Over the next few days, Felitïa began to feel her old self again. She wasn’t yet willing to risk casting a spell—her body wasn’t ready for that yet—but she was otherwise able to do things she could normally do. That included helping with camp and food, things she had felt guilty about not helping with.

They passed out of Plavin-Tyl at some point during these few days and into Elooria. Felitïa wasn’t paying strict attention to when it happened. Just on one of the days, the tavern they stopped at boasted the “finest ale in Elooria”. The knowledge came as something of a relief. Even though there was nothing stopping any pursuers from crossing into Elooria, at least they wouldn’t have official sanction anymore.

Regardless of the change of province, they all reasoned that they should be safe from pursuit for the time being. Even if there had been initial pursuit, they had made it far enough that they shouldn’t have to worry about anyone catching up. Still, Felitïa couldn’t help worry a little.

She tried to focus on other things instead. In particular, she was interested in Rudiger’s ability to communicate with his horse and in Borisin himself. Borisin had a much stronger mental presence than most animals. On several occasions, she thought she caught the horse watching her, but he would turn his head as soon as she noticed. From time to time, she tried to approach him, but unless Rudiger was there to stop him, he always sidled away from her.

“He does that with everyone,” Rudiger said. “Doesn’t like people much. Says he prefers the mares.”

“I’ll bet he does,” Zandrue joked. “Thank the gods they’re not likely to go into heat again until the spring. Stallions around mares in heat is not a good idea.”

“Oh, he behaves himself if I tell him to.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Felitïa tuned out the rest of their conversation and focused on Borisin. It was more than not liking people. But each time she tried to approach the stallion, she learned nothing new. More secrets and mysteries to unravel.

She was interested in Rudiger’s sword, too. There was no means to translate the writing on the blade yet, but she did question Rudiger more about its background. There had to be a reason the Red Knights had accused him of stealing it.

“You didn’t steal it, did you?” Zandrue said.

Rudiger rolled his eyes. “I already told you I didn’t.”

Zandrue smirked and elbowed his arm. “I’m just teasing. But here’s a thought. Has anyone else ever tried to steal it?”

Rudiger frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“Just that, if the Bloods did somehow recognise your specific sword, then it means that others might. Others might have even tried to go after it in the past. In fact, I’d expect it, but if no one has, it could mean the Bloods just saw a fancy, expensive-looking sword that they wanted.”

Rudiger hesitated. Discomfort, followed by a surge of sadness, helplessness, and despair, radiated from him.

“Well?” Zandrue prodded, but backed off at the look on his face.

“Maybe,” he said after a moment. “Don’t know for sure, but I think it might have been why my parents were killed. I don’t really like to talk about it.”

Zandrue put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

He shrugged and took a deep breath. “That’s okay. They were killed while I was away training with the army. The sword was with me. Their home was ransacked like the killer was looking for something, but nothing was stolen as best I could tell.”

“They never caught who did it?” Felitïa said.

Rudiger shook his head. “Everyone kept trying to shirk responsibility to someone else. My father was a general, so the city guard said it was the army’s responsibility. The army said he was off duty, so it was the city’s responsibility.”

“That sounds like a load of bullshit,” Zandrue said.

“Yeah. It’s why I left the army, and why I left Fisvin. Never really settled down after that. Just been wandering ever since. If you’ll excuse me, I...uh...I need to check on Borisin.” He pushed passed the two of them and headed over to his horse.

Zandrue sighed. “I sure know how to put my foot in my mouth, don’t I?”

Felitïa put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You didn’t know.”

Zandrue nodded, but said nothing.

* * * * *

It was a full three weeks after leaving Tyl that Felitïa was finally willing to cast another spell. She started simple, convincing Simeria that there was an apple in her empty, but outstretched hand. She felt a little guilty as the horse bit into empty air, but felt great relief that her body responded as it should. It meant that she had healed without any permanent damage. It also meant that she was in a much better mood for the remainder of their journey.

As they progressed, they began to pass through more and more villages and towns, and were able to rest in inns more frequently. This area of Elooria was one of the most populous areas of Arnor. The places they passed through were also stark contrasts to Tyl. People were friendly and spoke to one another, regardless of whether they were Eloorin or Folith.

Six weeks after leaving Tyl, they arrived in Mesone, a small town about a day’s travel from Porthaven. As Porthaven was situated on a small peninsula, travellers into or out of it had to pass through Mesone, making the town a crossroads for people from all across the continent—and beyond. The people were a mix of more than just Folith and Eloorin (although Eloorin were the majority). There were various peoples from southern Arnor, including occasional Ninifins. Felitïa even spotted several umber-skinned Sanalogs from far-off Endoria.

There were a lot of people, too. Despite the recent arrival of winter snows, the streets were packed with people moving from one spot to another, or some just standing in place hawking wares or services. Indeed, there seemed to be merchants and other sellers everywhere, even leaning out the windows of the upper storeys of the simple thatch buildings and calling out to passersby.

