The world spun one last time, and Teren found himself disoriented. The sun was lower in the sky than it was in Papanuy, and there was a chill in the air.

The city of Merdz was the largest settlement in all of the Southrange, not that that was saying much. Built in the crater of a colossal volcano corpse, the city was surrounded by natural walls of volcanic rock, built up higher by a distant fortress wall that spanned the entire rim. Mountains loomed beyond the rim of the crater, casting the city into shadow. They were larger than any he had seen before, surrounding the crater city like a second horizon. “Saints..!”

“The Southrange, in all her glory,” murmured Rotwood.

“I had seen it before,” said Quickstrider. “But from Barym, out on the horizon.”

This leygate was on a raised wooden platform in the middle of the busiest street market Teren had ever seen. The people below bustled about, shouting their wares and trades. And what a crowd! The Southrangers themselves were beyond count, and looking into the masses Teren saw a variety of travelers from the Sainted Lands and beyond. He recognized some from the lands of Tantrov and Guragull, but for the most part the foreigners were a mystery to him.

Two men stood in front of them, wearing ragged brown robes. Gaunt and dark of skin, each bore a brand on their clean-shaven heads. One was three wavy lines, the other a circle.

Circle Brand smiled and bowed. “Travelers from Sainted Realms! Welcome to Merdz, Crater City. Heart of Mountains! Lonely Kingdom.” His accent was thick, and his sainted tongue poor.

Rotwood pulled a slightly damp scroll out of his jacket. “Curious titles.” He handed the scroll to Wavy Brand. “We are here as guests of, ah, Prince Dirjir Pajirhut? At least I think that’s how it’s pronounced.

Wavy Brand read the scroll, nodded in approval, and motioned for someone in the crowd. A child scrambled up to the robed men, bowing nervously. He was a thin boy dressed in rags. Wavy brand spoke harshly to him in a foreign tongue, snapping his fingers and pointing to a building close by. The child scampered away.

Circle Brand smiled at them, a mouth full of foul teeth on full display. “My friends, we will fetch a man to bring you to Prince Dirjir. In meantime you enjoy market! Sainted coin will work just fine.

Rotwood bowed. “Many thanks.” He began walking down the platform, then paused and looked back. “Your heads are shaven. That the fashion here?”

“No,” laughed Wavy Brand. He pointed at Rotwood’s own bald head. “Not fashion here, but not fashion in Sainted Lands either, yes?”

“No,” Rotwood shook his head gravely. “Men like us walk a lonely path.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Ronic. “Those markings on your head represent the sun and the ocean, yes?”

Wavy Brand smiled. “The sun and river. We pay little thought to the great sea in Merdz.”

Teren frowned. “So you’re the Southranger equivalent of the Twelve Paths. And you brand yourself like that?”

“Twelve Paths is Sainted name for it. Here in mountains, we call ourselves Kanibrir, and we are of one house.

“Kanibrir. What does that mean in the Sainted tongue?” asked Baltry.

Wavy brand looked troubled. “Ah…” He shared a look with his partner. “Does not translate well. Enjoy market.”

Baltry looked at Quickstrider with pleading eyes.

Quickstrider sighed, taking some slivers and pieces out of her pockets. “Food only. We can buy souvenirs on the way back.” She passed out a few slivers to Ronic and Baltry, and they eagerly headed out.

Rotwood glanced at Teren. “Need coin?”

Teren sighed. He may not have had a title, but he had been taking jobs in Decidual and making his own way for some time now. “No, I do not need coin. Do you need coin?”

“Hmph. Needless wantless, as always. You should have been a Sword Poet.” Rotwood descended the platform and was promptly swarmed by beggars and hawkers.

Teren looked back at the two Kanibrir, who were already preparing to send a Southranger merchant and his servants through the leygate. Branded on the head and wearing ragged brown robes. A far cry from how Practicioners dressed in the Sainted Lands. He turned away and descended into the crowd.

The market was marvelous, spilling out of the leygate area and into the surrounding streets. Trinkets and baubles were displayed on rugs in the middle of the street, with children and elderly keeping guard over their wares. The scents of cumin, saffron, and other strong spices reached him from hawker stands roasting all sorts of meat and vegetables. All the buildings were built with dull red stone and dark wood, and upon closer inspection much of the wood had intricate carvings of glyphs and figures. More intriguing were the small shrines scattered around the market. As he walked past one bearing a statue of a horned figure, he nearly tripped over a girl kneeling in front of it.

