Everything felt rushed the next day. Tristan had slept later than he’d hoped. It was Tuln day. The tax collector, Sir Crowley Begg, would be here by noon. Crowley and Tristan had become accustomed to seeing each other before Crowley left with his heavily armed, heavily guarded carriage of silver and gold tax. Tristan rarely saw the carriage, only three accompanying knights who would sling their packs, cloaks, and weapons to the grass at the top of Twin Hill and lay on their backs, gazing up at the light blue sky with its fluffy clouds.

Tristan figured he may have two hours, perhaps less. Beyond that, Crowlet Begg would at his front door demanding the high tax. Of course, the tax was no issue now. Dalko saw to it that Tristan was compensated well for his jobs. He had completed a few risky jobs recently, including stealing a piece of parchment from a forgery that detailed a weapons order that was being placed by a nearby outpost that was garrisoned by Knights of Windem. He had nearly been caught but Tristan was gone like the wind by the time that blacksmith who was hammering his sword had lifted his welding mask and turned to try and catch a glimpse of the blur that was swept past. He shrugged, returning to his work.

Tristan hurried on his way, tugging his boots on as he stumbled out the door. He nearly fell face first into the door as he went.

“What’s wrong sweet boy?” asked Mildred.

“Nothing’s wrong, Ma. I’m late!” replied Tristan over his shoulder.

“Late for what?”

“Work.” Tristan was gone. He had his sword in its scabbard over his back with his cloak over top of that. He left his spear that Bodry had given him in the yard leaned up against a trunk. Only in Sesten could you leave your valuables outside without fear of losing them. The only thing Tristan feared in Sesten was Dalko and his men, but they were on his side.

He figured he ought to name his spear, since he had already named his sword Drakiler, the Drakonstone killer. He pursed his lips, shaking his head. The name will come, he thought. The next thing he wished to acquire with his stockpile of wealth was a horse. A warrior without a horse was no warrior. He couldn’t travel anywhere within one day farther than fifteen miles, and that was pushing it. As it was, traveling two miles to downtown Sesten was already becoming a chore. If he wanted to buy a horse, though, he’d have to travel all over rural Sesten where the land was open and farmers kept stables of horses for folk just like Tristan. There was a whole trade to it, Tristan had learned.

Tristan had settled himself down inside Arithea’s Meads, the same place he had seen the spy follow him last. He’d been sitting inside for nearly an hour before he started to become anxious about running out of time. He had to make sure the spy was there, ensure he was being followed, and then also lead the spy all the way to the compound without the spy becoming suspicious and leaving with a full report. Dalko had no intention of letting the spy survive. He would question him, Tristan knew. Dalko wanted to know what the Crown was thinking at all times. That’s what Tristan had been for.

Tristan had recently learned part of the reason for him being the one to go into town. Dalko and his inner circle were part of a creed. They were not to wear garb other than their rock-colored gray cloaks. It was how the identified each other from afar. Dalko was fiercely loyal to the creed that had raised him from a boy into a man, and he would not depart from those ways. It made Tristan wonder whether Dalko was under some sort of spell. Perhaps it was a contract he was bound to. Tristan was not sure. Dalko made decisions that seemed to stem from compulsion at times, but perhaps that was just his convictions.

According to a local who was speaking with the bartender, Tristan learned it was noon. He rose from his chair, prepared to head back to Twin Hills until Crowley’s visit had blown by. Just as he was halfway to the door, a familiar figure emerged into the tavern. It was the spy. He was wearing the same dark cloak and high-knee boots as the day prior. He had dark, searching eyes and his nose seemed to wag up and down as if he were always sniffing something. His eyes were darting around the tavern, seeming to graze over details but not fully focus on any one particular thing. Tristan sat abruptly, trying to appear casual and comfortable as if he’d been in that seat for hours. A couple of patrons eyed him oddly, then turned their attention to the newcomer–the spy.

Tristan waited thirty minutes, at which point he could no longer sit still. He didn’t see why the spy would not follow him if he left. After all, the spy had no way of knowing how long he’d been at Arithea’s Meads. He chanced a quick glance in the spy’s direction. The spy sat cross legged with his back to the wall. Most of his body was cast in shadow. His hood was large and it swallowed most of his face in shadow. It looked like he was staring directly at Tristan, but he could not tell.

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Suddenly, Tristan felt his heart begin to race. Was this a spy or an assassin? He felt sheepish for fearing the cloaked spy. He had evaded him a couple times already. The spy never came too close, but it had been to his detriment. Tristan had gotten away. Perhaps that is what had Tristan feeling anxious. Could this be the time that the spy decided Tristan would not get away? He wondered what was at the spy’s hip beneath that cloak…daggers? A sword? Or, perhaps he had a quiver of arrows across his back but he concealed it beneath his cloak, like Tristan did with his own sword Drakiler.

