Limbs flailed and steel sang as two of them drew their swords. In the dim moonlight, it was hard to tell what happened, but it ended with Hasda on top. Gunarra and I rushed over.

Only one of Hasda’s men was still breathing, his chest heaving as he sank against Hasda’s knees. He tossed his sword away with a beleaguered grunt. On the ground next to them lay three unmoving bodies, Hasda’s own sword still impaled in the chest of the middle one.

Hasda didn’t look away from his dead companions as we approached. “Jendh turned. Jendh.” Stony faced, he yanked out his sword in silence. “Why?”

“What happened?” I couldn’t see any blood on the back of the facedown one, and the other, on his side, showed no visible sword wounds either.

“I don’t know. Jendh attacked Dionin and got Tyvas too, before we realized.” Hasda’s knuckles went white on his sword. “But he turned. Why didn’t he just leave us and go to the Stitcher? The draw is so strong. Why?”

One of the corpses stirred, and Hasda ran it through. Wordlessly, he did the same to the third body.

“You should sever the heads, to be safe.” Gunarra eyed the corpses with barely disguised disgust.

“We know.” Hasda whirled with a snarl. An aura of purple, on the cusp of bursting into flames, enveloped him. With a yelp, his final warrior fell away from him. Breathing heavily, Hasda dropped his death glare and reined in the djinn. Softer, while helping his tumbled man sit up, he said, “Believe me, I know. We’ve put down enough good men already.”

“Do you want me to…” I began, but Hasda waved me off.

“We just need a moment.” He looked pained. “Please.”

Frowning, I motioned Gunarra back, and we retreated to a copse within shouting distance. As the half-form settled on the ground, I gave her a stern look. “You lack tact.”

“The tuzshu lacks experience,” she shot back. “Death coddles none, although you coddle him.”

I snorted a laugh and folded my arms. “This is his first command. He’s spent months with these mortals, and on his first proper excursion, he’s lost nearly all of them.”

“All.” Gunarra bit the word off. “The last one is a dead man walking. Whatever trick he pulled with his djinn, it won’t last. No matter how you plump a cadaver, it won’t bring them back to life.”

“Do all Sukalla lecture above their station?” I smiled at her tight-lipped frown.

“The curse of being both the best and the worst of your kind.” She paused, lifting her hand and sniffing it. Black shadows cupped her palm. When she smelled the substance, she sneezed and scowled at it. “Swamp scum. Here?”

“Shouldn’t be. I don’t even see a creek.”

Yelping, she shot to her feet. The side of her dress she’d been reclining on was soaked through, wet mud clinging to the fabric. I nearly jumped as I felt cold water creep over my feet, the level quickly rising to my ankles. Fog rolled in on the coattails of the sudden flood.

Gunarra barked a series of sharp cries, but no jackals answered. My Sword slipped into my hand as I turned, scanning the thickening fog. Nothing strange leapt out at me, but I could feel an encroaching presence that wasn’t quite familiar enough to place.

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And then, a soft orange glow illuminated a small sphere within the fog. Then another, and another, until a half-dozen will-o-wisps bobbed within the clouds.

“These again.” A low growl escaped from Gunarra as she glared at the bobbing will-o-wisps.

“You know them?” I frowned as I glanced at her. Although we’d been under moonlight the whole time, she looked paler now, more ethereal.

She bared her teeth at the encroaching fog. “They have done nothing but harass my jackals. Blinding them, distracting them, leading them astray.”

“Have they said anything?”

Her eyes called me stupid. “Have you been hearing voices from strange lights?”

I snorted. “No, but these lights are divine. Or will be, when their goddess is formed. Or born.” I shook my head. “Malia has a better idea of what still needs to happen than I do.”

“Before a goddess is born?” The half-form tilted her head.

“My daughter.” The Weeping Queen emerged from the fog, wisps of murky vapor trailing off her. Although her grimy face still bore tear stains, her gaze had found strength. She held herself tall and glided towards us with a regal gait, her chalice held before her like a bridal bouquet.

Sucking in a breath, Gunarra hid her fangs and bowed. “Hail, Frijorro, Queen of Sivarii. My eyes are blessed to see you well and moving about again.”

