7: In the Grass

Face down in the grass, covered in sweat and dust, Tad inched forward with all the patience his recent training could give him. He moved only when the wind blew, or when horses came and went, and hid him momentarily. Twenty-five paces away Mr. Brightstar was, for all appearances, standing in a field enjoying the afternoon air with a crossbow in his hands. Once in a while he would shoot a padded bolt into the grass seemingly at random.

Tad had a similar crossbow: if he could land a solid shot before being “killed” by his master, then he would win the game. Up to now Tad had always lost, but he wanted badly to win. Just once, he wanted to be the one to sneak up on Nolan Brightstar. But he would have to be patient.

Avra Basil, looking uncommonly sober and neat, strode over from the house to stand near Mr. Brightstar. When the elf had the halfling’s undivided attention for a moment, Tad moved forward.

“You are training the human boy again?”

“Yep.” Nolan punctuated this with a thunk as he sent another bolt swishing into the grassy field. “Every day.” There was a creak and a click as the weapon was reloaded.

“I came to ask you Nolan, because you see more than most.” Now another pair of eyes were sweeping the hillside, searching for tad. And these were elf eyes, which rumor had were sharper than any. “How is it the geas affected the sisters and the princess if the covenant is, as the dwarf states, a blood-bound oath?”

“Five hundred years is a long time, Avra, even for elves nowadays. There could be thousands of forgotten descendants of the Hemmets.” Thunk. Swish. “Maybe you should be asking Minzerek these questions.” Creak ... click.

“I tried, but he uses words only a wizard can understand.” Both men watched the grass intently for a while, and Tad’s muscles began to cramp from being still. “The sisters say their mother, the Baroness of Ardengard, felt no compunction. And Calanth says the same of her line. They three were the only ones to be compelled.”

“Princess Calanth had the box. And the sisters,” Thunk. Swish. “are some of the better Riders in the kingdom. Far better than the silver-hoarding nobility in Corak, to be sure.” Again there were sounds of reloading.

“They were chosen by the geas,” said the elf thoughtfully, “for what they could contribute. A very intelligent geas, which chooses its subjects. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“No,” said Mr. Brightstar, “never.” And for a moment the two men looked at each other.

That was Tad’s moment, and he was so excited about it he couldn’t stop shaking. He stood and, taking careful aim at Mr. Brightstar, let loose with a shot that went so wide it nearly hit the elf instead. Panicking, Tad tried to reload but couldn’t get a proper grasp on the string. He looked up just in time to see Avra with his bow and Mr. Brightstar with his crossbow, aiming at him with with smiles on their faces. The last thought Thaddius had, before the arrows hit him, was that they were enjoying this way too much.

The twin impacts lifted Tad entirely off his feet and threw him onto his back. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, and all he could see were the sky and bright spots floating in front of his eyes. Then there was Avra’s face, slightly blurry. “It was an admirable approach, young human, but your attack is pitiful. To attack unseen is the hunter’s advantage. To come boldly is the warrior’s. Use more stealth, or be more fierce. In between is ... not so good.” Avra nodded at the halfling and took his leave.

Nearly an hour later Thaddius was again within range of his mentor. And, this time, he was determined to wait. He spent a long time watching his master through the sights of his crossbow, aimed between silently parted blades of grass. His master, as was his habit in the late afternoons, was sipping from a flask of wine in between random shots into the grass. Eventually, Tad felt sure, something would happen to distract him.

Distraction arrived in the guise of Rider Aidan, dressed in breeches and a simple tunic, hair loose, and armed with only a dagger. It was disconcerting to see the normally armored and axe-wielding woman walking peaceably in the field like a commoner. “Nolan, I’d like a word.”

“Shoot,” said the halfling, sending a bolt into the grass. “but no talking in the afternoon without something to cool the tongue.”

Aidan took the offered flask and drank. “A halfling custom?”

“Common sense,” said Nolan, taking back his flask. “now what is on your very tall mind, Rider Aidan?” Thunk. Swish. Reload. “Or should I say, Lady Aidan?”

“Please,” she waved away the idea with the greatest indifference, “everyone knows we’re bastards. We’re three generations of women of uncertain parentage.”

“Funny thing about bastards,” said Mr. Brightstar significantly, “anyone could be the father.” What was that expression that passed over her face? Was it contempt, of the need for husbands and fathers? Was it satisfaction, of knowing something others don’t? Tad was almost sure his master hadn’t seen it, focused as he was on finding himself.

Aidan, Lady or not, stuck to her present business. “You can’t take your apprentice on this trip. It’s too dangerous for him.”

“Legally, he’s my indentured servant.” Thunk. Swish. “So I only have a minimal obligation for his safety.”

“You can’t bring him. We have no idea what we’re facing.”

“That is why it’s called adventure,” insisted Mr. Brightstar, “because you don’t know what will happen. ” Creak ... click. “Anyway, I can’t leave him behind. What will he do? And he needs his lessons.”

“I think he can do a lot better than learning to be a sneak thief.”

“I prefer gentleman adventurer. I hardly ever steal anything.” Thunk. Swish. “From anyone living, that is.”

“And what do you think will happen when the fighting starts? He isn’t even grown yet.”

“He’ll HIDE.” Thunk. Swoosh. This bolt landed less than a foot from Tad’s face, but he didn’t so much as blink an eye, so intent was he on keeping his aim on Mr. Brightstar’s heart.

“What,” said Aidan with exasperation, “are you shooting at?”

“Tad, I hope.”

“He’s out there? Where?” She shielded her eyes against the sun and scanned the field.

“It’s rather the point that you don’t know, isn’t it? That’s why it’s called hiding.” Nolan worked the mechanism of the crossbow, “Or maybe he fell asleep. Or one of the horses stepped on him.” For some reason the trigger mechanism wasn’t catching.

“I’ve spoken to Lady Calanth,” pressed Aidan, still looking for Tad, “and she’s willing to take him on in her household. He can do the horses for her, or be a valet or something.” Tad for a moment considered changing targets, but the movement might give away his position.

Mr. Brightstar turned to face the tall woman in anger, “You haven’t the right! I’m not letting her turn him into some kind of ... houseboy.”

And that was when Tad shot him, right in the chest. The little man went toppling backwards with a cry and landed hard somewhere out of sight. Aidan bent over Nolan pityingly, “Oooh, that’s going to hurt tomorrow.”

Tad carefully cocked his bow, while sputtering sounds came from Mr. Brightstar general direction. “It hurts a lot right now,” he groaned. “And I’d watch out if I were you.”

“What do you mean?” Aidan straightened up and resumed looking for Thaddius, who was loading his crossbow as fast as he dared. “You don’t think he’ll shoot me by accident do you?”

“No, not by accident,” said the disembodied voice.

Understanding hit her face before Tad was truly ready, so he was forced to rush the shot. The bolt swished through the blades of grass and hit her hard in the upper arm so hard the shaft snapped. Aidan’s eyebrows flew up into her hair in surprise and, Tad thought, approval. But then things started to go badly.

Aidan bowed over Nolan briefly, and Mr. Brightstar’s sword appeared in her “uninjured” hand. She crouched, disappearing in to the grass. Tad could hear her moving, swiftly. She was coming for him, and it was going to hurt. He reloaded as fast as he could, and barely got the padded bolt into place before she found him. She exploded out of grass and bore down on him, sword in hand, the joy of battle on her face.

And Tad froze. For a heartbeat, he was caught in the certainty that his life was over. He was going to die in the princess’ hay fields, brained or sliced open by a madwoman for the sheer joy of it.

Then something kicked into life in Tad’s body, an animal instinct to preserve his life no matter what the cost. He rolled away from her attack as her blade cleanly cut through a yard of grass. He kept trying to move away from her, backpedaling, but she moved with him, not letting him out of the range of her sword, never letting him up. Then she was standing right over him, sword poised for the killing blow.

Tad aimed his crossbow straight up and pulled the trigger. The bolt hit her solidly, right there, and she didn’t even flinch. They just looked at each other for a moment, Aidan standing with the small sword in her fist, and Tad on the ground with the spent crossbow still in his hand.

“You did not just do that,” she said, and clubbed him with the pommel of Mr. Brightstar’s sword.

