When they reached the estate, Therin slowed his mare and scrutinised the long drive to the house from the main road. He looked at Hrulinar, his arms around Roshan's waist and back to the drive.

“Can you make your clothing look like anything you want?”

“Yes, within reason.”

“What about a church messenger? They wear red velvet doublets and stupid looking hats.”

Hrulinar nodded and shrugged.

“I suppose that’s doable.” He waved his hand and was wearing a close approximation of a messenger’s garb.

“That will do,” Therin said and dug out a sealed letter he had been carrying on his person for some time. “Walk up to the front and give this to whoever answers. It’ll likely be Sally. Tell her you’re looking for Master Noran and find out where he is. If he’s some place other than the Temple, Mrs. Jones will know.” He handed the letter to Hrulinar, who had already swung down from the nag.

“What does it say?”

“It’s blank.” Therin said grinning. “The seal and paper came from Devan’s office when we were here last. It just looks official.”

Hrulinar left with a trace of impressed satisfaction on his face, and Therin noted how his image had further solidified, his green glow barely detectable in the sunlight. He turned to Roshan and decided to make conversation with the young monk.

“What part of Dinaan are you from?”

The younger man kept his silence, watching Therin’s face closely.

“I grew up in the capital but my family is Ka’Ti.”

“Oh,” Therin said surprised. “My father was apprenticed to a Ka’Ti bladesmith.”

“It is what we are primarily known for,” Roshan assented. He watched Therin as he spoke. “And our paganism.” Therin’s lips drew into a line, but he didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to get into a theological debate with this man, not when Hrulinar had already accepted him as a part of their group.

Not when this man controlled the Blademasters, formidable allies…

“How many men do you have at the monastery?” Therin asked suddenly.

“I am the only true Blademaster, though Yannick and Urial have passed their trials. We are awaiting the delivery of their glaives.”

“And how many are in training?”

Roshan merely stared at Therin, his dark eyes unreadable and expressionless. He did not answer.

“Why have you left the monastery?” the Blademaster asked in return.

“Personal reasons.”

“Trust is–”

“Earned, I know. I studied the same theology you did, Roshan.”

But this elicited a soft, secretive smile from the lean man.

“Not quite the same, perhaps.”

Something in the smaller monk’s sparkling eyes as he said this made Therin feel like he was the butt of a joke he didn’t understand and his annoyance flared.

“Well, whatever pagan thoughts you brought from Yshnna, you had to abandon most of them to join the monastery.”

“The capital has its own monastery.”

“Really?” Therin’s fair brows knit together in astonishment. “I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you stay there to train then?”

“It is non-militant, purely educational. Blademasters are not allowed.”

“Hmm,” Therin grunted and looked back down the drive to the manse. Hrulinar was coming back, his hands in his pockets, whistling.

“She’s pretty,” the impish man said with a wicked grin. “That Sally.” Therin merely rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly. Hrulinar waved his hand and let the messenger’s garb fade, replaced by his unlaced silk shirt and tight leather pants.

“Did you deliver the letter and get his location?”

“Mrs. Jones said he’s supposed to be back in Lightholde within a few days. She said the High Lord sent her word today to be on the lookout for him. I guess he’s had some issues at the monastery this morning..?”

“Oh for–” Therin swore and led his horse down the drive. “Let’s go.”

Therin didn’t bother knocking this time as he approached his childhood home. He opened the servant’s door and led the two men in, nodding once to Sally but ignoring her questions as he brushed past her.

“He’s in a terribly bad mood, dearest girl. I’ll send him to kiss you in greeting soon,” Hrulinar said to her, touching the side of his nose as he gave her a quick, sarcastic bow. This rendered the curvy maid silent and the three men ascended the stairs.

Once inside Therin’s room, the broad monk threw himself into one of the tall stools at his workbench. He grumbled as he dug in his pocket for the quill he had taken from Devan’s desk at the monastery.

“Do you know what this does?” He asked suddenly, spinning on the stool to face Hrulinar. He held the large black feather aloft and whispered a prayer, making the quill glow faintly.

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“Raven’s feather, probably a familiar.” Hrulinar said, frowning. He strode forward and took the long silky feather between his fingers and inspected it closely. “It’s a Witch Quill, finely made, actually. That’s a real gold nib. Where did you find it?”

“Devan’s desk at the monastery.”

“Oh,” Hrulinar said, his eyebrows raised. “Interesting.” He spun the quill in his long fingers.

“What are they used for?” Therin asked but he had his suspicions.

“They come in pairs. They are spelled to write what the other one writes. If kept near paper, they are an instant way to transmit short messages. They aren’t common, usually reserved for very powerful witches as they have to be made from some part of the witch making them. Hair, usually.” He handed the quill back to Therin.

“This must be how Devan contacts Noran, then,” he said grinning broadly, triumph etched across his face. He turned back to his work area and set the raven’s feather down and picked up a smaller, less ornate quill. He dipped it in the ink and drafted a short note. Satisfied with both the handwriting on it and the message itself, he set it aside and looked at the black quill.

“How do I use it?” He asked as Hrulinar stood beside him, his hand braced on the edge of the workbench. “Do I need to activate it somehow?”

“I don’t think so. The tricky part is that if its mate isn’t near paper when you write with this one, it won’t transmit the message.”

Therin took a deep breath and picked up the larger quill, dipped it and carefully pressed the nib to the paper, his practised forgery of Devan’s hand slow and methodical. After a few minutes, he had the entire short note written. He set the quill down on a fresh sheet of paper and waited for some sign that the message had been received.

