On the nineteenth day of the month of waning winter, Teren’s master was summoned before Halfbones.

True to his name, the legendary gravecaller’s face was split down the middle between a clean-shaven elderly man and a rotting corpse. An impressive display of deathcrafting to be sure, but Teren couldn’t for the life of him figure out the purpose of the spell.

“I’m not complaining, but don’t understand why they asked us,” said Rotwood. “There are five realms between Fendal and the Southrange, why isn’t Barym or Sun’s Shadow taking this one?”

Halfbones smiled. It was fake, exaggerated. He probably had to put in the work to make others not focus on his eyeless socket and rotting skull. The head was mostly bone while the neck down was more exposed muscle and hanging flesh. “That may be so, but we have two things those westerners don’t. A leygate in our city, and a working relationship with Guiding Breath.”

Teren followed closely behind his master and Halfbones, attentive but not overbearing. It was an overcast day with light winds rustling gently through the leaves. Here at the old heart of Decidual the trees were scarce, aside from the few remaining ancestor palms that were too ingrained in the city's architecture to remove safely. Much of the ancient buildings that had made up the old heart had been created through woodwhispering, and even now you could see hints of that expertise creeping back into the foundations of the newer mud and stone. It gave the feeling that the forest was waiting for the right chance to swallow up the city and reclaim the land taken by civilization.

The three of them were walking down the riverfront, watching sailors from all across the Sainted Lands unload their wares. The ships were as varied as the goods and people they carried, with everything from Istali sailships with their triple masts, to Barym banka boats with their side-by-side canoes. Most common were the reefvessels of the Cicada Islands, shallow things with small sails and thatched roof houses. Sailors lounged about the wooden docks, smoking tobacco from long thin pipes. Those who didn’t have pipe in their hands surely had a leaf in their mouth. Teren watched as a figure with streaks of blue face paint stood on the bow of a sailship with his hand outstretched. The sailship was moving unnaturally fast against the current, backing into an unoccupied space where line handlers and a dockmaster waited. Traffic had spiked since the appearance of the leygate, and the Guild of Currents was busy at work bringing boats upstream. Not an easy task when the river was running hot, as it tended to during these rainy months. Often as a child Teren had wished that the great tropical forest that surrounded his city and encompassed so much of the realm of Fendal was a bit less hot, a bit less humid, and a lot less rainy. He used to dream of seeing snow instead of rain. Nowadays it seemed he only dreamed about death.

On the topic of death, Teren picked up that they weren’t alone. There was a sharp scent in the air. Hard to explain what the smell was like, but it hurt his nose. This smell had come and gone seemingly at random ever since he could remember. When he was a kid Teren believed that he was smelling nothingness, the smell of the absence of smell. Now he knew the truth. It was the stench of a powerful spirit, strong enough to leave an imprint in the lands of the living. This smell here was probably the entourage of dead advisers who trailed Halfbones at all times. Still, not knowing for sure made him anxious.

“A working relationship…?” Rotwood murmured. His face brightened as it dawned on him. “Farstrider? She’s coming with us?”

Teren couldn’t help grinning himself. Farstrider was a lifeguider of Guiding Breath, and a woman Rotwood was obsessed with. Better yet, her apprentice was a good friend of his.

Rotwood howled, wrapping a grumbling Halfbones in a big hug. “Bones, you old dog! You got Strider and me a mission to the Southrange?”

Halfbones grunted, squirming out of Rotwood’s grasp. “Don’t get so worked up, this is a serious job. The Feather Prince of Merdz has personally requested a lifeguider and a gravecaller to participate in some festival. Don’t know exactly what sort of celebration it is, but I do know that a prince is a good friend to have. Better pack your bags.” Halfbones looked at Teren for the first time that morning. “You too, welp. This’ll be your chance to make a name for yourself.”

Teren bowed. “I won’t waste the opportunity.”

…

That evening Rotwood and Teren got beds at the All Roads Inn, a newer establishment that had sprung up as a part of the town center that had formed around the leygate. It was a nice inn by Fendali standards, and by Fendali standards that meant it served drinks and kept the rain out. The inn was dimly lit with a half dozen candles, doing little to keep the darkness out of the corners of the room. The innkeeper stood behind a counter near the back, barring entry to the kitchen and keeping an eye on the stairs leading to the rest hall. Unlike most Fendali establishments, this inn had separate tables rather than long benches, probably an accommodation to keep the diverse crowd brought through the leygate from killing each other. There were even a few seats at the innkeeper’s counter. Maybe for solo travelers who wished to make small talk with someone? Teren glanced at the scowling face of the man behind the counter and decided that couldn’t be right.