----

Tad woke suddenly, like one does when he realizes he has overslept and is late for something. Somebody was shouting.

“I’ll thank you for not killing my apprentice until AFTER he’s trained,”

“I thought he wasn’t your apprentice. And he’s fine,” she said encouragingly, “Look, he’s breathing.” Tad was hauled up onto his feet so fast his head spun. While getting his decidedly wobbly legs under him, he tried to remember what was so important that it had woken him up. “See, he’s standing.”

“Only because you’re holding him up. Let me have him, you’d break a fence post if you leaned on it.”

“He shot me.” Aidan draped one of Tad’s unresponsive limbs over Nolan’s shoulders. “Twice.”

“Good, you deserved it.” The halfling took Tad’s weight and got him moving towards the big house. “Come on boy, let’s get you some rest.”

Tad suddenly remembered what was so important. “I don wanna be a valay,” he tried to say very carefully, “don make me a valay, okay? Bein' house boy is boring. Sounds dumb.”

“Fine,” sighed Aidan, “you can come. Come and be a sneak thief for us.”

“Genlman venturer,” slurred Thaddius.

“You tell her, kid.”

6: Deeds and Dinner

The notables of the party were graciously received by Lady Calanth’s staff. Tad, on the other hand, was sent to the stables where he spent the rest of the afternoon grooming horses, first for his own party and then some belonging to the Lady. Horsemaster Lewis watched Tad critically at first, but soon gave him more animals to work on while a boy named Hank mucked out the stalls. “It seems my only reward for hard work is yet more work,” thought Tad ruefully.

But in truth he didn’t mind these horses. The princess, it seemed, bred the kind of fine riding horses favored by wealthy tradesmen and minor gentry -- beautiful animals of gentle temperment. He got all the burrs out of the manes and tails, brushed the coats until they shone, cleaned out the hooves, and did everything else that was required of him.

When the sun began to set, Tad and Hank and Lewis retired to the tack room at the back of the stables. There, by the light of an oil lamp, Lewis schooled the boys in the commendation knot. “This is how Riders put beads and medals into the mane. If you know how to read them, you can tell the whole history of a mount by what his Rider has woven in.” He used a thin hooked rod to pull strands of hair through a bead, then looped those strands around others to hold the bead in place. Tad watched Lewis carefully, then repeated the motions several times until he had a knot that actually held his bead in place. “Not bad,” nodded the horsemaster, “now do a whole row.”

While Tad and Hank practiced, the horsemaster told them about the commendations, which belonged to the horse rather than the Rider. First, a lock of the Rider’s hair was woven in with the mane, along with the Rider’s emblem. A miniature shield with a heraldic design denoted service to a particular noble or house, and beads directly beneath it represented years of service: one white bead for each year. Military campaigns each had their own special bead, which was long and stripped with different colors. Special or heroic service was marked by a medal, a very thin disk made of copper or silver about twice the size of a coin, stamped with the insignia of the noble who had been so ably served.

As he spoke, the lamplight showed all of the lines in Lewis’ weathered face. There was, in his recital, a kind of ritual. He had learned these things as a boy, had lived them as a Rider for many years, and had taught them to generations of younger men. When Rider Lewis passed into the lands of the Gods, those he had taught would pass on the same knowledge in the same way: gathered around lamplight after a day filled with the horses they loved so much.

“Do you come from an equestrian family, young Thaddius?” asked Lewis, breaking the spell.

“No sir, my kin were farmers. The only horse we had was for pulling wagons and things.” Tad felt a stone form in his gut when he thought of the home he could never go home to, because it was no longer there. If he could just concentrate hard enough on what his hands were doing, he knew the clenching feeling would go away.

“And how was it you ended up with your Master Brightstar?”

“I found him in a ditch, with some other children.” Mr. Brightstar entered the circle of light as if by some magic. “A troll went on a rampage through his hamlet, and Thaddius dragged a bunch of children into the ditch, out of sight. Saved the lot of them.”

Tad could feel the hot tears starting again, for about the thousandth time since That Day. Under the cover of putting away his tools, he turned away so the men could not see him cry. “By the time it was over, the only family he had left was an uncle who didn’t want him. It would have been a waste to leave him there, so I took him on.” Mr. Brightstar made it sound like someone had dropped a few coins, and he had simply picked them up.

Tad had lost everything at once, except for an uncle who drank too much and abused him at every turn. The few weeks he spent with his last remaining relative had made Tad wish the man had been killed like his parents. Tad tried not to wish terrible endings on his last living relative, like lying dead in a ditch, or being eaten by the giant wolves of the Angsul, or being swallowed by a dragon, but sometimes it was difficult.

Mr. Brightstar’s hand on his shoulder brought Tad back from his morbid thoughts. “Go get cleaned and dressed for dinner. And bring your Geranicus.”

---

Though she didn't look very well, the Lady Calanth was very beautiful in a silk black frock cinched with a wide black belt. That, and her long straight black hair and white skin made Tad think of a ghost in mourning. Her walk, although slow, was as smooth and graceful as if she were barely there. For reasons he could not fathom, Tad wanted to stand taller when she was near, and from the way they shifted when she entered a room, her servants felt the same.

After several minutes of trying very hard not to look at her directly, Tad finally gave in long enough to commit her face to memory. The Lady was in her early twenties, around the same age as Aidan and Naida, but a head shorter and without the same hardness in her arms and neck. She had the same heart-shaped face and straight nose as the doubty sisters, but instead of spending her years training for battle she had spent them training to do ... whatever it was princesses did.

She was, Tad would later learn, actually in mourning. Her family (she was a niece of the new Duke of Corak) had married her to a far-away lord in order to cement some alliance or other. So she journeyed up the Stair, over the desert, and into the principalities of Soubous to join her groom. It was in those weeks that she had met Mr. Brightstar and his friends, all of them being in the same caravan for a while. Their acquaintance had been short-lived however, as Mr. Brightstar’s party turned North at Vohanis (an infamous city) while the rest of the caravan, and Lady Calanth with it, continued West.

Once she arrived in far-off Ustolia and was married, the Lady Calanth had been treated as little more than a slave by her husband’s family. In spite of their noble name, that family was in deed as ignoble as any group of bandits or highwaymen. Her misery was destined to be brief, thanks to a rebellion against the hated nobles. In short order she was a widow and, for a little while at least, a penniless vagabond.

Calanth had quietly made her way back to Aspera and took up residence in a nearly-forgotten country house, named Farshore, there to sit out her required days of mourning. Distanced from a father who had sold her for political coin, free of a despised husband, and unencumbrered by anything resembling real grief, the Princess was enjoying an un-looked-for compensation: freedom to do as she pleased.

She had been free, that is, until a few nights previously. About the time Nadia and Aidan were riding out the gates of Corak, Lady Calanth succumbed to an urge to search her house. Not knowing what she was looking for, but certain she would know it when she found it, she had systematically dismantled most of the rooms in her house. She had explored, opened, emptied, overturned and, in some cases, broken anything and everything that might have been hiding the mysterious object of her search. When her friends and servants tried to restrain her she sickened, until they relented and allowed to get on with the destruction of her property.

It was the library which finally yielded results, in the form of a wooden box. This she guarded, lying on her sickbed, until it was put into the hands of the Sisters. In the few hours since then, her illness had broken and she began to get better.

The people might all be gathered in Lady Calanth’s house, but the real host this evening was the thing that had brought them together. The box now sat by the Princess’ place at the head of the dinner table, its dark finish reflecting the candlelight. It was the size of a stationery box: large enough to hold a supply of paper, pens, and ink. It was plain rosewood, without embellishment but of perfect workmanship. In a library, such a thing could be safely hidden for generations.

Dress for the guests was informal, both because of the Lady Calanth's illness, the disarray of her house, and the limited amount of space in the travelers' saddlebags. The Bishop dressed in the only wardrobe he possessed, a dark brown coat that buttoned along his left shoulder and down one side, and was long enough to reach his polished boots. From a silver chain around his neck dangled the sign of his order wrought in iron: a square bisected vertically with a cudgel symbolizing Order and Zeal.

