“I am uncomfortable with you speaking with the fae,” said Idris, as he and Layton ate warmed bread and butter by the wood stove in the kitchen.

The orange glow of the windowless stone kitchen was homely, like a quaint little farmhouse room. The cats rubbed against Layton’s ankles, purring and licking offered pats of butter from saucers; Layton barely looked up from them when he replied.

“The artefact is fae, and it is under my care. It is right for me to do so.”

“What will they do if they know you have it?” said Idris. “They stole a piece to destroy it before, correct?”

“That much is true.” Layton sighed, selected a small scrap of cured meat and offered it to the largest tom, who took it delicately from Layton’s fingers. “Perhaps they will be accommodating.”

“What if I did it?” said Idris.

Layton raised an eyebrow, looked at him. “In your state? Out of the question.”

Idris wondered if Layton would balk at the idea of Idris leaving Raven’s Roost. Technically he could leave when he liked; diplomatically, that seemed difficult. Myriad reasons floated in Idris’s head, a hundred accommodations he had to make. At least, he needed to apologise to his friends.

“They might consider me to be a more neutral party,” said Idris.

“The fae realm is not to be trifled with,” said Layton, with a firmer edge to his tone. “As far as they are concerned, there are no neutral parties. There are threats and there is the fae. If we are going to do this, we need to be wary. Your health is paramount. I will not have the fae take advantage of your sickness.”

A huddle of kittens, mewing, crept into the firelight. Layton smiled softly and laid down a fresh butter saucer for them. The kittens scrambled for the plate, all save a small, grey-and-orange bundle of fur, trying to push itself in and being thoroughly rejected.

“Now, now, none of this. We are family, and family shares,” said Layton to the kittens, lifting the runt to his lap and tutting at its brothers and sisters. “Come, little one.” He took another piece of meat, tore it into scraps. “Here. All yours.”

The runt mewed and chomped at the meal. Idris watched, his stomach knotted.

“What if the fae attack Raven’s Roost for the breastplate?” he said.

Layton smiled to himself. “The tower can protect itself. Worry not.”

“At least let me make myself plain,” said Idris. Layton waved a hand in a welcoming gesture. “If I leave the tower, go into Outer Arbedes – this is not my permanent residence and they cannot trace me back to Raven’s Roost. You are linked to this place. The fae place a lot of stock in homes and land. They know this land is yours, because it is connected to theirs, and has been for hundreds of years. My home is… separate. If they reject the suggestion, they cannot come down on you. I dread to think what they could do to this place if they levelled enough of their forces at it.”

“You want to go home,” said Layton quietly.

Idris pursed his lips. “It is not… not the way you make it sound. I have a different life, out there. My attendant will be looking for me. If I am to stay here full time, Layton, I have to make arrangements. I cannot simply vanish.”

Layton’s face, though, was still. He stroked his finger over the kitten’s nose, let it nibble his thumb.

“Stay?” he said hopefully.

“Yes. If… if you will have me.”

The Remaker’s brow creased. “I would like that.”

Idris held out a piece of bread for the runt. “Here, kitten.” It champed down on the crust. “My, he is hungry.”

“Those left out in the cold are often the hungriest,” said Layton, as if from far away. The odd ice that Haylan had described in his letter slid through the cracks. Then, he brightened. “He will grow strong. I will make sure of it. We should give him a name.”

“You are certain he is a boy?”

“Oh, certain. If we name him,” Layton added, cupping the kitten in his hands, “that means you must come back for him.”

Idris was not sure how he was supposed to respond to this.

“I can go?” he said. Layton laughed slightly.

“Nobody ever said you were a prisoner here, Idris. You may come and go as you please, as long as you return for your boy, here. And help to repair the curtain after you come back, of course.”

“You are bribing me with a kitten, like I am a child,” said Idris, with a gentle smile. Layton raised his eyebrows.

“Is it working?”

“Perhaps.” Idris considered the cat. “I like Thistle.”

“Thistle.” Layton gazed down at it. “Like the Eremont crest.”

“Then… maybe Johannes?” said Idris.

Layton nodded. “Johannes Vonner the Second. A strong name. I approve.”

Idris watched Layton coddle the kitten.

