Horses raced around the track as fast as wind and twice as loud. Louder still were the cheers of some hundred or so spectators, the loudest of all being the ecstatic voice of the son of Lady Wickea, who screamed with the frenzy of twenty men. His frenzy only seemed to invigorate his own men, who yelled and cheered all around the honored son.

As good a show it was (and it was quite a good show, Caldwell supposed, if one were into horse racing), it entertained Caldwell no more than an ordinary tree might. Oh, the horses were fine beasts, that much was certain–their coats possessed a fine, healthy shine, and each raced with all the vigor racing horses ought to, especially Lord Alden’s newest mystery horse–but Caldwell found that, no matter how much he tried, his eyes would eventually drift from the racing to something else.

Someone else, in most cases. Aerin sat in the stands opposite of him, on the other side of the racetrack, her small frame almost lost in the sea of bodies. If not for her unique attire he might never have found her. But he did, every time. The first was by chance. He’d looked up into the crowd for only a moment, only hoping he might see her and expecting not to. But she was there, which filled him with pleasant surprise. But it was wrong to stare at a woman, so he pried his eyes from her and turned his attention to the racing, only to find, annoyingly, that each time he grew bored he would find himself staring at her again.

It was not without cause, of course, or so he told himself. He had something to tell her. A message, and not the ordinary kind that a lovestruck man-at-arms might give, but something important. Something from Lord Alden himself, which Caldwell, in his fright, had delayed too long. And something he intended to delay just a bit further, until he felt the time was right.

So, instead, he’d turned his attention to his compatriot, the admirable Uhtric.

“Won anything?” he’d asked. Uhtric had taken to the racing with ferocious interest, or, more precisely, a ferocious interest in the gambling surrounding the racing.

“Not a damned thing,” Uhtric replied.

“Think you’ll win anything next time?”

“Fuck no,” Uhtric said.

Further inquiry resulted in much the same. Caldwell didn’t press it. There were more interesting things to focus on, he’d told himself. A woman, for example, and this time not the cloaked Aerin but instead the spectacularly tall daughter of Lord Gildynaepple. She was a strange sight; beside Alden she appeared almost normal, and, though pretty by standard conventions, she possessed an unusual aura that drew attention more than her uncommon height could ever hope to.

Over the course of half an hour Caldwell found his gaze alternating between the two women and the racing horses. Aerin, firstly, and then, when he thought himself staring too much in her direction, to Edith. Unmistakably, he was keenly interested in both of them, though he had his favorite. And it was the appearance of his favorite which caused him to compare the two. Where Aerin was cloaked, Edith was not, and, despite this, it seemed to Caldwell that it was Aerin’s emotions he could read, whereas Edith’s were, regardless of the faint smile plastered on her face, unreadable to him.

Now, maybe, Caldwell thought. As much as he took enjoyment out of looking at her, every glance her way created a spike of anxiety. He had a mission. A message. Alden’s orders. Why did I wait? He hadn’t yet found the strength to go and do it. He hoped he would.

He chose the middle of the next race to make his move, hoping his presence wouldn’t be missed in all the excitement. The crowds always stopped moving during the races–all eyes would be on the horses–which meant he could slip to the other side unmolested, if he was quick. And quick he was; he broke out into a jog not long after departing his seat, hoping to reach the other side shortly after the race finished. As he rounded the final curve of the tracks he heard and felt in his chest the rumble of thunderous cheering. The sudden thrill of the crowd filled him, and he quickened his pace.

But he was too slow; with the race finished, the people in the stands filtered out into the exterior field like a living flood, as eager to stretch their legs as they were to peruse the many stalls and merchants waiting greedily to take their money. Knowing Aerin would not be among them, Caldwell navigated his way through the crowd and back into the stands where he thought Aerin to be.

He looked left first, searching for the cloaked head of Aerin among the sea of hair of brown and blonde and red. He searched the sea of hair again when he saw no cloak. I went too far, he thought, turning around to search the other side. Only there was no Aerin on the other side, either. Not the first time he searched, nor the third, nor did he see her when he turned back around and searched again, confident he merely missed her the first two times.

