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"The king is dead!" rang through the streets of Briqueward that morning. Selice did not know how the word had spread that King Dusan had died the night before, but she planned to find out.
"Bozidar!" she called for her manservant. When he came, she told him, "Someone has told the masses that my father, the king, is dead. There were only a few who should have known. I want to know who among them has let this news reach the city so quickly, and I want to know by lunch. Use whatever means you see necessary to find out and report back to me."
"Yes, Your Highness," Bozidar answered with a bow. He left on his errand immediately.
"Oh, this day cannot get any worse!" the princess complained as she paced her room. She rang a bell, summoning a maidservant from the next room. "Has the doctor found the cause of His Majesty's death?" Selice asked.
"No, Your Highness, not yet. Please be patient, ma'am. Someone will come for you when we learn anything else concerning this event."
"See that you do," Selice said, continuing to pace.
The maidservant looked as if she wanted to say more--something consoling, perhaps--but instead curtsied and answered, "Yes, Your Highness," before exiting the room.
Of course, Selice knew her father had had many enemies. Any king would have his share of people against him, but she had never thought that an assassination would kill him. Her father had been so strong, so cautious. So kind. Nevertheless, he was dead now, and nothing Selice could do would bring him back. So she would find what killed her father--who killed her father--, and she would bring whomever it was that had killed the king to justice. Slowly.
The storm last night had struck the city just after sunset, and left with the morning sun. She heard that it had been much worse to the south. Rumors of the Plains of Gunun being flooded waist deep or more had reached the city two days ago from the Tower of High Sorcery. Their magical communication with the Tower of the Mage had warned of the ferocity of the storm, and had likely saved more than a few lives. A curfew had been made for the hours before the storm, and repairs on many damaged roofs had already begun. Thankfully, the city had an excellent drainage system partially aided by its elevation, so there was no flood damage.
If only all of the news from the Tower had been fortunate. It seemed that the Triskelion Archcardinal had vanished the morning of the storm, and had not been seen since. Apparently some believe she was kidnapped, if one could believe such a thing possible, from within the confines of the tower.
Selice knew little about the Order of the Triskelion, but she knew the servants of magic were quite powerful. If one could take the head of this order--the most powerful mage in the world--without so much as raising an alarm within the city, then either they were beyond mortal understanding or the Tower of the Mage was not so capable as it boasted. Ever the skeptic, the princess believed the latter.
She continued to pace until another servant appeared in front of her. "Yes?" she asked more tersely than she'd intended.
"Apologies, Your Highness, but Minister Jindrich requests your attention in the throne room," he said nervously.
"Whatever for?" the princess asked.
"There seem to be visitors for ... the king, Highness. The minister has asked them to leave, but they refuse to do so without seeing His Majesty. The minister believes you may be able to convince them otherwise."
Selice stopped pacing and stared at the man so long that he began trying to find some way to excuse himself. Reviving, the princess said, "Very well. Tell Jindrich I will be down momentarily."
"Very good, ma'am." The servant bowed and exited with relief.

A short while later Her Highness, Crown Princess Selice de Brique of Ashkern, was introduced to the three messengers who refused to leave.
"What seems to be the problem?" she asked as she was seated.
"Your Highness," Minister Jindrich began, "these people are here to see His Majesty and refuse to leave until they see him."
"Actually," called one of the travellers, a young woman with auburn hair. "Only one of us refuses to leave. It just happens that since we other two are following him, and he may try to abandon us, given the chance, we refuse to leave without him."
Princess Selice was confused, but said, "I am acting sovereign at the moment, whatever you need to tell to the king can be told to me."
Another of the three stepped forward. He wore a simple brown robe, but a more proud mien than any noble she had ever seen. She remembered that while the others had shown signs of deference to her when the princess had entered, he had not.
"Highness," he addressed her now, "with all due respect, I have been ordered to deliver my message to the king, and only the king, of Ashkern. Though you may be acting sovereign, you cannot by nature be the king. I must see him, to deliver this message." He held up a scroll with a colorful triskele seal.
Selice recognized the seal, but not entirely. "You bring word from the Archcardinal of Magic?"
The third traveller guffawed at her comment. He was a mangy old man, and the princess wondered how he had been allowed into the throne room so ill-groomed. He would have fallen backwards in his mirth, had not his female companion caught his shoulder. Their leader seemed neither to notice nor to care what happened behind him.
"No, Highness," the man--or perhaps boy was a better word for him?--said.
"The king is indisposed. You cannot see him," she said.
"Then I will wait here until I may," he answered. "My time is valuable, but I am willing to spend as much as I need to fulfill my task. Please send the king my regards, and alert him to the fact that I await an audience with him."
Selice's temper was fast approaching its breaking point. "Sir, you will remove yourself from this room momentarily or be removed to the dungeon below by force. The choice is yours, of course, but your decision must be made shortly, lest I make it for you."
The man stood stone still, unblinkingly watching her. His gaze made her skin crawl, but Selice steeled herself and stared angrily back at him. The flame of her gaze struck him and dissolved into steam in the calm pools of his eyes. After long moments, the princess, feeling she had lost, called for the guards to take the three travelers away. The guards moved to obey, and the old man and the woman acquiescently allowed the guards to take them.
One of the guards put a hand on the youth's shoulder and tried to turn him, but met resistance. "All right, son, let's go," he said, pulling harder at his shoulder. Again, there wasn't the slightest give. Grabbing the youth's hand, the guard tried to pull it around, but was unable even to bend a finger! "He won't budge!" the man cried in disgust.
The princess sprang from her chair. "Then carry him! I don't care how you do it, just get him out of here!"
The old man laughed. "Push, pull, try t' drag him. Th' boy'll still be there when yer done. An' nothin' ye can do'll change that, t' be sure."
"What do you mean?" Selice asked.
"Old sayin' once went: 'ye stand ready, ye set yerself in place; ye stand firm, ye root yerself in place; ye stand waitin', ye let th' gods hold yerself in place'. Truth, Inlé'll be there 'til th' next king comes, 'r th' next, 'r th' next, until whichever one's in power an' ready f'r lettin' him give his message.
"Now, he says his time's valuable, but meself, I've time t' spare. Waitin' don't bother me none, 'specially if I'm with a pretty like I have here, eh Arrats?"
The woman, Arrats, put a light smile on as she answered with a light agreement. "True, but I don't have much time. I have to get back to the Tower as soon as possible."
Hearing 'Arrats' and 'Tower' so close together, Selice connected them and tried to remember why they should do so. "Then ... You are a mage, madam?"
The woman Arrats answered calmly, "Yes, Highness, I am."
"Are you stationed in High Sorcery, then?"
"No, Highness, though I hoped to stop in while in the city. It has been too many years since last I was there."
"I see," Princess Selice said. She didn't. "Then to which Tower are you assigned?"
"The Mage itself, Highness."
"I have heard that Aurora is a beautiful city."
"Thank you, it is."
"And what position do you hold in the Order?" But for the guards behind him, the old fool would have fallen again as his laughter redoubled.
"I am Servant to the Goddesses, Highness. No more."
"I see," Selice said again. She thought for a few moments longer, then asked, "And had you heard that your Archcardinal was spirited away from the Tower. They say she may have been kidnapped."
"Kidnapped!" the old man cried and collapsed into a fit of laughter so strong that he knocked the guards around him to the ground with him. "Oh, oh! Kidnapped!" he chuckled to himself, breathless on the floor while the guards scrambled back to their feet. The old man made no attempt to rise, seemingly trying only to catch enough breath to resume his laughter.
Arrats was flushed as she waited for the man to finish, and when his cackles had become more subdued, she spoke. "Actually, your Highness, I had not heard that she was kidnapped. The last I had heard, she had gone to see the king of Ashkern. As best as I know, she is still in his audience chamber, patiently awaiting her meeting with him." Of the dozen guards surrounding the woman and the old man, half of them seemed to come to an interesting realization as she spoke. They took a few steps back, giving her a bit more space.
Selice felt her own face flush as she also realized what should have been so obvious to her. Obviously, she should have recognized the name of the Archcardinal immediately, but she had allowed her emotions to cloud her thoughts. She stepped from the dais and walked to more personally greet the Archcardinal, waving the gurads aside. A few steps from Arrats, the princess curtsied slightly. "My sincerest apologies, Archcardinal Arrats, for not recognizing you sooner. I meant no offense with my questioning."
Arrats smiled as she returned the curtsy. "None taken Princess Selice. You have not seen me since you were a young child, after all. Had you recognized me, I would have been surprised, in truth. You have grown into a beautiful woman, though. There is much of your mother in you."
"You are too kind, Archcardinal. But what does bring you here at this time, may I ask?"
"As I said earlier, princess, I am merely following the young man-turned-statue now behind you. He may not look like much, but he is, for the time being, a person I have to follow."
"And what of the rumors of your kidnapping?"
Arrats chuckled sheepishly. "Spirited away is likely a better way to put it. I snuck out, so that the city council would not detain me. Inlé was leaving, and if I had had to go to them for permission, I would have been abandoned by him.
"He may not look it at the moment, but I think he's much more impatient than he lets on. And he's quite showy, whenever possible. As you can see by this new display, he tends to get his way by bulling through whatever gets in his way."
"Well," Selice said, biting her lip, "Perhaps something can be arranged."
"Your Highness!" the minister protested, but she silenced him with a wave.
"Guards, leave us. I wish to speak with my guests alone."
"With respect, Highness," one guard began, "are you sure? The Archcardinal, I would trust, but what proof have we that this woman is, truly, the Archcardinal?" In response, Arrats reached into her robes and revealed her pendant of rank.
