Amon collapsed into his chair in the library. All the bone-deep exhaustion and hurt, all the throbbing bruises Kessen had left him, seemed to catch him all at once.

But relief came, too. A lightness so sweet and pure it was almost as blissful as the freedom of flight that Casting gave him.

He was safe. Odrin had agreed to watch over him and bring him to Cassada. The most daunting challenge was over. The voyage to Cassada would be exceedingly dangerous in its own right, but that there his fate would lie in the hands of the Five, the Illian sea gods, or both. He couldn’t control what happened once leaving these shores, but he’d secured his spot on one of Odrin’s ships and that was enough for now.

The library door flew open and Vestro tottered in, carrying an armful of papers and reports. “What are you sitting there for, boy? Help me.” Irritation colored his voice.

The older man’s deeply lined face had already settled into a frown. Normally he was cheery and loud in the mornings before his patience inevitably and predictably turned south somewhere in mid-afternoon. His morning crankiness was understandable, though. Planning a war party would be a logistical challenge, to say the least, and Amon was sure hectic, stressful days lay ahead for both of them. He’d never organized an expedition before, but he knew it normally took weeks or even months, not days.

Amon leapt up to help him, eager to focus his attention on something productive. He wanted to lose himself in the work, at least for now. He didn’t want to think about what lay ahead for him.

Or what he’d left behind.

Another haunting image of Lucia and Amara flashed through his mind’s eye. He imagined the two of them walking off into those eerie, creach-filled hills. Amara had spoken of a community of runaway thralls, but he couldn’t fathom anyone living out there. The more he pictured the two of them fading into the dense forests, the more it disturbed him.

Vestro snapped his fingers, frown deepening further. “What’s got into you today, Amon? There’s much work to do and Odrin is in as foul a mood as I’ve seen him. I already got an earful from him.”

He helped Vestro organize the papers on the Master Scribe’s large desk. “Yes, sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night. What are we looking at?”

“Requisition orders from the Chieftain. Food, weapons, material that must be gathered and loaded onto the ships as quickly as possible. First, we’ll see what we can supply from the Chieftain’s own stores and then we’ll know what contributions must be made from the Yeoman.”

The Chieftain owned many of the best farming lands in the chiefdom – poor, though they were, at least compared to the lush fields of Cassada – but Yeoman were independent landowners who would have to help fund the expedition by either supplying food, materials, coin, or some combination of the three based on how much land they owned.

Good. It would probably fall on Amon to determine which Yeoman owed what. It was the kind of detailed work he could absorb himself into.

Absorb and block out the constant nervous chatter and dark visions in his mind.

As they began sorting the papers, Vestro leaned in closer. “Your friend hasn’t come into work today. Did you know that? Halda will have her whipped for that.”

For all his outward grumpiness, Vestro was fond of Amon in his own way and the look in his eye was sincere concern.

He was speaking of Lucia, of course. Amon shook his head and turned his attention back to the papers. He couldn’t meet his eyes.

He could feel Vestro’s gaze on him, though, and it lingered a little too long before returning to the work, as if he didn’t quite accept Amon’s ignorance.

The future, Amon told himself. That’s all that matters now. The past is dead.

If he ignored the past, starved it of his attention, maybe it would fade eventually. In the meantime, he would fill his mind with so much work there would be no room for anything else. Maybe that was the key to surviving in this world. Never look back, only forward.

He and Vestro quickly sorted through the orders and divided up the work between them. Vestro left him with one stack of papers, which Amon would deliver to the watchmen who guarded Odrin’s storehouses. Although few Illians could read or write, they would recognize Odrin’s seal on the papers and would bring whatever goods he requested down to the docks. Not without hassle, though. They guards would always toy with him before giving him what he requested.

Strange that most Illians despised Cassadans and yet couldn’t help but mimic their innovations, Amon reflected, as he braced himself for the task ahead. Writing and record keeping had only existed here in rudimentary form before the Long Reaving. Their Cassadan captives had taught it to them, but even now many viewed literacy as a sign of decadence and weakness. A feminine art.

If only they knew the Chieftains and their children were studying letters. Even the chieftains could see that strength could win battles, but organization and logistics – the stuff of letters and sums - would win wars.

Amon was about to leave with his papers when Roda stepped through the library door.

Odrin had told him that Roda would come find him at some point, but in that first moment Amon fought the urge to leap out the window.

He’d half expected to be cut down, but instead the old, lean warrior stood tall, his eyes flicking from Amon to Vestro, and then quickly scanning through the room. As always, his appearance was simple but immaculate. He’d also dressed this morning like he had most days, as if he expected to storm the walls by lunchtime.

“Amon, a word,” he said.

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Amon looked back to Vestro.

If the Master Scribe had eyed him with suspicion before, now he seemed almost incensed. What’s going on here? His raised eyebrows seemed to ask.

Amon could only think to shrug in return, but his insides lurched. He believed he could count Vestro as a friend, but any extra attention boded ill for him. There was nothing he could do, though. He’d have to think of an explanation before he returned. He placed the papers aside and followed Roda.

He'd met with Odrin before the Longhouse had fully woken up but by now the whole household thrummed with activity. Everyone from the house thralls to Odrin’s loachs ran about the place. One carried a teetering armload of reindeer skins. Two others rolled a barrel of wine down the halls, and more were stacking and inspecting weapons from the Chieftain’s personal armory. Everyone tended to one errand or another. Roda and Amon squeezed past a dozen people in the halls before exiting into the yard and the bright morning sunlight, where a steady stream of people flowed to and from the gate to the Longhouse. The air cracked with the shouts of foremen and the rhythmic thumping of mallets down at the docks.

The Eternal Storm is really over. It still didn’t quite feel real, though it undeniably was. All these people were readying themselves for war against his people.

