“How is this?” Suvau called to Judd who had decided not to hover over the weaponsmith’s shoulder while he was designing the sword. The young man eagerly leaned over the table as Suvau turned the design towards him. It was a handsome blade. The upper edge was straight but the lower edge, which was the sharpened edge, had an elegant curve and several crescent details to it.

“That’s brilliant Suvau!”

“What you envisioned?”

“No,” Judd looked up, “it’s better.”

Suvau chuckled then pointed to the second half of the sketches. “See here, the sheath? It will have a detailed opening so that the hilt, when the sword is sheathed, will look like part of the entire design.”

“And you can really do this?”

“I am looking forward to it.” Suvau cracked his knuckles. “The leather of the sheath will be crafted by an artisan in the village but I will make the top that it will be set into. It’s too late in the day to be starting the metal process or I’d be up half the night. We’ll begin tomorrow.” He rolled up the sketch. “Let’s go have a word with the leather craftsman and start making a sword worthy of LaMogre.”

Caste had to admit there was a reason while the archives of the fort records were dusty and neglected. They were some of the most boring tomes he had ever read. Notations on the day to day living, the construction work, the expenses of the weapons, the uniforms of the soldiers and the armour they wore. It was all very dry. The only time there was anything of real interest was when a cleric wrote about the damage monster attacks had made on the fort.

He rubbed his eyes, feeling them sting and blinked several times to refocus before returning to the archives which were becoming fainter with every generation of cleric they passed, going further and further into the past. He tried to stifle a yawn, failed but covered it by pretending to clear his throat.

“I know. Better than a sleeping tonic.”

He grimaced, knowing his subterfuge had been less than successful.

Emeri yawned openly and shook her head, the beads in her hair tinkling lightly.

“Perhaps we should give up for the day. I feel like I am having mini sleeps every time I close my eyes.” She admitted.

Caste didn’t want to admit he was feeling the same way. Every time he yawned, he had to reread that which had caused him to yawn in the first place. He was starting to think he’d never escape the page he was on.

“Just a little longer…”

“I tell myself that and end up awake most of the night.” Caste smiled and nodded then paused, surprised that he should have something in common with the girl from Maul. “Can I ask you something?”

“If you must.” He replied tersely.

“What are those dots on your face?”

Caste looked up. “Dots?”

Emeri nodded then danced her fingers above her nose and pointed at him. “Dots.”

“They’re not dots. They’re freckles.”

“Oh,” she tilted her head, “are they…common among Terras?”

“I am hardly common.” Caste straightened his shoulders and forced himself to sit upright, having slumped over the course of the afternoon. But within a few minutes, he was sagging again. He felt another yawn, a monster sized one, threatening and had to do something. “Why do you ask?” He looked up, willing himself not to give away his weariness.

“They’re not something I have seen on any of the Terras in the fort.” Emeri explained. “Not that I see the soldiers up close and they are almost always in armour…but my mother serves Lady Fereak and occasionally I have seen her…and she does not have freckles.”

Caste blinked. “Does she have hair the colour of mine?”

“No. It is brown…ash brown.” Emeri put her finger where she had been reading and studied Caste. “It has something to do with your hair colour?”

“It is more common with my hair colour.”

“I thought you were hardly common?” Emeri raised her eyebrows and Caste grunted in his throat. “It must be nice to have variation of colour in your features.”

“If you say so…” Caste went to dismiss her comment brusquely yet found himself puzzled by it. “Why is that?”

“Oh, well…I am quite brown.” Emeri laughed. “Brown skin, brown eyes, dark brown hair…I am not complaining but it must be nice to have that copper red hair, those freckles…those green eyes…”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“I suppose freckles on you would just fade into the background.” Caste remarked without thinking about it.

“Yes, of course…” Emeri sighed and looked down at her archive.

Caste paused for a moment, hearing a little sorrow in her voice. He hadn’t meant to be cruel. It had seemed a perfectly obvious statement. Yet he couldn’t help but noticed a deflation in Emeri’s manner. Even her weariness at reading the dry archives hadn’t produced the downturn of her lips or the way she swallowed tightly and he was suddenly confronted with the notion that he might have wounded her. If it had been anyone else, he could have confirmed this by noticing a redness in their features but on Emeri, it was not noticeable.

“At least when you blush, it isn’t so obvious.” He blurted and she lifted her head, surprised. “When I am embarrassed, my freckled skin goes as red as lava. Then I’m just all…red.”

“I had not thought about it like that,” Emeri pursed her lips, “but it must be lovely to have all those colours. I imagine Astaril would look like a beautiful tapestry of blonde, brunettes, red heads and black, silvery grey and white...”

“Colour only serves to isolate.”

“Now you’re being facetious.” Emeri retorted.

“No, I’m serious.” Caste insisted. “My hair has brought me nothing but mockery.”

“Oh you poor creature.”

“And when I debate, I go bright red and give away any and all nervousness.”

“I feel so sorry for you!”

“People used to make cat calls at me for my green eyes.”

“Insensitive souls.”

