Chapter Seven: Trials of the Traitor.

Our tale as yet, has been told for our chosen and our Champion. Allow, if you would, a small deviation. The beginnings – and ending – of another’s tale. A man in dark armour, with shimmering blue eyes and a heart emptied of his natural warmth.

He stood at the fore of the battle, so long ago. A thousand men broke themselves against a dozen of his own. The warriors of the Bloodlands, the heroes of this war, cheered his name in glee and admiration. They called upon their gods to bless his fledgling house; the house of Fielder. They swore to sing his songs for eternity, and begged to be held in his service till they could give their very lives in his honour.

He hated them all for it, when in the night before he had loved them to the last man.

Snowy wings had brought cold tidings to his battle tent. A white raven sent personally from his divine queen. The battle had been won, the war would be all too easy, and yet the purpose had been lost. He held the little letter in his steel hands and read the terrible words.

“Amell,” It read in crimson characters, “tidings from your hearth bare grim news.” The queen’s steward must have dictated. Had Vias herself written the letter, it would have been four words and half of them profane. “Tales of cowardly action taken as reprisal for your glorious conquest. They reliably say, though I am yet to personally confirm, that some scorned warrior – defeated in honourable combat – has left his sense and taken arms against your own blood. They say your son fought the warrior, and his cowardly compatriots, to the last man. They say he fought like a man from legend, despite his overbearing youth.” The prose boiled his blood. The letter ought to have spoken plainly. Flowers were for beautiful women and gravestones, not dark words in bloody letters. “Amell, my friend, it is with more pain than I could possibly express that I tell you; the false warriors began a flame in your home. Though the cowards were slaughtered to the man, the flame persisted. There was nothing left. Nobody left.” He didn’t read beyond that. A passing glance said something of funeral preparations and royal audiences, but it didn’t matter. He burnt the letter and readied for war.

Legends had been told till that day, of his prowess and genius. No more. They tell only of his betrayal. They tell of how he burnt a city to the ground while his men slept within. They tell tale of how he destroyed two armies with a single word and disappeared into the bloody soaked night.

There is no man in this world more wanted, more hated, than Amell Fielder. The so-called Traitor of Blood. Such a man would be a scourge to his enemies, but something much worse for his friends.

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Every street he walked seemed lined with the thousand corpses he had claimed in his past life. Every howl of wind seemed to carry the blood curdling screams of his flame kissed bride. Every young man that passed him seemed to hold the deathly visage of his only son. They all looked so disappointed, sons of a failure.

“What’ll it be, handsome?” The old bar maid winked at him as he crouched beneath their doorway. “My, you’re a big one aren’t ya’.” A drop of sweat swirled across her strangely angular face. The hazel of her eyes seemed to appraise him in his whole.

“Evening, ma’am.” Amell bowed his head, more out of necessity than manners. The dinky little tavern was ill suited even to a man of modest stature, so Amell - and his hulking frame – looked as though he walked through a child’s playroom.

“Ma’am, ay?” The bar maid scoffed. “Big an’ mannerly. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Colin, ma’am.” He lied. Amell took a seat at her bar, and she poured the only ale the house held.

“Colin... That’s a funny name. What’s the accent?” She asked as he handed her a single bronze plate.

“Kovayesh, though I’ve lived in the Bloodlands for quite some time.” Amell answered. He took a swig from the tankard before him. The mug was old and well worn, it had more of a flavour than the ale. Mould with a hint of honey, a true delicacy. He nearly coughed up his first swallow but managed it down in one.

“Bet a biggun’ like you did well in the Bloodlands. Could av’ had the Blood queen herself wrapped round your not-so-little finger.” The old maid laughed, though her insistent gaze didn’t falter from his arms.

“You have no idea.” He thought to himself. Her comment brought an accidental darkness to his face, she noticed right away. He buried the thought at the bottom of his ale and shone a mummer’s smile. “Such would be an honour, though I fear I lack the charisma for such a conquest.” He said with a well-practiced laugh.

“Do all Kovayeshi speak so fancifully?” She grinned.

“I doubt it. Kovayesh is a small kingdom, but quite powerful and very rich. So, we tend to be better educated than most.” He said much too meekly for a man of his stature.

“So, what brings a well-educated Kovayeshi, Bloodland bandit to a Dwargon tavern in the middle of Duke’s crossing?” She chuckled. The older woman, whose name Amell had not deigned to learn, poured two more tankards and joined him in his cups. The company didn’t last long, though. The mug was the size of her head, yet she had it down and done before Amell’s own could reach his lips. A terrible blush burst across her nose the instant the empty mug hit the table.

