Gisele fought valiantly against the urge to prop her elbows up on the marble table and rest her head in her hands. To do so would be more than a mere breach of decorum. All around the table’s edge were swirling patterns cut deep into the stone. They never failed to bite deep into absent-minded arms and so the eight nobles remained upright despite the fatigue tugging at their eyes. One or two kept themselves awake by studying the mosaic that covered the entirety of the chamber’s high vaulted ceiling. As with the table, it was a relic from ancient times and depicted a forgotten conflict between demons of smoke and fire and a paltry sum of knights in crimson plate, the chosen few who dared to fight.

Outside, the sun was well hidden behind puffy white clouds and the city’s smoke and fog. Many of the room’s windows, all of which were along the southern wall, had been replaced by plate glass depictions of Onder’s kings and queens. Those few windows that awaited their coronation had been flung open so that day’s cool breeze could amble in. The dim light and one man’s monotone rambling combined to form a perfect recipe for sleep. Gisele felt her head nod back and her plaited hair pressed uncomfortably against her chair’s tall back. She jolted awake, but none took notice. Even if they had, there was little reason to care.

I should ask for hot tea, she thought lazily as a fat man droned on endlessly about absolutely nothing at all. His ability to spin yarn from naught but empty air was truly impressive and equally obnoxious. Gisele watched in quiet horror as he waggled his greasy fingers about. They were like sausages encrusted with gold and silver rings. Folds of flesh spilled out between them. At the head of the long table sat the King of Onder, Emerick, Second of His Name and the twelfth ruler of the Veisgautten Dynasty. His eyelids slowly fell and then shot up over and over as the fat man prattled on. The wall behind his throne was hidden by an excessively vast tapestry, emblazoned with his house’s sigil, a nine-pointed red star upon a jet-black background.

“Enough!” barked a square-jawed man. Fury rang out in his hazel eyes as he brought one fist down like a gavel. He ran his other hand, ripe with muscle, across what little remained of his close-cropped black hair. “Lord Dunly, I have watched your lips move and heard words spill out for an hour,” he growled, “And in that time you have said nothing! Nothing! Nothing!” He punctuated each cry of ‘nothing’ with a thunderous thump of his fist.

Dunly stared at him, slack-jawed, with his chin sunk into the many rolls of his neck. Before he could come to his senses and defend himself, Gisele spoke. “I must agree with the Lord Commander. You have said nothing that we have not heard before but with far more words than necessary.”

“But the barons of-” he began to bellow. His jowls quiver, no jiggle when enraged, thought Gisele as she watched Dunly’s sweaty pink flesh turn a purple hue.

King Emerick cut him off. “The barons of Middenland piss and moan and beg for men. My men,” he said pointedly, “What of their own?”

“Your Grace, they haven’t the numbers.”

Emerick shifted his gray eyes to Gisele and asked, “And what do you think of that Lady Gisele?”

“I think Varnhagen’s guard is ornamental. He could be under siege and they would still parade for his amusement.”

The king turned his gaze back to the square-jawed man and asked, “And how would you handle this...hmm...situation, Gabriel?”

Gabriel scratched at the stubble on his strong chin. Consider your words carefully my friend, thought Gisele as she forced her face to remain blank. “Apologies, your Grace, I had to recall the reports,” he said after a pause, carefully enunciating each word. “Baron Varnhagen claims there are now five thousand refugees in his lands, I believe. His personal guard numbers four hundred-odd men.”

A thin man seated at the king’s right hand nodded. His mismatched eyes, one brown and the other sky-blue, shined brightly as he said softly, “You are correct. Quite a number for a mere baron.”

Double what he needs, agreed Gisele silently, as Gabriel well knows. “Thank you, Dorian,” replied Gabriel. To the king, he said, “Your Grace, I would tell Varnhagen that he already has the king’s men.” Emerick’s lips stretched into a toothless smile. Gisele’s stomach took a nervous flip as Gabriel continued, “Send an officer of proper rank, I would suggest a captain-lieutenant at the least, along with his adjutants and a troop of dragoons, to the baron’s estate. Have this officer take command of, say, two hundred of the baron’s men and then force-march the refugees to Kingslynd. There we can set up a temporary encampment for them and find work, likely in the fields.”

Dorian’s skeletal features twisted into a smile. “And how could he resist?” he wondered aloud.

“The baron won’t stand for this,” grumbled the fat man, “He’ll turn the others against you, Your Grace.”