The triskelion used as the mark of the followers of the Goddesses of magic was a simple thing, but each ranking pendant could reveal many things to the trained eye. The specialty, skill, and rank of it's wielder was revealed by the color, vibrance, and opacity of the triskele. Normal pendants began as clear glass, and were filled with color as their bearers gained power. The colors revealed the primary focus the mage had undertaken, correlating with the thirteen colors of the goddesses, as the clarity and distinction of each colored band revealed the skill had in each class. The further in rank a mage rose, the more opaque the pendant became.
Only one pendant was not in the least transparent. Only the pendant in which all of the thirteen bands was shown in stark contrast one from the other, each glowing slightly, but strongly. Only one pendant appeared to be alive with the power of the magic within it. Only the pendant of the Archcardinal, the pendant that hung from Arrats' outstretched hand.
"Test it, if you believe it false." Smiling warmly, Arrats offered the pendant to the guard who had questioned. "It will likely become empty in your hands." The guard took the pendant, and when Arrats lifted her hand, the color did fade, though not entirely: three bands still kept a slight glow to them. She smiled at this, "It seems you've had some small amount of training yourself, soldier."
He reached into his breastplate and pulled out a similar pendant. His was smaller, but the same bands glowed on both now. "My mother was an initiate at the Tower here before she had me," he explained, returning Arrats' pendant to her. It returned to its original coloration as soon as it was in her possession. "She requested that I learn the basics of combat magic and healing spells when I became a soldier. I am by no means a mage, madam, but I can get by without if I must."
Arrats smiled. "Your mother had much wisdom."
"And her son prays to have inherited some portion of it," he answered with a salute. He turned and exited the throne room, followed by the other guards.
When the doors were closed behind them, Arrats asked the princess, "I do not know your military's insignia, so I do not recognize his rank. Nevertheless, my dear, I would say he may be overdue for a promotion. Were he not yours, I would not hesitate to steal him away."
"If you would like him, Archcardinal," the princess said, "you may have him. We have a great many guards. Perhaps too many."
Arrats tutted at the princess. This was a thing that infuriated Selice, but she refused to reveal herself rankled before so esteemed a guest. Arrats was about to say something when the old man--still sprawled comfortably on the floor, as though he'd forgotten where he was--said, "Girly, ye may have too many guards, t' be sure. But even 'f ye have an army, their trainin' matters more'n their numbers. One well trained soldier--th' one ye just saw here, say--is worth more'n a hundred men in armor. Ye're wantin' f'r cuttin' yer guard? That's fine, ye should be gettin' rid o' th' ones what obeyed blindly, not th' one what disobeyed out o' loyalty."
Selice was infuriated by her guests, but she refused to allow herself to seem so. What's more, she knew there was wisdom in the old man's words. So, more graciously than she could stand--almost--she thanked him.
To which thanks he responded, "There's nothin' f'r ye t' be thankin' f'r, girly. Advice 's a thing as should be freely given an' freely taken. May be, one day ye'll be th' one givin' me th' wisdom I'm f'r needin' then. 'f it won't trouble me any, I'll help t' keep ye alive 'til then."
"In any case," Arrats said, "we need to see the king. It is urgent, to be sure, and even if he is bedridden, I would much like to speak for a short time with him myself, let alone what Inlé needs."
"I'm sorry, but it's still impossible," Selice said more somberly. She had been beginning to fray, feeling pressed by these three drifters. But the return to the topic of the king calmed her like a bucket of cold water. She decided that the truth would be the only way to make them understand. In resignation, the princess softly said, "The king ... father is dead."
Her eyes refused to look up then, refused to show their tears. She refused to show her pain to strangers. Despite this, she found herself suddenly held in a firm, tender embrace. She was engulfed in the scent of loam and wind: earthy, soothing, calming. Hints of wood-fires under the night sky and cool rain on parched soil drifted in and out. As though magically compelled, Selice released what little composure she had left, and began to silently allow the tears to roll from her closed eyes.
"There, girl," the old man's voice said from closer than the princess had suspected. "Let that go. 'tis a fine thing t' cry when ye must."
In the back of her mind, Selice was ashamed she had thought so ill of the old man. She'd thought him dirty and disgusting, but as he held her in consolation, she realized that he was unsophisticated, but not unintelligent. He was simply unimpressed by the baubles society so craved. He was simple as dirt. But, like dirt, his simple appearance hid the complexity of the components forming his nature. She did not know this so much as feel it.
She knew little then but the grief of a girl who'd just lost her father.

If the girl before Arrats had inherited anything from her mother other than her beauty, it was her ability to cry. Like her mother, there was a steel that held Selice up. A steel that showed itself as a harshness when it was first shown, but was brilliant and clean when polished lightly.
Once more Arrats was jealous of the way her old companion could move. Perhaps from his angle he had been better able to see the tears begin in Selice's eyes. But that was no explanation for how he could be holding her so kindly at the moment Arrats saw the sadness begin. He was a snake bathed in butter, slithering in ways that were impossible to a human.
And yet she was more touched by the compassion he showed. A man with whom, though Selice tried her best to conceal--and had done well, in fact--her disgust, the princess was obviously unimpressed, to be kind. Arrats knew well the signs to watch for, as she was sure Fernweh did. Yet still, knowing the girl hated him, the old wanderer was unhesitatingly kind.
Thinking back to it, Arrats watched as this self-same man relieved himself in the bushes unabashed and without even attempting privacy. The two stood outside the entrance to the royal catacombs, awaiting the return of Inlé and the princess. The garden they were surrounded by was tribute to the beauty of the women of the line, but Arrats looked only at the statues denoting the positions of the royal mothers. Three of these she had known well, and had loved them.
"Well, Arryn," Arrats said, greeting one statue as she stood beneath it. "Your daughter certainly has your looks. A bit of your steel, too, dear. She has grown into a fine princess. A fine ruler when she marries. And she will have her choice of men."
She walked slowly around the statue. "There isn't much to it, I suppose. It's a shame the laws prevent her from ruling alone. She'd do almost as well as you would have. Almost as well as your mother and hers before her. But then, the laws would be lacking in some other way if not in succession.
"But why do I try to talk to you now? Your love is once more with you, and that is all on your mind, I suppose. It must be a happy reunion, my dear. Kiss Dusan for me, once. I would have one last kiss for my baby brother if I could. But I can't bear to see him dead, dear." Tears welled in her eyes as she spoke. "To think how long it's been. I still remember holding him in my arms and rocking him to sleep. Seeing him lie in his last sleep would ruin me."
"So he was yer brother?" Fernweh asked from the other side of the statue.
Surprised, Arrats wiped the tears away, saying, "No. Not quite. But he may as well have been."
"Ah," was all Fernweh said in response. The sorrow in his eyes said more than any words he could have spoken. With a pat on Arrats' shoulder, he left her to her own thoughts. She sat at the feet of her friend and remembered all the memories they had shared. She was getting old, she realized. The funerals for friends decades younger than her would be far too frequent by now, were she not always cloistered away.
Perhaps this is the double-edged gift of the mage, she mused. An extended life, and no one to share it with. Few in the arcane orders grew powerful enough to slow the passage of time. Those who did were less social in nature, and so made few friends. This was likely a gift from the goddesses, because without this aloofness, this distancing from others, what fail-safe could be had for the eventual crash? It is only natural to mourn the loss of loved ones. But, of course, with fewer loved ones, the sorrow felt for each loss is greater, and impossible to divide among many, there being too few for commiseration.
Inlé and Selice stepped back into the sunlight. Arrats had lost the time due to her contemplation. A thing far too common, she wryly mused. No more, she vowed.
Selice looked slightly paler than she had when she went into the chamber, and a thin veil of well-trained composure tried to mask some shock. Arrats wondered what had happened in the catacomb, but would not breach the private thoughts of a girl who'd just seen her father laid out for the long rest.
"A meal," the princess said after a moment. "First we should eat."
"Yes," Inlé agreed, a step behind her. "Food strengthens resolve and composure."
Fernweh laughed. "'Mendin' hearts feast f'r peace o' mind'? Boy, ye should use the old sayin's more. Ye've a way with words about ye, but like it's wrong, t' be sure."
The four walked back toward the castle, silently flanked by the princess' guard. Conversation was by no means prohibited, but none in the solemn party felt right walking down the Path of the Old House. Arrats wondered what the princess was thinking as she walked quietly among her ancestors' remains so soon after adding her father to them.

The dining hall was large and luxurious, as one would expect in the castle of one of the oldest and most prosperous countries on the continent. The four sat close to the kitchen, and the meal--modest by the standard of the court--was pleasant, satisfying, and more than enough for the small group. They ate in silence.
When the meal was cleared away, a small selection of desserts was produced, and Fernweh fell onto it as though it were the first meal he'd seen in days.
"We just ate, Fernweh," Arrats said. "You can take your time, we aren't going anywhere." She lifted a slice of a fruit pie onto a plate.
"True, girly," Fernweh agreed. "But treasures such as these 're few and far between. Ye can't know when next ye'll be blessed with such fine sweets."
"You sound like a child," Selice scolded. "It is a dessert, not a rapture."
"Girly," Fernweh said around a mouthful of a pudding, "a man once tried t' map th' values o' foods. He made a triangle o' it--had th' nerve t' call it a pyramid, even!--and separated th' food into groups. At th' pinnacle o' his 'pyramid' was sweets. He said it meant sweets was least in import an' that one should eat them rarely.