They sat in the main room waiting for Farstrider to show, at one of the few tables with a candle of its own. There was a small group of Swampreachers at the table next to them, laughing hysterically at a story involving a beastbonder, a horse, and an Iaric noblewoman. The other table closest to their own was taken by a hooded man with darting eyes and his pet snake, a red creature with a black head about two forearms in length. Already another party of Cicada Islanders had turned in for the night, making their way upstairs. Teren kept his pack under the shoddy wooden table instead of the chest provided along with his bed, just in case.

Rotwood sipped his red tea. Out of all the men in the inn, he might stand out the most. A clean-shaven head that went against Fendali fashion, bone jewelry in his ears, and a ragged and filthy coat to complete the look. “So Teren. How much do you know about the Southrange?”

Teren thought about it through the haze of two ales. “Well, let’s see. The Southrange is to the west of the Sainted Lands, bordering Sun’s Shadow and Barym. It was the last territory the Half-World Nobles conquered, but also the first to rebel.

“First to successfully rebel,” Rotwood interjected.

“Right. Anyways, the Southrange used to be pretty much impassable. But the leygates have brought in a lot more trade.”

Rotwood nodded. “That’s what we need to worry about. Southrangers are one thing, but the Westerners passing through are another. We really don’t know a thing about Tixjin and the Bridgelands, but odds are that they aren’t going to want to deal with inheritors of the Half-World Nation.”

Teren grunted. “True enough.” He took another sip of his ale and spotted a familiar face entering the inn. A short-haired woman with a stern expression and covered in the maroon bandage wrappings of Guiding Breath. He grinned. “Don’t look now Rot, but company’s here.”

Rotwood returned the grin and then prepared himself. Just as the woman was coming up behind him, he spoke in a comically grave tone. “Farstrider. It’s been a while.”

“Hello, Rotwood.” She slung her pack under the table and sat between the two of them. “Teren, watch out.”

“What?”

Two hands grabbed Teren’s sides and pinched hard. He yelped and jumped out of his chair, whirling around to find a familiar face laughing at him.

“Not funny, Ronic!”

“A little funny?” asked his friend.

“No.” Teren punched the apprentice lifeguider’s shoulder. “Good to see you though. Almost didn’t recognize you with all that muscle.”

There was a younger boy standing behind Ronic. Noticeably shorter and with lighter skin than most Fendali, Teren guessed he wasn’t local.

Farstrider nodded to the boy. “Rotwood and Teren, meet my second apprentice.”

The boy stepped up, nodding to both of them. “Uh, hello. I’m Baltry Ythcralt, of West Cicada.”

Rotwood raised an eyebrow. “Two at once? Didn’t know you were so charitable.”

“I’m not. And it won’t be two for long at the rate Ronic’s progressing.”

“Damn right,” said Ronic. “I’m actually hoping to get a title during this trip.”

“That’s fantastic!” Rotwood poured a cup of red tea for Farstrider. “I think Teren might get his too.”

Farstrider ignored the cup and passed some slivers to Ronic. “Get three beds and send me some food.” She passed her bag over to Baltry. “And you go with him while I talk to Rotwood.”

Rotwood cleared his throat. “You know what Teren, maybe you should grab another ale for yourself. And get me some food while you’re at it.” He began looking for slivers in the many pockets of his unwashed coat. “Your drinks are on me, just have to… find…”

Teren stood up. “Don’t be ridiculous, Master. It’s my treat. Just watch my bag.”

The three apprentices left the two masters to discuss their business. Ronic and Baltry paid for their beds and put their bags upstairs while Teren waited at the bar. He sniffed the air and frowned.

The innkeeper behind the counter was a middle-aged skinswitcher with owl eyes and a beard of feathers. Occupied with cleaning, he didn’t acknowledge Teren’s presence. “Excuse me. Can I get some food sent to that table behind me? With the lifeguider woman and gravecaller man?”

The man grunted and kept on wiping off the cup in his hands. Teren noticed that his fingers ended in talons. “Didn’t know he belonged to the Order of Remains. Thought those boys had a uniform.”

They did, and Rotwood rarely wore it. He had more enemies than most, even for one who practiced deathcraft. “Add three ales to that, but I’ll take them here.”

“Thanks, brother,” said Baltry from right behind him. “I got next round.”

“That’s twice now you’ve snuck up on me,” muttered Teren. “Feel like explaining?”

“What’s there to explain?” Baltry hopped gleefully onto the stool next to him. “I’m a stealthy bastard.”