The sisters had put aside their breeches, boots and protective leathers to don modest dresses in green (for Nadia) and blue-gray (for Aidan), and had adorned themselves with necklaces made of perls interspersed with beads of some exotic semi-precious stones. Minzerec wore a wizard's robe of deep purple, trimmed in arcane symbols embroidered with gold thread.

Earkey, who sat next to the physican, wore green pants, a white shirt stripped in green, a purple vest, and a brown jacket trimmed at the collar and cuffs with black fur. The back of his jacket had the figure of a silver dragon on it, painstakingly constructed from tiny scales of real silver sewn on individually. A green gem made up the fearsome creature's eye. When the gnome moved or a breeze blew by, the dragon shimmered. He was by far the most colorfuly dressed diner.

The Lady’s physician and the horsemaster were dressed much like Earkey only taller and with less flair. They were, in short, minor country gentlemen having dinner much as they would on any other night.

The elf, Basil, hadn't brought a change of clothes. The servants nearly had to strip him by force so they could wash his things, and had loaned him Asperan garb. Without his flowing robes and headwrap that hid his ears, however dirty they might have been, he looked even more out of place than normal. In drinking his third goblet of wine while everyone else was on their first, he was showing restraint Tad hadn’t witnessed before.

"The Harrells are related to all of the other royal families in Soubous and Aspera, of course," Lady Calanth was saying. "When I was younger I was insufferably proud of that. But when you realize just how many of us there are it becomes a lot less special. And that's not counting the unrecognized kin." Tad wondered what "unrecognized kin" were, exactly. Back home you had either belonged to a family or you didn’t. "I know I've read about a connection to a Hemet somewhere in our family histories, but I can't place it. It isn't in the last hundred years, I'm sure of that."

"Maybe before the reconstruction. It could be a noble line out of Ild-Eldir. Before it mostly fell into the ocean of course," offered Earkey.

"Actually,” added Mr. Brightstar, “I think Thaddius can help us to narrow down the time frame. My lady, if you would be so kind." The mystery box was passed down from Lady Calanth to Mr. Brightstar, who handed it backwards to Tad, who was standing with the other servers. "Have a peek inside and tell me what you think."

Tad stepped forward, suddenly aware of the nine pairs of eyes (not counting the servants), all focused on him. He chose to ignore the writing on the outside of the box for the moment and removed the lid. Inside was a kind of crow-like bird in flight, about nine inches from wingtip to wingtip, crafted in bronze. It was so realistic it looked as if a real bird had been captured in time and instantly turned into metal. When he looked closer, he could see that every individual feather had been defined in minute detail.

Using a napkin from the table to avoid touching the precious piece, Tad picked it up and turned it over. The heaviness of the thing belied the the feathers, which looked as if they could catch the wind at any moment. Underneath, the figure wasn't flat, or less detailed, or in any way inferior. It was just the same bird seen from below. He examined the edges of the wing for tell-tale signs of the molding typically used for this kind of work, but the only disturbance he found was that of the air that ruffled the very tip of the animal's feathers as it flew, frozen in time.

"It is fifth century, most likely between four sixty and four ninety-nine,” pronounced the boy.

Beauchamp, the Lady's healer, snorted. "What kind of parlor trick is this, Mr. Brightstar?"

"It isn't a parlor trick sir,” responded Tad, trying to keep that note of defiance out of his voice, the one that sometimes got him into trouble with his tutors, “it's a Harapa, from the master's own hand. I recognize it because my cousin was a journey silversmith, and I spent time in his workshop. I would have appenticed with his master if he had had room for me."

"Young man, almost being an apprentice silversmith does not make you an expert on bronzes."

"No sir. But Harapas are special, you can’t miss them. Nothing like them at all, not in bronze anyway. I've seen two others: one in my cousin's master's workstop, and another while traveling with Master Nolan." Tad put the piece lovingly back in it's box. "So ... Did you find out what the enchantment does?"

The whole table erupted into a wordless noise of disgruntlement. Thaddius had definitely said something wrong. Mortified, he tried to appologize to his master. "I'm very sorry sir," he said as queitly as he could while still being heard over the other voices, "I didn't mean to make people mad."

Far from being angry, Nolan waved away the appology. "Oh not at all, you're doing a splendid job."

The noise at the table died down as Minzerec lifted his hand for attention. "Young Thaddius, if you please. Perhaps you can explain to a room full of educated and accomplished people ... how is it you know the object is enchanted when I myself could not detect it?"

"Well sir, that's part of the legend. When Harapa worked on his masterpieces he did it in secret so nobody could steal his techniques. He never signed them, because he wanted them to be perfect. He never repeated himself. And he charged so much money that only Wizards would buy them. I guess for some reason his stuff was good for enchantments. The candlesticks I saw would burn candles really bright, without ever using them up, so maybe that part of the legend is true."

Nolan passed the box down to Aidan, "Aidan, if you please?" She picked up the bird and commanded it to "Speak." The thick bill began to move and a raspy voice cawed out in a high gravelly voice:

Old King Samit’s most feared power
crushes armies, topples towers
sinks ships, forges woe
lights the dark,
undoes foes.

The Old Rook lies in bronze retired:
exiled Magi, hunted liar.
Before you seek what he concealed
ask this:
Is truth always best revealed?

Thaddius stood there, under the eyes of everyone, skin tingling and his mind racing. King Samit was the first king of Aspera, twenty-three centuries ago. He had just read about the man days ago, in his Geranicus. Samit had been a deadly warrior and, according to Geranicus, a great ruler. But he didn't have power like a priest or a mage, not unless you counted ...

... "not the relics of Samit, sir? Do you think it's talking about one of them? I thought they were all supposed to be lost."

"An interesting turn of phrase. Why don't you refresh our memories from your book?"

Tad produced the book from his jacket pocket and thumbed backward from his bookmark ("At War With the Imperium") until he reached a small subheading in the first third of the little tome.

"Read it out loud enough for us down here," called Calanth from the far end of the table.

Thaddius began,

The Relics of Samit

Samit claimed his rule was by divine right, as evidenced by possession of three holy relics. These were given to him by the priests of the temples at Oxhed, Nychanter, and Corak, as a symbol of his fitness to rule and the favor of the gods. As we will see later, much of the romance of the First King surround these mystical artifacts, and the deeds he performed with them.

The most famous of these was the sword Enercrist, with which he subdued his enemies. The sword could cut through even the thickest of armor, drive away fear, and destroy undead. The second relic was the throne from whence King Samit dispensed justice. No lie, deceit, or disguise could endure its presence. The last relic was the royal scepter, which had the power to break any magic at the King’s will.

When Samit died his three sons divided the relics among them. Over the the course of several centuries their families guarded the items jelously until wars and subterfuges caused all the relics to be lost.

Enercrist

The most famous relic was the sword Enercrist, which was willed to the King's oldest son Jamyt. His precise reasons for willing the great sword to his eldest son was never explained, but the course of history suggests there was some logic. As the best recognized of all the relics, it was reasonable to give it to the son who would be king. King Jamyt also had a very combative personality, much like his father before him, and possession of the sword suited his temperment.

Enercrist was last wielded by King Levonitas the Younger when he ejected the Empire from Aspera c.330 CE. That war ended when King Levonitas and the emperor's War Marshal met each other on the field of battle in personal combat. Levonitas carried the day, but the sword was broken during the fight.

Records state that the shards of Enercrist were entombed with its last master, deep under Oxhed. Rumors persist that the pieces of Enercrist are kept in the royal armory, or that the sword was never broken at all. But these are entirely unsubstantiated.

The High Seat

Samit willed his throne to his youngest son Ulstrom. Still a very young man then, Prince Ulstrom had what his father called "good horse sense", and in his adult years the youngest prince was known for his insight and his keen sense of justice. In time he became High Justicar of the realm. He ran an itinerant high court, constantly touring the kingdom to hear cases instead of remaining in Oxhed. Samit's throne went with Ulstrom as he traveled his circuit, and in time acquired such monikers as “the High Seat”, and “Seat of Justice”.

All of this left Ulstrom's brother the King without a throne to sit on. King Jamyt built a grander one out of rare woods and precious metals, more fit for a king in its appearance. Later kings tried to take possession of the High Seat, which was ultimately spirited away by Ulstrom's descendants. It resurfaced again briefly after Asperian independence from the empire, but disappeared again in the fifth century.