“It’s... hard to explain.” He hesitated before downing half of his drink in a single gulp.

“I’m a pretty smart lady, try me.” She laughed.

“Well, I’ve been wandering the continent for quite some time now. I haven’t spent more than a couple of nights in any one place.” Amell began.

She took a more fanciful voice as she said, “one might assume you were a man on tha’ run,” though she couldn’t mask her true nasally tone.

“Maybe,” He admitted, “but then I had a dream.”

“A dream?”

“Aye, a dream. A strange dream of a black snowcapped mountain that moved the world at a whim.” He recalled. “As I looked up her, at this colossal mountain, I felt... Hope. For the first time in an awful long time; I truly had hope.”

“How’d ya’ know it was a she?” The maid asked, wrapped fully in his tale.

“She - the mountain – spoke to me.” He said almost in awe of the memory.

“What did it say?”

“She said; ‘Help me, Amell... Please.’” He repeated.

“Well whose Amell then?” She asked.

“Oh, I...” Only then had he realised his slip up. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll find out.” He answered.

“Bugger all that.” A croaky voice called from the tiny staircase to his left. A dwargon man, as tall as Amell’s knee, came lumbering down the stairs. The final wisps of his orange hair caught in the wind as he stormed along. The oversized eyes his people were best known for seemed to capture the entire room at a glance. It was no wonder the little tavern was so poorly lit; anything more would have been blinding for the little man.

“This is my ‘usband, Gertrude.” The maid introduced.

“A pleasure, I assume you are the proprietor?” Amell smiled, offering a steel gloved hand to shake.

“What kind a’ man needs armour to go out and get a drink?” Gertrude snorted. He didn’t shake Amell’s hand but shuffled along behind the bar.

"Enough of all that, Gert.” The maid sighed.

“Nah!” Gertrude grunted. “Some big lumbering oaf comes into my tavern talkin’ nonsense about dreams an’ mountains with tits.”

“He never mentioned tits, ye’ little goblin.” The maid smacked the dwargon man up the back of his head as she poured Amell a new cup.

“Yeah he did! He said the mountain was a woman, what kinda’ woman don’t have tits?” He insisted.

“Plenty of women don’t have tits!” The maid shouted with little regard for propriety.

“Like who?”

“Like, that pretty lass; Beth.” The maid insisted.

“Naw! Small tits are still tits, matters not the size.” He said as though making some powerful point.

“What about Marola?” She asked. The question stumped the little man. He had an answer at the tip of his tongue but quickly swallowed it.

“Alright, maybe not all women av’ tits, but it’s a fair assumption!” He finally conceded.

“Gods bless, we have a refined Kovayeshi gentleman here and all you can think about are tits! I’m so sorry, Colin.” She cried, placing a hand on Amell’s arm. He shot her a warm smile and nodded. He kept his smile in hopes it would be comfort and answer enough for the two. He had never been so thoroughly lost for words, so naturally he fell onto the few words that were always welcome in a tavern.

“How about another round?” Amell smiled.

“Truly, a refined gentleman. Some people could learn a few lessons.” The maid pointedly said. It roused a grunt in her little husband, though he gladly took three more bronze plates from Amell.

“So, gentleman,” Gert spat, “why Duke’s crossing? The mountain tell you that too?”

“I... Don’t know, honestly. In the dream, this place just felt right.” He admitted.

“This shithole?” Gert doubted.

“Not... specifically here. Somewhere around here, though.”

“Well, I wish you luck, darling. We’ll leave you alone now. Disturbed your peace quite enough, I'll say.” The maid smiled.

He stayed in that cramped little tavern for some hours to come, drowning his doubts in ale after ale. He believed coming to Maester Veil was foolish, that the Veytors had too great a presence in the nation and that they would be sure to find him. He recalled the parts of the dream that went unspoken. He thought on the reward for his service. The promise the mountain had made in its young voice. His duty would be fulfilled and the gods would grant him his heart’s desire. Not heaven, but death. Not redemption, but an ending. Twas’ all he deserved.

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A new dawn rose, though he didn’t join it willingly. The sapphire dawn pierced the shabby shades and shone a beam of brilliant light directly into the cold blue of his eyes. He peeled his face from the table he had slept on and snuck away from the dozen drunken fellows that had yet to rise. Stealth was rarely an option for a man of his build, though the scores of empty tankards that lay scattered around the pretty brunette at his side likely meant no great sneakery was needed.