“No, you’re not. I’m stealthy. You’re a rabid fox in a chicken coop, and you always have been. I was watching that door and I saw Farstrider walk in, but not you. How’d you do that?”

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A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “So you didn’t see Baltry either?”

“Talk.”

Ronic leaned back on just stool, looking pleased with himself. “It’s a spell I’ve been working on. You ever sense a person before you see them? Feel eyes staring at you? That’s the web of life. Something our senses can’t exactly perceive, but it’s still there. Just as real as your land of the dead!”

Teren frowned. “The fading world is the reverse of our world. Are you saying that you’ve tapped into something else?”

“Not me alone, lifeguiders have been peeking into this web for years. Maybe this world isn’t the reverse of the fading world, maybe this world is the world at the center, with the fading world on one side and this web of life on the other. I don’t know, and I don’t care too much. But that web connects life. So I decided to see what would happen if I blocked myself off from it.” He paused dramatically. The innkeeper brought over three ales, and Ronic took a sip from one. The dramatic pause continued.

“Well?”

“I blocked that connection. Couldn’t keep it blocked though, it was something I had to focus on. And when I focused, people stopped noticing me. Like I wasn’t even there. Well, not entirely. If I walked right in front of you or hummed a tune you’d notice me. But when I wear dark colors, stick to the shadows? Teren, I walked in right behind Farstrider. Baltry too, but I had put the spell on him as well. He was supposed to pinch you after I had actually, but I guess I lost concentration.”

Teren whistled. “Incredible. You don’t need a mission to earn a title, this is more than enough!”

“Farstrider agrees. But if she titles me now, then I don’t get to see the Southrange.” He looked around carefully before lowering his voice. “And Baltry’s great, really. But he’s a bit too new to be backing her up on a trip beyond the Sainted Lands.”

Baltry himself came down the stairs that very moment. He seemed on edge as he looked around the bar.

“Not a local, is he?”

“No, he’s only been in Fendal for about a month. Kid lived in West Cicada his entire life until he accidently used lifebreathing to keep a hanged man from dying.”

Baltry spotted them and walked over, awkwardly sliding into the seat next to Ronic.

Teren passed him an ale. “Hear you’re new. What road did you take to Decidual?”

“Uh, well I started in Shereo and went across Jaw to Beldise. And then I got on a ship that was supposed to get me across the water and along the coastline, all the way up the river to Decidual. But the ship got attacked by Reefborn, so we ended up in Drifton.”

“Reefborn on the south coast?” Teren shook his head and finished off his drink. “They’re just getting bolder and bolder.”

“Something’ll have to be done about them,” Ronic agreed. “Go on, Baltry.” He took a more serious tone when talking to his junior. Guess he was already beginning to think of himself as a full-fledged Lifeguider.

“So, um… I stayed in Drifton for a while, and it looked like my father was going to send someone to come and get me. But Farstrider came and got me, brought me back to Decidual.”

“Why didn’t you just train with a Lifeguider in the islands?”

He shifted in his seat. “My mother wanted me to see the world. Get some experience.”

“Seems like there’d be plenty of that in the islands.”

Baltry shrugged. “Reefborn don’t have much of a problem with West Cicada. We share a lot of blood with them.”

Ronic glanced at their masters. “Don’t look now, but those two are going at it.”

Teren sighed. “What’s new?” He didn’t understand what sort of relationship those two had. Rotwood enjoyed her company very much, a sentiment Farstrider never seemed to reciprocate. But at the end of the day, Rotwood was competent, strong, and loyal to the Twelve Paths. He got the sense that Farstrider was loyal too, in her own way. She was a solitary individual, never one to get involved with the politics between the paths. Rotwood actually might be the only other Practitioner she got along with.

“So I guess you two know each other?” asked Baltry.

Ronic laughed. “We grew up together! As kids Teren and I used to run with the West End Hounds, a group of bandits that used to be big in these parts. Teren found his path early on, he used to use deathcrafting to scare the city senseless.”

“True enough. I’m responsible for most things that go bump in the night in Fendal. The Headless Howler, the Bloated Bride, Old Man Whispers? All me.”

“Don’t forget the Man in the Woods. That one gave me night terrors and I even helped you set it up!” The two of them cackled, drawing glances from the other patrons.

Teren sighed wistfully. “Good times. And then not long after that, Ronic was using lifebreathing to give the whole crew heightened speed and strength. Pretty decent healer too. I suppose that’s when the cat got out of the bag.”

“Yep. The Twelve Paths came in, told us it was either join up or get out.”

“Exile? Really?” asked Baltry.