“And as for my freckles…when I was a novitiate in the cleric program, one of my peers decided to join them together with lines while I slept.”

“And yet you are not bitter at all.” Emeri laughed and Caste folded his arms.

“At least when you smile, your teeth are brilliant white, the whites of your eyes too…it’s the contrast that draws the distinction.”

“I know,” Emeri exhaled, “it draws a line between Terra and Maul that not even the destruction of the wall could rectify.”

Caste was caught off guard by the comment, believing them to be debating yet coming to a startling conclusion that they were actually arguing the same point.

When had that happened?

He forced his eyes down and turned the page, starting to wish he’d never suggested they find the wretched entry. The sun had not sunk in the sky another inch before he was reward with its discovery.

“Got it!”

“Where?” Emeri darted over to him, sitting on the arm of the chair, leaning to read the entry. “…foundations in the northern corner of Fort Omra suffered flooding due to heavy rainfall that was unable to be diverted. The decision was made to seal the northern basement to keep the fort from suffering from unjust foundations…” She paused. “Does that not strike you as an odd way of phrasing it?”

“Never mind that,” Caste said impatiently, “the name next to the entry is Cleric Iliet.” He picked up the register of clerical names and ran his fingers down the list. “Iliet…Iliet…here he is. He was the cleric of Fort Omra at the end of Sir Garon’s commission, the entirety of Sir Shien’s and Sir Olavia’s first two years before dying in his sleep.”

“He was cleric of Fort Omra for at least thirty years then.” Emeri mused.

“Judging by the entries, I would say that the flooding occurred in Olavia’s appointment to Fort Omra.” Caste tapped his teeth together. “There aren’t many entries after this entry in the archives with Cleric Iliet’s name on it…unless there wasn’t much to note.”

“Given how often Fort Omra is attacked, there ought to be plenty of notifications…or at least more entries about the state of the repairs.” Emeri flicked the pages across, shaking her head, her beads jingling again. Caste batted one out of his line of sight. “I think your estimation is accurate about the minimum age of the chest.” Emeri stood up, brushing her skirts down. “I must say I’m impressed.”

“Really?” Caste said with a hint of a hook.

She looked at him and put her hands on her hips, emphasising her small waist without meaning to. “Yes, very.” She said airily and turned with a flounce and a giggle.

Caste found himself chuckling, sliding the archives back onto the shelves. “When I sup with Sir Fereak and Cleric Severo, I’ll ask about the chest.”

“You’ll need to time it just right between Cleric Severo becoming lucid and Cleric Severo becoming slurred.”

“You really shouldn’t malign a cleric of the Order of the Grail like that.” He warned her without heat as he picked up a book.

“I’m not meaning to be critical,” Emeri put the lid tightly on her ink well for she knew she would not be returning the following day and didn’t want it to dry out, “only warning you that there is a small window in which to be able to access the knowledge of Cleric Severo’s mind.”

Caste nodded, knowing that she was probably right. “I’m going to go straight to supper. Sir Fereak said to come an hour before sunset.”

“It’s the best time to view the wall and the land to the south.” Emeri agreed. “Will you be able to find your way? I can take you if you want. I’ll only be a few minutes…”

“I know the way now.”

“Enjoy.”

Caste tucked the book beneath his arm and headed for the library doors. From there he began to make his way to the foyer, his mind chewing over all the things he had learned in the library in his debates and discoveries. He had known that Fort Omra’s library would be enticing. He hadn’t realised it would be quite so thrilling in its hidden mysteries. Not much was undiscovered in the library in Astaril that was under the directorship of the Order of the Grail and Caste had read most of what it contained.

New manuscripts, parchments and even tapestries were something of a rarity and a pleasure.

As he walked, his foot caught an uneven paving stone. Caste gasped and grabbed his foot, dropping his book. He swore softly and, forgoing his smarting toe, picked the book up and dusted it off, apologising softly.

“Emeri would notice if I tore a page…Maul, even I would have trouble sleeping if I did so.” He muttered, glancing back towards the library. As he did so, he saw a shift in the shadows, a figure having moved out then, realising it might be seen, darted back again. Caste blinked, shook his head and continued to walk to the foyer…

…then paused.

He felt a strange nibble at his conscience. A warning in his mind that things that lurked in shadows were rarely to be trusted. Caste swallowed, feeling a tremor of fear as he turned back towards the library, pretending to be engrossed by the book as he passed the place where the person was hiding. As he neared the doors, Emeri emerged, closing them behind her. She looked up, surprised by his presence.

“Did you forget something, Cleric Caste?”

“Actually, I thought I might change before supper,” Caste heard himself say, “I feel like I smell of dust and ink.”

“That’s ancient dust and archival ink, I’ll have you know.” Emeri smiled. “You’d better stick with me or you’ll get lost in the servant’s passages.”

“Thank you.” Caste nodded, following her to the concealed doorway behind the tapestry. He didn’t want to glance back in case he gave away his ruse but couldn’t help his eyes flickering towards the place where the shadows consumed their resident just before he slid behind the tapestry and followed Emeri out of the fort.