Erdor hadn’t expected such a welcome, but he certainly wasn’t going to waste it. The moment Night left him alone in that small bedroom, citing needing a little more time before she was ready to report, and ‘Surely Uwain would not begrudge me even this?’ Erdor slipped out.

He still had no idea what was going on here, but if Night was afraid of Uwain and apparently had to report to him about the Caves and the Key, then he was in the right place. But he also didn’t know whether Uwain truly was sending a messenger. Night obviously seemed to think he would, so if he was, Erdor needed to get out well before Uwain’s real messenger came poking around. Because if his… host, for want of a better descriptor, found out, well.

And that meant he had to find the prisoner from whom Night was trying to extract information, and he had to get them out.

He frowned as he glanced round the hall, saw no one, and started walking, taking the time to peek into every door that he could.

If he did save the prisoner from the witch, he mused, they might even be willing to tell Erdor the truth about the key’s location. If they did, Erdor would be able to take the key to the caves — if the bartender hadn’t lied about the location — and finally get the cure.

Would the magic…?

No, he couldn’t consider anything else. It had to. He would find a cure. He would save Ilora, and then he could go back to his cushy life as the crown prince, doing whatever his parents wanted him to do.

But until then, he needed to figure out where the prisoner was and how to get them out of there. Even getting them to tell him about the keys could come later.

Straightening his shoulders, he marched with even more purpose, ignoring the empty rooms, the dusty furniture (what kind of witch was Night that she didn’t even have magic cleaning?), and the scattered artifacts and items. At one point, he found himself at the corner of what was probably the back end of the house because he could hear the faint drag of heavy items against the floor and the inaudible grumbling of the companion with whom he’d arrived, familiar despite his one-time acquaintance with the man. There were just some things one can’t forget, and one of those things was the incessant complaints of a cranky old merchant as heard over the course of a trip that was long enough that it seemed to go on forever.

Shaking his head, Erdor turned in another direction, this time spotting a staircase, which he ascended.

He was let out into a floor with doors extending on each side and the front opening up into a larger area. But something about this floor was different.

Erdor bit the inside of his cheek and stepped forward toward the first door. It opened up — disappointingly — into a bedroom. Erdor closed it immediately after a cursory glance to see if anyone else was inside.

The next two seemed to be the same, but the fourth had a door freshly painted, and Erdor could smell the faint scent of something sharp and starch floating in the air around the door. The oddest thing was that it hit him almost unexpectedly as if it were contained in that one area. Which, of course, might even be possible with a witch, but why would she even do that?

Shaking his head, Erdor opened the door and was assaulted by a million more smells. His nose wrinkled in surprise, even though they weren’t even the most rancid ones he’d come across.

But the mixture of them in one steaming room? There was citrus, sweet, that scent of the perfume his mother wore on occasion, the hint of fresh grass, the odor of a roaring dragon — funnily enough, he had no idea how he knew that considering he’d never actually come across a dragon, more’s the shame — and that slight, yet familiar and calming…

Stolen story; please report.

His eyes watered, and he blinked, snapping back into focus. In front of him was what could only be a laboratory for potion-making, with small cauldrons placed on tables propped up to each side of the room, cylinders with bubbling concoctions, and stoppered glass with glittering liquids. Larger cauldrons were placed on facsimiles of stoves on the ground in various positions, some of them filled with the fruit of potion making, so to say, but others empty.

Erdor hesitated, caught between curiosity and wonder on one side and impatience on the other. Was it possible that a witch with such (apparent) skill in potions could craft one for healing his sister? But if she couldn’t, he’d be revealing all his cards and losing the chance to find the Caves, which, by all indications (by all hope), were far more likely to answer his desires.

One of the bubbles in a dark blue liquid sputtered and popped.

Erdor stepped back and closed the door. Yes, the Caves were a much safer option, and for all his interests, Ilora came first.

He ignored all… interesting rooms after that, ignoring any that had no person inside. It was odd, but his entire search on this floor brokered no human. There was no creature there, either, but the lack of people was even odder. For a manor this size— no, for a witch who was obviously rich and in want of nothing (except, it seemed, whatever was causing her to be ordered about by Uwain), having no servants?

Perhaps she simply hated people. With the story of Jarvis that Erdor had heard from the bartender, he didn’t blame her.

He spared a second look for what a library spanning multiple rooms was, though, from the outside, it was the same as any other entrance on this floor, then sighed and left, speeding up. No doubt Night would already be looking for him.

At the other end, he came across another set of staircases, one going down and the other up.

For a moment, Erdor hesitated again, wondering whether he ought to risk the chance of exploring the next floor.

Just as he was about to walk back down in momentary defeat and await the fury of his host, the woman in question came stomping down the stairs, only to still as she caught sight of Erdor.

Erdor straightened, once again injecting that bit of royalty he’d been taught into his figure.

“You,” Night hissed. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?!”

Erdor didn’t allow himself to falter. “Why?” He asked, wondering if Uwain would approve. “Do you have something to hide?”

Night glared. “This is my home, not your playground, messenger. And I have no qualms about killing you if you intrude upon—”

“And yet again,” Erdor said bravely, deciding that she probably wouldn’t kill him for interrupting. She hadn’t till now, had she? “We come to death threats. Is your progress so slow that you must stall Sir Uwain so?”

Night’s nostrils flared in surprise.

Huh, maybe he had hit the mark.

“As I have already told you,” Night said, her voice calmer but colder. “I am in the process of finding what my brother requires. I would suggest you stop dogging my heels like a common mutt and start exercising patience. Uwain might have put you in charge, but he will not say anything to me should you cross the line.”

Wait, ‘brother’?

Oh, Rulan, he’d miscalculated.

But this was not a hole he could run out from. Not just yet. So he continued putting forth that calm veneer molded onto him from years of royal study and simply raised his eyebrows. “Even being his sister does not give you the privilege of disobeying him,” He said plainly. “Does it?”

Night didn’t answer.

Erdor’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Now,” He said lightly. “Where are my accommodations? If you do not have what Sir Uwain needs to know just yet, then I will surely require a place to stay.”

Night fumed but snapped her head in a bastardized nod and then stalked forward, her shoes clicking on the floor and her dress flowing in the same fury she was practically dripping from her fingertips.

And around her, magic shimmered in a way that even Erdor could see.

Not for the first time in the last few hours, Erdor thanked Rulan that his cover was still intact.