Your name is Thistle, he thought. And I will make you strong.

*

Idris and Layton made several preparations for his departure. Firstly, Layton gave him clothes: a handsome summer coat in soft grey, with silver thread, and black trousers, complimented by a cool white shirt. The next thing he provided was a selection of tools in a cloth bag, much like Idris’s travel magic pouch, filled with crystals and salts that he might need.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“This will allow you to dispel the curtain without having to perform the aria,” said Layton, giving Idris a ring. It had a chunk of crystal, swirling in the cast. “It will only respond to you. This is for the fae.”

Layton placed down a black gem. Idris frowned at it, and Layton smiled placidly.

“They will know what it is,” he said. “Trade it for their promise that they will reshape the breastplate for you, to fit your specifications. Do not budge.”

“I will not.”

Thistle the runt darted across the table to play with the black crystal; Idris snatched it out of his reach and blew out his cheeks. When he held the gem, it seemed to hum uncomfortably in the depths of his ears. Layton deftly scooped up the kitten and plopped him on his shoulder, like a tiny pauldron.

“I will take care of your boy,” said Layton.

“Thank you.”

“How far are you travelling?”

“Gleesdale. I will be back after three days, maximum.”

“While you are gone, I will complete my research,” said Layton. “We will know, minimally, whether we should work on lichdom or the armour. Either way, you will be protected.”

“Let me bring back supplies,” said Idris. “What food do you require?”

“I shall make a list. New linens, too.”

To Idris’s surprise, Raven’s Roost had a stable. Layton led him out the back of the ground-floor parlour to a tiny courtyard, open to the sky, where two ponies grazed in their stalls. Idris did not care much for horses and they did not much like him, either, but if hard pressed, he could ride. Layton ummed and erred about Idris’s leg before Idris explained how to tie the stump to the saddle; eventually, he was ready to go. Thistle, sleeping on Layton’s shoulder, hardly even stirred when the horse snorted and began to plod away.

As he went, Idris wondered if this was an elaborate trick. Maybe the death curtain would burn him up as he left the courtyard. The horse could easily throw him off and kill him. Each steady step to the gate brought up another dire situation in Idris’s head until he thought it would be best to turn around and give up, and then he was at the gate, and he passed through it, and –

Nothing.

The death curtain shimmered and he felt a warm breeze. When he turned, the tower was gone. All there was behind him was a crumbling courtyard wall.

Tension rose from Idris’s shoulders.

I am out.

He let out a long, slow breath. The stiffness in his muscles eased. Grateful, he patted the horse’s neck and eased him on.

In the morning stillness, Outer Arbedes was quiet and forlorn. Idris and his horse plodded down the paved street, under colossal archways; the steed seemed to know the way and twisted and turned artfully down old roads. Above, ravens cried.

I could run, Idris thought. Ride back to Veridia, call for the Queen to send a unit to Raven’s Roost. We could take the breastplate by force.

The thought of Raven’s Roost ablaze, though, was painful.

Nothing in Outer Arbedes was recognisable as anything Idris had passed on his night flight, but he did start to see trees, eventually, and he assumed he was almost back at The Underwood.

Could I…

Idris tried to shake the wish away before it had formed in his head, but it would not go.

Raven’s Roost, all of this land… it could be his, if he wanted it.

His blood had displaced him from the home he had known, stripped him of a name and a family. Even if he took the breastplate and Layton lost his life in the defence of the tower, that did not mean that Idris could not claim his ancestral home. The tower, with its ravens and cats, with its warm kitchen and airy practice room – with its solitude, quiet and serene – it felt like a place he had always known.

Lord Idris Vonner of Raven’s Roost. That was who he was. That was the name that the criers should be calling when he walked into parties.

Idris drummed his fingers on his thigh as the horse took him up the rocky track out of the ruins.

I do not know who I am, he thought.

He had been Master Idris Eremont, third in line at Temple Hill. Then, he was Master Idris, invalid, child necromancer, ward of the kingdom. Only days ago, he had been Sir Idris of Gleesdale, Court Necromancer.

Blood does not make the man, Uncle Haylan had written.

But it took away so much.