He met the fresh harbour air and took a perfect breath. The morrows catch left a thick scent, even this far from the mongers. Salt lay upon his tongue and the warmth of an autumn sun kissed his bare face. It reminded him of home, Kovayesh. He never could get used to living in the Bloodlands. They say the sun was too scared of the royal wrath of queen Vias to crown over her domain. Darkness held the island almost year-round, though the dawn always seemed glad to greet its sister, the Forgelands.

“Hear ye! Hear ye!” A young lad cried from atop of an old cask as he rang out a little cattle bell. His torn rags and oversized cap clashed against the blatant gold medallion that dangled from his neck. It was seconds before a small crowd had gathered at his feet. Minutes before a horde hung on his every word.

“Tale arises from the nation and from afar!” The boy announced in a strangely monotonous way. “First, of the Conclave!” He began, “the perfect Matrons have deigned to grace our crossing with the true Moving City!” The crowd unsettled at that. A frantic, though excited, energy permeated the workers and children alike. “Of the midday, shall the city arrive!” He declared.

Amell hadn’t seen the moving city in quite some time. Once, the news would have excited him just as much as it seemed to the children. Now?

His stomach churned at the thought. An army of Veytors would be at the heels of the city. Each of them would be all too glad to take his head. He questioned why the dream would bring him to such transparent danger.

“Next, tales within our own borders!” The boy cried over the quickly loudening crowd. “To the east, a vast battle occurred between the armies of the Veil and the Tevran fiends! The battle was bloody, but with the aid of an Oaranic mercenary company, the Tevrans were felled, and victory came to our boys in red!” The crowd cheered at that. The boy was lying, Amell knew. The ‘battle’ as he had called it, was naught more than a skirmish. A thousand Maester Veil troops ambushed four-hundred Tevrans, yet the Tevrans had taken two men down for each of their own losses. It would have shamed the great general Amell had once been to call such a slaughter ‘victory’.

“Our next tale is of vast import!” The boy said again in his ever-wearied way. “A bandit raid to the north left a village burnt, and villagers without homes. Though, by all reports, it seems no villager have been harmed! You may ask how such a feat could be possible?” The boy droned on with utter disinterest despite his captive audience. “It would seem a hero of legend has been forged in the fires of her own home! She, so called, Sparrow-Knight! A woman, nineteen summers past by all accounts, single handedly slaughtered an entire army of bandits. So great was her feat, that the bishop of steel herself hath declared the Sparrow-Knight to be ordained by the gods!”

There was a moment of silence at that. Utter confusion, maybe?

Amell had known the bishop of steel in passing. “Sasha, perhaps?” He tried to recall. She seemed a well put together woman. Not one for wild declarations. He recalled her as a singularly pious woman, so naturally she despised him. She was bishop of the Forgelands, not Maester Veil, it seemed strange to Amell that she would be present at this little village to greet this supposedly ordained warrior.

“More than simply ordained, dear listener! The bishop, and all who stood in witness, claim this Sparrow-Knight to be none other than a Champion!” The boy continued, though his droning tone seemed to carry a bite of mockery. It seemed he didn’t believe his own words, nor did his audience.

“Bullshit!” A young girl called; she couldn’t have been older than eight.

“Tis’ sworn on gods’ honour!” The boy said, raising a hand in holy salute.

“Champion of what?” A fisher called from the crowd.

“There is no knowing as yet, though rumours persist of much darkness in her divine patron. Witnesses to the announcement claim that this Sparrow-Knight has been confirmed by the holy goden, Hevestiel, as the Champion of... Black.”

The energy of the earlier crowd was gone in an instant. If the Conclave arriving in Duke’s crossing hadn’t torn a hole in Amell’s belly, this news certainly had. The Goden of dreams, of memory, of sorrow; the harbinger of the end. The prophecy was not known to most people, but Amell was anything but most people. He knew what the Champion of Black would mean. He knew why his dreams had brought him here.

“What does she look like?” Amell called out despite his better judgment. He needed to know, though he hated the risk of drawing attention.

“They say she be a striking beauty. Tan of skin, like all daughters of the north, though they say her eyes are amethyst blades and her tongue is locked behind pearly white steel bars. They say a single word from her would fell even a man so great as you, ser knight, and so – in her mercy – she deigns to never speak. They say that the day she was born, a powerful blizzard tore her from her own mother’s teat, and now she be a snowcapped maiden; with hair of pure dazzling ice!”

“Fuck,” was the only thought he could muster. A snowcapped maiden, the Champion of dreams & Black. It seemed to Amell that the gods had not planned his retirement to be an easy one. He knew immediately that his destiny lay within this nineteen-year-old. “Fuck.”

“How’d you know all this about her?” Some old man called from the crowd.