King Emerick dismissed this warning with a limp-wristed wave. “Then his lands will be seized and he will be hanged as a traitor to king and country,” he said, clearly bored by the conversation, “Gabriel, draw up the orders and carry them out at once.”

As the king sipped wine from a golden goblet, Dorian asked, “Your Grace, shall we move on to other matters?”

Emerick sighed and motioned to a serving girl hidden in the shadows. “Eight coffees, hot. Cold water for Dunly, he could stand to cool off,” he told her, then to Dorian he said, “Yes, continue.” The girl darted out of the room at a break-neck pace. Dunly stuck his chin high in the air, acting as if he had not heard, but Gisele detected a hint of fear hidden in his squinty eyes. He has been found wanting and his days are numbered short. He sees the seeds and knows their fruit, but can not tell a lie.

“Yes, Your Grace,” acknowledged Dorian. “Lady Lamont, if you will.”

Lamont was seated directly across from Gisele. Her golden hair now had streaks of silver and the crow’s feet nested at the corners of her sapphire eyes crinkled as spoke. “The commander of the city watch has requested more recruits. He desires to increase the force by eighty men but says he can make do with an additional forty, at least for the time being. It is a minor expense that the treasury can easily bear, but I seek your approval first, Your Grace.”

Emerick rubbed one finger against the bristly whiskers above his upper lip. “One minor expense is minutia,” he considered, “But one becomes two, then four, and so on.”

“I will inform him of your decision.”

“I was not aware I had made one,” said Emerick. His voice was hard as iron and his gray eyes were akin to stone. Abashed, Lamont lowered her eyes to the table and offered an apology. Gisele studied the aged woman’s mannerisms carefully as she thought, She will have a seat at a table long after her gold has lost the last of its luster.

Emerick slowly stroked the scraggly wisps of his goatee. “Give him his pick of the refugees. He can have a hundred men. Pay them at a quarter rate. They should be glad for the room and board.” The king clasped his hands together, clearly pleased with his abundant cleverness. And if they have families? Do you think any of that lot could stand and fight? She kept her thoughts to herself, but knew Gabriel harbored the same doubts.

“A wise decision, Your Grace,” said Lamont with a weak smile, “I will inform him at once.”

Dorian shifted through the stack of papers before him with his spidery hands. “Lord Commander, I believe we would all appreciate an explanation for...your reports,” he said in his oily voice. A smile tugged at the corner of Dorian’s lips. And so the die is cast, noted Gisele silently.

“Of course, chancellor, though I believe they speak for themselves,” replied Gabriel coolly.

Dorian looked up and grinned. “My apologies. My eyes are failing. The curse of years, you see.”

“No apologies are necessary. My father suffered the same affliction.” Your father is dead and buried five winters hence, but all here know that, thought Gisele as she studied Dorian’s smiling face. He will read between the lines, but will the king?

“A pity. I trust he is in good health,” replied Dorian, still smiling like a child eating cake.

“His father’s dead,” grunted King Emerick, “Get on with it. What news do you bring from the front? Have you found the bastards yet?”

“Your Grace, my scouts have scoured Middenland. I have sent them as far west as I dare,” answered Gabriel, “Those who have returned have found no trace of the rebel forces.” He fell silent for a pause and then added darkly, “Many have not returned.”

“And you have sent search parties for the lost?” asked Gisele, “Or did you simply write them off as casualties of war?”

“I had considered the possibility that they were desserts or turn cloaks, but yes, search parties were dispatched. Despite my staff’s misgivings. We found some of the missing men. Dead.”

Dorian tapped his fingertips against one another and then clasped his hands together. “Then you know where the rebels have been active.”

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“I was not finished,” replied Gabriel in an even voice. “Those not torn to bits by scavengers had been shot, stabbed, decapitated, and there were even a few strung up from trees in one locale. Three men had had their faces melted.” His voice faltered and faded into a whisper. “Or crushed. Or both. Their faces...their skulls and hair...all burnt black.” For a long minute, the room was still and silent. Leopold’s work, thought Gisele, Or one of his many acolytes.

Emerick broke the silence. “I grow tired of the tales about this zealot,” he said coldly, “And the veil of superstition in which he cloaks himself.”

And yet you fear to say his name, thought Gisele.

The king glared at each noble, one by one, as he continued. “Has he pulled wool over your eyes? Are you children that would believe these old wives’ tales? He is a man. Only a man. Nothing more. He will bleed and die like all the rest.”

