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3.3 Binding

Dorius was waiting for them at the wagon, his relief palpable when they both returned unharmed. Their tent had been pitched nearby during the day while Val worked, the bulls grazing on leads nearby.

“Watcher, this happens every day?” he asked.

Bastian shook his head, and sat off the back of the wagon joining Dorius.

“The caravans only leave every few days, when the pilgrims see them emerge at dawn they know the return will be slow that evening and choose that moment to press their pleas. I gather it has grown exponentially worse since mid-summer, many fear the coming winter,” explained Bastian. After setting their camp he had spent the day with the hunters to stay close to the mayor and gather what intelligence he could. “Normally, the folk from High Haven can slip in and out without much fuss. Plus, I think the pilgrims have no issue with them, it’s the Vigilant who appears to chaperone the caravan that attracts the most attention.”

Dorius drew his blanket tighter around his shoulders, deep in thought, “And they go to Kal’Fall? You think we could send a message with them next?”

Bastian nodded, “I think we could ask the mayor to pass along a note. I’d be cautious about drawing attention to yourself though. In particular, we do not know the snake’s goals.” He looked up at Val, “I’d feign a strain or something, keep close to camp and your axe on you.”

She nodded, and set about checking the tie downs on the tent.

Bastian seemed exhausted, “It’d be helpful if you shared what you know,” he asked Dorius.

“About the Vigilants or the Second?” asked Dorius.

“Both,” was Bastian’s curt reply.

Dorius considered for a moment. He turned a Phoenix Company badge in his hand as he began to speak.

“Let us consider the Vigilants first. They claim a god resting in the valley has been disturbed, but I suspect that is not what has caused the barring of the gate. Instead I propose it is the precipitating act - the breaking of the seal to their sacred valley. They are fanatics for their rules and ways of doing things. Maybe they have not caught the guilty party and have sealed the gate while they search. Hence, the Vigilant supervising the townsfolk who come and go, it is their compromise between ensuring the capture of their target and completely abandoning the pilgrims trapped outside.”

Bastian pondered this explanation, “They’ve not had much luck then, it has been months apparently.”

“I would guess the suspect has help on the inside then,” offered Dorius, although he tilted his head as another thought caught him, “Or maybe they escaped before the Vigilants could seal the gate.”

Bastian looked downcast, “Then this is wild-goose chase, they may never open the gate.”

“Not unless the transgressor is found, or they are convinced they never will be,” concluded Dorius, “they owe the pilgrims nothing, we will be at an impasse otherwise.”

“And the Prince?” asked Bastian.

Dorius tapped the Company sigil against the side of the wagon, “The Second’s presence here supports my previous speculation. Our working theory was that the Fourth and Second were preparing for some kind of confrontation, and the Mountain State was preemptively withdrawing. While the Mountain State’s actions may be unrelated, this certainly still supports happenings within the Second. A Prince seeking an audience with the Prime Vigilant implies a very important question. Citrine is high in the succession hierarchy, and we heard the Carmine was here before them. They must be desperate…” he trailed off, staring at the Phoenix icon as he pondered.

“There were Fae-touched, horned like me,” commented Val suddenly.

Dorius stirred from his thoughts to look at her, “Horns are not uncommon?” he asked.

Bastian shook his head, “No, she’s right. They matched almost like members of a species. Similar shape and height, although Val had more muscle on them.”

Dorius frowned, “Fae-touched usually do not exhibit patterns in their mutations, even when of similar parentage.”

“Is there some connection between Fae and the Vigil?” asked Val. She tightened a rope she was unsatisfied with on the tent, using the motion to hide her nerves.

Bastian tilted his head and narrowed golden eyes, studying her body language. Dorius blandly replied, “I am sure as supposed keepers of any old magic knowledge Fae-touched are drawn to the Vigil. The pilgrims and folk of High Haven seem unusually used to their presence at least.”

Val remained crouched.

“Val?” prompted Bastian, slight concern on the edge of his voice.

She sighed, and buried her head in her hands leaning on her knees.

