Reeve stood next to Larry and Sea Mist as living residents of Morbeet filed past, waiting their turn to be organized into ranks that lined the outer bailey. As they shuffled by, many of the residents said words of gratitude to Reeve or the royal couple or both.

“How’s it going with the materials for the trunk?” Reeve said as she watched an archer pass, arms laden with at least a dozen unstrung bows and back hung with as many quivers.

“The last of the materials...,” Larry turned to Sea Mist.

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“A short and curly hair from a mammoth,” Sea Mist said.

“…yes, a short and curly hair from a mammoth, procured at great risk by a team of ambulating undead, more than half of whom now adorn the mighty feet of said mammoth…mighty hoofed feet? Do mammoths have hooves?”

“Mammoths do not have hooves,” Sea Mist said. “Have you never seen a mammoth?”

“Not from underneath its mighty unhoofed feet, no I have not, Dear. And so…more than half of whom now adorn the mighty feet of said mammoth, should be here soon. Then we need only find a caster who knows the Spell of Holding.”

Reeve nodded and puckered one cheek in thought. Her eyes widened suddenly. “No! No! Wait!” She said, startling the king and queen.

“Dear, what is—,” Sea Mist started.

“I’m being logged—“