These are your people, too.

That was true as well, no matter how he despised the fact.

Roda led him around the side of the Longhouse. Probably the closest they would get to privacy with so much chaos in the house.

“I need to hear everything about what happened last night,” Roda said.

Amon froze.

“Odrin’s told me much of what you discussed and I’m sworn to him,” Roda said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “He’s tasked me with taking personal responsibility for protecting you. You can trust me”

Amon continued to stare at him. Can I really? He’d never had much reason to interact with the old warrior in all his years serving Odrin, though he’d often wished he could ask him about his life, based on all the stories and whispers about him. He knew Roda had served and fought with Odrin in Cassada in the early days of the Long Reaving. He might have even known Amon’s father.

None of that made trust possible, though.

How much would Aile or his mages offer for his head? Illians believed in the bond of their word more than almost anything else, but Amon suspected most men would defile themselves for a great enough reward.

“It’s going to be a lot harder to look after you if you don’t talk,” Roda said. “If I know what we’re up against I can do a much better job of keeping you safe.”

Roda’s eyes never shifted away. They stayed locked on Amon, waiting for him to say something.

“Alright, you don’t trust me. I understand that, but Odrin’s already told me that you have Illian magic. He told me there might be mages after you, so if you’re worried about me knowing your secrets, Odrin already saw fit to tell me that. I doubt there’s anything you could tell me now that would make it worse. I already have enough to give you up if I wanted to, so might as well talk.”

Amon remembered Odrin’s reaction at the start of their meeting a few hours ago. He’d been worried about anyone else learning or overhearing, so if he’d told Roda he must have had unquestioned faith in the man.

Roda was right anyway. If he already knew who and what Amon really was, there was nothing to hold back.

He told Roda everything had happened, his voice low, checking periodically that no one had strayed close enough to hear even a word of it. Thankfully all the other activity around the Longhouse made for good cover.

Roda listened closely the whole time. His face betrayed little. There was no judgement, no emotion there. None of it seemed to faze him. “I know little of Illian magic,” he said when Amon had finished. “Can you explain to me how these mages would recognize you?”

“When I’m Casting, mages look exactly how they do in person. The one who saw me up there knows what I look like. She could describe me to others in detail, even if she doesn’t come looking for me herself. She also saw parts of my mind. She knows what Amara and Lucia, possibly others but I don’t know who else she would be able to describe or identify.”

“Aye, that’s a problem,” Roda said, frowning slightly. “You look more Illian than Cassadan. That means they’ll be looking for a half-breed and there aren’t too many of those around here.”

Not since the Purge, anyway. Amon could only think of three or four in the whole Chiefdom beside himself. “That’s not the only way they could find me. If I use my magic at all and they’re around, they would sense it and know I’m close.”

Roda nodded. “Hiding you will be difficult, but first we should find a way to suppress your magic. I heard this is possible with certain herbs.”

“Yes, but they’re not easy to come by. Amara had been struggling to find them for months.”

“There’s an herbalist in town,” Roda said. “Maybe she would have what you need.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Amon said. “Bluetails and eldermoss aren’t used commonly and this herbalist might suspect something. If she knows anything about Cassadan magic, she might know that these two are used together to suppress it.”

Roda’s eyes quickly flicked up and around, scanning for eavesdroppers. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take.”

Amon felt a tightening in his chest. It didn’t sit well. “What reason do you have to buy these herbs? Have you ever bought herbs before?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Wouldn’t it be suspicious if the Chieftain’s Head Loach was buying herbs, then? You would send a thrall, most likely.”

“I could send someone.”

“But that person would have questions, too. A thrall would be even more likely to know what those herbs are for.”

“True enough, but I won’t send a thrall. There are men I trust, though the fewer involved the better.”

“Wait!” Amon said. A memory flashed suddenly. A snippet of conversation with Amara. “I heard Amara say once that she’s seen bluetails and eldermoss in the protected woods around Beckhead Town. She could never go looking there because it would be too suspicious, but she swore they were there.”

“Would you be able to identify these plants?”

“Of course.” Amara had taught him everything she knew about herbalism and he’d studied it voraciously. His curiosity about different plants and herbs had been almost all-consuming, turning into another of his many obsessions.

Roda paused, scanning about again. The man seemed to always be on the lookout for danger, even while his mind slowly churning through various scenarios. “Alright, you’ll stay in the Longhouse tonight. It can be easily explained. There’s too much work to do and no need to waste time having you walk back and forth from the Thrall village. That shouldn’t raise too many questions. I’ll come get you after dark. We should be able to slip away into the woods and together we’ll look.”

“And if someone sees us?”

“I’m confident they won’t. Will you be able to control your Casting in the meantime?”

“As long as I don’t sleep. I often Cast while dreaming without even realizing it.”

“Don’t sleep, then. I’ll find a way to set you up in one of the back rooms where we can easily slip out.”

Amon nodded, though inside he was squirming. Looking for the herbs in the woods was better than buying them off any herbalist – there really was no good reason for anyone to buy bluetails and eldermoss together, other than to suppress magic – but if anyone saw the two of them together, suspicions would be raised immediately.

It would have to do, though. He just needed to survive long enough to get on one of those ships. From there, Aile’s mages would never be able to find him.

He returned to the library, where an annoyed Vestro eyed Amon with suspicion and concern.

“Amara and Lucia are missing,” he said, by way of explanation. Everyone would know soon anyway.

Vestro reacted as if it were the most scandalous news he’d heard in months, and it probably was the most scandalous development in a long while, but Amon plead ignorance, did his best to ignore the looks, buried himself in the work.

The past is dead. Just keep moving forward, he told himself, and it almost worked.