She turned to look at him, muttering something in the local language. Her face was half beast, some sort of hideous monkey that had taken over her mouth, nose, and one eye. Both her human and animal eyes had tears in them. A skinswitcher who had probably just received her beastly art. He had heard of this, of some children gaining their gift and then having issues suppressing their beastly side rather than having to try and make it emerge. He muttered his apologies and moved on.

There were animals roaming the street, along with all sorts of familiars and hybrids. Yaks and oxen lumbered through the city while monkeys could be seen climbing the multilayered rooftops. Merchants herded interesting mixmade hybrids, birds of paradise mixed with monkeys and other mammals. People who might have been the city guard rode past on mixmade horses with goat horns and bird wings. Many other merchants were selling rare animals, likely beastbound to obey them.

One such salesman noticed him staring at his brightly feathered vulture. He waved him over. “Saintlander! Birds from afar. Bones for mixmaking!”

Teren observed the bird. It looked like a cross between a vulture and an eagle, with bright red-orange feathers and grey wings. “Lovely hybrid. What’s the base animal?”

“What, this here?” The bearded man pointed to the bird. “Oh, no no no my friend, this is no mixmade! This is Krautsvok Vulture. Eats bones whole, it does!”

Teren gently petted the back of the bird’s head. It craned its neck, seemingly enjoying the experience. “The vultures in the east aren’t as pretty. Black bodies, bald heads.”

The man laughed. “Yes! And smell is worse. But many say your Saintlander vultures have best noses of all birds.” The merchant leaned in excitedly. “Did you know Saintlander vultures can retch up meals as a burning spit? Very smart creature!

“Seems like it,” Teren agreed. Stomach acid as a weapon. He wondered if he could get a corpse to do something like that.

“Now tell me. Are you a mixmaker or a beastbinder?”

“Neither.”

“Oh, skinswitcher. What is your animal?”

Teren tried to hide his smile. “No. None of those.”

The man’s eyes widened. “You have noble gift?”

“No, I don’t have any beastly art.”

“Then…?” Realization dawned on the beast merchant’s face. “Kanibrir.”

“We have a different name for it in the Sainted Lands.” Teren bowed. “A Practitioner of the Twelve Paths, at your service.”

The man spat on the ground. “You should be marked appropriately. Away from me, tainted one! Before I separate nose from face.” His vulture hissed and flapped its wings.

Teren’s heart began to pound, and his leg started to tremble faintly. He raised his hands and backed away. “My apologies.”

He got a fair distance away before his leg stopped trembling. Rounding a corner, he knelt to the ground. “Threaten me, will you?” he hissed. Teren put his hand to the ground, faintly accessing Aren Fultas. “In a city of a size such as this, it shouldn’t be hard to…” Yes, there it was. An unusually angry spirit close by. He reached out to it, forming a connection.

Spirit residue swirled around him, coalescing into the form of a transparent Southranger man wearing formal clothing. His throat had been slit by a nasty gash that was still dripping blood, and his bones could be seen beneath his skin. He screamed at Teren in that same foreign language the girl had used.

“Sainted tongue?” asked Teren. “Guess not.” He switched to the language of the dead, which was not of words and sounds. It was a communion of thought and mind, and so Teren focused his will at the dead man.

The dead man was furious, brimming with feelings of hate and betrayal. He was focused on nothing but revenge, which stoked Teren’s own feelings through the connection.

Teren conveyed his will through thought, showing the spirit the soul of the merchant with the vulture. Kill this man, thought Teren. Kill him, and his flesh will be yours.

The spirit hesitated. That merchant wasn’t the one he wanted revenge on, but with a body the spirit would be free to act as he needed. Reluctantly, it agreed.

Teren walked up and placed his hand on the spirit’s head, his fingers slipping through residue making up the apparition. Concentrating, he poured his deathcraft into the spirit. The spirit grew less transparent and more firm to the touch, and a stray dog in the alley stood up and began barking at it. Satisfied it was now strong enough to interact with the living, Teren stepped back.