“A feast was held in her honour. There tale was told to all those of the lowly court of baron Marren of house Battlespit! My informant heard his tales from the brilliant and ever reliable bard, Evara White-tongue.” The boy announced.

“Who?” The old man scoffed.

“A... notable bard from the north of the kingdom. I assure you, all to the north know of the implacable Evara White-tongue!” The boy lied.

“I’m from the north, I ‘aint never heard tell of no Evara!” A toothless man called from behind his great bushy beard.

“Sir, you look to be a mere baker. How many bards have you heard tale of?” The boy snipped. He awaited no response before finishing his address.

“Alas, dear listener! Keep an eye, and ear, out for this Sparrow-Knight. Doubtless she will be looking to meet with the Conclave once the Moving City arrives. Till the next tenday, I bid you farewell! Remember to pay your way as you go!” The boy shouted over the quickly dispersing crowd. He frantically offered up a bucket and each of the crowd paid in a bronze plate, or a couple of coppers. Amell followed suit and left for the great port gate.

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There would be some time before midday. Amell decided to make for a tailor in hopes of buying some disguise. It seemed dark plate on a man as large as he made for a more conspicuous silhouette than he would like.

The shop was much nicer than the tavern. Crystal lamps and spiralling glass stairways seemed thrown around the stone building with little regard for sense. It was yet another undersized building, though. Obviously, to say so wouldn’t be entirely fair. The doorways came to most men’s heads, but Amell’s lower chest. A dozen mannequins scattered the lot. Some hung from the ceiling, some stood on the walls. All looked simply resplendent.

“Ah!” A strange rasp sounded from behind a cabinet twice Amell’s size. A ladder rolled from behind the cabinet and an interesting looking woman hopped down from atop of it. “Welcome!” She cheered. Her voice carried an illness, as though she had been coughing without end for a decade, or as though she had just battled away a severe flame. “How can I help yo-” The woman’s query fell short as her eyes came upon the massive knight. “Brilliant.” She grinned, “gimme’ something good, big boy.”

“Good morrow, my lady.” Amell awkwardly laughed.

“Yeah, yeah... Can I take your measurements now or are you not a fan of foreplay?” She said in dark velvet tones.

“I think myself thrice your age, my lady.” Amell said as he backed away slightly from the red eyed woman.

“You’d be surprised, but I hardly see the relevance.” She said. Her twinkling eyes darted across his armour, and she span to his back much too quickly for him to see. “Your cloak’s buggered,” she noted, “I’ll assume that’s why you’re here?” She pulled down on his cape with surprising force. It sent him a step backwards, before she returned to his face in between blinks.

“I- Yes.” Amell said, rubbing at his neck where the cape had caught. “You are the tailor?”

“No, big boy, I’m the spider in the attic.” She said in a sardonic rasp.

“Fair point.” He laughed. “So, might I contract your employ?”

“Don’t mind what I contract from you... Okay that was too far; yeah, I can help you. What do you want?” She giggled.

“Well... A cloak, if it can be made quickly.” He uncomfortably said.

“A cloak...” She pondered, checking him over. He caught a familiar focus in her sanguine eyes, it was a kind of adoration. Not of him, but of her craft. It was an adoration he had held once as he swung his blade. An adoration lost to time and fate. Her raven black hair battled to leap from her haphazard bun, secured only by a seamstress’ pin. She wore a strange burgundy bodice over a black felt undershirt. Five ornamental rings clinked against his steel skin, as did her sharp overlong nails.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” Amell said, as politely as he could.

“Names are words; words are wind, you couldn’t catch them if you tried.” The girl laughed. A girl she was, surely no older than twenty or twenty-one; yet her eyes, so much passion within two great rubies. Years beyond her own, to be sure. Not to mention the deftness of her craft. She must have begun training fresh from the womb. He should have left her there, he shouldn’t have said a word, but there are powers in this world all are subject to. Some of these powers are greater even than sense. The power of the question, curiosity, forced his tongue where his teeth ought to have bit.

“What are you?” He plainly asked. She froze at it, though her tailor’s needle seemed all too lively.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“That’s a rude thing to ask of a lady.” She chuckled with a dreamy tone.

“It would be, aye.” He grimly said, backing a half pace away from her. Smoky sanguine met cold cobalt and half a threat passed each’s silent lips. “Vampris?” He guessed, “or some breed of Daem?”

“I already told you,” the girl’s smile dropped as she took a deep breath, “I’m the spider in the attic. A big man like you wouldn’t be scared of a little ol’ spider, would you?”

“You know the Conclave is coming? The streets will crawl with Veytors, you need to run.” Amell said.