The sun’s glow was warm despite the winter’s chill. Lately, as soon as the sun had descended the temperatures had dropped significantly. Tristan darted out on the old yellow road. He walked briskly, but not too quickly. If the spy lost his trail, then he’d never be able to lead him into Dalko’s trap. He needed the spy to feel like he had the upper hand.

He glanced over his right shoulder. A blur of moment caught his eye. He turned his head. Someone had certainly been there–fifty yards away. He saw a head slowly peek around the side of a building. There you are, thought Tristan. The spy had slid between two buildings that were so close they formed an alleyway as wide as Tristan’s shoulders. Terrible spy, thought Tristan. Terrible spy, but then again–do you care that I know you’re there? Are you an assassin? A hired blade? Mercenary? Tristan shook the thoughts from his head. If he kept on his normal route to Dalko’s compound, the man would follow without getting too close. He wasn’t trying to catch Tristan, only find out what he was up to.

As Tristan left downtown Sesten and traveled through the wooded forest, he felt his heart racing and his breathing coming in ragged gasps. This was a spy…the king’s spy. What if he reported to Bodry? He also wondered whether Crowley had come to his Ma’s house yet to collect tax. He’d likely assume Tristan had simply forgotten the day and the time…young men like Tristan were active–always hunting, dealing, or scavenging for something. He’d be frustrated, but he’d understand, thought Tristan. He’d left a pouch of coins by the door just in case. He knew Crowley would approach the door and give a firm knock if he didn’t see Tristan outside. He’d surely find the payment, give a contented sigh, and then return to his horse and gallop up the hill to join his three comrades. The thought calmed Tristan as he lept over two fallen tree trunks and side stepped around a twisting, hanging branch. Thorns and thistles came dangerously close to his face. He could hear leaves and twigs snapping behind him. The spy had followed Tristan farther into the woods than he ever had before.

Tristan smiled to himself, thinking of the pride that the spy was surely feeling at that moment. You haven’t got me yet. This isn’t what you think it is. Part of Tristan wanted to turn and face the man, withdrawing Drakiler and showing him that he wasn’t to be crossed. In fact, he hated this pursuit. It went against everything his brain was telling him. He could slash and jab with his sword, and put his strong arms to use. That was the youth in Tristan thinking. He reconsidered that thought. This was a Spy of the King–maiming or killing a King’s Spy would be a troublesome situation if it were ever found out. Or worse, Tristan was bested and the Spy dragged him back to Sesten to be held until Bodry or some other king’s official could come and deal with him.

Tristan arrived at the top of the wooded hill that overlooked the steep drop to where the compound sat down below. It appeared deserted. Tristan’s first thought was that he’d been betrayed. There had been over one hundred and fifty Denderrikans, mixed in which a few Solarians and Brantish, of course. Now there were none. It was silent. Eerily silent. The footsteps softened behind him. Tristan turned, pretending to be startled by the presence of someone following him.

“Stop there. That’ll be enough running from you,” said the spy. Tristan saw those darting, uneasy eyes look him over. The spy withdrew a dual set of daggers from either hip. Tristan was surprised to realize his assumption back at the tavern had been right.

Tristan paused, wondering when the trap would be laid. He wondered if he really had been fouled. Had the Denderrikans used me to drag him out of Sesten, whilst also disposing of me? There was no time to think about anything else. There was nowhere to go, unless he slid down the steep wooded hill like Loren always did with him. The spy was simply follow him, but he’d have places to hide and evade the spy down at the compound. He considered making for the attic that was upstairs inside the lodge.

Before Tristan had to make a decision, one was made for him. Two Denderrikans plopped to the ground from a tree on either side of the spy. He gave a sharp yell, holding a dagger pointed at either man. The Denderrikans both held short swords. They batted the daggers out of his hands with their blades, making the spy appear juvenile and weak.

“Well done, Sword Maker,” said a familiar voice. One of the Denderrikans removed a hood, revealing the face of Loren. The other Denderrikan was broad-shouldered with a sulky face. His hair was blond and grizzly. His beard was cut jagged, and more gray than blond. Tristan figured he was one of the more senior Denderrikans of Dalko’s group.

“I’m not here to start any trouble. Only to discover who this mysterious man is,” said the spy, gesturing at Tristan.

“Don’t worry about him. Let’s talk about you.” The grizzly Denderrikan prodded the pommel of the spy’s fallen dagger into his back, leading him toward the compound below.

Dalko emerged from the lodge, hands behind his back as he slowly sauntered out into the clearing. Two men followed behind, dark looks spread over their face. Dalko’s face was neutral.

“Bring him down,” said Dalko firmly. His tone almost sounded…annoyed. His voice carried despite his calm manner. “I’ve got no patience for spies.”