The spirit questioned how he was to murder the man, and how he could take the body.

Haunt him, Teren thought back. Haunt him until he takes his own life and then slip into his skin.

The spirit nodded and began walking over to the merchant. He paused, turning back to stare at him. All this because he threatened you?

Go now, thought Teren. He broke his connection to Aren Fultas and the ghost faded from sight. He peeked around the corner, taking one last look at the merchant. Ideally the spirit would tail him like a curse, haunting his steps and becoming a shadow in the corner of his eye. Over time, the fear and paranoia might cause the man to take drastic action, but who knew? If he could last a month, the power Teren had given to the spirit using the spell of spectral nourishment would wear out and the spirit would fade away back into Aren Fultas.

He was troubled that it had to come to this, but what else could be done? The man had threatened him. Teren sighed and continued on his way. He knew the people outside of the Sainted Lands didn’t have the same respect for the Twelve Paths, but to be yelled at like that? Teren shook his head. Some people just couldn’t be reasoned with. He continued browsing the market, trying to take his mind off the troublesome event.

“Saintlander!” Shouted an old woman kneeling behind a collection of jars. “Spices, from the west!”

Teren smiled at her and shook his head.

She tapped rapidly on the jars with long nails. “Cloves and ginger, from the Bridgelands! Very good price. Tamarind from Tixjin, thyme from Krautsvok!”

She continued calling after him. Many other vendors did as well, and half a dozen sales pitches later, he realized the only way to get anywhere was to completely ignore them. Eventually he was drawn to a food stand where he was confronted by a delicious smell. The vendor grinned at him. He spoke a flurry of foreign words and pointed at a large bowl of thick orange gunk with chunks of something inside of it. It smelled better than it looked.

Teren fished a sliver out of his pocket and held it up. “Good?”

The man shook his head and held up four fingers.

Teren fished up a second sliver and shrugged helplessly.

The man yelled something at him and then muttered under his breath. He opened up a second pot, taking out something wrapped in a large brownish leaf. He unfolded the leaf to reveal rice inside, and then used a ladle to scoop the orange substance on top of it. He pocketed the slivers and handed over the leaf bowl.

Teren walked through the market, enjoying the new flavors. Rice was an uncommon dish in the Greenreach, where they preferred bread and maize. The rice was flavored by the leaf, similar to how maize was sometimes cooked in banana leaves back home. The orange topping was some sort of spicy curry sauce, with small chunks of potato and lamb. His mouth burned but the flavor was worth it.

Soon he came upon Baltry and a pestering merchant trying to sell him a knife. The weapon was curved and grew wider at the end of the blade. It had no crossguard and there was a small notch in the sharp side, close to the wooden hilt.

Baltry waved him over. “Hey Teren. What do you think this blade is worth?”

Teren brought the leaf to his mouth, shoveling in some more rice. The knife looked decently crafted. With the uncommon design, he might place it at six pieces back home. “What’s he asking for?”

“Four sainted pieces!” said the knife seller. He was a skinswitcher sporting a speckling of scales across his arms and cheeks. “It is a rakji blade, and it is of the mountains.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“A rakji blade,” Teren murmured. “Why is it shaped like that?”

“The curved knife is for slashing, not piercing. Good for fighting, hunting, cutting meat, clearing brush.” He pointed to the notch. “You see the indent? This is the mouth of your blade. When blood drips down it feeds your weapon.” The man smiled, revealing that what little teeth he had were foul and rotting. “The rakji starves, Saintlander. There is no one here worth killing.” He raised an eyebrow. “But maybe this will not be so in the Sainted Lands, yes?”

“Hm…” Teren finished his rice. He licked his fingers, wiped his hand on the backside of the leaf, and discarded it. “The Sainted Lands have pretty good blades, thanks to our Iron Court. We’re probably stopping by Crow’s Crevice on the way home anyways, Baltry.”

“I guess so,” said Baltry. “But I sort of like this one.”

“He has an artist’s eye!” proclaimed the merchant. “For you? Three pieces, five slivers.”

Teren shook his head. “My friend doesn’t have three pieces, only two.”

“Actually-”

He gently stepped on Baltry’s foot. “And I will not be spotting him.”

The merchant grew agitated. “What good is a blade worth only two pieces? I cannot go lower than three.”