Orb of Nychanter

Samit's middle son Kagan received the scepter. It was a rod of cold iron capped with a platinum design on the bottom, and at the top a massive diamond shaped into a many-faceted orb. Although seldom seen, the Orb was reportedly in the possession of Kagan's family in the palace of Nychanter where it was never publicly displayed (perhaps because of its obvious intrinsic value).

The Orb was verifiably seen at least twice after Samit's death. Once it was used to defeat the enchantress Kotmar when she tried to lay a spell on the entire keep. It was used again during the war against Emperor Mosyph. It gave the emperor so much trouble that he confiscated it, but it was returned to Kagan's descendants as part of the terms of Asperian surrender.

The Orb reportedly remained in the care of Kagan's descendants until 989, when floods washed away the palace along with most of the city. But in fact there are no documented sightings of the orb after 1 BCE.

"So which of these do we think is the most feared?" speculated the Bishop.

"The sword" said both of the sisters.

"The scepter," said Minzerec with his usual certainly.

"The Throne," pronounced Lady Calanth at the same time as the others.

Thaddius took the bird from Aidan, then put it back into its box and gingerly closed the lid. On it was inlaid in gold script:

Whiterose Hall holds for you what should not be lost, but can not be used.
You hold for us, when we can not hold for ourselves.
This our covenant is signed in the blood of Hemet’s sons.

5: Walter's Bailey

A few days later Tad found himself at the back of a line of horses, looking over a very fine estate. It wasn’t the largest he had ever seen, and in fact compared to some of the royal estates near Newholy it was quite small. You could almost see one end from the other. A low stone wall, all of which he could see seemed in good repair, bordered a few square miles of sweet grassy hill perfect for horses. The main house a simple rectangle three stories tall with big evenly-spaced windows, topped with thatch at least a yard thick. Most “people of quality” would scoff at the idea of using such lowly materials, but a skillful thatch was as good as shingles, and was warmer in winter months.

Near the house were two other buildings: the large one was a barn and tack-house and the smaller one was likely a workshop of some sort. Even a modest estate required a lot of maintenance. Between the buildings was a large courtyard paved in some kind of crushed rock, and the whole affair was trimmed with flower beds and smallish trees in decorative stone vases. Behind the buildings was the edge of what looked to be an acre or two of vegetable garden, most of it out of sight on the other side of the hill.

A low inner wall encircled the buildings and the garden. In the broad zone between the two walls was grassland, turning brown in the autumn sun. Several horses cantered by, gazed at the visitors for a few moments, then turned suddenly and sped off in the other direction. For a few moments Tad thought he could see sunlight rippling over their coats like wind in the grass, but the animals crested the hill and were gone.

The party was stopped, still mounted, on the road facing the gate. A sign declared it as “Nearshore”, which struck Tad as being odd because there were no bodies of water in evidence.

The sisters’ affliction, which had become known as “the magic rash”, had led them here. “I’m pretty sure this is the place,” said Nadia with relief, “but it looks like someone important lives here. It might be rude to just barge in.”

“If there’s a town nearby, we can ask people who live here, then decide how to approach.” Offered Nolan.

“We could just go up and ask. You know people do that sometimes, right?” Everyone looked at the gnome Earkey as if he had just sprouted horns. “What -- is that a bad idea for some reason? Go knock on the door and ask ‘Who are you?’”.

“The point is to be welcomed inside,” instructed the bishop. “We will find out who lives here from the local baron, and I will gain an introduction.”

“Baroness...,” corected Aidan, “Rotholda used to be Baroness here. If she’s still in office I’m sure we can get in to see her today.”

But the conversation became irrelevant when an older man on horseback, wearing the yellow stripes of horsemaster on his high black boots, cantered down the drive to greet them. “Good morning to you travelers. Is there some assistance I can offer you?” Nadia leaned over her in her saddle and whispered conspiratorially in Tad’s ear, “I think what he really means is, ‘how may I best be rid of you?’” Her breath set off an alien thrill down his spine.

“I am the Bishop Ambrose, disciple of Saint Engel the Zelous, and these are my companions. We were just curious as to who lives at this estate.”

“My Lady Calanth resides here, but she is not accepting visitors today. If you wish an audience, you may leave a card.” The wizard produced ink, paper, and a suitable writing surface almost before the thane’s utterance was finished, and handed them to Ambrose.

The Bishop had just begun the greeting when Nolan put his hand on the clergyman’s arm, giving him pause. “I think we met a Lady Calanth, several years back. On the road to Vohanis?”

“Princess Calanth, Duke Fredrick’s neice?” exclaimed Nadia happily. “I remember her. Didn’t she give you some advice on finding a husband, dear Sister?”

“I would never inconvenience a princess for advice on husband-hunting.” said the darker sister rather darkly.

“Oooh let me write the letter, Ambrose.”

“Too late, Rider Nadia. I am already well in to it.” And indeed his pen was advancing at an alarming rate. “But I will include your name. I am certain she will remember you.”

While the cleric worked on his letter, the Horsemaster (whose name was Lewis) and the sisters got to talking about their horses. “I have never laid eyes on an Arducian charger up close,” said Lewis with a wondering gleam in his eye, “they are magnificent mounts.” Nadia had taken over part of the road to post her mount and then show off a few vicious hoof attacks. “But they are smaller than I expected.”

“They’re faster than the Asperan heavies, and more maneuverable. For skirmishing I like these much better, and they are unbelievably tough,” said Aidan stroking her Grassfire’s neck, “but it’s still true there’s nothing like a wall of Asperan heavies to put terror into the enemy.”

That exchange launched a spirited discussion of mounts and tactics that were mind-numbing. The horsemaster and the sisters could have talked for hours, Tad was sure, but the Bishop’s pen was mercifully swift.

“A letter for your mistress, Master Lewis. We will be in Walter’s Bailey awaiting her pleasure.” And with a few swift courteous farewells the group advanced on the town of Walter’s Bailey.

A sharp crack across his back jolted Tad’s whole spine arrow-straight. It wasn’t so much that it hurt (which it did some) but that it came without warning. Aidan was just as good at sudden attacks as Nolan was at subterfuge. “You are not a sack of potatoes, boy. Sit up! Ride your animal, do not slump on it!” Far from putting a pause to his education, leaving Corak had only effected a change in his curriculum.

His fighting lessons with the sisters were shorter than his schooling in Corak but more bruising, and he practiced daily with his small crossbow. While on the road he had to keep perfect riding form, and after the light gave out in the evening he would read from his book by lantern light. Mr. Brightstar and the Bishop didn’t just make him read, they asked him about why people did the things they did. Most of the time, Tad didn’t have a clue about what answers he should give.

Tad was looking forward to a day in town, even if it was just for overnight. It would mean errands instead of beatings, and a soft bed instead of the hard ground. It wasn’t so much the ground he minded: he was usually asleep the moment he laid down. But sleeping outside brought unwelcome dreams, fully of bloody claws and the voice of his mother calling to him in a voice full of dirt.

But the party did not arrive in Walter’s Bailey that day. The town was just in sight when a boy slightly younger than Tad riding a smallish horse at a dead run caught up to them from behind, bearing a letter for Ambrose. With a practiced flick the Bishop shook out the folded paper with one hand.

“The princess is ill, and her doctor would like a consult. We are all invited to stay, of course.”

“We might as well have just stayed at the gate, it would have saved us the effort,” grumbled Earkey. “I could taken a nap.”

4: Old Friends

"He wouldn't stop dancing! We had to pin him down to put out the fire!" Laughter rang off the brickwork walls of the Dog and Peonie, out the second-story windows and into the streets of upper Corak. Tad had heard his master tell this story so many times in the last few moons that it failed to embarrass him. Now he just ran his fingers through his much shortened hair for emphasis, which got more laughs. Even after three moons in Corak, it still hadn’t grown fully back.

