to the High Hall,” the sergeant supplied when I asked, “the seat of King Deymar Northsword, of the Line of Fagelthril. Bow. Address him as Majesty. Do not speak unless invited, but always speak when invited. You must do this, or you will not be long for this life. Do you understand?”

I nodded, but I felt the black expression come over my face.

Wherever you go, it’s always the same. Bow. Scrape. Serve. Be grateful for your morsels.

I wondered idly if I ought to put Pinktongue back on my shoulder, just for effect.

The twins cast about in awe as we reached the highest levels, looking across an open space at what must’ve been the High Hall. I had a somewhat different reaction, eyeing with mistrust the cavern entrance at the top of the stair before us. The seat of the Line of Fagelthril was cut directly into the cliff, its doorway a neatly-hewn, rectangular opening, lit from within by torches. Twelve thirty-foot pillars, each carved in the likeness of a different deity of the pantheon, stood in order beneath the outcrop above, seeming to support the protruding rock with the crowns upon their heads. The craftsmanship was so detailed that they seemed to almost move as we approached, even the grey light causing the shaped surface of the columns to shift and ripple. The effect was so strong, it had to be magical in nature, whether the magic of men or of gods.

Yune, singing, her hands extended in welcome.

Tauremai, shivering, drawing the cloak about herself.

Ismethyl, preparing, her eight swords each in various stages of unsheathing.

Enye, laughing, a newborn babe in her arms.

Belestae, winking, hand raised to hide her crooked smile.

Chraunator, focussing, pen poised mid-word in his fingers.

Urdaith, drinking, her eyes closed in bliss.

Kaile, blessing, his hands lifted to address the masses.

Lynastra, weeping, showering tears of joy on her basket of apples.

Orovon, whispering, hand cupped to his lips.

Illodin, beckoning, pure serenity exuding from his far-off eyes.

Mortiforn, shrouded, his hooded form the only one shaped to stillness.

And it was only as we passed up the stair that I noticed the thirteenth carving awaiting us – this was no pillar, no full humanoid form. Just a face.

Wyrda, wild-haired, sullen-eyed and staring. The relief was shallow, hard to discern at first, but it was there all the same – the Fish-Queen, into whose mouth we would walk as we entered the High Hall’s opening. The tendrils snaking from her head wound about the walls on either side.

Did they even know what this would mean to a Mundian?

Wyrda’s maw. Wyrda’s maw indeed.