The pair looked through the rest of the office, trying their best to not disturb too many things, and finally left a few minutes later with a handful of items. Alira watched in bemusement as Therin pocketed Devan’s wax seal stamp. As they were leaving, having blown out all the candles and closed the curtains, Alira nudged him with her elbow and nodded to him.

“Why did you take Noran and Devan’s seals?”

“Are you kidding? Do you know how useful these are?” She stared at him, waiting for his list of supposed usefulness.

“First of all, it’s really hard to forge a seal. Devan’s has some anti-forgery things built into the motif.” He took it out of his pocket and showed her the intricate design. “It was hand carved, not cast.”

“And why would you need to make a forgery?”

“I haven’t perfected his signature yet,” he said matter-of-factly. She stared at him as he opened his bedroom door and held it open for her.

“Why do you need to forge his signature?” she demanded.

“I haven’t needed to. Not yet.”

“Therin,” she said, a warning edge to her voice. “Why would you need to impersonate the High Lord?”

“It’s just a skill I thought I might one day need.” He gave her an awkward half shrug and did his best to look a little embarrassed. “It’s kind of a hobby of mine, I guess.”

“Forgery is a hobby.” She said back to him, deadpan.

“Look, a few years ago I didn’t know if I wanted to join the monastery to train to become a paladin or…some other line of work.”

“You thought you’d not be able to make your way by honest means. Why?”

“Mara,” he said bluntly and Alira let it drop when the shadow of his past cast a darkness over his eyes. Alira nodded, and turned to Galvyn’s folder in her hands.

Who was he, Henry? Alira tried for the hundredth time. She got a mental impression of a rude gesture and she returned it. Fine. I’ll find out for myself.

Shocking, that you’d try to do something yourself instead of letting me hand you the answers. His words stung but his tone was playful and she relaxed a little.

You’ll get frustrated by me not understanding and just tell me. She predicted. She felt an impression of a scowl and she smiled, despite herself. She looked up, having realised she had been emoting in silence, staring at the folder, for several minutes.

“Any other things you wanna tell me?” Therein said in mock casualness as he set down the things he had taken from Devan’s office.

Alira shook her head and laid the folder down on the workbench.

“We should rest for a little before leaving,” she said. She shook out her cloak, which had been left on the bed and laid on the plush rug before the small hearth, curled into a ball and closed her eyes. “Wake me when you’re ready to go.”

“Alira, you could share–”

“Get some rest, Therin,” she cut him off. “Wake me.”

Grumbling, Therin threw the covers back on his huge bed and climbed in. Alira heard his rustling movements and then a very dense down pillow landed on her face.

“I’ll share my pillows, at least,” he muttered, annoyed.

Do you think the raven was anything to worry about? Alira asked Henry as she tried to shut her mind down.

Raven?

You didn’t see one in the tree outside Devan’s office? Her memory played for him, flicking past in still images.

Oh, probably not. I think I’d have felt it if it was a Witch’s minion.

Teach me how to feel the difference sometime, won’t you? Her words were soft in her own head, muted by the sleep that was sweeping over her.

“Alira,” Therin whispered, his hand on her shoulder as he shook her awake. Her eyes snapped open and she saw his worried face.

“What happened?” she asked but he put a finger over his lips and nodded toward the hall. She listened and could hear movement and voices. Several females and a loud, masculine voice directing. She met Therin’s eyes with fear. He nodded.

“Devan’s home,” he whispered. In a flash she was up, her hands on her pack. She looked from the door to the window and back again. Therin held up his hands to soothe her.

“I have a plan,” he said quietly. “I’m going to sneak you out to Noran’s room. It’ll be safe, Devan won’t touch it, he barely comes this far down the hall.” She nodded somberly and rubbed the sleep from her face. She noticed that the sun was lower in the sky, shining through the dark curtains of Therin’s room. They had slept for a long time.

“I’ll go out, try to talk to him before Mrs. Jones can slip that you’re here,” he buttoned his vest, fluffed his lace cuffs and ran a hand through his sleep-tousled curls. Straightening his vest with a quick jerk, he nodded once to her. He slipped out the door and she waited, listening.

“Therin,” the High Lord’s surprised voice seemed to come from down the hall at the top of the stairs. “What are you doing here?”

“Father,” the monk said and she heard the stiff edge to his voice. “I have grave news. A witch broke into the monastery last night.”

“What?” Devan sounded incredulous, like he was waiting for the punchline of a joke he didn’t find funny.