Baltry eagerly reached into his pocket, but Teren slung his arm around him and dragged him away. “Sorry! He doesn’t have that much on him,” he said over his shoulder to the seething merchant. “Maybe we’ll come back later.”

“Teren!” Baltry whispered. “I have four pieces and three slivers.”

Teren ducked and dodged through the crowd, putting distance between them and the knife seller. “No you don’t. Wait for it…”

“But-“

“Saintlanders!” The merchant had caught up to them, desperately grabbing Baltry’s arm. “Two pieces, fine, yes!”

Teren wiggled his eyebrows at the young apprentice before turning around to face the merchant. “What do you think, Baltry?”

Baltry smiled and pulled out two pieces.

“Teren! Baltry!” Rotwood appeared from the sea of people. “Our ride’s here.”

…

Everyone else had already gathered in one of the narrower streets, standing next to a man sitting in a cart pulled by an ox. The guide was a thin old man wearing nothing but a loincloth and a blindfold. He waved to them from his ox cart, and Teren caught the ox staring in their direction. A beastbinder. “Ah,” said the blindfolded man. “You bring guests?”

Rotwood put an arm around Teren, who immediately shrugged it off. “These three are our apprentices. Where are we off to?”

“I take you to Kalapar Trinuat, palace of Feathered Prince. Short ride through Maze District.”

“Why is it called the Maze District?” asked Ronic.

The guide laughed. “Because people go in and cannot get out.” He slapped the bed of the cart. “Two can fit, maybe three. Rest must walk behind.”

Rotwood smiled at the apprentices. “I think this is one of those age-before-beauty situations.” He grunted as he climbed into the back.

“Cheers to that,” Quickstrider grumbled as he hopped in. “Looks like we can fit another back here if someone wants to squeeze.”

Teren wasn’t big on physical contact. “I’m good.”

Ronic and Baltry flipped a sliver for it. Ronic lost, so he put Baltry in a headlock. Baltry struggled and cried, Quickstrider snapped at the both of them, and so Ronic let Baltry ride in the ox cart. But Ronic and Teren did throw their packs on Baltry’s lap.

As they traveled away from the leygate, the variety of people decreased as the amount increased. Before he knew it Teren didn’t see any more Saintlanders, just a crowd of foreigners that snuck glances at him.

There seemed to be a shrine at every turn. Varying in size, some were as large as huts while others were merely holes in the wall. All of them had statues. One that caught his eye was a woman made of red marble, surrounded by many worshippers. A hand was covering her eyes while the other was outstretched, holding a sphere of polished brass. She had hair made up of many lightly smoking braids of rope incense, and people were climbing stone steps behind her to pin more braids on her head. Teren nudged Ronic. “Check out her prayer hair.”

“That is Kanaz Aprenjar,” said the guide. “Traveler from the East, bringer of sunrises, she who binds the earth. You should offer thanks to her, for safe passage.”

Rotwood bit down hard on his thumb. He held it out to the statue as the cart rolled past, squeezing out a few drops. “Blood for payment,” he said solemnly. “Thank you for your protection.”

“Master!” Teren barked at him. “Why are you praying to foreign idols?”

“It’s just for good luck!” Rotwood protested.

“You can pray to the Saints for good luck.”

Quickstrider raised an eyebrow. “You pay attention to the Saints, Teren?”

Teren frowned. “Well… Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

Quickstrider shrugged, blowing a loose strand of her short hair out of her face. “I just didn’t know you were into that sort of thing. Saints know your master isn’t. Good for you.”

Ronic nudged Teren, pulling him back. They slowed their pace so the others couldn’t hear. “I might have let some things slip about you to my master.”

Teren stopped walking. “Huh?”

Ronic shuffled his feet nervously. “Nothing bad, honest. I just… told her about some of the stuff we used to get up to.”

“Okay. What stuff, exactly?”

“Well… do you remember that time we wanted to get back at that Junglesworn who had been beating on us? And you didn’t want to fight him head on? And then you coaxed the soul of his dead mother in that rotting dog and-“

“Aw, no!” Teren massaged his forehead, exasperated. “You told Quickstrider about that? Why?”

Ronic shrugged. “I don’t know, she asked about you. It was a pretty impressive thing for a kid to do.”

