Marek drifted across town, dizzy from excitement. The woman chattering beside him fared no better. She practically hugged the prizes Shutterkeep had sold her. And though Marek had been present the entire time, she seemed compelled to remind him of every detail.

"Admit it! You love my new bow, don't you? Ugh, what a week! The bandit's was amazing, and I appreciate you going out of your way to kill a pack of thugs for me, but Principalities, Marek, just look at it! And the quiver too? I don't know which I like more. Do you think I should name them? Best get to it. If I don't give them names, I'll just jinx my luck. What do you think about Simon and Sally? Horrible! Sarah and Scottley... No, I'm coming at it all wrong."

He let her ramble. She’d almost died yesterday, and he'd be damned if he would do anything to quash her good mood. Besides, the bow Shutterkeep had sold her would make any Ranger green with envy. Not only did it have a similar weather-proofing enchantment, but a few small gems were set in both the upper and lower limbs. These had been crafted by a proper Gemsmith. They drank from the archer's mana to empower the draw, which allowed someone Mags' size to fire the heavy bow.

"I've got it!" she shouted. "Sinister and Silence! Ooh, it's so good!"

"I agree. Silence is the quiver, I take it?"

Mags giggled. "What a concept! My quiver dampens the sound of movement? It’s a nasty cheat, if you think about it."

Unable to resist, Marek was swept up in Mags’ enthusiasm. "What about the armor? Leather trousers and vests, proper bracers and chainmail shirts? The best part is how they were made to look like ordinary travel clothes."

"Ha! The best parts are the enchantments."

"True. Our trip up the mountains is going to be so much more comfortable now. When we come back through Middlebrook, we have to stop by Shutterkeep's again and thank him."

Mags spun in the street, drawing a few looks as she tested the nimble boots they'd both acquired. "He did make a small fortune," she reminded him. "I like the bastard too, but in the end, he's still a crook.”

Marek shook his head. "Sure, he probably earned a bit of coin, but he also took the burden of selling stolen goods. Anyway, calm down, woman. We're almost there."

His friend rolled her eyes, and they settled into a steady pace as they approached the Weary Wyvern. They'd already purchased a room and stored the rest of their gear that morning. Marek was grateful the inn had a back entrance. Even this early, townsfolk would be eating in the tavern. The upper floor was reserved for folks staying the night, and though the price had shocked Marek, their room came with a sturdy lock and two clean beds.

After unlocking the door and checking to see if their baggage was undisturbed, they piled up their armor, a handful of potions, and Mags' new bow and quiver along with the stack of mitrium arrow shafts Marek hoped to level his Sigilist Class enchanting. Finally, they tossed in the rolled-up tent Shutterkeep had given them for free. It was enchanted to block out all wind and rain, and it had a separate enchantment to increase the ambient heat within. The guildmaster had insisted it was an item they couldn't do without, should they get stuck in the mountains when winter struck.

"Let's get to it," Mags said, rubbing her belly. "Hope the food's as good as everyone says. I'm starved."

"You ate breakfast, half a pound of honey biscuits, a fistful of Shutterkeep’s cookies, and you're still hungry?"

"Strongtower blood. Can't help it. We're tough and beautiful people. You wouldn't understand."

Marek chuckled and stepped into the common room. He spotted a few of the caravanners eating at a table nearby and returned their wave.

The barkeep watched them closely but didn't speak until they'd taken a seat on the high stools. "Food or drink?"

"Both?" Mags ventured.

"Last night's stew for half a silver, or mutton pie for a full?"

Deciding he should enjoy some warm food while it was available, Marek said, "Two pies, please."

His friend elbowed him in the ribs. "Three, please! What do you have on tap? Anything good?"

The barkeep's heavy features brightened a little. "Well, then, woman after my own heart. We've a few reds and whites if it’s wine you're after. If you're honest folk, I'll mention we make the best stout to be found in Ardea. Strong and thick enough to stick a fork in."

Mags moaned indulgently. "Stout for me! Ugh, what a town. Misthearth ain't got a local stout! Have to pay outrageous prices for the crap they haul in from down south."

The barman leaned over the counter and held out his hand. "Name's Gerald. Nice to meet you, young lady. One Layton Stout for you, ma'am. What'll your husband be having?"

Marek sighed. “We’re not married. And I'll have some mulled wine if you have any. I feel a sore throat coming on."

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Gerald shrugged and left them alone, returning soon after with the stout and their food. "Missus is warming the wine now. She's a nice touch with spices, so the wait'll be worth it. Now tell me, what are a couple of Misthearthers doing up our way?"

"We trade a little—herbs, mostly," Mags said. "My friend has an eye for medicinals, and I plod along behind him and make sure nothing mean eats him. We make a good team."

Gerald laughed, and the two chatted a bit while Marek ate. He never ceased to be amazed at how easily the Strongtowers lied. No doubt, Mags would insist she hadn't. Just a bit of fabrication, she'd say. Never hurts to have a bit of fun.

When he'd finished his pie, Marek brought up one of their final bits of business. "Mr. Shutterkeep told us you might need a trusty mule. We came north with one but purchased horses along the way. We're headed into hard country, and our Lydia should have an easier life than what she'll get if we drag her along with us."

"Shutterkeep, eh?" Gerald said skeptically. "I don't need no mule, but I know someone who does. Old Lady Hoster comes to town every day, and the beast that's been hauling her little carriage is downright haggard! She told me to keep an eye out for a trusty mount, but the woman doesn't have much in the way of coin. If you want a good profit, I suggest heading east to Swiftwall."