"But any fool knows th' top's t' be most important. Truth, all he showed was that sweets are kings o' food. Ye should eat sweets as ye would take audience with a king. F'r me, it means takin' as much as ye can, as ye've no way t' know when next ye'll be allowed audience. Hope f'r soon, plan f'r longer." A spiced pastie had somehow found itself among the tarts, and this the old traveler made disappear in a flash.
In the future, Selice would try to explain what next happened to her children, as well as to a select few others. But she could never tell the story in a way that she was truly satisfied. She was saddened that the sight was not shared with more people, but only the four at the table were witness.
When Fernweh bit into the pastie, the euphoric look on his face changed to one of shock, and he leapt backwards from his seat with a yelp. He fell to the ground, hands grasping at mouth and throat, tears streaming down his face. The Archcardinal and the princess stood to see that he was all right. At the same time, the guards on watch burst in through the hall's entrance while a group of chefs flew out of the kitchen. They all rushed to see to the old man on the ground.
His face was purpling by this point, and two of the guard tried prying his hands from his throat to allow him breath. They fought for a short while as he squirmed and shuffled them back and forth. A flail that sent the two guards flying ended in a kick that struck the hand of a serving boy. The boy had been on his way out when the excitement began, and the pitcher of juice he'd been carrying out had still been in hand.
The pitcher was knocked from his hand and fell, the thin crystal shattering on the old man's face, bathing him in a thin, slightly sweet liquid. Some of it trickled into Fernweh's nose and mouth, and the bulge left his eyes. He removed his hands from his throat and sat up with a gasp.
"Yeeee!" he said. "What a nasty surprise! 'Tis little in this world s' terrible as thinkin' sweet an' tastin' spice!" He looked sharply at the gathered chefs. "Which o' ye's th' fiend what gave me that fright?" When none responded immediately, he shrugged. "Ah well, 'tis nothin' harmed. It were a good pastie, that. But no dessert, t' be sure!"
He sat back and took up a tart, trying to continue his eating. But, to Arrats' amusement, she saw he tested it with a sniff and a small nibble before inhaling the rest of it this time.
"That was it?" the princess asked incredulously. "You were just surprised?" The kitchen-staff and the guards filed out as things returned to a more peaceful abnormality.
"Girly, ye can't understand such a shock without first bein' th' receiver o' such. Pray ye never understand." He looked serious for a moment before popping another tart into his mouth whole, seeming to have forgotten already to be wary.
They were silent for a moment, then Arrats sputtered and began giggling. This was all Selice needed to put her into the same position, and soon the two were laughing loudly. Fernweh made a stern face at the two, trying to calm them, but the dousing he'd had had soaked those crumbs he'd already inherited, and made the collection of more simpler. The effect on his appearance caused their laughter to erupt to a higher level, leaving them gasping for breath and wiping tears away. The old wanderer smiled paternally at the two as he shifted from pastry to pudding again.
Inlé, who'd not so much as looked to discern the condition of his old companion, calmly finished his dessert and waited silently for the ladies to calm and Fernweh to finish eating.

"You are coming with us?" Arrats asked incredulously. "Princess, how can you do so at such a time."
"It is not so impossible," Selice sniffed. "I have no duties to attend until I am wed. And I am not allowed to marry until the period of mourning is ended in three weeks."
"You haven't three weeks, insolent girl, you've eighteen days!" Arrats cried. For all her power as Archcardinal and Archmage, she was not used to dealing with a child. Though Selice was not her own, she might as well have been. Such was her love for Arryn, not to mention Dusan.
"And I can do naught in the position of ruler until that time. But I must be wed before I can make any decisions anyway. Let the house rule without me, there will be no difference."
Arrats turned to Inlé. "You can't be serious in allowing her to accompany us!"
He returned her look with his cold gaze. "Would you prefer we take her father?"
"He's dead!"
"Which is exactly why he asked that I take the princess in his stead."
Arrats was about to say something, then paused. "You can speak with the dead now. Typical you should only reveal that after it was useful."
"You would have me tell you every thing I do beforehand, Archcardinal? Remember first that I am not under your leadership and second that I am as displeased if not more so. I do not enjoy traveling in company. It is a hindrance; I would sooner abstain from than entertain such frivolities.
"I have been here for more than a week, and, were I not contracted to this task, would be returned to my own troubles instead of running errands in some pantheon's idle game."
Arrats eyes flared, but again Fernweh beat her to the task she desired. A quick knock to the side of Inlé's head with the bindle-stick, not hard enough to hurt--and Inlé did not so much a flinch at the blow--but hard enough to get the message across.
In a soft voice, the old sage said, "Ye'd best not be mockin' th' gods, Inlé. Ye above all know them f'r what they are, and ye understand th' power that includes. True, ye once were a sight, an' I may have placed bets on yer victory in some cases. That said, as ye told me, respect is given where deserved, an' they do. Ye're not th' one what I remember, but let them all curse me if I'm t' play them wrong in this. Ye need not love them, but ye will show them respect."
"And I do and will, sir," Inlé acceded. "But I hold neither love nor respect for their games. If they wish to make their own rules, well and good. But when I am brought into their game, I will not follow their rules without reason. Whether this helps or hinders me, I care little."
Fernweh laughed. "Fair enough, boy. Ye've stood beside these gods in th' past, so I'll guess ye brook little hatred f'r most o' them. Yer indifference is good enough f'r me."
Arrats was not so satisfied with such open heresy, but she decided to address it another time. Other matters needed attendance. "Still, the princess should not come with us."
"This scroll says otherwise," Selice said with resolve. She held the scroll sent to her father up and showed the triskelion seal to Arrats. "You may have no respect for the princess or Ashkern, but you serve the gods from whom this came. It was directed to the king, and His Majesty saw fit to request I fulfill the command of the goddesses in his stead."
"I still don't like it," Arrats said.
"Nor do I," Inlé agreed. "But no one asked you if you did. It does not matter if you like the task or not. You were not told to 'like' it, you were told to do it. Do not confuse the two, they are further than the breadth of your years."
He gestured to each of the three. "You have each sworn to serve for one reason or another, correct?" They all agreed. "Then what matters is only that you carry out the task given when it comes time to do so, whatever your reasons for doing so."
"I serve for love," Arrats said, "and Fernweh for respect, it seems. The princess likely serves for love or respect, but mostly for her people. You may not care, but we care who we serve and why. For what reason, then, do you serve? I cannot follow you further without knowing."
"Then follow me no further, Archcardinal. My reason is my own."
"I agree with the Archcardinal in this," Selice said. "How can we trust you if we do not know your motives? Why are you here?"
"I am here because I am here, princess. Whether you trust me is your own choice. Know I trust none of you, but I also do not betray those around me. What I say, you may consider true, whether you wish to trust it or not."
"Let th' boy be,' Fernweh said. "He serves f'r fear, nothin' more. His distrust's proof enough, t' be sure. 'Those what fear betrayal trust none but death, an' from he they flee at every turn'. He's trustworthy enough until it gets dangerous."
Inlé's eyes flared almost imperceptibly. It was only for an instant, but Arrats saw the glimmer, and she would bet that not only had the old fox also seen it, but had deliberately goaded it out. What a dangerous game he's playing, Arrats thought. He must have good reason to feel safe in saying something like that to Inlé.
Fernweh laughed and patted Inlé's shoulder. "Nothin' t' say in yer defense, eh? Well, we'd best be off, t' be sure. Let's get on, then. Where to?" He turned toward the gate, deliberately putting his back to Inlé. Arrats, who could still see the old wanderer's face, saw him grinning in self-satisfaction. He noticed her look and winked like a boy with a secret.
"We head for the Mountain of Dreams," Inlé answered as coolly as ever. Arrats began to admire the boy's inexhaustible store of composure and wondered if he'd ever lost his temper. The thought made her shudder, though she could not say why.
"Halt!" a voice called, and a dozen armored guards blocked the group's path. "We cannot let you pass with Her Highness. Princess, you are to stay here until the period of mourning has ended. Please, come with us."
Selice shook her head, her ocher curls bouncing. "I've no reason to stay here. My leaving is as His Majesty commanded."
"Ah, begging your pardon, Highness, but we of the Royal Guard all know of His Majesty's passing. As he passed on before your guests arrived, I very much doubt he said anything on the subject."
Selice pulled a small scroll from the folds in her dress. "This proves my word."
The guard took the scroll, carefully lifted the seal--which he noted to be the late king's personal seal, though burnt into the wax strangely--and read aloud.
"In the name of His Majesty, King Dusan, in Servitude to Sekhor, of the country of Ashkern and the Far Isles, Head of the State, Defender of the Borderlands, We do declare that Her Highness, Crown Princess Selice de Brique of Ashkern, Heart of Briqueward is to join the party of Inlé Zapfino, the Worldwanderer, in the service of the Goddesses, and to aid in their quest, for whatever duration is required. She is to be held in the charge of Sir Zapfino, and any harm dealt her will be returned him on their return up to and including death.
"Because the party requires speed, the party must remain small. As such, We command that no more than one of His Majesty's Royal Guard, to be chosen by the princess or the party, will accompany them and safeguard the princess, sacrificing his life for her own. This guard must have attained the title of Knight, be sworn to chivalry, and have been in Our service for a minimum of seven years.
"Lastly, due to the dangerous nature of this quest, no knight is eligible for this mission whether he is betrothed for a marriage within or has been married less than three years. Any knight whose bride is with child, or who leaves no son older than eight years of age is ineligible as well. Though We wish for the safety of Our precious daughter, We would not bring more sorrow than absolutely necessary.
"Good Knight who guards the Heart of Briqueward, We pray you protect her, she is the heart of the old king as well."
The man read again silently, as a hush fell over the collected guard, each in quiet contemplation.