The first several inns they tried were full—beyond capacity some of the inn-keepers said.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people crammed into such a small space,” Rudiger commented as they navigated the cramped streets. Borisin, with his greater bulk, was having a harder time than the mares, and Felitïa and Zandrue had to hold back to let Rudiger and his horse keep up.

“It’s the last chance people have to get in or out of Porthaven before the snows start to block the roads for winter,” Zandrue said, pulling sharply on her horse’s reins to avoid coming too close to another nearby horse pulling a wagon full of goods.

“Never thought of that,” Rudiger said. “First time this far north. Snow along the Thumb never gets that bad.”

“Welcome to northern Arnor,” Zandrue said, “where it snows six months of the year and tries to snow the other six.”

Luckily, a place like Mesone had lots of inns, so they did eventually find one with space. Rudiger went to take care of the stabling, while Felitïa and Zandrue booked rooms with the inn-keeper—a grease-covered man who kept boasting that there was an Isyar staying at the inn. Felitïa and Zandrue then made their way to the inn’s common room to meet back with Rudiger.

Like everywhere else in Mesone, the common room was packed with people. Many crowded around tables (both sitting and standing as there weren’t enough chairs for everyone) eating and drinking, playing dice or card games, or talking and laughing amongst themselves. In one corner, a man sat with a lute. He appeared to be playing and singing, although it was impossible to hear him over the general din of the room.

“I don’t think we’re going to find a place to sit and eat in here,” Zandrue said.

“Given the amount of grease the inn-keeper appears to use, I’m not sure I want to eat anything,” Felitïa said. “Though I suppose he can’t possibly cook everyone’s food.”

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“Someone has obviously never been acquainted with true Eloorin food,” Zandrue said with a chuckle. “Doesn’t matter who’s cooking it. They reuse the same grease over and over again. Lots of it. Gives every cooking pot its own unique identity, they say. You can only really get it in Porthaven and Mesone, though you must have passed through here all those years ago.”

“Yeah, I did,” Felitïa replied, “but I don’t really remember the food. It was a long time ago and we didn’t stay long.”

“Honestly, it’s pretty tasty,” Zandrue said.

Rudiger joined them. “Stable hands’ll bring up our bags as soon as they’re done with the horses.”

Zandrue held up the key to their room. “Let’s see our room and we can figure out sleeping arrangements. We’re in number three.” She moved through the crowd towards the stairs at the far side of the room. Rudiger followed close behind her and people moved quickly out of his way.

One advantage to travelling with someone so large. Felitïa followed along in the gap he provided, but paused as she reached the bottom step. Zandrue and Rudiger continued up, not noticing her as she turned towards what had caught her eye.

A short, portly Eloorin sat at one of the tables along the far wall. There wasn’t anything to particularly distinguish him from the other people seated and standing near him other than perhaps the books stacked on the table in front of him.

Meleng.

She let the images form in the Room again. Zandrue, Rudiger, and Borisin came into focus at the front of the line, Quilla in seventh position. And in fourth position, just past Borisin, was this man.

Meleng.

That was his name. Damn, she really was meeting them in order.

He was in his late teens or early twenties at most, with a thick mop of dark, curly hair. He had grey eyes and a mole on his back just beneath his left shoulder blade—gods, these images gave her more detail than she could ever want. She didn’t even have to look for the details; she just knew them.

She moved towards him, but a hand touched her shoulder. It was Zandrue. “What’s up?”

“I just found number four,” Felitïa replied.

Zandrue stepped forward just beside her. “Where?”

Felitïa nodded in the young Eloorin man’s direction, but realised that, in the crowded room, it wasn’t helpful. “Just over this way.”

She weaved through the people, Zandrue following. As she got closer, a child’s voice called out, “Do it! Come on, do it!”

Meleng placed his hands on top of the pile of books and began to trace small designs with his fingers. Felitïa held up a hand to motion for Zandrue to stop. She had seen Agernon and Drummor do similar things when casting spells. Agernon, in particular, would be very meticulous as this man seemed to be now. After a moment, he removed his hands from the pile, and the entire stack lifted off the table and floated several feet above.

Other people near Meleng ceased their conversations and games to gape at the spectacle. As the noise quietened in that area of the room, people a little farther out also turned to see what was happening. Gradually, the noise in the room decreased enough that it was possible to hear the singer.

But while everyone else focused on the floating pile of books, Felitïa found her attention drifting to one of the observers standing on the chair opposite Meleng. In her head, the short figure standing immediately behind Meleng came into focus. A young boy less than ten years old, with sandy-brown hair and a tawny face covered in freckles. The voices continued to call out names.

Borisin. Meleng. Corvinian. Something else. Quilla.

Corvinian.

Number five. Two of them in one place.

There was a loud pop and the books burst, sending pages scattering about the room in every direction. People gasped, laughed, and clapped. The boy jumped up and down in his chair and grasped for some of the pages as they flew past him, not catching any of them.

