Catrin was one of the few people I could call a friend, since the war. Maybe the only one. Rysanthe and Donnelly were too tied to my work, Emma was a pupil, and I’d become estranged from my old life, my old acquaintances.
I’d met her during one of my bloodier missions, in a time when I’d sunk very deep into the gloom that’d consumed my life. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find I wasn’t alone in that darkness. Given a grim mission and little faith that anything could get better, I’d fallen into a dark place for a long time. I’d forgotten how to trust, how to be courteous and have faith — not in gods, but in people.
Catrin had surprised me, in more than one way, and helped reawaken a dormant sense of Chivalry in me. Without her, I’m not sure I would have given Emma the benefit of the doubt later on. Regardless, the dangers I’d faced alongside Catrin had made me feel almost like a knight again. For that, and for her, I will always be grateful.
I’d learned of the Backroad through Cat, and had gone to her for advice and gossip more than once in the past year. As an employee of the Keeper, she knew plenty of secrets sordid and strange. In fact, the workers in the Backroad harvested most of what the Keeper knew, both abroad and from its assortment of patrons. They poured drinks, warmed beds, smiled and jested — and listened. They were the Keeper’s eyes and ears, the links in his spider’s web.
And, sometimes, they were his fangs.
I did wonder how many of my secrets she’d passed to her master. I didn’t like to think on it, preferred to believe I could trust at least one person, but I knew it to be a possibility. It didn’t anger me, really, though I never fully let my guard down around her, for that and other reasons.
I couldn’t afford to let my guard down. Never again.
“You’re doing it again,” Cat said, her voice sing-song. “That thing.”
We were sitting at a table near the edge of the taproom, lit by a hanging lantern, me with honey water and Cat with something that smelled like medicinal tea. “What thing?” I asked. I idly watched the flames dance in the pit, trying to trace the shape of the thing lurking inside without much success.
“The thing,” Cat repeated, annoyed. I glanced back to see her studying me. She’d propped her chin on one fist, her other hand idly tracing an old groove in the table. Making the groove deeper, I noted, a sharp nail scoring into the oak. Her eyes, framed by her chestnut bangs, were a liquid brown and never without a hint of impatience.
“You…” she waggled her fingers mysteriously, like she was casting a spell. “You go away. Think about things that make you unhappy, on purpose. Relax.” She gave me a pouting expression and half-joking said, “pay attention to me.”
I chuckled, unable to help myself. It did feel good, I had to admit. “Fine. I’m yours, for now.”
“For now,” she agreed soberly. “The past has a strong grip on you, Alken Hewer.”
I lifted my cup in a lazy toast. “If only you knew,” I said, and drank.
Cat rolled her eyes and sipped at her own cup, grimacing. Whatever was in it, she didn’t seem to drink it for pleasure. “So,” she said, placing the cup back down. “How have you been?”
I shrugged, then winced as an injury that hadn’t fully healed twinged. “Alive,” I said, rolling the shoulder. I’d taken off my cloak, draping it over my seat. I wore my armor beneath, along with a new addition for the winter — a sleeveless brown coat, long enough to hang below my knees. Very much like the classic knightly surcoat, though it bore no House colors.
“Better than many, then.” Cat nodded and leaned forward, lacing her fingers together. “I heard some of what you and the Keeper were discussing. You met one of them.” She said them as though it contained a sea of meaning, then finished in a stage whisper. “One of the grayrobes.”
At that, I chose to armor myself with caution. I had no dislike for Catrin — quite the opposite — but that didn’t mean I entirely trusted her. She was an incorrigible gossip, and didn’t know my entire story. I suspected our rapport would change if I ever divulged the whole tale, even if she believed otherwise.
After I’d foolishly spoken of my past to a disguised Crowfriar the past fall, I wasn’t willing to be so loose lipped again.
“Maybe,” I said vaguely, sipping from my cup. The day had finally died outside, and more patrons had arrived. A low din of voices and clatters filled the inn, granting our conversation the illusion of privacy. “I’d never met one before, just knew the stories.”
“You sure it was one of them?" Cat asked, with more curiosity than skepticism. "I can’t believe you’d just jump to a conclusion there.”