"The king was kind," the guard spoke after some short time. "But his kindness has made this quite a specific task. Only a fourth of our number are of His Royal Guard, reducing the number toward the center of the two hundreds, but of them, most are Knights having served seven or more years, and some few have further position than that. We still look at nearly two hundred men. Those not sworn to chivalry reduce the number by a third, leaving a rough hundred fifty of us. But most are settled or settling, the three years' about marriage reduces us by eighty, and those with young children number fifty of ours." The guard rolled the scroll tightly and returned it to the princess with a quick bow.
"Only twenty of our men are eligible for this task. Of them, half are as old as the king and close to retirement, and five are out on other quests. That leaves five of whom it would be best to take: myself and four others. As we are pressed for time ..." The guard removed his helmet and bowed low. Arrats was impressed by the grace of the move. This guard, she saw, was skilled. "Would it please Her Highness that I be the guard that accompanies you?" He rose with the same grace, and Arrats, at least, was pleased to see it was the same guard who had resisted abandoning his princess without assurance of her safety. She smiled, but ...
"No," Selice said. "I refuse. I need no guard, and if a small party will move faster, four will be swifter than five."
"Your Highness ..." the guard began, but was cut off with a wave of her hand.
"I refuse. The scroll said I could choose a maximum of one. That means there can be none, which is as I choose."
"Well as ye say, girly," Fernweh said, chuckling to see the guards bristle at his disregard for title. "But it also said that th' party may choose one, an' th' Archcardinal here looks fit t' burstin' t' take this one."
"What?" Arrats said. "No, I merely find this soldier to be a fine example of what a soldier should be." The guard bowed in thanks. Arrats was somewhat surprised to see nods of agreement from the men behind him. She could see neither jealousy nor even any ill will toward him.
"And," she added, "if the princess does not want protection, I certainly do. The curse of the mage, you know: I'm useless in melee. So, good knight, what may we call you?" She winked at Selice, who no longer tried to hide the anger in her eyes. Good, Arrats thought. Let her get some of that out.
"I am Spinel Gahn," the guard said with another bow. "I am here to serve."
"Then let us be on our trek," Inlé said. "The Mountain of Dreams nears sunset faster than we, and that will not do."
"Aye," Fernweh said. "Who's t' say it won't wander off if we leave it a bit?" He laughed as he walked lightly through the guards before they could move from blocking the party's way. He chuckled at their consternation, knowing they had been so easily outclassed. They may be able to restrain him one day, he mused. If, in two hundred years he had grown no more wily, and they had advanced faster than he had. Impossible, true. But that didn't mean it couldn't happen.

Horses had been taken from the stables, the Princess was garbed in less dainty dress, and the party rode until nightfall. Camp was set, and Spinel volunteered for first watch. Fernweh chuckled and was asleep beside the fire before Arrats and Selice had gotten their bedrolls laid out. The dirt was his bed, and the sky his blanket. Selice was appalled, at which Arrats laughed, but the two were quickly asleep despite. Inlé had walked off immediately after camp had been set, and when he returned, everyone but the guard was asleep. He sat his vigil dutifully; back to the fire, eyes glowing gently in the moonlight.
"So what's your secret?" Spinel asked Inlé. "You don't look like any angel I've seen, but you've got the Archcardinal all but swearing that's what you are."
Inlé stopped in the darkness and stared at the seated knight. Unfazed, Spinel returned the stare. Not in aggression, but not in submission either. He stared back, casually refusing to be intimidated.
"You've seen many angels with those unique eyes, then." A statement, not a question, and it sounded as though the speaker cared little either way. Curious.
"Well, no. Of course not, Sir Zapfino ..."
"I am no sir, good knight. I have no title, no landing, no following, no authority that you need follow. I am only myself, sir, and that is enough."
"Well enough then, ... Inlé. I have not seen any angels but those in paintings and such. But by all accounts, they are surpassing human beauty. You may be handsome to some tastes, perhaps, but it is all too human."
"Thank you."
There was a lull as the knight was unsure how to continue, and the young man standing before him was disinclined to speak. Spinel finally said, "They aren't too unusual are they? My eyes, I mean. I've had comments on them before, but none could give explanation."
"You know their coloration, of course," Inlé said.
"Of course. In the day, they are a deep sapphire, but moonlight makes them practically glow a pale amethyst. Those few who've seen have been unable to explain the change."
"Do you wish to buy that knowledge, then?"
Spinel was a bit surprised. "You would put a price on such a thing?"
"There is always a price," Inlé answered calmly. "And knowledge often has the steepest price, though my own prices tend low."
Curious. But Spinel was interested, if the price was not too steep. "What price would you charge for that information?"
"Not much," Inlé said. "Two hours."
"I don't understand." How can one pay time?
"You give your word that I can trust your protection for two hours, and I will give you a reason for your eyes. Though it may be incomplete at the moment."
"It is my duty to protect the camp for the next few hours anyway," Spinel answered. "That would include you."
"I am neither a part of your camp nor a part of your charge," Inlé said. "Though I travel with your party, I wander alone."
"Fair enough," Spinel said. "I will keep you under my protection for two hours if you give me information on my eyes. I am curious enough for two hours' protection." He would have stood watch for that time anyway. Humoring the pride in this youth would be fine.
"Then here is what I know. There is an extremely rare gemstone which is called in my native tongue spinel. Here, you call it magnaligen. It is similar to your eyes, in that a rare few of these stones appear as sapphire colored in sunlight, but certain types of light turn them an amethyst. Spinel are durable and brilliant.
"They are considered imposter stones, as they can appear as more prized stones without close scrutiny, but are in fact more rare than the originals. Mages have used spinel to summon demons and to ward against fire, and in times of witch-hunts--where I come from, magic is forbidden--the spinel has been used to hunt for mages.
"Spinel clarifies thought and attracts appropriate aid in times of need. Blue spinel increases discrimination, that is to say discernment, and violet can be a protection against attack. Violet also aids generational communication. The stone increases self-healing capacity, especially in the sense of the active body, increasing physical strength when under duress, and is associated with fire.
"Your surname grants a small reassurance of my connection with the stone, as there is a type of spinel called gahnospinel. Although, it is green.
"That is the extent of my memory at the moment, though if I remember more, the knowledge is yours." Then Inlé walked past Spinel to sit beside the fire and, presumably, sleep.
The knight resumed his quiet vigil, pondering the strange information he had just been given, wondering if any of it was of use to him.

Three days' time passed quietly, though the first two of those had included some few complaints and sores on the princess's part. Light healing at night recovered her enough that she could continue, and by the third day she'd grown more sure in the saddle. She still had sores at the end of the third, but she was too tired to complain, and the sores were not so bad as they had been.
The next morning, the party was surrounded by a thick fog. Beyond the horses tethered beside the party, nothing could be seen. The night's fire had been extinguished by the dampness that soaked the heavy air.
"When you are all prepared, we move on." Inlé stood unphased, facing out from the camp.
"How can you say that?" Selice said. "There's no way you can see through this."
"True, I cannot."
"So we stay here, then," Arrats said. "We can wait until the fog lifts, then continue on when we can see again."
"That would be unwise," Inlé replied.
"And why is that?" Selice asked acidly.
A howl rose as if in reply, and the party found themselves surrounded by a dozen werewolves. Each wolf stood hunched over, yet was a head taller than any of the party would be when mounted and as broad at the shoulder as a horse is long. Their fur was silver and matted in some areas with what looked to be fresh blood.
To Arrats's dismay, they looked hungry.
The first wolf charged straight for the princess, and would have plowed right over her, had it not been intercepted by the steel of her knight. The beast rolled backward, somehow having dodged most of the blow, and stood. The gash across its chest closed like a zipper being pulled shut as Selice watched in horror.
"Come here, princess," Arrats called. "You're no use to us in a fight at the moment, but I'll not have your death on my head nonetheless."
The knight and the vacilando took up positions making a triangle around the women, using the unmoving Inlé as the third point. Fernweh cackled as the wolves erupted in a single howl consisting of twelve distinct voices. Then they attacked.
Spinel fought four off, but his sword was only steel. Every wound, though each was greivous, healed in moments as the wolves attacked in sequential pairs. They planned to tire him out. He snarled and spat in vehement defiance. His hair had been tied back lightly for rest. Now, strands of the rust-red hair clung to his face or dripped a bit of similarly colored fluid provided by the wolves he faced.
Another four attacked the mad old man whose laughter could be heard over the fight. Arrats saw that he seemed content with frustrating them. Every time one would swing at him, he dodged deftly out of their way, then mocked them somehow. A plucked whisker here, a slapped wrist there. Ear pulling and eye poking seemed more entertaining to him than surviving, it seemed. But they attacked with a fury that made those attacking Spinel seem tame by comparison.
Those who faced Inlé stood unmoving, watching him. How he held their attention, Arrats could not understand, but they stared apprehensively at the unmoving, cowled creature before them. Arrats herself stared at the tension displayed in their stillness.
A voice cried out behind her, and Arrats turned to see Spinel slash the throat of the first werewolf to draw the party's blood. The knight bled from a huge bite on his shoulder. He, obviously, was the one in need of her aid.
Arrats began chanting a quick spell, and a silver bolt sprung from her outstretched finger, striking the knight's sword. The blade paled to a silver sheen as the knight swung another blow at one of the charging wolves. It howled as its outstretched hand was severed.
This time, the wound did not close.
"What did you do to my blade?" Spinel asked.
"Silvered it, for a bit," Arrats answered. "Eyes front, boy!"