Nolan Brightstar was breakfasting with old friends. From what Tad had gathered, the six of them had gone West out of the kingdom some years before, and never since their return had they all been reunited. Like so many, they had come to the city to see Old Ludo pass his title down to his son, the new Duke of Corak his Royal Grace Fredick of the Line of Harrell, Striker and Guardian of the Coin of the Realm, Protector of the Southern Reaches, and many-other-titles-few-could-remember. They had all connected to their old friend Nolan through incidental run-ins with Tad, who thought the whole affair to be craftily arranged.

This morning's breakfast was a typical example of his boss' work. Tad doubted that he had run into any of them by accident. Rather, he had been placed where they would inevitably encounter him and ask after his master. The broad and bearded dwarf in Arcanist robes wearing several (possibly magical) thick golden rings was attached to the local arcane campus, but he was no teacher. Arcanist Minzerec Granitehelm, that was the dwarf's name, had seen Tad's medallion in passing and stopped him in the campus courtyard on his way to lessons. On another day Bishop Ambrose, a white-haired but hale man, discovered Tad while inspecting the small shrine where the boy learned history. The sisters, one darker and more stern, the other more blonde and outgoing, he met through his fighting school. They were former students of the elderly swordmaster in residence there. The only person Mr. Brightstar had to go looking for was Earkey, who was apparently some kind of priest. During the day he taught religious studies in the gnomish community in the middle city, and at night he was a bouncer at a bar in the Bottom.

The sisters were bickering. They hadn’t seen each other for months before the coronation, so naturally they had a lot of bickering to catch up on.

“Are you still feeding your horse apples?” Asked Aidan, the dark-haired one.

“There’s nothing wrong with apples. She likes them,” countered the fair-haired Nadia while transfering several strips of bacon and two boiled eggs from the central bowl onto her own wooden platter.

“You should feed her leva-fruit. A much more fitting treat.” To press her point, Aidan scooped a generous portion of expensive fresh fruit onto her own plate and took possession of the ceramic carafe of unfermented grape juice.

“She doesn’t like leva, she likes apples. And since I love my horse I know what she likes.” Nadia punctuated this by dropping a huge amount of thick oatmeal onto her plate and poured syrup over everything.

“If you really loved her you would teach her to enjoy more suitable treats. She’s an Arducian charger, not some plough horse.” Tad noticed that, even though she seemed to eat daintily, Aidan’s food was disappearing at an alarming rate.

“Just because you insist on cramming expensive morsels down Grassfire’s throat doesn’t mean you love him. He might hate them for all you know.” Nadia scooped a giant spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth triumphantly.

“He likes them just fine. He eats them doesn’t he?”

“Maybe he just eats them to please you,” countered Nadia, jabbing at her sister with her fork. “Horses can be dumb that way.” Her plate was nearly empty, and Tad ran off to tell the innkeeper to bring a lot more food. Women or not, these Riders were hungry. By the time he returned, the conversation had shifted.

“The donations have been very generous,” said the bishop beatifically, “especially from those in the working classes.” He had a face like a prince of Soubous: narrow and fine with clear blue eyes. Aspera’s own nobles often had the same features, thanks to centuries of intermarriage with the Soubous nobility. “Saint Engel’s message of hard work and zelous faith appeals to them, as it should to all of us.” The holy man put something into his mouth and chewed slowly, knowing full well he had the attention of the assemblage. When he was done chewing and swallowing he resumed speaking, “We’re even taking over the old stronghold of Myngar Harrell the Younger, and we’re turning it into a basilica dedicated to the Saint. A bastion for the faithful.”

“I’ve been by there before,” pronounced Aidan. “That part of the Yeron silted up a century ago, and the river is a mile away now. It has no strategic value!”

“Not a worldly one, but battles of faith take place in hearts and minds as well as strength of arms. The basilica will have great spiritual value, with Saint Engel’s blessing.”

“I see you are more superstitious than ever,” rumbled the dwarf, “and I am surprised. You must realize by now how foolish it is to ally yourself with forces that exist only in your mind.”

“I however am not surprised that you insist on closing your eyes.” retorted the bishop, “You’ve been touched by divine powers more than once, and if that didn’t change your mind five years ago then I hardly expect you to have changed since then.”

“I talk to my god all the time,” shrugged the gnome. “He even talks back some times. Hard to disbelieve when you feel his presence in you every day. AND they give us the power to help people. I don’t understand why you have to be so obstinate, Minzy.”

Some unpleasant expression moved on to Minzerec’s face and set up residence there. Dwarves excelled at scowling like no other race Tad had yet encountered. Not only did his eyebrows seem to knit themselves together, but as he worked his jaw muscles the black hairs of his beard seemed to flex. “You’re the obstinate ones. At best, you have a divergent form of innate magic which you attribute to non-existent dieties. At worst you gain your powers from powerful entities beyond the Veil, which have their own agendas and can not be trusted.”

“They certainly are powerful entities, and they certainly do have their own agendas.” Ambrose had switched to the kind of voice he might use while carefully explaining the facts of life to a child. “And what scares the Academy so much is that they can’t control that agenda.”

“Same old arguments,” sighed Earkey hapilly, “just like old times.”

Conversation stalled while everybody tried to think of a new topic. Tad wondered if he should redirect things by asking Earkey why an empowered priest was playing security guard at night, but discarded the idea as too likely to provoke Minzerec. The conversation was saved by, of all things, a very drunk elf who burst into the room as if he had been invited. He was dirty to an extreme, and his fine elven hair hung lank and oily over most of his face. These displays of untoward hygiene being insufficient, the real offense was the odor that proceeded him: a breath of sewer tinged with bitter lemon.

He was also very loud. The elf pulled up a chair and squeezed himself between the Bishop and the halfling. “My old friends! My dear old friends! I’m shoo glad to shee you,” he slurred at the top of his lungs. Tad had the odd sensation of burning in his nose and eyes, all of which began to water. “Itsh ben sooo long. Howya ben, guys?”

The strange elf’s clothes looked like he had been sleeping in a ditch after a hard day of cleaning gutters. He had conveniently brought several of his own bottles of wine, which he produced from inside his tatty traveling cloak. “Wine anyone? I wash just telling shomeone yesherday ...” and here the elf took a long pull direct from an open bottle. As he did so his hair fell away, and Tad recognized, with a complete lack of shock, that this was the very same elf he had seen only a few days before. As was his habit, Tad had reported this elf’s curious circumstances to his master.

Momentarily satisfied, the elf put down the bottle with an earnest sigh. There was an awkward pause while the assemblage waited for him to finish his thought, but the elf instead leaned over until his cheek touched the table. “Oh, thas nice and cool,” he murmured, and began to snore.

Thaddius was feeling woozy in the the head from the elf’s many fumes, and would have fallen over if Mr. Brightstar handn’t put out a hand to steady him. “Tad, meet Avra Basil. He is a student of secret martial lore, and faller-on of hard times. Nadia, give me a hand will you? Let’s move him to the divan.”

It was in mid-elf-movement that Tad noticed a discoloration on Nadia’s otherwise flawless skin, a smattering of tiny bruise-like dots had crept up from her shirt collar while no-one was looking. Tad was sure it hadn’t been there when she arrived, and against her cream-like flesh the spots struck him as unwelcome. “Are you feeling well, lady Nadia?”

“Too much rich food since coming to the city, I’m sure.” The tall woman dropped Avra onto the divan with all the care one would give to a sack of flour. The elf groaned some, then rolled away from the window’s light before resuming his musical snores.

“You haven’t had a bad food reaction a single day in your life, or I’m not your sister,” insisted Aidan. “Maybe Avra is sick, and you got it when he sat down. He’s dirty enough.”

“Well he didn’t sit anywhere near you, and you have the same thing. Look at your arm.” Aidan stuck one arm a little farther out of her sleeve to examine the inside of one wrist. “And if you’ve been sick a day in your life then I’m not your sister.”

Ambrose stretched out his hand to Nadia, “Let me have a closer look. It doesn’t look like anything common. You haven’t come into contact with anything strange lately, have you? Eaten anything unusual? Get bitten by any monsters?”

“Doesn’t look like any poisons I know,” offered Nolan. Every head turned towards him, which for some reason made him mumble into his cup. “Not that I’m an expert or anything.”