“It could be hours before the response is sent,” Hrulinar said. “There’s no way to tell if the message was ever even received.” He repeated his warning and slunk to Therin’s large bed, flopping down with a graceful little hop.

“Then in the meantime, we start planning how we go about getting Noran’s dagger off him.”

“You’re the master planner here, Therin. Enlighten us with your thoughts.” Hrulinar said, his arms behind his head, his legs stretched out and crossed, the picture of ease and boredom.

Roshan had wandered to the figures in the glass case and opened it. His eyes roved over the well-crafted models and as Therin turned back to the two of them, he saw Roshan pick up a figure. He watched the Blademaster study the small carved dwarf and then replace it back on the shelf, nodding in satisfaction.

“Masterful,” Roshan said. “If they were wax, they could be cast in metal.”

“Thank you,” Therin said, surprised by the compliment. “I had to carve the dwarf mostly from memory.”

“Your plans for when Noran arrives,” Hrulinar reminded the large monk. “Let’s hear them. How do you propose we keep him from bolting when he realises Devan isn’t here and it’s actually you who wants to talk to him?”

Therin stood and began pacing, his excited energy needing an outlet.

“I’ve not been on speaking terms with Noran in a long time.” The big man admitted. “And most of our interactions after he became a spy for Devan were unpleasant. He used to torment me with things that she had said…” he shook his head and balled his hands into fists. “He’d follow me around the halls of the monastery when he was reporting to Devan. Slinking around and melting into the shadows like some kind of…” Therin couldn’t find a suitable word and shook his head again.

“So suffice to say your relationship isn’t on the best of terms,” Hrulinar summarised and Therin nodded, meeting the spirit’s eyes as he sat up in the bed and sat cross legged.

“You are trying to contact your brother?” Roshan asked from beside the display cabinet. He had not moved since replacing the dwarf figure.

“Noran, yes.”

“The male Witch, the one that the High Lord has employed as a spy?” Therin merely nodded and continued to pace. “Perhaps, when he arrives, you start by telling him you wish to reconcile–”

Therin rounded on the younger man, snarling.

“I would never do that and he knows it. What he did was unforgivable. What he did and what it led to–”

“But does he know that?” Roshan asked, unphased by the seemingly disproportionate anger from Therin.

“Oh, he knows. I saw that he had the letter I sent him.”

Roshan’s confusion played across his smooth face and Hrulinar, sure that Therin would not help alleviate the confusion, filled him in.

“Noran spoiled a clandestine and fairly inappropriate romance for our young Lordling. Along the way, some things were tangled and misunderstood and Therin wound up being charged with rape.”

It had not been explicitly stated aloud in years and Therin winced at the word, his face darkening with injustice.

Roshan immediately lit with Light, the electricity sparkling down his limbs as he stared wide-eyed at Therin.

“I didn’t do it.”

“Of course not,” Roshan said but his voice was tight and his head held in a defensive, alert position.

“I didn’t.” Therin repeated through clenched teeth and Hrulinar nodded.

“If it matters, young Roshan, I believe him.” The Light dancing down the Blademaster fizzled, leaving only a few sparks flickering across his blade. “The woman accusing him of this is particularly unsavoury and not above lying about these kinds of things. She left our handsome young man here with that scar down his cheek.”

“But I did pay the penalty for the crime. And it started with Noran’s lies.”

“What would he have to do with your...entanglements?”

“What indeed?” Hrulinar answered and a note of glee lit his voice.

“Jealousy,” Therin said succinctly and Hrulinar laughed outright.

“Oh, you have no idea. You really have no idea.” He laughed again, tumbling backward and clutching his sides. “You really think he was jealous that you were being used and controlled by her? You think he was jealous of you?”

“Obviously he was!” Therin all but roared. “Why else would he stick his damned nose into my business, lie about things he never saw because they never happened?” He had paced closer to the spirit sprawling in laughter and raised a fist.

“He was jealous, I agree.” Hrulinar wiped an affected tear from his eye. “But, Therin, Noran was jealous of her.”

“What?” Therin’s rage had peaked again, and he drew in a deep breath, counting and praying, letting the Light abolish the anger. “How would you even know? That’s a stupid thing to say.” His tone was final and he turned his back to the spirit and resumed his pacing.

“I still think it might be a temptation he could not refuse,” Roshan said quietly. “To offer reconciliation in order to entrap him.”

“I just don’t think–”

“He’s a terrible liar,” Hrulinar interrupted. “I think it would only be believable if he offered something he actually could offer with honesty.”

“Then what if you asked him why he did what he did?” Roshan asked and Therin stopped his pacing for a fraction before resuming.

“That might work,” admitted the bigger man. “Maybe. I’ve never asked him or given him a chance to explain…” He shook his head, his anger flaring again. “But I don’t need him to explain. It’s obvious!”

A flicker of doubt had been seeded by Hrulinar’s words, though. What did the spirit know that he didn’t? What had Alira, hidden within Shadesorrow, seen within his forsaken brother’s mind? Even she had seemed to soften toward the man she had only met once, under horrific circumstances.

“Fine,” Therin said petulantly. “When he arrives, if he arrives, I’ll tell him I want to talk about…her.”

“Good boy,” Hrulinar said and in his annoyance, Therin let Light flash down him, silencing the spirit with a wave of dizziness. “You’re such a child,” moaned the spirit as he clutched his head. “Such a damned child.”