Before I could answer, another of the Keeper’s girls brought food. She set a plate of steaming buttered bread, fish, and a stew that smelled of strong spices down on the table. My stomach growled, but Cat snatched the first morsel I reached for and nibbled on it with a challenging smile. I sighed, my stomach growling. I hadn’t had a decent meal in… too long. It wasn’t like any of the guardians or professional killers at the Fane were great cooks.
“I jump to all sorts of conclusions,” I said with a shrug, and snatched the bowl of stew before she could keep that from me as well. Cat scowled, but let me eat for a while before pressing.
“But it’s curious,” she said as I ate. “I thought the devil monks were exiled from these lands. Some fancy agreement, all formal and such, between them and the Church…” she paused, twisting a hand in the air as though trying to grasp something from the aether.
I managed to suppress a smile, keeping my expression and voice bland. I knew when I was being baited. “The Riven Order,” I said.
“That’s the one!” Cat snapped her fingers. “It’s funny,” she said, showing sharp canines in an impish smile. “You look so much like the villain’s brutish henchman in some Mirrebelian stage play, but then you can be so smart. It’s uncanny.”
I halted wolfing down the stew to throw the barmaid a withering look. “I’m good at memorizing facts. It doesn’t make me smart.” There is a difference, I thought glumly.
“So how did you get face to face with one of the grayrobes?” Cat asked, more serious then. “That’s a rare sort of trouble even for you, Al. You know I’ve been to the continent before?”
I didn’t. I knew very little about Catrin’s background. Curious, I leaned forward. “That so?”
She nodded. “There are a lot of them over there. The Devil Monks.” Her manner turned serious, that relaxed humor fading as her voice turned reflective. “They visit villages, whisper into the ears of nobles, take all sorts of guises… there’s an old saying in Edaea, one I learned to heed early. If you ever see a man at a crossroads, take another path.”
I ate, using the time to absorb this. I’d known the agents of the Iron Tribunal, the mysterious rulers of Hell and counterparts to the Choir, operated freely in the West and had for most of the past millennium. Even still, I knew very few specifics. I’d never been west of the Fences or the Riven Sea, the two barriers dividing continent from subcontinent. The world beyond remained an expanse of legend and hearsay, to me.
“Why would they be here now?” I asked, half to myself. “What broke the ban keeping them out? Why are they targeting isolated members of the nobility so aggressively?” And does it have anything to do with the Inquisition reappearing? I thought darkly.
“I suppose it must have something to do with the Guilds,” Cat said mildly, popping a bit of food into her mouth rather than elaborating.
I froze, a final spoonful of stew halfway to my lips, before deliberately finishing the bite. After I swallowed, I placed my spoon down and turned my full regard on the barmaid. She watched me, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“The Guilds?” I asked calmly, matching her conversational tone.
“Oh, you haven’t heard?” She blinked, feigning surprise. “I could have sworn you were… well, I must have misjudged. Never you mind. I won’t be the one to distract you from your real duty, whatever it is.”
I glowered across the table. I wanted to ask. She knew I wanted to ask, but she wouldn’t give me any answers for free. Teasing out my secrets had become a sport to her over the past year.
“You know the drill,” Cat said with an animated glint in her eyes, lacing her long fingers over the table. “Secrets for secrets, Hewer.”
Answers for answers, that was our rapport, and the rule of the Backroad. I knew what she’d ask, or suspected at least. She would ask me about my past. I was… hesitant to share. Cat believed I was some kind of renegade among the league of lords who governed the realms of Urn. She knew fragments of my situation — that I had fought during the Fall and the three years of war that followed, that I was or had been a knight, that I wasn’t on good terms with the nobility, the clergy, or the surviving Fellowships.
She knew I served the Choir, the immortal powers of the land. What she didn’t know was why. She didn’t know my sins.
There were things about myself and my past I wasn’t willing to share, but I needed information.
“Fine,” I said, pushing my mostly finished plate away. “What is this about the Guilds?”
“Not so fast.” She held up a hand. “My turn first. You didn’t answer my earlier question. I want to know how you got involved with the Crowfriars.”