“How do you feel?” Resumed the priest. “Any fever? Pains in the belly, sore joints? Lightness in the head? Anything like that? Nothing at all?” Nadia and Aidan both shook their heads repeatedly.

“What about your mental state,” inquired the dwarf, “any strange thoughts? An unexplained sensation, or compulsion?”

The sisters looked at each other, but Aidan was the first to admit, “I’ve had a weird feeling all day, like I’ve forgotten something.”

“I keep wanting get in the saddle and ride,” added Nadia, “but I have no idea where to go. Does that count?”

The dwarf stood suddenly and strode to the chamber door to close it, then turned his impressive breadth around. Tad had not noticed before how broad the wizard was. Minzerec’s kin usually wore clothes that made them seem even broader, but even in simple arcanist’s robes he was as wide as two men. “If someone has put a compulsion on you without your knowledge then the Academy would take it very seriously. With your permission, I would like to examine your auras.”

Having received an assent from both women, the wizard said a word and made a small motion with one finger, and then for a few minutes it seemed like he wasn’t doing anything at all. “I see. You are indeed the subject of a kind of geas, but not the usual sort.”

“There’s a usual sort?” Aidan sounded irritable, as if at any other time she might entertain magical meddling, but just now wasn’t a very good time.

“Of course. The usual sort is the kind your mother used to force you to go looking for your grandmother.”

“No ... I didn’t need magic to make me go look for grandma Issyren,” corrected Aidan. “The spell forced me to take Nadia with me, which was completely unnecessary.”

“I would have looked for her too,” protested Nadia, “I love her as much as you do!”

“We were lucky we didn’t kill each other before we found grandma.”

“As I recall,” smiled the dwarf, “that was also part of the geas. If you had shirked your duties or tried to harm each other then you would have become very ill for quite some time. I think this little rash is just the beginning.”

“That’s not fair, we don’t even know what we’re supposed to be doing,” pouted Nadia.

“And I don’t remember anyone casting any lengthly spells around me. I think I would have remembered.” Aidan caressed the the handle of her dagger as she said this, and Tad got a small sense of dread. The sisters were trained Riders, daughters of the Baroness of Ardengard, and each had accomplishments to their names. But it was Aidan who had a reputation as an implacable enemy, and just then she looked every bit the part of a vengeful warrior.

“There is more than the usual degree of thaumaturgy in this magic. And it is stronger than even a Magi could accomplish alone. There is a more extensive binding at work,”

“Which we need to find out about because we don’t want to get sick,” interjected Nadia, “It would be bad for my complexion.”

“Indeed. I recommend you move around the city for a bit. A magical compunction will let you know when you’re going in the right direction.”

“Tad, clean up here will you?” said Mr. Brightstar, “We’re going out for a bit. And don’t leave the inn. There might be work later.”

Hours later Thaddius was in the chambers he shared with his master, practicing finger exercises and weapon draws. The simple repetition failed to keep his mind off the thought he might be leaving Corak so soon. He felt like he had barely settled in, and he was getting to know the city in ways he hadn’t known was possible. It was a living thing, the city on the Sauvine, and it’s people were like its blood. If something was out of place, or if someone wasn’t acting right, Tad could tell. A hundred people knew his name: more people than lived in his whole village back home.

When Mr. Brightstar swept into the room and started packing, Tad’s disappointment settled in his belly like a pot of cold porridge. The halfling tossed a bag of coins at Tad, “I need you to restock our supplies. One week should be enough for a start, but don’t forget feed for the horses -- there’s not much grazing left this time of year. And don’t forget a bottle of decent brandy. Some Old Baron if you can find it.”

Tad didn’t move immediately, but stood there feeling unhappy. Mr. Brightstar put one hand on his shoulder in an uncharacteristic fatherly way. “Hey, we’ve done dangerous things before... haven’t I always kept you out of serious harm?”

“It isn’t that, sir. It’s just that ... well I was starting to really like being here. I’m learning so much, and...” Tad didn’t know how to say the words. It was stupid to say that he would miss his friends or that he liked living in the city. What did it matter, anyway?

“We’ll come back Thaddius, I promise. Probably in time for the winter festival. And just think -- you might have some really good stories to tell your friends when you get back.” His master smiled then, “I have gifts for you when you get back. Now move those legs of yours and get going. We have to travel west tonight or else the sisters’ geas will start to really kick in. We wouldn’t want to mar sweet Nadia’s skin any further, would we?” His master’s smile chased Tad out the door and down the stairs.

Nolan’s gifts were practical and very well received. First was new leather pants and jerkin, because Tad had outgrown the old ones. Second, and a little less well received, was “Geranicus’ Pocket History of Aspera”, printed on pages so thin that Tad could see through them. The best gift of all was a new short sword. It wasn’t enchanted or bejeweled like the arms that Mr. Brightstar carried, but it wasn’t a bent old piece of black iron either. It was brand-new, it was sharp, and it was shiny. Tad couldn’t stop from grinning.

“I still want you to avoid fighting whenever possible. But if you get cornered ... well you can’t be an adventurer without a dependable weapon. Get your new things on and bring down the bags. We’re leaving now.”

3: City Life

Thaddius hadn’t known a broken nose could bleed so much, but being chased through most of Corak was probably making it worse. Tad had followed the trail of red drops through a mile of crowded streets, letting his quarry run far enough ahead so he could barely see the older boy’s black curly hair. He caught sight of his target, holding a bloody rag to his face, entering a large wooden building labeled Loggins & Smitts Drayage. Tad hesitated for a moment, deciding. The business was a way station for goods, with a few desks in one corner for the clerks who arranged the transportation and storage. The rear of the building adjoined the Black Rose inn, whose front opened onto another street. So much was well-known. Less well-known was the door that the two businesses shared, and that one might be allowed to pass between them for a small fee.

Tad broke into a sprint, dodging a train of six carts pulled by oxen headed Uphill. The brass medallion he wore around his neck kept flying up and knocking him in the face, but he kept moving while keeping as many people as he could between himself and the front door of Loggins & Smitts, just in case someone was watching. Tad tore around the corner, collided with three of the Duke’s men, sketched a hasty apology, then resumed his run.

With the coronation of the new Duke just days away the streets had become nearly impassible with the sheer quantity of stuff being moved through the city, nearly all of it going Uphill. It wasn’t just the official functions that demanded victuals and spirits, it was the entire city. Every room for miles around was rented, every stable was full, and the parties would would doubtless last for days. The street passing by the Black Rose was especially crowded, since it was also the home of eight large inns and five drayage firms.

Tad staked out a spot across the street from the Black Rose, where he could watch the multitude going by without being seen from the inn. After a few minutes he dropped his medallion under his shirt where it would be out of sight, then negotiated with a street vendor for one of her meat pies. If the other boy decided to dull his pain with drink, Tad could be waiting for a while, and he didn’t want to be distracted.

On their first day in town, Mr. Brightstar had given Tad the conspicuous medalion to wear attached to a thin iron chain, an insignia that let people know for whom he worked. At least twice a day someone asked Tad what it was like working for the fabulous Mr. Brightstar ("Mostly uncomfortable, sir. We're always out-of-doors."), or if he had seen the ruins of Old Nychanter ("That was before he took me in."), or the Dwarven caves of the Great Stair ("Yes mam, but Mr. Brightstar isn't so sure they were made by Dwarves. He's writing a book on the subject.")

In the mornings, Tad fetched breakfast and bought a news sheet from the girl around the corner. He and Nolan Brightstar would eat together in their chambers while Tad gave a full reciting of the previous day's activities. Mr. Brightstar wanted to know the name of every person Tad had met, what they were wearing, what they had been doing, what had been discuseed. Mr. Brightstar asked the names of the streets Tad had walked along the day before, what houses and shops were there, and even small details like the presence (or lack thereof) of footmen or carriages or horses in front of the larger residences. When Tad ran errands that took him indoors, his master wanted detailed floorplans and a count of how many people were inside, their descriptions, and where they had stood.