“There is a buzzing in the air,” she finally admitted. Dorius grew tense, suddenly paying attention to her. “It sung in the back of my head, constantly. Like the sound of struck crystal, but after you can no longer hear the note and instead the memory of it lingers in your ear. Sometimes it is high pitched, and hurts. Other times it pushes me on, as if asking me to do things.”

Bastian rose to his feet, and crouched with her, “The bells?” he asked.

She nodded, “It was pleased when I helped clear the way for the caravans. And it grew strong when the Citrine Prince approached. I can still feel it.”

“Are you a danger to us?” asked Dorius, his tone commanding.

“Dorius!?” exclaimed Bastian.

“Val?” Dorius was firm, demanding an answer.

Val felt the fire within her still. It burned resolute where she faltered, sung true when she would hesitate. Locked deep, tucked away with fear and confusion and hazy memories of unexplained fires from her childhood. The leaders of the Company knew she had some remnant abilities, but only Dorius and Bastian had directly seen the music of the Vigil house’ organs, or the voice of young bards, call it uncontrolled from her.

Yet, so much of what she wished she could be was sheltered in that flame. It seemed to stand in defiance of everything she was always giving up and putting aside and whispered for her to serve herself alone. The buzzing that had been discordant and foreign had attuned to her now in resonating clarity. Pure chords, humming with gentle patience at her command. She could close her hand around them, still their reverberation with her touch. Or will them high and melodic if she wished.

She opened her palm, and ushered it gently, nervous at how it might swell in reaction to her. The fire within warmed to her, responding to her gentle touch with eager obedience. Within the cup of her palm, a tiny flame flickered - barely a spark - glowing a pure yellow. Just as easily, she gentled the music again, and closed her hand to extinguish the flame.

Bastian’s eyes were alight with joy, his mouth open and hands wide as if he was just barely restraining himself from drawing her into a hug. Dorius observed with a darker expression, tinted with hesitation and fear.

“I am in control,” Val asserted, opening her palm again to reveal the flame did not return. “I’d like to learn of other horned Fae-touched… if it’s alright.”

Bastian beamed and grasped her shoulder. Dorius frowned.

Bastian woke in the pre-dawn half-light and sat up in his cot silently. Dorius was asleep nearby, bundled in blankets as if the winter had already come, curled into the fetal position.

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He turned his head and spied Val, lying with her axe on the floor across the doorway of the tent, a cloak half draped on her as a blanket. She had bundled her actual blanket instead as a makeshift pillow to help support the weight of her horns. Her back was to them. Bastian studied her for a moment. Her skin had an ashen tone compared to humans, and numerous scars traced its surface in a pale white. Only the back of her shoulders and waist were uncovered, but there was no patch of her skin unmarked. The ashen tone complemented her black horns, they were matte naturally, but Bastian had seen her polishing them to a subtle gleam. The chip on her lower chin horn from weeks back now had almost grown out, the very tip marred from its shape still. Her hair was similarly black, he never saw her wear it out, instead it was always braided into thick platts and wrapped around her horns close to her head.

Bastian lowered his feet from his cot, and the movement was enough to disturb her. She rotated slightly, catching him with one grey eye. Bastian held a finger to his lips, and looked at Dorius meaningfully, then bent to put his boots on. Val caught his meaning, but remained watching him halfway from her guard at the door.

Boots on, and a cloak wrapped around his shoulders, he rose and stepped over her to exit. He held one palm flat towards her, then a two fingered gesture towards the door of the tent. Wait here. I’m going scouting. She gave him the barest of nods, her facial expression neutral. Val was exceptionally hard to read, even for him as long as he had known her. But Bastian had learnt during the years. The trick was to watch her horns, they telegraphed the slightest movements of her head that usually gave the clearest signals. This morning she appeared as if on a lazy guard to most onlookers, but the tells for her anxiety were there. Her hand was wrapped about the hilt of her axe, the muscles in her shoulders tense, and her eyes were distracted.