“Aaw, you sound worried. Haven’t even had to work my magic and you’re already falling in love.” The spider laughed without smiling.

“I have no hatred of your people.” Amell sternly said. “A needless death is a crime regardless of the species.”

“A rare attitude.”

“Why haven’t you fled?” Amell pressed.

“I’m... waiting for someone.” The spider hesitantly answered. He noticed her eyes dart between his dagger and great sword; then his throat and the chinks in his armour. She was planning her attack.

“Someone like you?” Amell guessed.

“Oh, gods no. Devils - ‘like me’ - make for such dreadful company. No, I’m waiting for an angel.” The spider grinned. Her eyes dropped from his though only now did he notice that she hadn’t blinked once. She scanned the tatted rags he draped over his armour with a tier of distain, though she noticeably uncoiled.

“I’m thinking lapis,” she finally said, “It’ll match your eyes.”

“You’ll meet the angels soon enough if the Veytors catch wind of you.” Amell pressed.

“Maybe a white link chain to hold it in place.” She continued, paying him no mind.

“Child, they will find you.” Amell urged. He took her shoulders into his hands and nearly shook sense into her, though he thought better of himself quickly.

“Don’t touch me, soldier boy.” The spider calmly ordered.

“I’m trying to help.” He insisted. “I know what they’re capable of, you can’t hide.”

“So, what? I should hide in the sewers until they leave? Darling, this is Tavei silk; I won’t even drink tea in it.” She said, flushing a hand across her black skirts.

“It won’t be so pretty torn and bloodied.” Amell continued.

“I can handle myself, gods; you’d think you were my father.” The spider sighed. She finally stepped away from him. The girl glided to a box at the bottom of her massive cabinet and started digging around within.

“No, you can’t. They exist for the sole purpose of hurting people like you.” He insisted.

“People like me, hey?” The spider laughed from within the shelf. It was a moment longer before she stood away from the box and presented Amell with a series of cloaks.

“Since you insist on taking all of the fun out of my life,” she groaned, “here; take your pick.”

He knew the futility of arguing with her. His sister had been just as stubborn and arrogant in her youth. He simply chose the most subdued cloak and she took it off to be resized in his image. She worked in a little nook at the far end of the room in complete silence. She stitched and cut at pieces of colour matched fabric as she seemed to guess his measurements simply by glancing at him.

“Thank you.” Amell bowed as she worked away. “My name is Colin, by the way.”

“I know who you are, Fielder.” The girl spat, seemingly offended he would lie to her. His cold eyes grew near as wide as the Dwargon drinksmith’s had been. His blood ran cold at the ease of her confession.

“What?” He gasped, ready at his blade.

“I’m Tenpic, your face is plastered on every wall in every island. I had your bounty poster on my bedroom wall as a kid.” She chuckled. “You were much hotter back then, before all the greys.”

“You don’t plan on collecting, I hope?” He whispered, his hand stroking the pommel of his great sword.

“I’m a tailor, Amell. Not a bounty hunter. I make bodices, not bodies.” She coldly grunted.

“I thought you were a spider. You could be weaving a cloak... or a web.” He slyly replied. It brought back her smile, though she remained wrapped in her work.

“Ooh, touché.” She laughed as she placed a pin. “I didn’t think the great warrior would know how to play.”

Amell released his blade and took a slow step closer to the girl. She didn’t seem to mind as he sat across from her.

He noticed her demeanour change somewhat. She almost seemed to relax as he sat. He decided to ask, “so, what’s a Tenpic vampris-”

“Spider.” She mockingly cut off.

“What’s a Tenpic spider doing this far north?” He corrected with a smile.

“Waiting on the angels.” She simply replied. “As I already said.”

“How long have you been waiting?” Amell asked.

“My whole life,” was her first answer, “a few days.” Was her final.

“Does an angel have a name?” He asked.

“Maybe,” she pondered, “but I haven’t earned it yet.” She spoke dreamily, as though she was speaking to her reflection in the mirror – thinking aloud – instead of conversing with the man before her.

“So,” Amell began, hoping to carry on the conversation, “you’ve only been in the crossing a few days?”

“Yup, adorable; isn’t it?” She grinned.

“How have you managed to get a job here in just a few days then?” He asked.

“Oh, I don’t work here.” She gladly admitted.

“You don’t?”

“Heavens, no. The old coot who owns the place could never afford me.” She laughed.

“Dare I ask where he is?”

“Depends how brave you’re feeling.” She glibly answered. It was a moment of silence after that, until she finally answered, “he’s fine. Probably off with his mistress.”