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As he moved to exit the stands, intent on searching the stalls, Caldwell felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Caldwell!” said the gruff Gosfrid. “Thought you were with Uhtric?”

“I was,” Caldwell said. He looked through the crowd, raising himself up on his toes.

“Who’re you lookin’ for?” Gosfrid asked.

Caldwell pretended not to hear him over the roar of the crowd. He saw a dozen or so gray hats and cowls–the same color as Aerin’s hood–half tricked him as they bobbed up and down in the river of heads. But they belonged not to the silent mage he was so enamored with, but instead common men with bushy beards as gray as their hats and farming women thick with fat and muscle.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Gosfrid asked. Caldwell answered him with a silent look. “Yeah, I saw her. Left in the middle of the last race, headin’ into town far as I could tell.”

A second later Caldwell was pushing his war through the crowd with an urgency that made others step aside. He wasn’t in full gear, but he wore Lyonpool’s colors, a right reserved for men-at-arms and other officials, and those who saw thought better than to stand in his way.

Breaking free of the crowds, Caldwell raced down the streets, feeling weightless. A gust of wind blew behind him, gently pushing him forward, as if the Gods had decided to aid him in some little way.

The streets of Lyonpool were almost bare–just about everyone was at the racetrack–yet Caldwell saw only the familiar grumpy faces of Lyonpool’s most dour inhabitants, those that had neither interest nor coin for racing or any other such extravagance. He stopped by one–an old woman with hair like graying straw–and caught his breath.

“Have you seen Aerin pass by?” he asked.

“Eh? Who? Aylin? Don’t know no Aylin.” The woman scratched at her chin and scowled, obviously displeased with this interruption. But she saw Caldwell’s clothes and Lyonpool’s colors, and that was enough to keep her from shooing him away, if only just.

“A thin woman in gray robes. Her face would have been covered?”

There was a spark of recognition in her eye. “Aye, that one I saw. Went by not too long ago. Headin’ down, t’ward the lake.”

“My thanks.”

It was on the pier that he found her, sitting at the very end in forlorn silence. He walked up to her as quietly as he could. He was afraid the moment she looked back and saw him, she would up and leave without allowing him a word. But, though the lake’s water sloshed beneath the pier with its irregular waves, the pier’s wooden boards were louder by far. She looked over her shoulder.

“Can we talk?” Caldwell asked.

Aerin stood and stared at him darkly. She walked past him with loud thudding footsteps, intent on leaving. Intent on hearing nothing he had to say. But he had to say it, as much for himself as for her. It was on Alden's orders. Even if it wasn’t, she needed to know. He’d waited too long as it was.

Caldwell caught her by the arm.

She turned in a flash, too quick and too sudden to react to, her free hand rising up to his chest. And when her hand touched his chest time seemed to stop. A moment passed. His heart beat and beat, skipped a beat, then beat again. And then, too late, Caldwell realized she was conjuring her magic.

“Wai–” he began, the words lost in a yell. He felt himself pushed back, the heels of his shoes skidding against the wood desperate for purchase, and then he felt himself falling.

Hitting the water hard, Caldwell felt the air leave his lungs and his body tense to a statue-like stiffness in reaction to the chilly lake’s depths. He was able to shut his mouth, keeping the water from draining into his lungs, then began to move his arms and legs. His limbs felt like stone as he tried to swim up towards the light of fresh air, his lungs burned in his chest, and his eyes stung in the water.

But he swam, still, up and up until he broke the surface and took a giant gulp of much needed air.

“Wai–cough cough– wait,” he yelled and sputtered. From the water he couldn’t tell if Aerin was still there, or if she heard him, but he hoped, and the hope gave him the strength to swim to shore.

Pulling himself from the water, dripping wet and shivering uncontrollably, Caldwell felt like dropping to the ground. Yet he couldn’t. Ahead he could see the back of Aerin’s cloak, so close but getting further away. So he ran, as awkward as the weight of his dripping wet clothes made it.

“Wait!” he yelled.

She stopped. Turned.

Caldwell halted, afraid. She didn’t want to talk to him. But she had to listen, at least. The message was too important. Why did I wait?

“I have a message from Lord Alden. From your brother.”