I glowered at her, annoyed. Cat rolled her brown eyes. “If I play fair, you give me nothing.” She unlaced her fingers and leaned closer, eyes intent.
I sighed, exasperated, but decided the whole story wouldn’t be too dangerous. I could leave out some of the stranger and more compromising details, like Nath’s involvement or the dramatic conclusion with a godhand of the Choir. So, in brief, I told her about Venturmoor, about Jon Orley and House Carreon, and about Emma Orley, the girl who had been a Carreon.
Stolen story; please report.
Catrin’s eyes grew wider throughout the telling, rapt with interest. When I finished, explaining that I’d taken the girl on as my unofficial squire, teaching her about sorcery and esoteric lore, her gaze turned thoughtful, then remote.
I spread my fingers out. “And that’s it.”
Cat nodded, her eyes sliding from mine. “She pretty?”
I blinked. “What?”
Catrin rolled her eyes. “Is this Emma girl pretty. Simple question.”
Understanding, or believing I did, I set my mouth into an unamused line. “She’s seventeen.”
Cat snorted. “Didn’t realize you liked them that young, Hewer.”
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. “It is not like that,” I snapped.
Cat searched my face a while, her expression unreadable. I didn't understand the sudden chill I felt from her. Jealousy? I hadn't expected it, especially from her.
Or did I misread her completely?
Finally, Cat sighed and leaned back in her seat. “I believe you. Sorry, it’s just… well, I guess I jumped to conclusions. You, a former lord, taking a young noblewoman under your wing, saving her from devils and ancient curses? Seems so storybook.” She sipped at her tea.
“I respect her,” I said honestly, glad the awkward moment had passed. “She’s had a hard life, and a lot of unfair expectations put on her. I know how some of that feels. If I can help her out of that mire, it would be one good thing I’ve done.”
“Not the only good thing,” Cat insisted. “You trusted me. Defended me. I haven’t forgotten that.”
We fell into a companionable silence for a time, listening to the ambience of the inn, sinking into shared memories. Not all of them bad. We’d spoken like this several times in the past year, with no dark plots or life-threatening dangers getting in the way, nothing forcing us to cooperate. Just talking, sharing rumors, enjoying one another’s company.
I didn’t have that sort of relationship with anyone else. Everyone else in my life was too connected to my work, or my past. It felt very strange sometimes, having a friend. Especially a friend like Catrin.
“What did you mean about the Guilds?” I asked, breaking the lapse of quiet. “What do they have to do with the Crowfriars?”
“I don’t know much, honestly.” Cat winced at the confession after her game of cat-and-mouse. “What I tell you now, I overheard from some of our more… rich-blooded patrons, lets say.
Nobles, I guessed, trying not to linger on her choice of words. I knew there were some among the aristocracy of Urn who came to the Backroad, usually to conduct darker sorts of business. I tried not to glance around at the other patrons. I knew that, within spitting distance, this room contained warlocks, assassins, outlaws, mercenaries of a bloodier kind than you’d find in any guild or fellowship, cursespeakers. Worse.
Inns are where adventures begin and heroes meet. That is a truth in my world. The more superstitious even hold that no quest or venture can begin if it does not have its start in an inn or a hall of similar purpose. The tradition traces its roots to the great halls of the old Edaean lords, who held to strict customs of hospitality. Those traditions hold true even now, from the chieftain-rangers of the Wildedales to the imperious nobles of the High Houses. Some even consider them sacred places and give their keepers honors second only to great lords. There is real power in those traditions, magic as old as civilization itself.
If this is true, then the Backroad is the shadow of the warm inns of Urn. It is where the traditional villains of the land share mead, trade news, and begin their dark ventures. Nobles who conduct business where I sat did not tend to be the kind I would relish meeting.
They were also the source of some of the inn’s best rumor, though, so I kept my peace. The Keeper’s words also lingered in my thoughts, his implication that I had become just the sort to frequent his establishment. I’d wanted to deny it. I only came to the Backroad in need.
My eyes lingered on the woman across the table. Whatever else, whatever her nature, she was no villain. Yet, this place was essentially her home. Few other places welcomed Catrin of Ergoth.