“Is that the truth?” Amell doubted.

“It's what I’m telling you. Is that not the same thing?” She said in a strangely distant way.

“Enough of me now, Don. Amell.” The spider smiled. “Come on, tell me why you did it.”

She dropped her work for the first time and leant forth, capturing his gaze within her own. She wrapped her pale little hands around her cheeks as she focused solely on him. It was not a focus he desired, but he was quickly realising that was her intention. It was a part of her game. He could back out, or he could challenge her and battle for her respect. Amell was a general at heart, challenge was no excuse for retreat and a battle was meant to be won.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he grinned, “I’ll tell you what you want to know, if you tell me what I want to know.” The offer intrigued her, though he could see some doubt in her smile. The two locked eyes, and she saw his challenge.

“One condition.” The spider grinned. “I get a veto.”

“Done.” Amell replied.

“Very well, ask away.” The spider offered.

“What’s your real name?” He quickly asked.

“Veto.” She cruelly smirked. “My turn. Why’d you betray Queen Vias?”

“Wasting your Veto on that? Okay...” Amell laughed. He had taken an early lead in his little battle before a word had been spoken on his behalf. “I didn’t betray Vias.” Amell carefully answered. He knew this game, he had to answer carefully; lead her questions in a way he could handle.

“Ooh, intrigue?” The spider laughed. “Go ahead then, your turn.”

“Why risk your life waiting for an angel?” He asked.

“Because she made my heart beat.” The girl plainly answered.

“Romantic.” He laughed.

“My turn.” The girl energetically said, shedding the sincerity of her answer. “Why did you kill your men?”

“I watched dark flames fly, and my men cheer, and in my heart – I knew – I would never see paradise again. I saw the proud men fight for the woman who had taken everything from me, and I wanted to burn them all.” Amell grimly, though thoughtfully, answered.

“Damn.” The spider sighed. “What could Vias have taken from you?”

“Are you vampris?” He quickly asked again, not giving her time for thought.

“I’m a spider.” She laughed.

“Yes, or no.” Amell pressed.

“No...” She sighed. “But yes.”

“It’s one or the other.” He insisted.

“You are absolutely correct, yet the world does so hate absolutes.”

She wasn’t lying, though her answer wasn’t possible. To be half a vampris would simply result in an early grave. He thought on her words as he studied the deep sanguine pits of her eyes.

“Why come to Maester Veil? You’d be no safer here than I.” She asked.

“It came to me in a dream.” He answered.

“You need to be more specific than that!” She giggled.

“You were just as vague.” Amell insisted

“No, you simply didn’t understand my answer. It’s not the same.” She confidently said, sitting straight and closing herself off. He knew he was losing her again, so he conceded the point,

“Fine. I dreamt of a black mountain. She told me she needs help, so I came here, to help.” He reluctantly explained.

“The black mountains are to the south, darling. You’re half a world away.” The spider smiled. She came closer yet again and locked her eyes with his.

“I think the mountain was more a metaphor, at least... I hope so.” He chuckled.

“Would be a bit awkward. Your destiny calls for you, and you’re at the other end of the continent.” She joined his little laughter. “Fine, I accept that answer. Your turn, make it a good one.”

“Very well, tell me something I would want to know about you.” He said.

“I’m twenty-eight.” She laughed. “You take that secret to the grave, or I’ll bring the grave to you.” She ordered, mostly seriously.

“Damn, I’d have thought you were older.” He laughed.

She did not.

“I mean... A vampris can be any age!” He stammered under her bloody gaze. “You look much younger, I just assumed that to be a part of your condition!” Even a bead of sweat found his brow as he quickly scrambled for some appropriate appeasement.

“I was going to ask what your greatest mistake was,” she coldly sneered, “but now I know; I’ll settle with your second greatest.” The woman returned to her stitchwork as he considered an answer.

“I slept.” He quietly answered.

“That’s it?” She grunted. “An oaf like you must have done worse than that.”

“No crime can be so terrible.” He whispered. “It is a regret of the human condition; one you needn’t consider. For twenty years, I spent the night sleeping, when I wanted to be wide awake; admiring her.” The joy of the game left him. The question beat him, and victory was hers.

“Your wife?” The spider guessed.

“When she was alive, I never wanted to sleep because I’d miss her. Now that she’s gone; I never want to sleep because she’s always there.” Amell took a second at that. He nearly gasped back a tear, but it seemed determined to fall alone. He could offer it no partner on its journey; some vestige of the warrior held back the dam.