He turned back just in time to thrust at one of the charging wolves. But the beast had seen what the blade had just done. It spun out of the way and raked lightly against Spinel's bare chest. He had been preparing to don his armor when he dove to the princess's aid. The beast began to retreat, thinking itself successful in that round until its back erupted in flame.
"Ha ha!" Arrats laughed. "How long it's been since I used combat magic! Oh, the thrill!" A second spark flew from her upturned palm toward the face of one of the charging wolves. It dodged, to Arrats' delight, because that meant it had moved its eyes to the mage at a distance from the knight at hand.
Who opened the beast's ribcage for its mistake.
Scanning to see if her other allies required aid, she saw Fernweh still bouncing around among his group. He laughed and complimented the combined attack as he landed deftly on the wrist of one wolf and ducked a kick from another. Arrats saw the kick strike a blow to the head of the wolf on whom the old man stood.
Smiling, she turned to see Inlé. Strangeness never ceased around him it seemed, because he was walking toward one of the wolves in the center. Calm and proud, he approached without fear. Which seemed to unnerve the werewolves almost as much as what he did next.
Inlé grabbed the wolf before him by the shag on its chest and pulled it down to his eye level. He said something to it then, too quietly for Arrats to hear, but the beast shook its head vigorously, all wildness replaced by terror.
And then another cry of pain turned Arrats back to Spinel. His sword had been torn from his hand by one of the wolves as it caught the blade in its forearm. Its slash at his chest was deeper that the first. The knight fell sideways from the blow.
Assuming the man dead, the wolf approached the women, flanked by the two wolves fit to fight, one whose back had been extinguished by the fog. Three steps would bring it to Arrats and Selice, and it planned to do that slowly.
But its second step was its last, as a knife sank into its neck, followed by the two hundred pounds of taut muscle that was the knight Spinel. Wounded as he was, he fought to protect, and protect he would.
The two combatants rolled twice, and the knight found himself straddling the wolf. Rapid slashes to the shoulder muscles and the throat stopped the beast from attacking as it thrashed in an attempt to remove its would-be prey from its chest.
The other wolves moved to aid their fallen comrade, but a lance of ice impaled one's lung, and they returned their gaze to Arrats. She had no spells both fast and deadly that could be slung in quick enough succession to truly finish the beasts off, and their healing would allow them to recover from most of them. But they didn't know that nine of the ten spells she slung at them were merely harmless figments of illusion that they dodged despite. Looking back at the knight, the mage saw him repeating his cuts in order to keep the beast at bay, and she knew these two were hers.
In her younger days this would have been simple. But in her younger days she had not had forty years to grow rusty giving lectures and sermons. Teaching the fundamentals to young mages. Politicking with the rest of the Council. All time wasted, if they would lead to this anyway. She swore she would practice combat magic regularly when she returned home. If.
There were no ifs, she thought to herself, silvering a magical blade as it flew from her hand and struck home, digging deep into the thigh of the handless wolf. Another flurry of illusions clouded the next complex spell Arrats cast. The singed wolf was engulfed in an immolation of silver flame, and its howl cried a thousand pains as it collapsed. The second wolf saw this and moved away from its burning brother.
Arrats took advantage of the momentary distraction to cast a spell she was not sure would work. She tried it anyway, and when the spell was cast, the second beast cried out in surprise, beat at itself, and tore handfuls of fur off before collapsing.
She silvered Spinel's dagger, and he slashed the beast's shoulders again. But this time, instead of the throat, he spun and slashed through the beast's thighs, rendering it immobile. He rose calmly as it snarled and snapped at him.
He turned to give thanks to Arrats, but his jaw dropped as he stared at what was behind her. Half knowing what he saw, Arrats turned to see Fernweh standing outside of a tangle of werewolves tearing at one another in rage, having forgotten him completely. He chuckled at the display and looked wholly satisfied with himself. Then she turned to see Inlé.
There were now four men around Inlé. Three bowed low, cowering as if to a harsh master, while the fourth floundered in Inlé's grip still. They looked utterly pathetic to Arrats, but she could not understand what had happened.
She patted Selice's head, signalling that the terrified girl could look now that the fight was ended. At least on their part, she smirked, watching again the brangle that the old wanderer had formed. Spinel helped his princess to her feet, offering his good arm. The pain must have been intense, but he hid it well.
In response, Arrats followed the tracks of the beasts' claws, chanting lightly as they closed with the speed of her fingers. At the first touch, the knight had pulled away, but when he recognized the spell's effects, he relaxed. Not even scars would appear from Arrats' healing.
"Good job, lad," Fernweh laughed, grabbing Spinel's still injured shoulder. The wounds closed under Fernweh's hands, leaving a ring of dark, tooth-shaped scars. Spinel winced under the old man's grip.
"Thank you, sir. Though, had I your skill, I would have dispatched them faster."
The old man laughed. "Would ye now? I've other thoughts on th' matter, but we'll leave it there f'r now. Th' show's shifted t' th' third stage."
The group approached Inlé, but the three cowering men sprang to their feet and burst into their more feral forms to make a wall between him and the party. Spinel readied his sword for combat, and Arrats began preparing a killing spell. But none of them had time to move beyond preparation.
"Hold," Inlé's voice said with quiet command cold enough to freeze everyone in place, including the four quarreling werewolves behind the party. "Pack of the Hidden Moon stand down."
The werewolves--those who could--reverted to their human forms and collected before Inlé. Inlé released the man in his hands, and he joined his comrades shamefaced. The eight wolf-men stared in fear at Inlé as he walked straight at them. They parted before him, and he approached the dumbfounded party.
"I apologize for their hostility. They were driven here on the wind of a fear dream. It seems nastier beasts pervaded the dreams of the princess last night. Lest those manifest in the fog, they attacked."
He walked calmly toward the injured werewolves then. He pushed the first wolf's chest together, then sealed it closed with a few words. He recovered the second's hand and replaced it, slapping the beast to waking. It woke hard, but on seeing the cowled face of Inlé, it's snarl was reduced to a whimper, and it returned to its human form and joined its brothers.
Inlé sealed the muscles in the crippled wolf's shoulders and thighs, and it rose and returned to its brothers, shouldering roughly past Spinel though it could have easily gone around. Not all wounds are physical, Arrats thought.
On extinguishing the silver flames with a wave of his hand, a wet wave of burnt fur's odor rolled over everyone. Selice vomited, and Arrats was glad that breakfast had not yet been eaten. Less wasted food that way.
Inlé was long in healing the burnt wolf, but everyone watched in silence, none moving. Burnt flesh was cracked and pulled off roughly, removing plates of charred skin. The pink meat underneath spasmed in pain. When finished peeling the beast, Inlé placed his palms onto tender places over the wolf's heart and his stomach. The beast flailed in reflex, but Inlé's unflinching body held the beast down as he began to chant.
Magic rippled around him so strongly that it manifested visibly. His robe crackled, then changed into silver robes brilliantly glistening in the fog. The magic coalesced around his back, forming into three distinct wings. They each flapped once, then straightened out and sped through Inlé's back, their combined energy surging down his arms. New skin formed in spreading circles centered around his hands as the magic flowed into the werewolf's body.
When the magic went quiet moments later, Inlé grunted and collapsed. Fernweh sprang to catch Inlé as he fell, but a thirteenth wolf had sprung from the mist and beat him to it. Arrats felt slightly satisfied that the old man had finally been beaten, even if not by her.

A few minutes later, all the werewolves had returned to their human forms and Inlé had recovered. The fog had also lifted. The entire group sat in a circle as the werewolf who'd caught Inlé spoke.
"You see, the Pack of the Hidden Moon protects the Mountain of Dreams. As you were almost upon it, the Fogs of Unrest rose around you this morning. These fogs can manifest those things from your dreams. If the dream is sublime, then nothing ill will come of its manifestation. If it is a nightmare ...
"Well, let it suffice that we arrived before the nightmare that was manifesting did not have time to do so with our arrival."
"So what you're saying is you wouldn't have killed us?" Arrats asked.
The wolf hesitated before saying, "At first, no. We were merely distractions and likely would have tried to scare you off. Had you survived until the fog had risen, we would have faded away with it, leaving you unhindered.
"But you were strong enough to hold your own." The man-wolf shook his head. "Our beast forms are less rational than these man forms, but the man form is hard to keep in the mists. And you provoked us to attack in earnest. Though it helped us not at all." His lupine grin surprised Arrats. "And with the Wolfborne with you ..."
"Swiftfang," Inlé interrupted.
The man-wolf, Swiftfang, Arrats concluded, shrugged. "Apologies, Lord, but we have not seen you in centuries."
Fernweh crowed. "Ye say he's th' same too, eh? He's changed though, hasn't he?"
Swiftfang looked confused. "I do not know how he would change, but I would not be surprised. Moon is fickle. Why, then, would her lover be different?"
Fernweh drooped. "Ye've never seen him before today. Just th' stories o' yer granpappy, eh?"
"Just so, sir. But the scent is the same as that on his remnants."
"Remnants?" Inlé asked.
"Yes, remnants." Swiftfang paused. "Or perhaps raiments, if you prefer. When the Wolfborne last left this world to rejoin Moon, his clothing was left behind in a pile.
"The Protector Clans made a statue of the Wolfborne, and clothed it in the Wolfborne's Remnants. It sits enshrined, and the Wolfborne's scent has lingered even after almost three centuries.
"Many of the Clans travel to the World Tree annually, in order to pray under its boughs, and the Shrine of Moon's Beasts is near enough that many go in reverence to Moon's lovers. The Wolfborne Statue is there, though legend says he was not truly one of Moon's Beasts. They say he was another god.