"Profit doesn't matter as much as finding a good home for Lydia. She's a stubborn thing, if a bit rude. After eating a pound of sugared honey, she's gotten sweeter. And she's plenty strong enough to pull, as long as it isn't a heavy load."

Gerald smiled and shook hands with Marek. He thanked them and promised Lydia would be well cared for. They settled on a price that was half of what he'd paid, but even so, Marek was happy to have found the mule a good home.

When the business was settled, Gerald brought Marek his mulled wine and gave them space to finish eating. Mags stuffed her face greedily while Marek closed his eyes and listened. They were in a new town, and eavesdropping had many benefits. Most of the conversation was too subdued or far away to glean, but a pair of townsfolk sitting on the opposite side of the bar proved an exception.

"Mighty queer, if you's asking me, Lenn. No ifs or ands about it. Ever since we found old Jarbon floating in the well, things have been mighty queer!"

"Aye, won't see me arguin'. I'm with ya all the way. Jarbon was a right ass. Wouldn't have wished a death like that on anyone, though! And then Brisa up and vanishes last week! Like you said, Harry, mighty queer happenings!”

The drunker man—Harry, if Marek had heard right—belched in his fist and nodded solemnly. "Some was trying to say Brisa visited her folks. I won't buy it. Girl like that traveling on her own without telling nobody. Too damn queer for me."

And on they jabbered.

Marek tuned them out, committing the details he'd gained to memory before moving on. Soon, he gave up on hearing any other news. Something bothered him about the common room. Something he couldn't immediately identify. Mighty queer, he repeated in his head. They're drunk fools but I won't disagree with them. Something feels off.

He spun on his stool and leaned on the bar with both elbows. Trying to seem discreet, he said, "Weather's been nice, hasn't it? Think it will hold?"

Mags stopped with a bite of pie hovering in front of her mouth. "The hells you talking to me about weather for?"

"Just idle talk. Trying to enjoy myself, which isn’t easy sitting next to a shrimp like you.”

“Meh, you can’t upset me while I’m eating. Besides, better to be short than a lanky freak like you.”

Marek chuckled and tried again. “Like the food?"

That did the trick. Immediately, his companion dove into a diatribe about the better qualities of meat pies and what distinguishes the great from the mediocre. Marek relaxed and studied the people eating and drinking around him. Most appeared so natural and at ease they were all but invisible.

Curious if it might point him in the right direction, Marek made mental notes of everyone seated around him. Then he closed his eyes and queried, Which of these people stands out?

A few succinct images later, he found them. Two were a man and woman seated near the front door. Their postures were rigid, and the woman's eyes were red and swollen. A breakup? he wondered. Or maybe they lost someone close. A baby or a relative. He dismissed them and let his eyes pass over the third person. A man with a sun-bleached cloak and hard features sat still and quiet, nursing a glass thimble of spirits.

Answering Mags' deep and philosophical question, he said, "I don't mind a pie with cheese in it, actually. Tastes nice to me."

"See, that's where you're wrong. Cheese shouldn't be necessary. It's all about how tender the meat and vegetables are. Trust me, Marek—cheese is a sure sign of a poor cook."

Half-listening, he triggered Empath's Gaze. No sooner had his vision changed than a piercing wail filled his ears. He flinched, then coughed into his fist to cover the unintended movement. When he'd composed himself, Marek glanced up the stairs to find a young woman pacing back and forth along the banister, screaming at the top of her ghostly lungs. The poor girl's neck was cut wide open, her evening dress soiled. Marek breathed to steady his nerves and thought, And there's the missing Brisa. Wonder who killed her.

The tormented spirit wailed ceaselessly. Her eyes bulged in perpetual fright, and her movements were frantic. Marek couldn't stomach the sight. A deep sense of compassion overwhelmed him, and he reached out and tugged on the link connecting him to the soul. Then he breathed in her ether and released the wretched girl from this harsh and terrible world.

Several things happened at once. Her screaming abated, leaving his ears free to hear the room around him again. Mags nudged him. "You listening or what?" And the stranger Marek had noticed stood abruptly and walked toward the front door. He'd left half the shot of spirits behind, and the second before he ducked out the door, the man casually looked back at Marek. Nothing was betrayed in those steady, hard eyes, yet the timing had been too precise to be coincidence.

Chills cascaded down Marek's arms, and he got to his feet. "We have to go," he said, ignoring whatever question Mags had asked him.

"I've got a bit more to go," she said. "Besides, I was gonna ask what else they got in the kitchen."

Marek leaned close and whispered in his friend's ear. He told her of the invisible events that had transpired, and of the man who'd fled the tavern immediately after. Her face paled, and she nodded. Stuffing one more bite in her mouth, Mags tossed some coins on the counter and waved at Gerald.

"Thanks for everything! We'll be back in a few hours for an early supper!" she called, a smile fixed neatly on her face. "Tell your wife I said thanks for the meal!"

Both walking as slow and casual as possible, they left the way they'd come. And as soon as they’d departed from the view of any onlookers, Mags and Marek ran up the stairs, hauled every scrap of gear from the floor, and trudged down to the stables. As much as Middlebrook called to both of them, their time here had ended.

As hard as the path ahead might be, the Quartz Road and the Shirgrim Mountains were the only true sanctuary they had from the Casterans, or whoever that man worked for.