Every day was like a contest to see how much more information he could cram into an increasingly crowded skull. Mr. Brightstar had paid for Tad to attend a fighting school every morning, where he learned alongside boys near his own age. Afterwards he exercised the horses, then got himself cleaned up for his book lessons. Those were either numbers at the local Arcanist academy, or histories taught by a priest, or drawing taught by a nice lady who was related to a Baron, depending on the day. In the early evenings, if there weren’t many errands to run, there was time to sit in the nearly-empty common room and listen to the musicians practice before the Dog & Peonie began to fill up. If the day's troubadour was friendly, Tad could even pick up a free music lesson.

At night he would attend his master's table, feeling conspicuous in his black jacket and brass insignia. Sometimes they dined in the Dog & Peonie, but often they were guests at some great house in the palace district, or a gambling hall, or in far less savory inns in the lower city. His master alternately plied his hosts and fellow guests with wine and stories, and then pried them with questions about anything they were willing to talk about.

The other article Mr. Brightstar had given Tad on their arrival in Corak was a purse of coins, just coppers of course, and told him that however much he had left at the end of the day, he could keep for himself. This had proved to be much, much harder than it sounded. On the first day, Tad didn't even make it two blocks from the inn before realizing his purse was gone. Every day his master gave him a new purse, and every day Tad tried to guard it while he went about the city.

After a few days in the city Tad decided that every pickpocket in Corak was intent on taking his scant few coppers. They bumped him at street corners, snuck up behind him when he was watching parades, slipped their hands into his jacket at fighting school, and followed him into shops when he ran errands. It was a contest that ran from dawn to dawn, eight bells a day, and it only got worse as Tad got better. Girls who were pretty were especially suspect. More often than not a strange girl who needed help lifting something heavy had nearby a partner with a knife who would try to cut Tad's purse away while his hands were occupied.

On his first day of success Tad bought two things with his winnings. The first was a handful of candied nuts he had seen in the market and secretly wanted to try. The other was a second-hand money-belt. Every morning thereafter, when Mr. Brightstar gave him his daily allowance, Tad would transfer most of it to the belt which he wore close to the skin underneath his clothes, and put just enough coins into the more obvious purse to make it jingle. Then he added some sharp bits of crockery.

Soon after that first heady day of success, things got even more difficult for Tad on the streets of Corak. People weren’t just trying to gently lift his purse without him knowing, they were nearly mugging him. Tad started walking with one hand on his purse all the time. On one errand to the stationer’s, Tad barely escaped being pulled into an alleyway by a man with dirty hands and putrid breath. So a few minutes later, inside the stationer’s, when a hand strayed too close to his purse, Thaddius reacted violently and without thinking: he backfisted an older curly-haired boy so hard that his nose instantly sprayed blood all over the stationer’s samples.

The would-be pickpocket stumbled backwards until he fell flat on his behind, and the two boys stared at each other in mutual shock. Tad didn’t know what to make of the fact that he had so casually hurt another person, and the older boy couldn’t believe he’d been hurt by someone so much smaller. Then the kid with the broken nose was up and out of the shop in a blink, with Tad close behind him.

The curly-haired boy, or just Curly as Tad decided to think of him, sprinted along the promenade between the upper city and the wall around the Palace district. The avenue was clear this time of day, and Curly’s longer legs took him far ahead of Tad. When he neared one of the heavily guarded gates, Curly suddenly turned Downhill and raced towards the pricey Overlook, the part of the upper city that afforded wealthy denizens a view of the distant Yeron river. The two of them had to dodge carriages and carts and hordes of people, but Curly was attracting too much attention. A teenage boy in coarse laborer’s garb bleeding profusely from the face stood out, while Tad’s silk shirt and good boots marked him as someone who might belong there. A cry went out as men recognized him for someone dangerous and swept their women and children into the nearest doorways of the neatly packed stone buildings. Tad slowed down his pursuit, to see if someone would show up in the Silver and Black livery of the Duke’s men, but Curly must have been thinking the same thing. He turned West again and headed back towards the Market, taking every other street Downhill.

Tad nearly lost him when he took to the rooftops. Close to the wall that separates the Upper city from the Lower city, Curly ducked into a four-story residence building and didn’t come out again. After a few agonizing minutes circling the block, Tad realized where his prey must have gone, and sprinted for the nearest gate through the wall. He lost more precious minutes looking for a trail, but he found it: several drops of blood on a line of white linen hung out to dry, two stories above the ground. Curly had used the rooftops and the top of the defensive wall to cross from the Upper city to the Lower. Hoping Curly was feeling confident and slowing down, Tad moved two blocks Downhill and repeated his search, only this time he found a trail of fresh blood at ground level.

From there, Curly had made an almost straight line Downhill until he reached the Depths, a district surrounded by a twenty-foot wall and sunk in a blue haze from the Duke’s smeltworks. Silver ore went into the Depths, and the Throne’s coinage came out, so that section of the city had its own impressive defenses and alert guards. Curly wisely skirted it until he could head further West into the Bottom proper.

Tad followed Curly through neighborhoods of overcrowded tenement buildings that might fall down at any moment, which butted up against the hundreds of untidy places where people did the dirtiest work of the city. At the west end of the Bottom they entered the caravan district, where gods and travelers first entered the city from the River Road. And that was where Thaddius Poole, sweating through his good silk shirt, cooled his heels across the street from the Black Rose for over an hour.

From his vantage point in the shadow of the pie-seller’s stall, he could see all the races and of Aspera on display. Aside from the mostly human population of Corak there were half-sized humans, like Mr. Brightstar, trying hard not to be trampled or mistaken for children. Even smaller than the half-sized were the gnomish, who claimed their own distinct heritage, and who invariably carried books wherever they went. Impossibly broad dwarves, most of them miners or builders sporting their famously complex beards, shouldered their way through the throngs in the street. Tad wondered why, for about the dozenth time, he never saw dwarven women. He saw only one elf, whom he knew to be a jewel trader, enter a boarding house of the cheapest possible variety. The elf emerged several minutes later with another, very dirty and besotten-looking, elf in tow. The gem merchant poured the less fourtunate elf into a carriage and directed the driver to head Uphill.

A small knot of arcanists in expensive robes and wide-brimmed hats emerged from a warehouse down the street and stood in a close circle, conferring. Something about Academy training taught people not to emote much, so Tad couldn’t tell if it was a friendly “where do we eat dinner” huddle, or an anxious “our shipment didn’t arrive on time” huddle. The one with the staff would be a Magi, and certainly the ranking member of the group. Thaddius committed the man’s face to memory, and kept an eye on the group until they sauntered out of sight as if they owned the whole street.

By the time Curly left the Black Rose he wasn’t bleeding, but he was weaving slightly as he headed west for a few blocks and then turned Uphill. Curly might be less than sober, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention. Tad flagged down a carriage and spent too many of his hard-earned coppers to have the driver follow him. Well into the upper city, the driver pulled his horse to a sudden stop and rapped on the hood.

And there, across the street, was the boy Tad had punched, face to face with Mr. Brightstar. They were apparently acquainted enough to argue. Curly was pointing angrily at his own nose, then slapped the back of one hand into the palm of another -- the local handspeak for payment. Nolan said something Tad couldn’t hear, but made a brushing motion with his right hand over his hip which, loosely translated, meant “you’re asking for too much money”. The boy gestured emphatically at his nose, which spoke for itself. Even from across the street it was clearly crooked.

Mr. Brightstar reached up to the Curly’s nose and, under guise of examining it, suddenly grabbed hold of it with the heels of both hands and straightened it with a merciless jerk. Tad winced in sympathy and Curly screamed so loud that the entire street came to complete standstill. Everyone looked towards the well-dressed halfsie and the human boy kneeling at his feet in misery. “Here’s two silver for your trouble,” said Mr. Brightstar, tossing a couple of shiny coins at the boy’s feet, “and your nose is straight again. Consider that a bonus.”

Tad resolved two things. First, he wasn’t going to feel bad about hurting his tormentors if they were being paid for their trouble. Second, he would have to be more suspicious of his master.

2: Views

“You’ve never been in a big city have you boy?” All Tad could do was shake his head while his eyes struggled to take in the enormity of Corak. “It just looks like a hill from here, but it’s really more like a finger sticking up out of the ground. They call it the Sauvine, because on the other side is a sheer drop-off. Good for defense.” Mr. Brightstar pointed to the massive dome at the top of the city, overlooking everything like a full moon rising. “That grand edifice there is the Duke’s palace. Don’t let the pretty outside fool you, it’s a fortress as much as a palace. Never been taken by arms. And those mountains you see beyond are the Silver Hills. Most of the king’s coinage is dug out of there.”