"The only god Moon ever loved."
There was a pause then, the werewolves in quiet reverence, the travelers in a mixture of confusion, curiosity, and apprehension.
"I am no god," Inlé said. "Nor am I one's lover. Perhaps your nose is mistaken."
The ring of wolves became nervous, and their eyes jumped quickly to Swiftfang, who looked even more tense than the others. The travelers saw something wrong had been said and looked uneasily toward Inlé, who appeared, as always, unflappable.
"You realize that is a steep insult ... Inlé?" Swiftfang said. In man form, the Pack of the Hidden Moon wore light leather clothing--a jerkin and pants. Swiftfang declined to wear the jerkin, and every muscle thus revealed was taut as steel cable. "Were you a werewolf, I would have killed you where you sit. I lead the Pack of the Hidden Moon because of my nose. I could track you behind a storm of snow by the scent you left before it had begun. I smelled the moment your allies realized you had said something wrong. I smell Aurora city on the woman so strongly, she must have steeped in it for decades, and I can smell the virgin blood of the girl." Selice made an indignant noise and flushed to a bright, angrily embarrassed pink. "I can smell the world on the aged one, and the barracks on the knight. On you alone do I find scents alien to me. But yours is not a scent I do not recognize, for it is the same found on the Wolfborne's Remnants.
"Of this I would not only stake my own life, but the life of my entire Pack, and the honor of my line extending from now until the end and the beginning. You alone carry that scent. You are the Wolfborne, even if it has been so long that you yourself no longer remember."
Inlé, saying nothing, gazed impassively at Swiftfang.

Description
"The king is dead!" rang through the streets of Briqueward that morning. Selice did not know how the word had spread that King Dusan had died the night before, but she planned to find out.
"Bozidar!" she called for her manservant. When he came, she told him, "Someone has told the masses that my father, the king, is dead. There were only a few who should have known. I want to know who among them has let this news reach the city so quickly, and I want to know by lunch. Use whatever means you see necessary to find out and report back to me."
"Yes, Your Highness," Bozidar answered with a bow. He left on his errand immediately.
"Oh, this day cannot get any worse!" the princess complained as she paced her room. She rang a bell, summoning a maidservant from the next room. "Has the doctor found the cause of His Majesty's death?" Selice asked.
"No, Your Highness, not yet. Please be patient, ma'am. Someone will come for you when we learn anything else concerning this event."
"See that you do," Selice said, continuing to pace.
The maidservant looked as if she wanted to say more--something consoling, perhaps--but instead curtsied and answered, "Yes, Your Highness," before exiting the room.
Of course, Selice knew her father had had many enemies. Any king would have his share of people against him, but she had never thought that an assassination would kill him. Her father had been so strong, so cautious. So kind. Nevertheless, he was dead now, and nothing Selice could do would bring him back. So she would find what killed her father--who killed her father--, and she would bring whomever it was that had killed the king to justice. Slowly.
The storm last night had struck the city just after sunset, and left with the morning sun. She heard that it had been much worse to the south. Rumors of the Plains of Gunun being flooded waist deep or more had reached the city two days ago from the Tower of High Sorcery. Their magical communication with the Tower of the Mage had warned of the ferocity of the storm, and had likely saved more than a few lives. A curfew had been made for the hours before the storm, and repairs on many damaged roofs had already begun. Thankfully, the city had an excellent drainage system partially aided by its elevation, so there was no flood damage.
If only all of the news from the Tower had been fortunate. It seemed that the Triskelion Archcardinal had vanished the morning of the storm, and had not been seen since. Apparently some believe she was kidnapped, if one could believe such a thing possible, from within the confines of the tower.
Selice knew little about the Order of the Triskelion, but she knew the servants of magic were quite powerful. If one could take the head of this order--the most powerful mage in the world--without so much as raising an alarm within the city, then either they were beyond mortal understanding or the Tower of the Mage was not so capable as it boasted. Ever the skeptic, the princess believed the latter.
She continued to pace until another servant appeared in front of her. "Yes?" she asked more tersely than she'd intended.
"Apologies, Your Highness, but Minister Jindrich requests your attention in the throne room," he said nervously.
"Whatever for?" the princess asked.
"There seem to be visitors for ... the king, Highness. The minister has asked them to leave, but they refuse to do so without seeing His Majesty. The minister believes you may be able to convince them otherwise."
Selice stopped pacing and stared at the man so long that he began trying to find some way to excuse himself. Reviving, the princess said, "Very well. Tell Jindrich I will be down momentarily."
"Very good, ma'am." The servant bowed and exited with relief.

A short while later Her Highness, Crown Princess Selice de Brique of Ashkern, was introduced to the three messengers who refused to leave.
"What seems to be the problem?" she asked as she was seated.
"Your Highness," Minister Jindrich began, "these people are here to see His Majesty and refuse to leave until they see him."
"Actually," called one of the travellers, a young woman with auburn hair. "Only one of us refuses to leave. It just happens that since we other two are following him, and he may try to abandon us, given the chance, we refuse to leave without him."
Princess Selice was confused, but said, "I am acting sovereign at the moment, whatever you need to tell to the king can be told to me."
Another of the three stepped forward. He wore a simple brown robe, but a more proud mien than any noble she had ever seen. She remembered that while the others had shown signs of deference to her when the princess had entered, he had not.
"Highness," he addressed her now, "with all due respect, I have been ordered to deliver my message to the king, and only the king, of Ashkern. Though you may be acting sovereign, you cannot by nature be the king. I must see him, to deliver this message." He held up a scroll with a colorful triskele seal.
Selice recognized the seal, but not entirely. "You bring word from the Archcardinal of Magic?"
The third traveller guffawed at her comment. He was a mangy old man, and the princess wondered how he had been allowed into the throne room so ill-groomed. He would have fallen backwards in his mirth, had not his female companion caught his shoulder. Their leader seemed neither to notice nor to care what happened behind him.
"No, Highness," the man--or perhaps boy was a better word for him?--said.
"The king is indisposed. You cannot see him," she said.
"Then I will wait here until I may," he answered. "My time is valuable, but I am willing to spend as much as I need to fulfill my task. Please send the king my regards, and alert him to the fact that I await an audience with him."
Selice's temper was fast approaching its breaking point. "Sir, you will remove yourself from this room momentarily or be removed to the dungeon below by force. The choice is yours, of course, but your decision must be made shortly, lest I make it for you."
The man stood stone still, unblinkingly watching her. His gaze made her skin crawl, but Selice steeled herself and stared angrily back at him. The flame of her gaze struck him and dissolved into steam in the calm pools of his eyes. After long moments, the princess, feeling she had lost, called for the guards to take the three travelers away. The guards moved to obey, and the old man and the woman acquiescently allowed the guards to take them.
One of the guards put a hand on the youth's shoulder and tried to turn him, but met resistance. "All right, son, let's go," he said, pulling harder at his shoulder. Again, there wasn't the slightest give. Grabbing the youth's hand, the guard tried to pull it around, but was unable even to bend a finger! "He won't budge!" the man cried in disgust.
The princess sprang from her chair. "Then carry him! I don't care how you do it, just get him out of here!"
The old man laughed. "Push, pull, try t' drag him. Th' boy'll still be there when yer done. An' nothin' ye can do'll change that, t' be sure."
"What do you mean?" Selice asked.
"Old sayin' once went: 'ye stand ready, ye set yerself in place; ye stand firm, ye root yerself in place; ye stand waitin', ye let th' gods hold yerself in place'. Truth, Inlé'll be there 'til th' next king comes, 'r th' next, 'r th' next, until whichever one's in power an' ready f'r lettin' him give his message.
"Now, he says his time's valuable, but meself, I've time t' spare. Waitin' don't bother me none, 'specially if I'm with a pretty like I have here, eh Arrats?"
The woman, Arrats, put a light smile on as she answered with a light agreement. "True, but I don't have much time. I have to get back to the Tower as soon as possible."
Hearing 'Arrats' and 'Tower' so close together, Selice connected them and tried to remember why they should do so. "Then ... You are a mage, madam?"
The woman Arrats answered calmly, "Yes, Highness, I am."
"Are you stationed in High Sorcery, then?"
"No, Highness, though I hoped to stop in while in the city. It has been too many years since last I was there."
"I see," Princess Selice said. She didn't. "Then to which Tower are you assigned?"
"The Mage itself, Highness."
"I have heard that Aurora is a beautiful city."
"Thank you, it is."
"And what position do you hold in the Order?" But for the guards behind him, the old fool would have fallen again as his laughter redoubled.
"I am Servant to the Goddesses, Highness. No more."
"I see," Selice said again. She thought for a few moments longer, then asked, "And had you heard that your Archcardinal was spirited away from the Tower. They say she may have been kidnapped."
"Kidnapped!" the old man cried and collapsed into a fit of laughter so strong that he knocked the guards around him to the ground with him. "Oh, oh! Kidnapped!" he chuckled to himself, breathless on the floor while the guards scrambled back to their feet. The old man made no attempt to rise, seemingly trying only to catch enough breath to resume his laughter.
Arrats was flushed as she waited for the man to finish, and when his cackles had become more subdued, she spoke. "Actually, your Highness, I had not heard that she was kidnapped. The last I had heard, she had gone to see the king of Ashkern. As best as I know, she is still in his audience chamber, patiently awaiting her meeting with him." Of the dozen guards surrounding the woman and the old man, half of them seemed to come to an interesting realization as she spoke. They took a few steps back, giving her a bit more space.