“They say the Edaean Guilds are practically flooding into Urn these recent years,” Cat said, not noticing or choosing not to comment on my lingering eyes. “You know the kind — merchant lords, arms dealers, alchemists, mercenaries. The Accord decided to open borders, more or less, and ships are flooding the Riven Sea. Caravans choking the mountain passes. We’ve been getting more westerners in here too.” She waved at the surrounding inn.
“This is just conjecture on my part,” she leaned forward, the gossip putting wind in her. “But I hear many of the bigger guilds — the Bronze Ring, the Three Towers, others — are pretty much controlled by the Crows the same way the Seraphs use the Church over here. They teach the alchemists how to make Devil Iron. So, you want to know why they’re here?” She shrugged and smiled grimly. “It’s because their investments are here.”
I chose not to correct her by stating that the Onsolain didn’t control the Church, that they were only servants and messengers of the Divine, not some immortal shadow government. A reflex born of a lifetime of absorbed piety, part of me knew.
I didn’t even truly believe she was wrong. Not after I’d been ordered to kill a bishop. Instead I said, “commerce between mortal nations wouldn’t move the Onsolain to drop their own edicts.”
“Wouldn’t it?” Cat placed one slender arm on the table, looking at me askance. “Al, trust me on this. I know I might not look it, but I’ve been around longer than you. Politics between mortals and immortals is not so different, and they’re never free of each other.”
I wanted to disagree, to deny it. Would the Choir end the centuries long exile of their dark counterparts because the effort of keeping them out would interfere with simple economics? It seemed ludicrous. And yet…
The disparate realms of Urn were battered. I had seen enough of it in my travels in recent years. Famines, plagues, banditry, xenophobia… all more rampant in the last five years than they had been in the last hundred. Desperation could drive the realms to another outbreak of war, to shirking the authority of the Accord.
On the other hand, trade with foreign nations, foreign guilds, could bring wealth into the subcontinent, help mitigate the hunger of the masses and the greed of the nobles. If the price of that was to allow devils in with the traders, then… what was right, what was good in that case? And what would the cost in souls be? I couldn’t imagine, couldn’t encompass the scale of it.
But I knew some who could, and that gave me pause.
Then another memory, more than a year old now, struck me. There had been three mercenary knights in Vinhithe the day I’d executed Bishop Leonis. They had used strange weapons, worn strange armor, all charged with a magic that had felt unfamiliar to me. Had their armaments been crafted with western alchemy? Had I seen signs of this widespread change even then, not knowing what it foreshadowed?
“I’m surprised you don’t know about all of this already,” Cat commented. “It’s been going on for years.”
I waved a hand, feeling tired despite the meal. “I’ve been wandering back-countries for years. There are plenty of places in the world where the winds of change don’t even brush you.”
“Poetic,” Cat stated with a mocking smirk. She lifted her tea for a sip, seemed to think better of it, and gestured at me with the cup instead. “According to the red robes, every soul who stayed behind during the Exodus, or was left behind, is apostate. Doesn’t engender much good will to the Golden Queen’s priesthood over there, that’s for certain. They say there are more diabolists in the continent than there are knights in Urn.”
She laughed at that, as though the idea was a laughable one. I didn’t find it nearly as amusing. “So the Church doesn’t like it, but they can’t keep them all out. The Priory has been awful loud about the whole thing, their grand prior chewing Forger’s ear off over it.”
I nodded slowly, that name bringing a frown to my heart. Markham Forger, King of Reynwell, Lord-Protector of the Accord, and Emperor of Urn — the first man to hold the ancient title of emperor in near four centuries, even if the position was ceremonial at best. The man had practically built the current order from the ground up, after the war.
He’d been the one to deliver my sentence, to strip me of my noble status and cast me into exile. He’d just been the Church’s mouthpiece in that, but it had been his voice all the same, his stern presence leading that council.
Shaking off bad memories, I took my chance when Cat finally went for a real sip of her tea to speak. It could be difficult to stop her when she started on a subject. “So, to summarize — if the Crowfriars have their hooks in Edaean trade, then letting the West bring all its merchants and sellswords into the subcontinent might have inadvertently broken the ban. By inviting Edaea in, the Emperor — de facto ruler of Urn’s nations — also invited the missionaries of Orkael back from their exile.”