The Weeping Queen regarded her for a moment, confusion riddling her countenance, before she smiled. “Gunarra. You’ve changed your visage, although your voice is as soothing as ever.”

“I am honored to please you so.” Head still down, she swept her arms out. “If my face displeases you so, when I am able, I shall change it for you.”

“Are you injured? Why can’t you change?” Genuine concern filled the Weeping Queen’s look.

“Let it trouble you not.” Gunarra rose halfway from her bow, though she kept her gaze down. “It is merely an inconvenience from an ill thing I consumed. But it, like this face which disturbs you, shall pass.”

A small smile twitched the Weeping Queen’s lips. “Your face is fine as it is, Gunarra. And you’ve found an excellent traveling companion.”

I grunted. “You’re in much better shape than the last time we met. What changed?”

“You surprised me.” She dropped her gaze to her chalice, stirring it gently. “My daughter spoke highly of you, how well you treated your mortal son, and then her observations were manifested in you playing psychopomp for a pantheon not your own.” Her eyes rose to meet mine. “It gave me hope that, perhaps, you could gather the shattered pieces of my family and put my land back together.” Her face hardened. “Grief has not left me so blinded that I cannot see the fate of my people, to forever be trampled by foreign gods greater than us. But a yokemaster who cares for those he drives, mayhaps, would not be such an awful plight.”

I shook my head. “We’re not here to conquer. Once the Stitcher is dealt with, we can work towards reestablishing trade and stabilize the region. But the Stitcher is our first priority.”

She gave me a sharp look. “You answer before I can even ask. And yet, a further request remains.”

“I can’t offer more than consideration until our task is complete.” I gave her an apologetic smile. “But I’ll certainly listen.”

“When you’ve finished with the one who slew my kin, permit me the use of his Staff.” Her eyes blazed with intensity. “Countless stolen souls lay trapped within, their bodies commanded by the voice which stripped them of life. I would lead them home to the waters of my swamp.”

I frowned. Hasda’s Trial was explicitly to retrieve the Staff, but no mention was made of its final fate. It was unlikely the Stitcher would merely rescind his claim to his Staff and roll over in defeat, so Hasda would need to extract himself on his own before the matter could be considered settled.

Negotiating with the Weeping Queen now, however, dealt more with his successfully concluding the Trial than making moves to help him complete it. Kydon could wrestle with that knot where the sun didn’t shine all he wanted.

Holding up my hand, I gave the Weeping Queen a stern look. “You need to understand, we’re not here to destroy the Stitcher. At best, he’ll be displaced with the loss of his Staff and his Sleepless, but deciding which deities to instate in territory outside our control could be a sword turned against you, as well. While I understand your situation, others in my pantheon might wish to unseat you, were they to learn how precarious Curnerein is. Not our major gods, but plenty of our minor deities have ambition to climb the ranks, and staking their claim to a weakened territory would put them strides ahead of their competitors.”

She nodded. “Whatever aid you offer will I gladly accept.”

I frowned. “Further, I can’t guarantee that the Staff will survive this ordeal intact, nor that our Head will grant you even a temporary custodianship of it. You should prepare for the eventuality that you’ll need to shepherd the Sleepless into the afterlife alone.”

“Any accession is a priceless gift.” Her fingers tightened on the goblet stem. “With your leave, I’ll travel on to meet my son. His passion calls to me from the east, and I fear that I may not reach him before he arrives at that which has incensed him so.”

I fought a scowl and covered it with a grunt. “The forest is yours to traverse as you please. I won’t stay you.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she brought the chalice to her lips. After taking a quick sip, she drew herself up. “Would that your words come to pass. Already the kinslayer resists my presence, pushing against my spirit.” She shivered. “I will go to my son, then.”

With a quick bow, the Weeping Queen strode past us, weeping no more. Her dress trailed in the ephemeral water, and her goblet seemed to glow against the unseen resistance she battled. The transformation from heartbroken widow to warring monarch threatened to outshine the moonlight.

For her sake, and her son’s, I hoped she reached him before he pushed too hard against Malia’s flank.