Selice felt her own face flush as she also realized what should have been so obvious to her. Obviously, she should have recognized the name of the Archcardinal immediately, but she had allowed her emotions to cloud her thoughts. She stepped from the dais and walked to more personally greet the Archcardinal, waving the gurads aside. A few steps from Arrats, the princess curtsied slightly. "My sincerest apologies, Archcardinal Arrats, for not recognizing you sooner. I meant no offense with my questioning."
Arrats smiled as she returned the curtsy. "None taken Princess Selice. You have not seen me since you were a young child, after all. Had you recognized me, I would have been surprised, in truth. You have grown into a beautiful woman, though. There is much of your mother in you."
"You are too kind, Archcardinal. But what does bring you here at this time, may I ask?"
"As I said earlier, princess, I am merely following the young man-turned-statue now behind you. He may not look like much, but he is, for the time being, a person I have to follow."
"And what of the rumors of your kidnapping?"
Arrats chuckled sheepishly. "Spirited away is likely a better way to put it. I snuck out, so that the city council would not detain me. Inlé was leaving, and if I had had to go to them for permission, I would have been abandoned by him.
"He may not look it at the moment, but I think he's much more impatient than he lets on. And he's quite showy, whenever possible. As you can see by this new display, he tends to get his way by bulling through whatever gets in his way."
"Well," Selice said, biting her lip, "Perhaps something can be arranged."
"Your Highness!" the minister protested, but she silenced him with a wave.
"Guards, leave us. I wish to speak with my guests alone."
"With respect, Highness," one guard began, "are you sure? The Archcardinal, I would trust, but what proof have we that this woman is, truly, the Archcardinal?" In response, Arrats reached into her robes and revealed her pendant of rank.
The triskelion used as the mark of the followers of the Goddesses of magic was a simple thing, but each ranking pendant could reveal many things to the trained eye. The specialty, skill, and rank of it's wielder was revealed by the color, vibrance, and opacity of the triskele. Normal pendants began as clear glass, and were filled with color as their bearers gained power. The colors revealed the primary focus the mage had undertaken, correlating with the thirteen colors of the goddesses, as the clarity and distinction of each colored band revealed the skill had in each class. The further in rank a mage rose, the more opaque the pendant became.
Only one pendant was not in the least transparent. Only the pendant in which all of the thirteen bands was shown in stark contrast one from the other, each glowing slightly, but strongly. Only one pendant appeared to be alive with the power of the magic within it. Only the pendant of the Archcardinal, the pendant that hung from Arrats' outstretched hand.
"Test it, if you believe it false." Smiling warmly, Arrats offered the pendant to the guard who had questioned. "It will likely become empty in your hands." The guard took the pendant, and when Arrats lifted her hand, the color did fade, though not entirely: three bands still kept a slight glow to them. She smiled at this, "It seems you've had some small amount of training yourself, soldier."
He reached into his breastplate and pulled out a similar pendant. His was smaller, but the same bands glowed on both now. "My mother was an initiate at the Tower here before she had me," he explained, returning Arrats' pendant to her. It returned to its original coloration as soon as it was in her possession. "She requested that I learn the basics of combat magic and healing spells when I became a soldier. I am by no means a mage, madam, but I can get by without if I must."
Arrats smiled. "Your mother had much wisdom."
"And her son prays to have inherited some portion of it," he answered with a salute. He turned and exited the throne room, followed by the other guards.
When the doors were closed behind them, Arrats asked the princess, "I do not know your military's insignia, so I do not recognize his rank. Nevertheless, my dear, I would say he may be overdue for a promotion. Were he not yours, I would not hesitate to steal him away."
"If you would like him, Archcardinal," the princess said, "you may have him. We have a great many guards. Perhaps too many."
Arrats tutted at the princess. This was a thing that infuriated Selice, but she refused to reveal herself rankled before so esteemed a guest. Arrats was about to say something when the old man--still sprawled comfortably on the floor, as though he'd forgotten where he was--said, "Girly, ye may have too many guards, t' be sure. But even 'f ye have an army, their trainin' matters more'n their numbers. One well trained soldier--th' one ye just saw here, say--is worth more'n a hundred men in armor. Ye're wantin' f'r cuttin' yer guard? That's fine, ye should be gettin' rid o' th' ones what obeyed blindly, not th' one what disobeyed out o' loyalty."
Selice was infuriated by her guests, but she refused to allow herself to seem so. What's more, she knew there was wisdom in the old man's words. So, more graciously than she could stand--almost--she thanked him.
To which thanks he responded, "There's nothin' f'r ye t' be thankin' f'r, girly. Advice 's a thing as should be freely given an' freely taken. May be, one day ye'll be th' one givin' me th' wisdom I'm f'r needin' then. 'f it won't trouble me any, I'll help t' keep ye alive 'til then."
"In any case," Arrats said, "we need to see the king. It is urgent, to be sure, and even if he is bedridden, I would much like to speak for a short time with him myself, let alone what Inlé needs."
"I'm sorry, but it's still impossible," Selice said more somberly. She had been beginning to fray, feeling pressed by these three drifters. But the return to the topic of the king calmed her like a bucket of cold water. She decided that the truth would be the only way to make them understand. In resignation, the princess softly said, "The king ... father is dead."
Her eyes refused to look up then, refused to show their tears. She refused to show her pain to strangers. Despite this, she found herself suddenly held in a firm, tender embrace. She was engulfed in the scent of loam and wind: earthy, soothing, calming. Hints of wood-fires under the night sky and cool rain on parched soil drifted in and out. As though magically compelled, Selice released what little composure she had left, and began to silently allow the tears to roll from her closed eyes.
"There, girl," the old man's voice said from closer than the princess had suspected. "Let that go. 'tis a fine thing t' cry when ye must."
In the back of her mind, Selice was ashamed she had thought so ill of the old man. She'd thought him dirty and disgusting, but as he held her in consolation, she realized that he was unsophisticated, but not unintelligent. He was simply unimpressed by the baubles society so craved. He was simple as dirt. But, like dirt, his simple appearance hid the complexity of the components forming his nature. She did not know this so much as feel it.
She knew little then but the grief of a girl who'd just lost her father.

If the girl before Arrats had inherited anything from her mother other than her beauty, it was her ability to cry. Like her mother, there was a steel that held Selice up. A steel that showed itself as a harshness when it was first shown, but was brilliant and clean when polished lightly.
Once more Arrats was jealous of the way her old companion could move. Perhaps from his angle he had been better able to see the tears begin in Selice's eyes. But that was no explanation for how he could be holding her so kindly at the moment Arrats saw the sadness begin. He was a snake bathed in butter, slithering in ways that were impossible to a human.
And yet she was more touched by the compassion he showed. A man with whom, though Selice tried her best to conceal--and had done well, in fact--her disgust, the princess was obviously unimpressed, to be kind. Arrats knew well the signs to watch for, as she was sure Fernweh did. Yet still, knowing the girl hated him, the old wanderer was unhesitatingly kind.
Thinking back to it, Arrats watched as this self-same man relieved himself in the bushes unabashed and without even attempting privacy. The two stood outside the entrance to the royal catacombs, awaiting the return of Inlé and the princess. The garden they were surrounded by was tribute to the beauty of the women of the line, but Arrats looked only at the statues denoting the positions of the royal mothers. Three of these she had known well, and had loved them.
"Well, Arryn," Arrats said, greeting one statue as she stood beneath it. "Your daughter certainly has your looks. A bit of your steel, too, dear. She has grown into a fine princess. A fine ruler when she marries. And she will have her choice of men."
She walked slowly around the statue. "There isn't much to it, I suppose. It's a shame the laws prevent her from ruling alone. She'd do almost as well as you would have. Almost as well as your mother and hers before her. But then, the laws would be lacking in some other way if not in succession.
"But why do I try to talk to you now? Your love is once more with you, and that is all on your mind, I suppose. It must be a happy reunion, my dear. Kiss Dusan for me, once. I would have one last kiss for my baby brother if I could. But I can't bear to see him dead, dear." Tears welled in her eyes as she spoke. "To think how long it's been. I still remember holding him in my arms and rocking him to sleep. Seeing him lie in his last sleep would ruin me."
"So he was yer brother?" Fernweh asked from the other side of the statue.
Surprised, Arrats wiped the tears away, saying, "No. Not quite. But he may as well have been."
"Ah," was all Fernweh said in response. The sorrow in his eyes said more than any words he could have spoken. With a pat on Arrats' shoulder, he left her to her own thoughts. She sat at the feet of her friend and remembered all the memories they had shared. She was getting old, she realized. The funerals for friends decades younger than her would be far too frequent by now, were she not always cloistered away.
Perhaps this is the double-edged gift of the mage, she mused. An extended life, and no one to share it with. Few in the arcane orders grew powerful enough to slow the passage of time. Those who did were less social in nature, and so made few friends. This was likely a gift from the goddesses, because without this aloofness, this distancing from others, what fail-safe could be had for the eventual crash? It is only natural to mourn the loss of loved ones. But, of course, with fewer loved ones, the sorrow felt for each loss is greater, and impossible to divide among many, there being too few for commiseration.
Inlé and Selice stepped back into the sunlight. Arrats had lost the time due to her contemplation. A thing far too common, she wryly mused. No more, she vowed.
Selice looked slightly paler than she had when she went into the chamber, and a thin veil of well-trained composure tried to mask some shock. Arrats wondered what had happened in the catacomb, but would not breach the private thoughts of a girl who'd just seen her father laid out for the long rest.
"A meal," the princess said after a moment. "First we should eat."
"Yes," Inlé agreed, a step behind her. "Food strengthens resolve and composure."