Catrin spread her fingers out, still holding her cup loosely in one hand. “It’s a stretch, but devils are real asshats like that. Fine print, you know?”
I doubt Forger and the rest of the Accord have any idea what they’ve done, I thought darkly. The Riven Order was the subject of myth and ancient clerical lore. Even I had never heard of it until I’d joined the Table. The Church might have warned the nobles, but it didn’t mean anyone would listen.
"What's all this investigating about anyway, Al?" Cat propped her arm on the table again, narrowing her eyes at me. "If you had this run in with the Crows months ago, why am I just seeing you now? Something else happen?"
She missed nothing. I nodded, and told her about Billensbrooke. By the time I'd finished, her pale face had gone practically ghostly.
"The Urnic Inquisition..." she rubbed at one temple, grimacing. "That group's got it's fair share of horror stories. Glad I wasn't born back then. You know the sorts of things they were said to do to Halfborn and changelings? Doesn't make me feel safe and cozy, I'll tell you that."
"You haven't heard any rumors about them recently?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Sure, you hear about witch trials and "monster" hunts all the time, and I guess those have gotten more common lately. You remember that troll in Caelfall, the one Orson's mercenaries butchered? That sort of sad sight's getting more common. The elves are starting to look more and more like the thing that goes bump in the night these days, rather than the Wise Friends of Man. Not to mention all the bad things creeping out of the east. Folks are getting less willing to take the time to distinguish between Fey and Fel."
I'd seen some of that myself. Cat paused as the inn's front door opened, letting in another group of road-weary travelers from the deepening winter night. The cold set the candelabras and living flame in the pit to dancing.
"As for the Inquisition," Cat continued, when the mild commotion had passed, "I don't put too much stock in wild rumors about zealous priests and sorcerer-crusaders. Those tales aren't worth their weight in air. From your lips though, big man?"
She gave me an uncertain look. "I'll be keeping a sharper ear on rumors about the Church, believe me."
After we'd both sat on those revelations and dark tidings a time, I leaned forward over the table, lacing my fingers together. My eyes studying my scarred knuckles. “Thank you, Cat. This does help a lot.”
Cat gave me a mock bow, crudely mimicking the swooping gesture of a courtier in her seated position. “For you, O’ Knight? Any time.”
I brought my cup to my lips, but didn’t drink. “I’m not a knight,” I murmured. “Not anymore.”
She shouldn’t have been able to hear me beneath the din, but she did. “You were mine, once. I won’t forget that.” Her eyes were full of warmth. Then, abruptly casual she asked, “are you staying here tonight?”
The question caught me off guard. My mind had wandered again, considering what I’d learned from Cat, what I should do next, my mind a chaos. My brain fizzled at her casually tossed inquiry, the past and future fading away like pipe weed in summer air. “Yes,” I said. “I already paid the Keeper. I’ve been roughing it for days.”
I’d barely stopped to rest at the Fane after returning from my brief outing with Emma. The Backroad could be found anywhere, floating along the edges of the Wend as it did, but it could be tricky sometimes. I'd wandered the unused paths and backwoods around the Fane for days before I'd managed to get it to take notice of me.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Cat said. “Nothing much.”
Before that conversation could continue, I was alerted by the sound of thunderous footsteps moving at speed across the room. I turned, instinctively tensing, but too slow. I caught a glimpse of a hulking shape, something huge as a bear and closing fast, its form concealed beneath a heavy cloak and cowl.
Catrin began to shout a warning. I heard table legs scraping over wood — mine or hers, I didn’t know. I reached for my axe.
A hand shot out from the folds of that cloak, closed around my neck, and lifted me from my seat. It happened too fast for me to take in every detail. The world spun, and when it stopped I’d been suspended in the air, an iron grip around my neck.
Something enormous, reeking, and inhumanly strong held me over the fire pit. It let out a ripping growl, then spoke in a voice like the grinding of steel bellows.
“Elf Friend. I should have killed you when last we met.”
I managed to see who held me through my hazing vision, catching sight of piss-yellow eyes beneath a ragged hood, tusks, skin the color of pale blood. An ogre.
An ogre I knew.
Karog.