Even from miles away the city looked impossibly huge to Tad. He tried hard to imagine the tens upon tens of thousands of people who supposedly lived there, moving and working and sleeping all in a few square miles of land, but he just couldn’t see it. What did they all eat? What did they all do for work? Did they spend hours each day learning each others’ names so they could say a proper hello in the streets? How many names could one person reasonably learn? He pondered these and many similar mysteries all through the noon break, when he was supposed to be studying his numbers.

He was thinking up questions all through the afternoon while Anamogea was trying to teach him the Legends of Sammit. Tad was so wrapped up in thinking about the people’s waste ( How much did a city this size produce? Where did it all go?) that he nearly fell off his pony whenever the old bard gave him a swat to regain his attention. “Your master is paying good money for this history lesson, you should be more grateful!” But the distant sight of Corak didn’t leave enough room in Tad’s brain for anything else to take root.

The next night the caravan made camp almost within the glow of Corak’s lights, crowned by the massive palace dome that shone so brightly it rivaled the moon. They had passed a great number of farms and inns along the road, but the late summer nights were friendly enough to sleep out-of-doors. Villheim, the heavily armed caravan master, had pulled the wagons onto one of the wide byways that the Throne maintained along the River Road.

Within a stone’s throw of the caravan was an elven encampment. The elves had set poles around their camp and strung sheets of striped cloth between them to shield their tents from outsiders. Tad had heard people call elves “points”, “ears”, “greenies”, “vagabonds”, and all kinds of less-savory names. But the only elves he had ever seen worked and dressed as laborers and, apart from their slim stature and odd features, they didn’t seem so different from humans. Tad knew they traveled in groups throughout Aspera to work the harvests, pick herbs from the forests, and trade in exotic goods. During the winters they went west over the Great Stair and into their desert homelands. But these elves weren’t in the usual menial working garb. Instead they wore loose robe-like clothes, mostly in deep green, embroidered with silvery thread and decorated with reddish stones. The men and women alike had silk cloth wrapped around their heads, with a loose end draped across their faces like veils.

Tad had thought the elves would be unfriendly, but the horses were barely unharnessed when two of them, a man and a woman, emerged from behind the barrier and crossed the space between the two camps. They walked sedately, close enough together for their shoulders to occasionally touch, in a straight line for caravan master Vallheim. As they neared the dwarf they removed the cloth from their faces. Vallheim, in turn, held up his hands at chest level, palms out. Since the balding Vallheim habitually wore a short sword, a brace of throwing knives, and kept a crossbow nearby, Tad supposed the gesture was meant to assure the elves that he wasn’t hostile. The boy watched from behind a draft horse while the elves and the caravan master exchanged gifts and spoke together in what must have been the elven language.

“At least pretend to brush the horse while you stare, boy!” Mr. Brightstar had, once again, snuck up on Tad and surprised him while he wasn’t working. “And a word to the wise: if you want to hear any music tonight then you had best get your chores done quickly. And clean yourself up. And put on your good clothes.” The little man walked into the grasses around the camp and simply disappeared, but his voice still floated back to Tad. “And don’t strain your neck staring at them. I’m not fighting any duels over you.”

The horses groomed, the food served, the dishes cleaned, and himself washed and dressed in a clean white shirt and breeches, Tad was admitted to the festivities. He couldn’t say why he wanted to go so badly; maybe it was just because Mr. Brightstar had hinted it was a treat. Over a dozen elves were camping behind the screen, and they all came out to share drink and news with the twenty caravan travelers, but what the elves seemed to enjoy the most was trading songs with Anamogea.

A thin sliver of moon was just appearing over the horizon when someone poured something fiery and fruity into Tad’s cup. Singing was giving way to wild strings and drums and a guitar that made him imagine horses running through the long summer grass, chasing the clouds or racing the waters of the Great Yeron. In the midst of a reeling elf tune, an elven girl grabbed Tad's hand and he was suddenly dancing. He just tried to do what the elven men did, turning and spinning and sometimes jumping. It was free and wildly exciting and he wasn’t afraid.

Tad kept dancing until he couldn’t tell if he was the one doing the spinning, or if he was standing still and the rest of the world was turning around him. Every time the fire pit swooped past him, he would dance along it’s edge even as the flame grew huge. His partner was a pretty girl who could have been his own age (but who could tell with elves?) and whose eyes had turned into pools of silver like little twin moons. She was laughing at him he laughed back at her.

Exactly when his hair caught on fire, Tad couldn’t say.

1: Nightfall

Thaddius Poole, called “Tad” by those who knew the boy, watched apprehensively as the sun sank into the Angsul forest. Of all the days and nights of all the spheres, the night without Lunos was always the worst. The larger of the two moons watched over the dead, and without it some of the recently departed would forsake their dreamless sleep and take to walking around. And the walking dead were invariably hungry.

As if losing a loved one wasn’t painful enough, sometimes you had to put them into the ground again. Tad remembered his own mom and dad, whom he had buried only a few turns of Lunos prior, scraping at the wards around his window calling him to join them well before his time. If Nolan hadn’t been there to ... do what had been necessary, Tad might have gone out to them. For the hundredth time he thought, “Maybe I should have let them take me. In a few minutes it would have been over. How long can it take to get eaten?”

It couldn’t possibly take as long as his current ordeal, or be near as painful. Tad’s lord and master, a “gentleman explorer” named Nolan Brightstar, was enjoying a commissioned piece of music celebrating his latest achievement: killing a werewolf. “You need to make him more vicious! Werewolves are terrifying beasts that’ll eat anyone who gets in their way! And the sword has to be silver. You forgot the silver.”

The bard and songwriter, either through some miracle of patience or by meditating on how much silver he was getting paid, didn’t even roll his eyes as he started work on a new verse describing the horribleness of the beast, and then reworked the final verse to make the climatic fight more climatic. But Tad had a very different recollection of the event. In his memory he saw a graying man, clothes ragged from a night chasing gods-knew-what in the forest, exhausted and half-asleep, stumbling through the doorway of his home. He was impossibly hairy and long in the tooth, but probably looking forward to his bed. And there behind the man’s door stood another man, half his size but with a gleaming silver dagger in hand. The werewolf didn’t see the first blow coming, and afterwards he didn’t have the strength to fight. When it was finally over Nolan had just mumbled something about it being “a bit messier than strictly necessary”. Neither Tad nor Nolan had said a word about the killing since, until Nolan had found someone to write a song about it.

“Tad,” called Nolan, “fetch some water and help with the cleanup.” Tad didn’t mind helping Nordaleen, the caravan’s cook. She reminded him of his dead grandmother, the way she busied herself (and others) efficiently with the cooking, and then spent the rest of the day contentedly smoking her pipe while riding up front on the wagon next to Vallheim. At night she let Tad lay out his bedroll next to her, and when he woke up afraid at night she would stroke his hair.
But he didn’t belong to Nordaleen. He belonged to the “gentleman adventurer” Mr. Nolan Brightstar, the half-sized man who took him into dark underground places, visited wayside taverns inhabited by rough and scary people, made him sleep in wild places where the wolves howled until Tad sweat in fear. Some nights he couldn’t believe he didn’t get eaten right up. In the four months since he had been indentured, he couldn’t remember ever feeling safe at night, and not even Nordaleen’s matronly arms seemed able to fix that.

Tad tried to remember any time in his twelve summers that he had ever been afraid, before the trolls had come. He knew there had to have been times when he was unhappy or mad at his parents or afraid of something, but now there was a dark wall between him and that other life. On one side of the wall he had had parents and grandparents and an uncle and several aunts and was just starting to learn a trade in weaving. The old Tad had hated it, being forced into a trade he didn’t want. But the new Tad, the one living on this side of the wall, envied him. As the night took a firm hold of him, the boy doubted his chances of seeing another summer. He had a fantasy that, in some quick and surprising way, he would be killed and he could rejoin his family in the worlds beyond the Veil.