“You-“ Teren bit his lip. “Gah! I thought life was sacred to your order! You can’t tell her that I do stuff like that.” He glared at his friend. “Bet you didn’t tell him about the time you gave that little kid from Drifton the shakes.”

“That, uh, didn’t come up. Besides, I have no idea how I did that. Wouldn’t be right to take credit for it.”

Teren narrowly avoided stepping in a pile of cow dung. “Can’t take credit, huh? I heard he foamed at the mouth for a month.”

“True. But…” Ronic raised a finger. “I apologized for that.”

“So what?”

“You don’t apologize for anything, ever.”

“Are you crazy? I apologize for things all the time!”

“There’s no meaning behind the words though. It’s just something you say to get people off your back.” Ronic shook his head. “I’m positive that I’ve never seen you actually remorseful, Teren.”

There was a truth in that statement Teren didn’t want to acknowledge. “The… fact that I don’t want Quickstrider to know about things I’ve done… implies guilt and remorse for those actions.”

Ronic cackled. “No, it’s more of you just trying to keep people off your back! I know you, you can’t deal with being disliked. Which I’m sure Quickstrider doesn’t, by the way.”

Teren grunted, thinking about the vulture merchant. He could deal with people disliking him. It was just that his ideas on dealing with those people tended to be very permanent.

The roads got narrower as they traveled on, and became a mess of twists and turns. Many times their cart had to backtrack to avoid meeting another head on, and these situations always involved much shouting and foul gestures between their driver and the others. Some streets were devoid of all life, while others were so packed they could hardly be traversed. Their group got many stares, and vendors wouldn’t leave them alone.

At one point they came across another Saintlander heading the opposite way. A Swampreacher, from the looks of her dark skin, short hair, and wooden deathmask. Despite the deathmask that was obscuring her features, it was easy to tell from her clenched fists and posture that she was unhappy about the several vendors tailing her, all waving bright cloth and jewelry and screaming at her in a foreign language. One of the men grabbed her wrist, shoving his merchandise in her face.

The Swampreacher responded by quickly skinswitching her arms into something much more muscular and covered in fur. She grabbed him by his tunic, socked him in the jaw, and threw him across the street. He shrieked as he sailed over the other vendors, crashing into a wall and crumpling to the ground. She whirled back around, stalking away from the shocked crowd.

Rotwood laughed. “They’re a different breed over in the swamp, aren’t they?” He waved to the woman.

The woman noticed them and waved back, nodding to Quickstrider in her uniform. Then she too vanished into the crowd.

Many roads led into darkly lit tunnels that looked to go underground. Diseased men and women sat rotting on the steps, like guardians of an underworld. The blindfolded guide did not take them down such paths.

As they continued on, Teren realized he didn’t think he’d be able to find his way back to the leygate. He put a hand on Ronic’s shoulder, pulling him away from a performer who was having his monkey familiar juggle several burning batons. “I think something’s up with these roads.”

“Well it is called the Maze District, you know.”

“I know, and I think there’s a good reason behind it.” He jogged up to the Masters. “Something’s off, I think. Do you feel lost here?”

Quickstrider nudged Rotwood. “Good senses on your boy.” Her mood has improved, and she seemed to actually be enjoying the change of scenery.

Rotwood smiled. “There’s magic at work here, Teren. He leaned up and tapped on the driver’s shoulder. “Ah, excuse me? How exactly did the Maze District get its name?”

The driver shrugged. “Foul magic, left over from Kesabai Yenhault.” He spat on the ground.

Teren knew that name. “Why would the Lord of Abstinence leave his mark here?”

Rotwood grimaced. “The Half-World Nobles of the Southrange weren’t like the Saints you’re familiar with, Teren. He would have cursed this place on a whim.”

“We are told Maze District used to be a temple of flesh,” said the guide. “Very holy to us Narabir. Not so much to Half-Worlders. Kesabai turned streets into a prison. Men wandered in, could not wander out. Streets grew crowded, food grew scarce. Men began to feast on each other. Terrible thing. But over many years, curse grew weak enough to become little more than nuisance. People now come and go, still get lost. Name became Maze District.”

“Interesting,” said Quickstrider, turning to Rotwood. Inescapable streets. A darktwisting trick?”