“Of course.” Teren lowered his voice. “The saints may overlook a stonebreaker who becomes a mason, or a woodwhisperer who chooses gardening over a life serving with the Knights of the Petal. But life and death are a step above the rest. We don’t get free reign.”

“Granted,” mumbled Ronic through a mouthful of buttered bread and onion, “S’not a bad life. A lot of honor to be found following the Twelve Paths.”

“And money.”

“Yes, Teren, and money.”

“And girls?” suggested Baltry.

Teren frowned. “Not for gravecallers. Pretty women tend to keep their distance from those who keep company with the dead.”

“Chin up, Ter.” Ronic signaled for another round. “You could always bed a corpse if nothing else works out.”

Farstrider appeared behind them. “Don’t even joke about that. Far more common than you’d think.” She glanced disapprovingly at the array of empty tankards littering the bar. “How many pints have you had tonight?”

“Barely four,” lied Teren.

“Same for me.” Ronic nodded to Baltry. “Blame the newblood. Those islanders know how to throw 'em back!”

Baltry began to protest but was cut off by Farstrider. “Back to the table with you lot, there’s business to discuss.”

Once the group had gathered, Rotwood revealed a thin scroll from the folds of his ragged coat. He spread it on the table, revealing the illegible handwriting of Halfbones. “Okay, we’ve booked passage through the leygate. We take the night ley up to Istal, then the wood ley twice through Sun’s Shadow, and finally the water ley into the Southrange. We’ll end up in Merdz, the crater city. On arrival, someone will be there to lead us to the Feathered Prince. Questions?”

“A few,” said Ronic. “Who’s this Feathered Prince?”

“First in line for the mountain throne,” said Farstrider. “Or second, depending on whether or not you support the Queen’s claim. It’s a complicated and volatile situation that we’ll be steering well clear of.”

“And why does he need you and Rotwood?”

“Rotwood and I are going to take part in some sort of celebration, nothing to it. Perform some street magic, shake some hands, rub elbows with royalty. Couldn’t be simpler.”

“Well, there are some dangers,” interjected Rotwood. He leaned forward in his chair, making eye contact with everyone. “The Southrange is merciless. The air is hard to swallow, the people are rough, and the weather cold. Worse than that, there’s going to be a lot of ill will towards us there. The Southrange was the first to leave the Half-World Nation, and they’ve always been salty bastards about it. They really don’t care for Saintlanders.”

“Nor do they have any love for Practitioners of the Twelve Paths,” said Farstrider.

Baltry half-heartedly raised his hand. “Why not?”

“They believe we’re possessed by dark spirits.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Also,” said Rotwood. “You’re going to feel drained, weak, tired. This is a result of the mountain air, hard to breathe for outsiders. Some theorize this is caused by an ancient galecasting curse. The higher you go, the worse it gets.”

The group discussed their plans for a while longer before the two masters stood up. We’re getting an early start,” said Rotwood. It’s fun catching up with friends, but don’t stay up too late. You’ll need the rest.”

Baltry got up. “I’m heading up too.”

Ronic stretched. “Guess I’ll call it a night. Let me just pay the tab.”

“I got this one,” said Teren. “Thinking I’ll be staying up a bit anyways.”

Rotwood gave him a look but didn’t comment. The four of them made their way upstairs, leaving him alone at the table. But not as alone as he should have been.

As the crowd dwindled and the night grew long, Teren moved to a table in a dark corner of the inn. There, he began to perform his deathcraft.

It began as a prickling sensation running up and down his back. The scenery around him grew hazy. The warm lights and pleasant smells of the All Roads Inn dulled as Teren half-stepped into Aren Fultas, the fading world.

The ghost of an attractive woman was sitting next to him. Her wool vest and trousers were foreign, as were her features. Brown hair was uncommon in the Greenreach, suggesting she came from one of the border realms. Maybe farther. Female fashion in most of the Sainted Lands was to have their hair worn up or cut short, while this woman had long braids. That didn’t mean much, however, as the dead didn’t keep up with the trends. Her spirit was a perfectly maintained image of a living woman, a stark and impressive contrast to most of the ghoulish forms that roamed the fading world.

“I’ve sensed you clinging about all day. State your business and depart from my presence.” A formal tone worked best with the dead. Made them feel important. “Lest I cast your spirit into the void.”

She smiled and leaned in closer as if sharing a secret. “Little apprentice. I believe you have the power to back up such a threat, yet not the malice.”

A drunken laugh escaped. “You’d be shocked. I’ve expelled more than my fair share of spirits.” He leaned in just as close as she did, their eyes now a hand-width apart. “You think I have any qualms sending you into the beyond?”