“Yes,” their voices trailed further away but Alira could just hear the rest of his reply. “Unfortunately, I am to blame. She escaped but I left the monastery and tracked her this way. I had to stop for a rest before continuing.” They descended the stairs and Alira cracked the door open and slipped into the hall, silent on the thick carpet.

At the door to Noran’s room, she stooped and retrieved the key, slid the empty drawer back into the wall, quickly unlocked the door, and was inside before she had counted to ten. She locked the door behind her and pocketed the key. The room was chilly despite the sun on the curtains. She looked around her and sighed, unsure what she should do, what Therin’s plan was to get her out.

Why are you waiting for him? Climb out that window and let’s go.

But Therin–

Alira! Henry interrupted her, his tone sharp. Please just listen to me. When have I purposely led you astray?

When you tried to kill me. She felt the heat of her words and Henry retreated with a silence gasp.

She grit her teeth and strode to the desk, sat down in the chair and put her pack on the floor. Her head in her hands, she listened for sound. A ghostly breath, an air current of the untouched, chilled room, blew across her legs and feet as she sat. Hearing nothing, she lifted her head and glanced at what lay atop the messy desk.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

There was the usual writing detritus. Bits of paper were dusted with grains of the sand used to dry ink, the grittiness scattered across the surface of the workspace. She carefully lifted the papers, one by one, examining them for clues as to who the man had been who had once lived in this room. The man who had slept in the bed behind her, which so perfectly preserved his final sleep in his grand, summer childhood bed.

She was surprised to see small drawings of different things, quick mindless sketches of an ink bottle, a quill, a cat, a book. They dotted the edges of papers that were written in a strict, straight print and as she read them, she realised they were school work of some kind. She set them aside as she examined them and continued to peruse the contents of the desk.

She found several short poems, simply a few words strung together, the shortest of which she paused on.

Stop

Yourself

From doing

Exactly

What you

Were

About to do.

There was a drop on the last line, as though a tear had landed on it, smearing the words. She held her breath and read the poem again. Shuddering, she set it aside and looked through the drawers of the desk.

The top drawer, Therin had rifled through roughly and disarranged, spilling a bottle of ink which had leaked all over contents. She eyed the ink-stained things and closed the drawer, surmising that Therin had found nothing of value and she would not either.

The second drawer was almost completely empty except for a thick stack of pristine, creamy paper. She lifted a sheet and was impressed by how thick and soft it was, the edges neatly cut and every sheet was exactly the same. It was expensive paper, surely, and the ghostly watermark on it caught the dim light. She could make out a hammer and a book, the same stylized image she had seen on Devan’s seal. It must be the mark of the High Lord. She quietly closed the drawer.

The bottom drawer was clearly a more private space. It was full of small things, items of seemingly no worth but Alira strongly suspected these were young Noran’s personal treasures.Among the random collection of things, Alira spied a thick bundle. A long length of white string bound together a stack of letters, some addressed to Master Therin, Care of High Lord Devan, some to Master Noran, Care of High Lord Devan. She flicked through them and noticed they were all in the same curly, feminine handwriting. Frowning, she set them aside and continued.

Next in the drawer she found a pocket-sized sketchbook, the top bound with heavy leather cords. The pages were thick, some adorned with watercolour sketches, some pencil. All were extremely well done, but a different style to that of the quick sketches she had just seen. These were beautiful scenes of a cat cleaning itself, the large oak in front of the estate, and even one of the manse itself, carefully shaded with soft pastel paint.

The last page made her breath catch.

It was Therin.

No older than fifteen, still awkward and gangly but growing into his shoulders and limbs. He was seated on a rock, one arm up on his bent knee, and he was looking just past the artist, perhaps behind them. His golden curls were longer than he wore them now, and they were carefully sketched, each lock precise. His expression was mischievous, grinning like only a teenager can. She noted the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose and idly wondered if he freckled more in the summer.

Whoever had drawn this portrait of Therin had loved him, that was clear. They had taken such pains to render his smile, the one dimple, the way his eyes crinkled. She could almost see the blue of his eyes in the grey pencil and she suddenly felt like she was looking at something intimate. It was not a picture meant for her eyes, only the artist’s.

But she did not take her eyes off it as she pondered who had drawn this. Her gut instinct was that it was Noran, being in his possession, but the style wasn’t the same as the the quick sketches that dotted his work. She flicked through the thick pages again and stopped on a page she had missed in her quick perusal, one page before the intimate portrait of Therin.