“Sounds like it,” agreed Rotwood. “The staying power of the illusion is phenomenal, if it really was cast before the Western Recession.

“Wouldn’t it be worldshifting?” asked Ronic.

Quickstrider shrugged. “Could be. But it’d be easier to trick the mind into losing its way than to have a part of a city twist in on itself. Hey, driver. How do you navigate the maze?”

The guide smiled. “I was born in Maze District. Many years of practice. More, it does not affect animals so much. I see through familiar.” The ox farted in agreement. “Even so, I would not be out here in darkness. Night can be worse.”

Ronic groaned. “Stronger at night. darktwisting it is.”

“So whatever happened to the people trapped inside?” Asked Baltry.

The ox pulling the cart stopped, and the driver slowly turned around to look at him. He lifted up his blindfold to stare at Baltry with intense brown eyes. “Many years they were trapped. It became a prison, where men put to never be seen again. By the time curse had lessened, almost all had been eaten.” His eyes widened. “Some say devoured still wander at night, crying for lost flesh. Unable to find a way out.”

Baltry looked spooked. “And what of the ones survived?”

The guide put his blindfold back on and turned to face forward. The ox began walking again. “Those who survived cannot be called survivors. They became Karab Ir, cursed to wander in a hundred foul forms. Fled into mountains. If you stray off path…” he wagged a finger. “Karab Ir will eat your flesh and steal your soul.”

“Hear that, Baltry?” Quickstrider nudged Baltry. “Stay on the trails.”

…

Two bells later they arrived at a large palace, guarded by numerous men showcasing their beastly arts. Skinswitchers stood guard with claws and fangs, mixmakers prowled about with their hybrid on leashes, and beastbinders likely hid in the palace while their familiars stood vigilant outside. These soldiers wore bronze armor with crimson colors underneath, with those odd rakji knives sheathed and tucked into the waistbands of their baggy crimson pants. The palace was built of red stone and dark wood, with several towers and buildings protected by a large wall. The multi-tiered curved roofs were a refined and elegant version of the style that was common in the rest of the city. Monkeys crawled about in the overhang of the tiered roofs, holding on to the grooves of the intricate carvings in the wood.

The wooden gate into the palace had carvings more complex than what he had seen in the rest of Merdz. There were alternating rows of glyph writing and animals, separated by vertical lines. Unlike the circular and jagged glyphs of the Sainted Lands, these were block-shaped with patterns that moved inward. The animals alongside the glyphs were a monkey, an eagle, and a snake. Teren stepped closer to examine the gate. Among the thousands of repeating animals carved on it, he spotted four others. A fish, a butterfly, and two frogs. What did it mean?

One of the skinswitcher guards stepped in front of him. He wore none of the bronze armor, just baggy pants and a tattered vest that showcased the leaf green scales of his heavily reptilian body. There was spiked ridges where his eyebrows should be, and he had reptile eyes. The guard held up a firm hand to Teren’s chest. He spoke in the harsh and rapid tongue of Merdz, and although Teren didn’t understand the language he got the message.

Teren took a step back and smiled. He pointed his thumb back at the ox cart driver, who was busy talking to the other guard. “I’m with stupid.”

The guide finished up with whatever he was discussing, and the other guard nodded to the lizard man. He leered at Teren, but knocked on the gate thrice and hollered something.

The wooden doors swung open, revealing a large stone courtyard. The guide smiled at all of them. “I leave you now. Prince Dirjir Pajirhut awaits you inside.”

Baltry tossed Teren and Ronic their packs and the two friends walked in. Orange-robed servants greeted them. None spoke the sainted tongue, but smiles and gestures made do. In the middle of the courtyard was a wooden statue of a masculine figure. The details on it were faded and weather-worn, far more so than the rest of the carvings in the temple. The figure was adorned with a tiger pelt, and had a fist raised toward the sky.

As Teren examined the statue, a Southranger similar in age to him and Ronic walked up. He was dark of skin like most Southrangers, with close cropped hair and a decent curly mustache. He had many rings on his fingers, all made of bone and silver. “You like it? Not real tiger fur, unfortunately. It came from a cow I mixmade to appear as one.”

“Could have fooled me,” said Teren. “Not that I’ve ever seen a real tiger before.”