Meleng’s reaction was the complete opposite of his audience’s. A look of shock and horror on his face, he rushed about collecting the pages from the tables and floor. Unfortunately for him, most of those pages were now being trod on or held by other people who considered them a kind of prize. Some had landed in grease or ale spills on the tables or right in people’s food.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?” Zandrue said.

“I don’t think so,” Felitïa answered.

“Lucky for him, the crowd doesn’t seem to have noticed. Is he the one?”

“Number four, yes,” Felitïa replied.

Zandrue bent over and picked up a couple of pages that had landed at her feet. “At least we have a means of introduction.”

“Number five’s here, too.”

“Shit. The rate’s really increasing, isn’t it? Well, beats the nine years between me and Rudiger.”

“It’s the boy, there,” Felitïa said. “I think they’re together.”

“Let’s introduce ourselves.” Zandrue slapped the pages in her hand and moved through the crowd towards Meleng who was now placing a much smaller pile of papers and book covers back on the table. The boy had jumped off his chair and was now darting under nearby tables, looking for additional pages.

Felitïa bent down to pick up a sheet at her feet. It was torn halfway through the middle and covered in dirt smudges from numerous people having already stepped on it. It was full of hand-written notes. What little of them was still legible showed they were magical notes, mostly ideas for new magical applications—the kind of thing Meleng probably hadn’t wanted to lose.

Zandrue reached the table where Meleng now slumped in his chair. “Some more of your papers?” She held them out.

He looked up at her. “Oh, yes, thanks. Thank you.” He took the papers from her and placed them on top of his pile.

“You don’t look very happy,” Zandrue said. “Something go wrong?”

“You could say that,” he muttered, turning his head away.

Felitïa reached them and held out the sheet she’d retrieved. “Another one.”

He took the sheet from her, looked at it, muttered something under his breath, and slapped it down on top of the pile.

“Looked pretty impressive to me,” Zandrue said.

“It was just supposed to float the books, not burst them,” he said.

“What happened?” Felitïa asked.

Meleng shrugged. “I don’t know. Must have made a mistake somewhere, I guess.”

“Concentration problem?” Zandrue suggested.

Meleng shook his head.

“Concentration’s not as big an issue with enchantment,” Felitïa said. “If I’d gone into enchantment, I wouldn’t have had anywhere near the concentration issues I had. Still have sometimes.”

Meleng turned all the way around in his chair. “You’re a wizard?”

“Mentalist,” she replied and offered her hand. “Asa.”

He took her hand and shook it vigorously. “Meleng. Meleng Drago.” Excitement bubbled from him, managing to pierce the thick veil of emotions in the common room. “It’s so good to meet another wizard. I meet so few.”

The boy bounded onto his chair, holding a pile of papers. “I found as many as I could, Meleng.”

Meleng took the papers. “Oh thank you, Corvinian.”

Zandrue held out her hand. “Zandrue.”

Meleng moved to take her hand, realised he was holding the papers in that hand, quickly switched hands, and then shook her hand. “Meleng Drago.”

“Yes, you said.”

“Is your name like from the story of the Volg Killer?” He was still shaking her hand.

“Short for Zandromeda, yes.” She pulled her hand away from him. “Talking names, you wouldn’t be related to—”

“Yes.” His face slunk and he slumped back in his chair.

“I thought your family was forbidden to practise magic.” Zandrue leaned over and sniffed him.

Meleng recoiled. “Just till the tenth generation. I’m the eleventh.”

“Oh, didn’t know that.”

Felitïa hadn’t known that, either. Common stories said that all descendants of the Dragon were forbidden from ever using magic again, though she had never researched the truth and common stories were often wrong.

“Few people do,” Meleng muttered as he placed the papers from Corvinian onto the pile.

“Meleng, we need to get ready.” It was another Eloorin man at the table. Felitïa hadn’t really noticed him, although he was sitting in the chair right beside the boy’s. “Jorvan will be here soon.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Meleng stood and tucked the papers under his arm. Several threatened to fall back onto the floor again and he struggled with them a moment to get them stable. “It was nice meeting you.” He started to hold out his hand to Felitïa again, but that caused the papers to slip once more and his arms returned to rigid at his side.

Zandrue stifled laughter.

“Nice meeting you, too,” Felitïa said.

“Jorvan’s an Isyar!” the boy said as he bounded onto the tabletop. “He’s helping us!”

“Is he now?” Zandrue leaned towards the boy, who nodded vigorously.

“I’ll go get him!”

Zandrue sniffed him, then straightened up. “Sure, you go do that.”

The boy jumped off the table and ran into the crowd. “Corvinian, go collect your things from our room first!” a woman’s voice called after him. “We’ll be there in a minute.” She was with the man who had been sitting beside the boy. Both of them were trying to navigate around the table without hopping over it the way the boy had.

“I’ll catch up to him and bring him back,” Meleng said. “Good day.” He nodded to Felitïa and Zandrue and followed after the boy, still struggling with the papers.