The picture was nothing of note, a small landscape of a field of flowers, but a note was scrawled at the bottom.

Therin,

I’ll be sad to see you go, even if I know you’ll be High Lord one day.

I’ll miss our summers, swimming together in the moonlight.

Keep my sketches so you’ll always have something beautiful with you.

Don't forget me, alright?

All my love,

Mara

Oh, my. Henry said with cruel relish. High Inquisitor Mara?

We don’t know that. Alira tried to protest, but the flicker of darkness across Therin’s eyes returned to her and she knew Henry was right. The whisper of curiosity flared into a flame.

I wonder what that story is. She’s got to be years older than him.

That’s Therin’s business. Not mine. If he wants to share it, he will.

She closed the sketchbook and set it atop the desk, determined to quash the burning curiosity inside.

She looked in the drawer again but the contents were obscured by the gloom. Having learned her lesson on the plateau, she quickly got the small candle from atop the mantle, lit it, and returned to the desk.

At the bottom of the drawer was another smaller parcel of letters, all addressed to Noran, but this time in an untidy scrawl, barely legible. Beneath those were dozens of tiny figures, all carved from wood. She lifted one out and saw they were people and everyday objects, artfully rendered with a few quick cuts to show detail. They were all on small wooden stands and labelled with softly curving words along the bottom. Each was made of a heavy, dark wood except for the largest figure.

The largest, cut of the same soft wood as the figures in Therin’s display case, was a girl, her curves hinted at with precise flicks of a blade. She wore a work shirt and long skirt, one side of it tucked into her belt revealing a long line of stockinged leg.She held a milking bucket. A sweet, shy smile was on her wooden face, the skill of the carver apparent in how artfully it was shown.

Her plinth read “M. S.”

The mystery deepens. Henry said with glee. Do you think they were lovers? Alira shut him away and put the figure in the drawer and laid the sketchbook atop it. She put the first bundle of letters on top of the book but left out the smaller parcel of communication. The ones all addressed to Noran, in what Alira suspected was Therin’s boyish handwriting. Curiosity burned in her. She hesitated briefly before slipping the string off the letters and opening the top one.

Noran,

Lightholde is as boring as you remember it. When you’re better, I’ll show you where I’m staying. You’d love the food at the inn down the street.

Father says you’re feeling much better but I’d like to hear from you myself if you feel up to it.

Tell M I love the sketches. I hang them up around my bunk here at the academy. I have three more months here before I can transfer to the monastery but I keep wondering if it’s what I really want, you know?

Anyway, that’s not your problem to worry about. Get better soon.

I carved you this cat.

All my love.

Your brother,

Therin

Alira put the letter down and opened the next one in the stack, dated a couple months before the one she had just read.

Noran,

I hate it here. This is the worst decision I’ve ever made, even if it’ll get me the career I need to start my own life. I promised Father I’d give it one more week before I went home. He says in a week, maybe less, I’ll at least have more free time.

I have to share a room with four other boys. All of them are lowborn and hate me, I can tell. I mean, I’d hate me. These boys are all living the lives you and I should have had, Noran. It’s so sad. One boy? His mother died just like mine did, having another baby. But his family already has six or seven. Gods, he looks so hungry all the time. I gave him half my dinner tonight.

None of them can read. One can copy letters alright, which I guess is all he’ll need to transcribe as a monk, but can you imagine not being able to read? It’s amazing.

Have you seen M much since you’ve gotten better? You said she was going to teach you to draw. That’d be nice, right? Send me some of your work when you’re done. Tell M I miss her.

I have to go do my chores now. Stay out of trouble.

All my love.

Your brother,

Therin

She lowered the letter. It was heavy in her hand and she felt a little dirty reading Therin’s words to his brother. But Noran was a very mysterious, enigmatic figure in her life now. A witch, clearly, but male. Powerful, if she could tell by his ability to sense her own power. Knowing him this way, learning who he was as a young man, might not be the worst way to learn about the man he was now. And what drove him to become Mara’s lackey.

Henry was silent inside her mind and she wondered if he was digesting the information, too. She reached for the next letter and froze.

In the silent gloom of the abandoned room, she suddenly heard the click of an opening door followed by the voices of Therin and Devan. They sounded like they were just outside the door, but the sound was coming from near her, not the door across the room. They sounded like they were coming from…

She ducked down below the desk and felt the soft sigh of chilled air on her face. She lifted the candle down to see better and saw a hole in the wall, hidden by the shadows of Noran’s desk, just big enough to fit her small frame.

Or a small teenage boy.