Just a man that has bested your armies and stolen your lands. But yes, he will die.

“Yes, Your Grace,” agreed Gabriel. Strength had returned to his voice. “I bear good fruit as well. A rider from the front arrived this morning. We know where they will strike.”

Emerick put down his drink and raised both hands in question. “Well? Where are they?” he asked.

“If it please, Your Grace, I believe that information should not be shared yet.”

“Why? Are there traitors at this table?”

“I would not accuse anyone present of treason,” replied Gabriel in a calm voice, “But this a, shall we say, unique opportunity. If the information is correct, we could end the war. Or at least break their back and end…” He stopped abruptly and then said, “Him.” Both King Emerick and Dorian looked long and hard at the Lord Commander.

At long last Emerick said plainly, “Do not fail me again. You will depart at once.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” obeyed Gabriel as he swiftly stood up and pushed back his chair. When he reached the room’s oaken double doors the king called out.

“And Gabriel. Bring me his head.” The Lord Commander nodded, bowed low, and took his leave. I have the strangest feeling, thought Gisele, That I will never see him again. She paid the barest of attention to the discussion that followed nor did she touch her coffee when it was brought in.

It was all minutia. Concerns about granaries, refugees at The Crossing, and the Countess of Greyshore’s proclamation that royal tariffs were too high. The king had raged at the last part, but even Dorian had advised him against making a rash decision. As he explained, yet again, that Countess was ready and willing to cut off all shipments to the capitol a grim-faced woman in a mud-stained traveling cloak and capotain barged into the room.

Gisele greeted her with a curt nod which the woman did not return. I was wondering where she was. The woman stood silent as a statue as all in the room looked at her patiently. All except Lord Dunly. The master of spies in name hates the one in truth.

“And now I too must take my leave,” announced King Emerick as he rose from his throne. “Chancellor Dorian will handle any other outstanding issues.” Without another word, he departed and the cloaked woman trailed behind him.

“Is there a reason the Lord Inquisitor does not share our table?” grumbled Dunly.

Dorian opened his mouth to speak, but Lamont beat him to the punch. “King Emerick does as he wills. He is the king after all. We are merely his advisors.” She spoke as if she were explaining to a small child.

“Well said,” agreed Dorian. He glanced furtively around the table. “I believe any ‘outstanding issues’ can be tabled until tomorrow.” The others concurred and one after another filed out of the room save for Gisele. She sat in patient silence and sipped at her cold coffee while servants began their cleaning. The Lord Inquisitor bends his ear and to what end? After several minutes had passed, she too exited the room and walked down a spacious corridor to her chambers.

The walk was long for the fortress where Emerick made his nest was vast and opulent. It was an arrogant creation that stood upon the capital's highest hill, the perfect place for lordlings to look down upon their flock. Emerick claimed, and none refuted him to his face, that his ancestors had built it two centuries ago after they had overthrown the evil that had veiled Onder in darkness, but Gisele knew this to be a lie. It was older, far older. She had seen all the land, even Westmarch before the rebels stole it away, and nothing but the Great Southern Wall matched the royal citadel in its majesty.

Much to Gisele’s surprise, she found Gabriel waiting in her chambers. He was reclined, eyes closed and hands clasped together, in a pillowy chair and did not stir when Gisele swung the room’s heavy door open. Another man, one of average height and average build, paced nervously around the room. His face was one seen across Onder a hundred times a day, void of any notable features. He turned as Gisele entered and whispered urgently, “Quick, close the door.”

“I did not expect you here, Luke,” said Gisele as she shut the door behind her. “I trust no one noticed your entrance.”

Luke shook his head. “I always take routes unseen,” he said. He glanced over at Gabriel. A hint of nervousness crossed over his face.

“He can be trusted,” assured Gisele.

“As you command my lady,” replied Luke. Doubt was heavy in his voice. “I have news. A letter would be too risky.”

“Go on.”

“The package was delivered to one Karl Heinrich. A chemist in Reimar, Dunlynd. I observed the delivery myself. I still do not know what it is, only that it has been secreted about the country.”

Gabriel opened his eyes. “I see my faith in you was not unfounded, Gisele. You weave many webs,” he observed. “I must wonder. Why is this delivery a concern?”

Even I am not exactly sure of that, thought Gisele, but she replied, “It is but one link in the chain.”

“And what is the chain?” pressed Gabriel as he sat upright. He pulled a short pipe from his coat pocket.

“Please, not in here,” said Gisele, “I can’t stand that stench.”