“My battles would take me across the world, my wars would keep me on my own; but I was never lonely. I always had the thought of her, waiting. In all my nights; I slept alone. In all my battles; I fought alone. But in all my love; I never once loved alone. Now I do. Now I am alone.” He dragged a shaky breath and steeled himself as he caught her sanguine gaze. “But then I dreamt of a mountain. It was the first dream I’ve had alone since she died. It was a dream of hope; purpose. That is why I am here; to climb my mountain.”

Neither spoke for a while. The girl allowed him his thoughts while she stitched away, and he didn’t disturb her focus. She wasn’t truly focused on the job, as she had been before. Half her mind clearly searched for some appropriate words. Her black lips even parted once or twice, as though the words were battling to spring forth. Her eyes danced across the deep blue cloak, never settling anywhere of note. She still hadn’t blinked. It made her look wounded, as though she lay in some ancient battlefield, not a squatter's tailor shop.

“You don’t blink.” He said after enough time had passed.

“Correct.” She simply replied.

“Is that a symptom of your condition?” Amell asked. He half expected some overly laconic answer, so he was only half disappointed.

“No.” She dreamily whispered.

“Then why not?”

“I counted how long I spend per day with my eyes closed.” She laughed. “It’s about two hours.”

“You didn’t want to waste the time?” Amell guessed.

“I’m immortal, I literally cannot waste time. No, I stopped blinking because there is too much beauty in this world to walk around with my eyes closed.” The spider looked at him as he laughed. “Here.” She offered out the cloak and he took it gladly.

“That was quick.” He laughed.

“Would have been a lot quicker with less interesting company.” She said.

“Well, how much do I owe you?” Amell asked.

“Me? Nothing.” She laughed. She rose a pale hand out to the clerk’s desk, and the logbook atop of it. “Though you might want to compensate the owner for his fabric.”

“Right.” He chuckled into himself, pulling free some bronze plates and leaving them on her workbench. “You’re sure you don’t want payment. I have plenty.”

“I don’t need money.” She said, gliding behind the clerk’s desk. “Good luck climbing your mountain.”

Amell shone her a warm smile as he donned the deep royal azure cloak atop his dented old armour. He buckled the pearly white chain across and placed his ancient helm over his equally ancient face.

“And good luck finding your angel.” He said with a knightly bow.

“I don’t think I will.” She sighed.

“No?”

“You’re right, the Veytors will find me before I can get to her. Wishful thinking was all that kept me here.” She groaned. “I think I just needed to be told off, get the idea out of my head.”

“So you plan on giving up?” Amell doubted. He noticed the tone in his own voice. It was how he spoke to his son when he risked disappointment.

“Not at all.” She said, careless of his tone. “Tell me, your mountain. She’s the Sparrow-Knight, isn’t she?”

“You know too much for your own good.” Amell sighed. “How do you know that?”

“The whole world seems to revolve around her. I can’t imagine anything less would drag you from your hiding.” The spider chuckled in a tone she hadn’t held in their prior conversation. She spoke less innocently, more like a true vampris. “Do me a favour, call it payment for the cloak.” She finally said, savouring every syllable.

“Very well?” Amell hesitantly offered. Her eyes sharpened at the thought of this Sparrow-Knight, for the first time; he noticed her fang. Only one, on the right of her mouth. The other, which ought to have been just as deadly, seemed terribly human. Not filed down, nor broken at the jut, but unmarred by her vampris biology.

“Tell her...” She considered, “tell her that her friend is proud of her. Tell her to kick some ass.”

----------------------------------------

It had been some hours since he had left the tailor shop when, at last, the grand port gate opened. A colossal marble arch faced south to the Temperate Expanse. The waves calmed as the magics gathered. There was no sight in the dark quite so marvellous, yet during the daylight, some of the beauty had been lost to the crimson sky. The golden wisps, sent from the far south, circled the arch as they convalesced their power after the vast journey. The first sounds of the city beyond trickled through the tiny golden parting. A parade had begun in the Conclave, though no great pageantry had found the Duke’s crossing at this short notice. The wisps gathered enough power within themselves to circle the great marble legs of the archway. They spiralled and bound between the historic trunks like drunken faeries. The first spark found the peak conductor, and the rest were soon sucked in behind. The final act came, and space found itself sundered within arch. To look behind the trunks would show naught but vast seas and grey clouds. To look within, though, would show a crystal empire. A city of pure elegance. A thousand trumpet playing men poured through the arch and greeted the simple Dukesmen. Magicians blew in overhead, carried on gusts of wind. Great beasts of iron flesh and ebony tusks dragged along a carriage with a hundred priests, mid prayer. Knights in gilded gold armour rode atop of pure white mares, carrying lances of play; not war. He watched a thousand young girls fawn and scream out for one knight in particular. A young lad, maybe twenty, with flowing black hair – near down to his arse – barely contained beneath a terribly designed helm. The ‘armour’ made sure to display his pretty young face in full. One meagre slash against the unprotected flesh would soon see an end to his popularity. He rode ahead of a strange pair. A young woman, red of hair and golden of eyes. He knew in the way she carried herself, and in the way the very air seemed to part before her, that this was the Champion of Gold. To her side, rode a much more disgruntled lad. He was closer to thirty, though not quite there yet. He wore light and agile armour and carried weapons of finesse and expertise. He had never seen the man but could hazard a guess at who it was. This must have been the fabled Champion of White. His deep-set black eyes contrasted his short cut white hair, but well matched his dark gaze. The boy was a killer, probably only there to protect the Golden Champion from herself.