To have a home, a place where Idris was not whispered about or stared at, somewhere that was truly his – was that not his right? Raven’s Roost did not have to stay secret. He could lift the death curtain, invite attendants and servants, clean up the ruins and make a small village, there. The Vonner name could be respectable again.

Idris sighed. “I wish you were here, Uncle,” he whispered, his senses filled with the nuances of The Underwood once more.

He wondered what it was about Uncle Haylan that Layton apparently loathed. Every time Haylan was mentioned, The Remaker stiffened and made flippant comments about how Haylan could not harm them anymore. As far as Idris knew, they had not had a confrontation; Haylan claimed to never have found Layton, in his years of searching, but that had been in a letter written when Idris was eight.

Uncle Haylan had his secrets, Idris supposed. Maybe he had been successful after.

The road through The Underwood towards Gleesdale was thin and dark. The trees pressed in and rustled. Idris watched the shadows for fae glitter, for poppets, and saw none. After some time, though, he felt uneasy, and the horse snorted and pawed at the ground.

“Easy,” Idris whispered, his heart in his throat. “Hello?” he said, louder.

Carefully, he unravelled his stump from the wrappings, twisted so he was sitting side-saddle and peered into the gloom. The only weapon he had was his grandfather’s dagger and he did not feel comfortable getting off the horse to work a stance – it would be too difficult to return to the saddle, after. He was too exposed, here.

“Willard?” he said, wondering if Lila had moved their camp out here for safety. “It’s me.”

A twig snapped.

The horse reared.

Idris flailed, grabbed for the reins, missed, and was thrown backwards off the saddle. He hit his tailbone on the ground; the pain fizzed up his spine like a lightning strike and he cried out, tears in his eyes.

Then someone grabbed his collar, hauled him up and slammed him against a tree trunk, and pressed a blade to his throat.

Through the tears, Idris saw the shimmer of ashen hair.

“Riette,” he said, breathless, grabbing her wrist to steady himself. “Riette, it’s me –“

“Where in the kingdom have you been?” she said, her teeth gritted, her face pink and wrinkled with fury.

“I… it is a long story –“

She pushed him harder, cutting off his sentence. “It’s him,” she called into the trees.

From behind her came Willard, his hair loose and unkempt, looking more like the hedge witch of old.

“Well let him go, eh?” he said to Riette, tugging her elbow.

“He may be compromised,” she said, not releasing her grip.

“He ain’t. I know. It’s fine to be mad,” he said, his touch becoming softer on her forearm and his eyes becoming harder. “Let him breathe, aye?”

Riette took a hard breath and let go.

Idris rubbed his neck, glanced at the road. Lila had the horse by the halter and was watching the scene with her face pale and her eyes stony.

“I am glad to see you all, too,” muttered Idris, irritated.

“I am not above beating explanations out of stupid men,” said Riette, rounding on him again. Willard held her wrist tight.

“Nobody’s beating nobody,” he said. “Leastwise, not while he ain’t got no foot on. That ain’t a fair fight.”

“I do not have time to submit to a beating,” said Idris. “Please, can we be more civil about this? I actually came looking for you, and I am glad to have found you. Or, I was.”

“Well…” Willard glanced at his companions. “We’re glad to see you in the flesh, too, Idris, although… nobody’s best pleased with you at the current moment.”

“How dare you?” said Riette, her fury still fixed on Idris.

“It is complicated,” said Idris.

“I was searching those ruins for a corpse!” she finally spat. “Every day! And you dare –“

“Easy,” Willard whispered, squeezing her arm. “Let’s… let’s go back to camp. We’ll talk.”

Riette tugged herself from Willard’s grip and stormed off into the trees, leaving the hedge witch and Lila standing awkwardly on the road, watching Idris as if he was possessed or mad.

“It better be good,” said Willard, with an air of finality.

“I found my father,” said Idris.

It was silent, then. Willard frowned, then the light of understanding dawned on him; Lila’s knuckles whitened on the halter.

“Good enough?” Idris said, suddenly exhausted.

“The lady’ll calm,” said Willard. “You well?”

“I would very much appreciate a hug, Willard,” said Idris.

Willard came forwards and wrapped his arms around Idris, and Idris shut his eyes and tried hard not to cry.