“As milady wishes.” Gabriel pocketed the pipe and leaned back into the chair. “And the chain?”

If we are to be allies I should offer him a bone. “It leads back to du Blanc,” explained Gisele as if all in the room were unaware of the facts. “His rise has been meteoric. Far beyond his station, he spends too much time for my liking in both Dorian’s and Emerick's chambers.”

“While I agree,” replied Gabriel, “The man is an expert doctor. I’ve seen him work firsthand on the wounded. His knowledge is beyond that of any surgeon I have ever met. My only issue with him is that he is loath to share it.”

“You are of course correct. He knows much of many things,” interjected Luke. “Surgery, chemistry, and more.”

“Things he should not know,” added Gisele. “Lore I did not learn until I was appointed to the council and granted access to the vaults. We know nothing of his past and only have his word as to where he came from.”

“This is all speculation,” argued Gabriel as he sat upright once more. “Lips are loose. You could say the same of the Countess of Greyshore. She has employed outsiders for at least two decades and likely has communique with foreign powers.”

“Yes and I fear her as well,” replied Gisele heatedly. “She is self-serving, we all know that. But she does not hide it. She is a known threat. An open one. Du Blanc is a lurker, a viper in the grass. He will strike unseen.”

Gabriel sighed and put his head in his hands. “Fine,” he grumbled. “We are at odds on this, but I’ll trust your judgment.” He looked up and motioned for Luke to continue his report. The spy glanced at Gisele and she nodded her approval.

“I followed the courier and intercepted him en route to the Crossing,” said Luke. “He proved troublesome.”

Of course he did, thought Gisele. “You killed him?” she asked wearily.

“No one will find the body,” replied Luke, “If they did…” It was unnecessary for him to finish the sentence. She already knew what he had done. Burnt the body to a crisp or cut off the head and then destroyed any identifying marks. Gabriel gave her a questioning look which she ignored as Luke continued. “He had a tattoo on his left shoulder. Looked like a half-closed eye to me. I considered bringing it to you-”

Gisele stopped him with a raised hand. “Thank you for not doing so.” She was truly grateful. He had brought her several heads as evidence of his work in the past before her demand that he cease finally penetrated his thick skull. Her inability to stomach gore truly confounded him.

“Ah, but I did bring you something useful,” replied Luke with a smirk. He pointed at her happily for a second before producing a piece of paper out of thin hair. “A cipher, I think,” he said as he handed it over.

No. It is not. “You fool,” whispered Gisele inaudibly as she studied the paper, “You beautiful fool.” Low Imperial. An interesting courier. She struggled to keep a smile from breaking across her face. “Excellent work Luke, excellent,” she said, louder than she intended. I could kiss that fool! “Leave us.” Her agent bowed low and made himself scarce without a word.

Once he was gone, Gisele looked over and said to Gabriel, “It’s no cipher. It’s written in the Imperial trade tongue.” She glanced over the letter once more.

Hail to the sleeper. The lock is in my possession. I scryed Gorgora under the new moon and saw the yellow tower, clearer than ever before. The prince spoke and showed me the key. My sight grows strong. I can not fail. We will speak in person soon.

1. A. H.

Gisele felt her eyes widen ever so slightly in their sockets as read over it a third time. This is rank madness. I know the tongue, but what does it mean? The initials were obvious, Karl A. Heinrich. “What is it?” asked Gabriel. His voice was disinterested. She handed the letter over to him and he gave it the briefest of glances before returning it to her. “It seems I’ve forgotten what little I knew,” he said with a sigh. Gisele translated the letter aloud and looked up when finished.

Gabriel’s brow was furrowed into a furious knot clenched tight above his long nose. “It may not be a cipher,” he said slowly, “But it sounds to me like code.”

“I scryed Gorgora?”

He shook his head at the question. “I haven’t a clue, but that word, Gorgora. I swear I’ve heard it before, but where?” Gabriel sighed and rubbed at his brow. “If I ever recall I will let you know.”

He knows. He knows more than he is letting on, thought Gisele as she carefully studied the Lord Commander’s face. It proved no more than a blank slate. Why not share it now? Is it a matter of trust? She forced her mouth into a sweet smile. “Thank you, Lord Commander. Now, there is another matter you wish to discuss?”

“Yes,” he replied grimly. Despite the sun's rays flowing freely through open windows and candlelight from all corners of the room Gabriel’s face was dark. “And it can not leave this room.”