She hopped from her beautiful mare and graced the ground with her heel. She wore much more practical clothing than the tales had led him to believe. They say she had a taste for the beautiful and excessive, though she wore a fairly simple outfit. A black pearl diadem seemed her only vice. He realised slowly that this scuffed golden band had begun a thousand wars and saved a million lives. ‘The Pale Crown’ it had been called in ages past. The god gear of the Golden Champion. It was so unassuming, almost too humble for the direct touch of the Goddess of Gold, the mother of Marash.

She took a young girl into her arms and laughed with the adoring crowd. She wasn’t basking in their admiration, but mirroring it. She seemed to return in full every joyous glance and every heartfelt admittance of adoration.

Amell nearly found himself swept up in it all, that was until the next group came through the gate, and everything seemed to grow much darker.

The Veytors came as an invading army. They marched in black leathers and grey cloth. They marched in absolute sync, each thousand footfalls sounded as one. They, in unison, sang their dark prayer to their just goden. Veytor, the lesser goden of truth; the patron of the inquisition. Each man, a zealot. Each blade, a blade of the gods. One army, one will; the eradication of the infidels, the intolerable, and the heretical. In other words, Amell Fielder.

“Who's that?” A woman asked to his side. She pointed out to a precession of Maester Veil’s own. Not nearly as grand, not nearly as ornate, but infinitely more important. A small army of crimson brigandine. Halberds and spears. At their head rode three bannermen, and three vanguards. He knew the woman at the left. Sasha, the bishop of steel. The one to declare his mountain as Champion. In the middle was a little man he didn’t know, though the man carried himself as a sergeant would. He rode his horse without pageantry or style, like a man who had rode one campaign too long. That could only leave his destiny to their right. A simple brow mare came into view, and two candidates for his mountain rode atop. One, the elder, wore strange armour. The likes, he had never seen. It belonged on no soldier for it covered no vitals. She seemed absolutely horrified at the vast crowd around her, could this have been the fresh legend?

Behind the clearly elder, sat – or more so slumped – the younger. White hair matted and tangled over the sleeping girl. If he didn’t know any better, Amell would have assumed her to be hung over. She clung one arm to the elder, and the other to a strange tome, almost as if it were her first born babe.

Amell made his way through the crowd. As much as he hated being so close to the Veytors, he needed to get a closer look at these supposed Champions. He hoped his new disguise, as well as his face plated helm, would keep his identity secret a little while longer.

At the fore of the crowd, he stood like a monstrous vanguard. It had been a long time since he had been so thoroughly surrounded by so many feverous chants and cries. It was not an experience he had missed, though it allowed him his inspection. The young girls were close enough to strike from here.

He knew from there, which of them must have been the Champion. It wasn’t by the way she held herself, like she of Gold, nor the warrior’s gaze like he of White; but by her marked flesh. A ghostly sparrow fluttered across her hand and over the deep purple gemstone that seemed a part of her being. He saw the dozen scars she bore with the pride of youth. He saw the fear in her amethyst eyes, and the blood she still hadn’t managed to purge from her icy hair. She rode without the reigns, a feat he couldn’t imagine in such a wild crowd. One hand held the shaft of her iron wood spear, the other clung to the thigh of she who must have been her younger sister by her looks. The two shared a face, and little else. The elder wrapped her arms in tattooed chains and beastly scars. The younger wrapped herself in fake silk and pretty jewels. The elder shaved the sides of her white mane, the younger let hers flow freely to her hips.

The bishop barked some orders at the duo, though the crowd precluded eavesdropping. He realised he would need some way of taking her attention, though it wouldn’t be easy from within the Conclave.

“I guess I'll see you soon, Sparrow.”