“Hmm. The Order of the Remains teaches that compassion is the trait required to walk death’s path.”

“And what would you know of the Order?”

The woman laughed. “What would I know?” Her vest flickered, becoming a purple robe with a red shawl, cape, and pointed hood, tied snugly at the waist with a simple rope. The attire of a Gravecaller. “I helped build it.”

Teren was taken back. Even after death, a member of the Order commanded respect. He got out of his seat and knelt; head bowed. He ignored the look the innkeeper and other hazy patrons gave him. “My deepest apologies,” he muttered. “I didn’t realize who I was speaking with.”

“It shouldn’t matter,” she said sternly, putting ghostly fingers under his chin, raising his gaze to meet hers. “Everyone is equal in death. If you’re going to live this life, walk this path, you must treat the dead with respect.” A smile returned to her face. “And you can start by getting off your knee and having a drink with me.”

Still embarrassed, he reluctantly got up. “Never met a spirit who could drink, Master…?”

“Spellhaunt.” She whispered something under her breath, tracing a finger across the table. Spirit residue was left behind, a faint green smoking trail on the table. The smoke coalesced into a cup of wine with something floating in it, and a plate of foreign-looking food. She took a sip from the cup and sighed wistfully. “A fond memory of mine. This meal was served to me in the land of Trigap, at the coronation of the Rain Emperor. Plum wine, pickled cabbage, and whale with a pepper sauce. The whale was slightly mixmade with salmon and pheasant.” She offered him the cup. “Try some?”

Teren took it hesitantly, thinking it might slip through his hand. But The construct was solid, if not terribly firm. He got the impression the wine was one hard squeeze away from becoming a wisp of spirit smoke. He sipped lightly from the cup and realized the object in the plum wine was a plum itself. The liquid seemed to evaporate in his mouth. “Very sweet,” said Teren, and as he did so he burped a small puff of spirit smoke. He set the cup on the table. “Very sweet indeed. By the way, exactly which Rain Emperor’s coronation did you attend?”

“You should know better than to pry into a lady’s age.” She placed some of the red cabbage on top of a piece of whale-salmon-pheasant. Spellhaunt held it out in front of his mouth, staring intently at him. “Now say aah.”

Reluctantly, Teren opened his mouth. Heat rose to his cheeks as she placed the food right on his tongue. The smell of the cabbage was unpleasant, but the spicy and sour taste was bearable. The mixmade meat had a wild taste to it, fatty and gamey all at once. He managed to swallow it all before it could evaporate. A warm and pleasant feeling spread all throughout his body. “Did I just eat a memory?”

“Eating is a strong word. You’ll get no sustenance from that trick.”

“Even so, you have to show me how that’s done!”

“I’ll consider once you’ve shown me some more of your character. Memory conjuration is quite addictive, and a young man such as yourself has better things to do than live in the past.”

“Shown you more of my character? I don’t follow.”

“No, I’ll be the one following. Halfbones asked me to watch over the two of you.”

“Really? What for?”

“No reason in particular. He has his fair share of dead gravecallers hanging about him, looking for a chance to be useful. But I also like to think he cares about your master and doesn’t want him getting hurt.”

Teren snorted. “Yeah, sure. More like he doesn’t trust us.”

“Well whatever the case, Halfbones asked me to keep out of sight. And I wasn’t going to reveal myself, but…” Spellhaunt cocked her head to the side. “You sensed my presence. When you most definitely shouldn’t have.”

“I have a nose for trouble.”

Spellhaunt’s robes faded back to the more casual wool attire. She struck a pose and batted her eyes. “It’s been ages since a man has accused me of being trouble.”

“Are we talking the third age or the second?”

She laughed, flicking a ghostly piece of cabbage at him. It exploded into smoke. “No, no, I was born in the fourth. But that’s all you’re getting out of me!”

Hopefully not. “So Spellhaunt. What do I have to do to get you to teach me some deathcrafting?”

She tapped a finger to her lips, deep in thought. “Well… I’m not opposed to the idea. I’d love to have some impact on the living world once again. I’ll tell you what, Teren. I’ll pass on some tips as long as you don’t let the others know about me. I’m already stepping on Rotwood’s toes by trailing you two, and I certainly wouldn’t want him to think his teaching wasn’t good enough on its own.”

“No, of course not.” He took another sip of the plum wine and winced. The sourness was noticeably stronger.

Spellhaunt noticed his expression and laughed. “The more of it you drink, the realer it becomes. It’ll take some getting used to.”

A fitting drink to match this partnership.