After a thought, he paused while straddled over her, and bent to retrieve some hard jerky from a pack tucked under the cots. She watched him, facial expression unchanging. He gave her a cheeky wink, and was rewarded with the slightest of exhaled breaths. Then he exited the shared tent.

Bastian stopped by the wagon first and uncovered his war bow. He frowned as he looked at it, the bow was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. That, coupled with his quiver of arrows fletched with talon stead feathers would give him away as no mere commoner. The pilgrims and inhabitants of High Haven did not seem the types to ask questions even if they saw something unusual. It was likely that many came with secrets, and those secrets were respected, so he deemed it safe enough. Working with the hunting parties seemed to be the best route to insider information, so he strapped on his harness so it could be worn on his back, and belted his quiver to his upper thigh with only a handful of arrows.

He trotted to the edge of the community first, and crouched against the wall to watch the guard at the Citrine Prince’s encampment. He counted the fell beasts grazing with the lone horse, and the soldiers he could see, and guessed the retinue only number twenty five, a half squad then. Next he watched the guard change with the dawn while chewing his jerky, and determined they operated similarly to the various colors of the Pentarch guards within the Fourth. He gazed up and down the wall and rubbed his chin in thought for a few minutes before moving on.

He went to the communal eating areas next. Several pilgrims were already awake, and were serving a porridge of wheat berries and dried fruits. Bastian took a bowl and joined some of the early risers, sitting at the end of a table to listen in on the discussion. The talk was mostly gossip, but what struck him as odd was how little discussion about resolving their situation he heard. The previous day had seen an overflowing of resentment and fear within the pilgrim community, but it seemed resigned now, almost forgotten. Instead, it was the typical gossip one might expect - complaints about a peer who slacked on their work, discussion of a handsome face and speculation on whether a move should be made.

A thought had been bothering him since they arrived, some members of this community had been camped here now for months. He understood why many did not leave - either they had exhausted their resources in the journey and had no other options but forward, or their cause was important enough to justify the wait. But why did the community not try harder to talk to the Vigilants or negotiate their situation? The outburst at the convoy had been like a child’s temper tantrum, but when the gates were fully open they had pulled back in defeat at the moment they should have pushed forward all the stronger.

He deposited his bowl with a tub of dirty dishes, and moved on to the morning labor meeting.

The hunters from High Haven were there again, lined up in Clara’s tent while Clara and Gail chatted and cleaned the board of names for a new day. Bastian waved to a hunter he recognized and came to join them to wait for the meeting to start.

“Your companion not here?” asked one hunter as he came to stand with them.

Bastian rubbed his nose, “My brother, no. He’s having a hard time with the cold, I left him to sleep in.”

The hunter raised an eyebrow, and Bastian pre-empted his question, “Different fathers,” he explained, “I know we look nothing alike.”

There was a teen boy with them as well, likely someone’s son. He had a lightweight bow with him and had a keen spark in his eye to be helping with the adult work.

“You were with the Laon yesterday!” said the boy, “Is she coming?”

The hunters also seemed curious. Bastian had not yet thought of how to handle this. The horned Fae they had seen yesterday were uncanny in their resemblance to Val, too much so for coincidence. He had always considered the possibility she was not a half-breed. The Fae-touched born to human parents typically had singular mutations about them, Val was unique among all Fae-touched he had ever seen. In comparison, wild Fae seemed more beast than human, their minds broken and raving, their appearance more like an animal with a touch of humanoid. Val was sane, and while quiet around almost anyone except Bastian and Dorius, she was very much thinking and feeling. And so a half-breed had been the best explanation.

Yet, Fae was also a catch all term for anything not human. Before the unrest there had been a wide variety of creatures that had shared the continent with humans - whether they had gone extinct, or retreated, or faded to shadows of their former selves with the old magics - it was unknown how many yet lingered. What if in the sacred valley of the Spine, where old magic and gods supposedly dwelled, a few of the ancient species remained?

Bastian decided to answer the question with a question of his own, it was a gamble but he wanted to see what reaction he got. “I saw two yesterday. Where did they come from?” he asked one of the older hunters.