Baltry joined them, fuming. “You guys left me back there! The guide made me give him all my money for the ride!”

The young man frowned. “He should have already been paid.”

Baltry waved his hands desperately. “He wanted five pieces, but all I had on me was two pieces and three slivers!”

Rotwood and Quickstrider walked up behind them. “You gave that man coin?” asked Rotwood. “I gave him five slivers when we got in the cart.”

The Southranger cursed in his own tongue. “That man is a servant of the royal family. He should not have taken or asked for anything from you. Be assured that you will be reimbursed immediately. In fact…” he took one of his silver rings off, offering it to Baltry. “Here. This should be more than enough.”

Baltry reached out to take it, but his hand was swatted away by his master.

“Much appreciated,” said Quickstrider while glaring at her younger apprentice. “But you should know better. One with power over life should not be taken advantage of so easily. Will you be conned so easily into abusing your powers?”

Baltry looked down at his sandals, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, you should be,” said Ronic. He flicked Baltry in the ear and they immediately began to scuffle.

Rotwood offered his hand to the young man. “Don’t believe I got your name?”

The Southranger shook it and smiled. “Dirjir Pajirhut, at your service. Prince Dirjir Pajirhut, that is.”

Rotwood’s face brightened. “Oh, pleasure to meet you! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gravesealer Rotwood of the Order of Remains, and this is my apprentice, Teren of Fendal.

Teren nodded respectfully.

Quickstrider shook Dirjir’s hand next. “And I’m Quickstrider, a Lifeguider of Guiding Breath. These two are my apprentices, Ronic Belyae of Fendal and Baltry Ythcralt of East Cicada.”

“Ythcralt?” asked the Prince. “As in the royal lineage of the Cicada Islands?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Baltry. “My father is Chief Jayri Ythcralt. Technically, I guess I’m fifth in line for the Westcrown. It’s not a big deal though.”

Teren and Rotwood stared at Baltry.

The Prince laughed. “A mere handful of deaths away from a crown? You’re too humble.”

Ronic interrupted the two. “Your sainted tongue is excellent, Prince Dirjir.”

“I appreciate that. But my teacher wishes more of his Iaric accent rubbed off on me. I figured I might as well learn to speak it since I was already learning sainted glyphs.” He started walking into the inner palace, and the group followed him.

“Why were you learning our glyphs?” asked Teren. He wasn’t sure whether or not he cared for this curly mustached royal, with his fine silk clothes and excessive jewelry.

“Well as I’m sure you know, we used to be a part of the Half-World Nation, same as you. Although the occupation didn’t last more than two decades, it was an important time in our history. I wanted to read the accounts that had been written then, and the Sainted Glyphs and Tongue haven’t changed much since the Age of the Nobles.”

Rotwood nodded in approval. “The study of history and languages. Now there’s a royal pastime.”

The Prince threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, it’s nothing! Merdz is the heart of the Caruth Thun Mountai- excuse me, the Southrange. There are over a dozen cultures and tribes who swear loyalty to the Crater City, but the two peoples who really make up Merdz are the Quia Boralz and the Narabir. Most of us here in the Maze District speak narabric, but if you head up and over to the Rim District, you’d likely hear borales being spoken. Aside from those and the sainted tongue and a few other Southrange tribes, I’m fluent in the languages of Tixjin and Guragull, and passable in the fingerspeak of Cavewater.” The Prince led them up a set of stairs at the back of the courtyard and past another set of guards. “But ever since the leygates appeared and the Southrange became somewhat passable, we’ve been getting travelers from all sorts of queer places. Trigap, Tantrov, even the Bridgelands…”

Two guards followed them up the stairs as the Prince droned on, and a pretty servant girl opened another intricate wooden door for them. She smiled at the group as they walked into the palace.

Teren tried not to look back at her. “Alright, Prince Dirjir. Why exactly did you call for a Gravesealer and a Lifeguider?”

The Prince grinned at Teren. “There will be ample time to discuss that tonight at supper.” He snapped his fingers and serving girls approached with bowed heads. He said something to them in narabric, and then turned back to the saintlanders, spreading out his arms. “These women will show you to your rooms. Take a bath, rest your legs. Tonight we shall feast!”