The question did not seem to trigger any alarm bells and the hunter answered it without hesitation, “They have some agreement with the Vigilants. The soldier caste come down to guard the Chapel. Occasionally, they order them to help around the town as well. Yours is not from the Spine Clan?” he asked.

Bastian shook his head, “I do not think so. We met on the road, she travelled the same direction and joined my brother and I several weeks back. I thought she was just Fae-touched…”

The hunter seemed to be trying to remember something for a moment, “She had four horns, right? Not sure what caste that makes her. Might explain why she was on her own. She’s definitely a Laon, no doubt, looks just like the rest of them. Never seen a Fae-touched even close to that. Did you make some sort of agreement with her or another of her kind?”

Bastian’s mind raced, but he answered quickly before his hesitation could reveal too much, “Not that I am aware of. Why?”

The hunter shrugged and explained now it was apparent Bastian knew very little of the species, “The soldier and worker caste have two horns, they follow orders from higher up the clan or can be bonded in contract to serve others like the Vigilant’s have. If she’s on her own she must be of some other caste then, still odd to be alone, they’re a bit like ants - you never see them far from their colonies.”

Bastian nodded in understanding. The morning meeting started then, preventing further conversation, giving him a moment to gather his thoughts with these revelations.

His first thoughts were dark and desperate fear for his friend. What if Val had been bonded to them? What if they had inadvertently done something when the Company had picked her up as a child that had bound her against her will? Had they literally committed kidnapping from her own species rather than rescue a half-breed child like they thought?

Bastian had only been a toddler when Hart had bought her home. His parents and Hart had been close, so he regularly had the opportunity to play with her as kids. Some of his earliest memories had been splashing with her in the mud or mock battle with the other children. Other than the odd unexplained fire that started around her and was sushed up once the source was found, nothing had seemed that unusual about any of it. Dorius was only a little younger than them both, by the age of ten he remembered them as inseparable companions. Nothing seemed amiss about their childhood.

He raced through his memories for anything that might have seemed like a bonding or contract - and he found the obvious. Val had started taking Company contracts younger than he. They had all learnt to fight, they were company children, but by their mid-teens it was obvious something about Val was going to be very different from a normal Fae-touched. It felt like overnight she had grown tall and muscular, a second pair of horns now adorning her head. Through sheer strength alone, she was as valuable as several men. Had that first contract been a binding for her?

An anxiety grew in Bastian’s chest - was that the nature of her relationship with Dorius now? Rather than service through freewill or choice, was some aspect of her unable to to say no if she even wanted? He could never say it aloud or ask her, but he had concerns about the relationship she and Dorius shared. It was easy to dismiss it as jealousy, but something struck him as deeply unfair in how she so dutifully served, and how blind Dorius was to the toll it took on her.

Dorius was partially self-aware of how the demands of service strained them both, but not always, he had that born and bred arrogance of nobility after all. Bastian felt no shame in needling him back, calling him out when he was at his worst. But Val was by nature silent and stoic, and her service often extended to emotional guarding as well as physical. As a close onlooker it made Bastian uncomfortable how blurred the lines between master and friend seemed. He had even allowed himself to darkly speculate that there may be an aspect of lovers to their relationship, it was not a thought his rational mind gave much credence, but it was a thought he hated himself for being unable to shake. But, now he re-examined it with a fear that she may have even less agency that he thought she had, which deeply unsettled him.

Bastian almost missed his name being called as he wandered through his thoughts. He gestured in agreement that he would join the hunting party. For now, he stored this information to reflect on later and to determine what he would share with Dorius. This problem of the closed gate was primarily his. Dorius’ safety could not be risked this deep undercover, not with someone like the Citrine Prince in close proximity, highly limiting his movements. Dorius was also unable to blend with anything lower than the middle merchant classes, there was a hint of his imperious nature that could not be hidden. Val had her uses, and subtlety was not it. After the riot last night she was better staying close to Dorius even if the pilgrims could use her strength around the camp. They were not his priority. So Bastian would do one of the things he did best, and scout for now.