Fernweh laughed. "'Mendin' hearts feast f'r peace o' mind'? Boy, ye should use the old sayin's more. Ye've a way with words about ye, but like it's wrong, t' be sure."
The four walked back toward the castle, silently flanked by the princess' guard. Conversation was by no means prohibited, but none in the solemn party felt right walking down the Path of the Old House. Arrats wondered what the princess was thinking as she walked quietly among her ancestors' remains so soon after adding her father to them.

The dining hall was large and luxurious, as one would expect in the castle of one of the oldest and most prosperous countries on the continent. The four sat close to the kitchen, and the meal--modest by the standard of the court--was pleasant, satisfying, and more than enough for the small group. They ate in silence.
When the meal was cleared away, a small selection of desserts was produced, and Fernweh fell onto it as though it were the first meal he'd seen in days.
"We just ate, Fernweh," Arrats said. "You can take your time, we aren't going anywhere." She lifted a slice of a fruit pie onto a plate.
"True, girly," Fernweh agreed. "But treasures such as these 're few and far between. Ye can't know when next ye'll be blessed with such fine sweets."
"You sound like a child," Selice scolded. "It is a dessert, not a rapture."
"Girly," Fernweh said around a mouthful of a pudding, "a man once tried t' map th' values o' foods. He made a triangle o' it--had th' nerve t' call it a pyramid, even!--and separated th' food into groups. At th' pinnacle o' his 'pyramid' was sweets. He said it meant sweets was least in import an' that one should eat them rarely.
"But any fool knows th' top's t' be most important. Truth, all he showed was that sweets are kings o' food. Ye should eat sweets as ye would take audience with a king. F'r me, it means takin' as much as ye can, as ye've no way t' know when next ye'll be allowed audience. Hope f'r soon, plan f'r longer." A spiced pastie had somehow found itself among the tarts, and this the old traveler made disappear in a flash.
In the future, Selice would try to explain what next happened to her children, as well as to a select few others. But she could never tell the story in a way that she was truly satisfied. She was saddened that the sight was not shared with more people, but only the four at the table were witness.
When Fernweh bit into the pastie, the euphoric look on his face changed to one of shock, and he leapt backwards from his seat with a yelp. He fell to the ground, hands grasping at mouth and throat, tears streaming down his face. The Archcardinal and the princess stood to see that he was all right. At the same time, the guards on watch burst in through the hall's entrance while a group of chefs flew out of the kitchen. They all rushed to see to the old man on the ground.
His face was purpling by this point, and two of the guard tried prying his hands from his throat to allow him breath. They fought for a short while as he squirmed and shuffled them back and forth. A flail that sent the two guards flying ended in a kick that struck the hand of a serving boy. The boy had been on his way out when the excitement began, and the pitcher of juice he'd been carrying out had still been in hand.
The pitcher was knocked from his hand and fell, the thin crystal shattering on the old man's face, bathing him in a thin, slightly sweet liquid. Some of it trickled into Fernweh's nose and mouth, and the bulge left his eyes. He removed his hands from his throat and sat up with a gasp.
"Yeeee!" he said. "What a nasty surprise! 'Tis little in this world s' terrible as thinkin' sweet an' tastin' spice!" He looked sharply at the gathered chefs. "Which o' ye's th' fiend what gave me that fright?" When none responded immediately, he shrugged. "Ah well, 'tis nothin' harmed. It were a good pastie, that. But no dessert, t' be sure!"
He sat back and took up a tart, trying to continue his eating. But, to Arrats' amusement, she saw he tested it with a sniff and a small nibble before inhaling the rest of it this time.
"That was it?" the princess asked incredulously. "You were just surprised?" The kitchen-staff and the guards filed out as things returned to a more peaceful abnormality.
"Girly, ye can't understand such a shock without first bein' th' receiver o' such. Pray ye never understand." He looked serious for a moment before popping another tart into his mouth whole, seeming to have forgotten already to be wary.
They were silent for a moment, then Arrats sputtered and began giggling. This was all Selice needed to put her into the same position, and soon the two were laughing loudly. Fernweh made a stern face at the two, trying to calm them, but the dousing he'd had had soaked those crumbs he'd already inherited, and made the collection of more simpler. The effect on his appearance caused their laughter to erupt to a higher level, leaving them gasping for breath and wiping tears away. The old wanderer smiled paternally at the two as he shifted from pastry to pudding again.
Inlé, who'd not so much as looked to discern the condition of his old companion, calmly finished his dessert and waited silently for the ladies to calm and Fernweh to finish eating.

"You are coming with us?" Arrats asked incredulously. "Princess, how can you do so at such a time."
"It is not so impossible," Selice sniffed. "I have no duties to attend until I am wed. And I am not allowed to marry until the period of mourning is ended in three weeks."
"You haven't three weeks, insolent girl, you've eighteen days!" Arrats cried. For all her power as Archcardinal and Archmage, she was not used to dealing with a child. Though Selice was not her own, she might as well have been. Such was her love for Arryn, not to mention Dusan.
"And I can do naught in the position of ruler until that time. But I must be wed before I can make any decisions anyway. Let the house rule without me, there will be no difference."
Arrats turned to Inlé. "You can't be serious in allowing her to accompany us!"
He returned her look with his cold gaze. "Would you prefer we take her father?"
"He's dead!"
"Which is exactly why he asked that I take the princess in his stead."
Arrats was about to say something, then paused. "You can speak with the dead now. Typical you should only reveal that after it was useful."
"You would have me tell you every thing I do beforehand, Archcardinal? Remember first that I am not under your leadership and second that I am as displeased if not more so. I do not enjoy traveling in company. It is a hindrance; I would sooner abstain from than entertain such frivolities.
"I have been here for more than a week, and, were I not contracted to this task, would be returned to my own troubles instead of running errands in some pantheon's idle game."
Arrats eyes flared, but again Fernweh beat her to the task she desired. A quick knock to the side of Inlé's head with the bindle-stick, not hard enough to hurt--and Inlé did not so much a flinch at the blow--but hard enough to get the message across.
In a soft voice, the old sage said, "Ye'd best not be mockin' th' gods, Inlé. Ye above all know them f'r what they are, and ye understand th' power that includes. True, ye once were a sight, an' I may have placed bets on yer victory in some cases. That said, as ye told me, respect is given where deserved, an' they do. Ye're not th' one what I remember, but let them all curse me if I'm t' play them wrong in this. Ye need not love them, but ye will show them respect."
"And I do and will, sir," Inlé acceded. "But I hold neither love nor respect for their games. If they wish to make their own rules, well and good. But when I am brought into their game, I will not follow their rules without reason. Whether this helps or hinders me, I care little."
Fernweh laughed. "Fair enough, boy. Ye've stood beside these gods in th' past, so I'll guess ye brook little hatred f'r most o' them. Yer indifference is good enough f'r me."
Arrats was not so satisfied with such open heresy, but she decided to address it another time. Other matters needed attendance. "Still, the princess should not come with us."
"This scroll says otherwise," Selice said with resolve. She held the scroll sent to her father up and showed the triskelion seal to Arrats. "You may have no respect for the princess or Ashkern, but you serve the gods from whom this came. It was directed to the king, and His Majesty saw fit to request I fulfill the command of the goddesses in his stead."
"I still don't like it," Arrats said.
"Nor do I," Inlé agreed. "But no one asked you if you did. It does not matter if you like the task or not. You were not told to 'like' it, you were told to do it. Do not confuse the two, they are further than the breadth of your years."
He gestured to each of the three. "You have each sworn to serve for one reason or another, correct?" They all agreed. "Then what matters is only that you carry out the task given when it comes time to do so, whatever your reasons for doing so."
"I serve for love," Arrats said, "and Fernweh for respect, it seems. The princess likely serves for love or respect, but mostly for her people. You may not care, but we care who we serve and why. For what reason, then, do you serve? I cannot follow you further without knowing."
"Then follow me no further, Archcardinal. My reason is my own."
"I agree with the Archcardinal in this," Selice said. "How can we trust you if we do not know your motives? Why are you here?"
"I am here because I am here, princess. Whether you trust me is your own choice. Know I trust none of you, but I also do not betray those around me. What I say, you may consider true, whether you wish to trust it or not."
"Let th' boy be,' Fernweh said. "He serves f'r fear, nothin' more. His distrust's proof enough, t' be sure. 'Those what fear betrayal trust none but death, an' from he they flee at every turn'. He's trustworthy enough until it gets dangerous."
Inlé's eyes flared almost imperceptibly. It was only for an instant, but Arrats saw the glimmer, and she would bet that not only had the old fox also seen it, but had deliberately goaded it out. What a dangerous game he's playing, Arrats thought. He must have good reason to feel safe in saying something like that to Inlé.
Fernweh laughed and patted Inlé's shoulder. "Nothin' t' say in yer defense, eh? Well, we'd best be off, t' be sure. Let's get on, then. Where to?" He turned toward the gate, deliberately putting his back to Inlé. Arrats, who could still see the old wanderer's face, saw him grinning in self-satisfaction. He noticed her look and winked like a boy with a secret.
"We head for the Mountain of Dreams," Inlé answered as coolly as ever. Arrats began to admire the boy's inexhaustible store of composure and wondered if he'd ever lost his temper. The thought made her shudder, though she could not say why.
"Halt!" a voice called, and a dozen armored guards blocked the group's path. "We cannot let you pass with Her Highness. Princess, you are to stay here until the period of mourning has ended. Please, come with us."
Selice shook her head, her ocher curls bouncing. "I've no reason to stay here. My leaving is as His Majesty commanded."
"Ah, begging your pardon, Highness, but we of the Royal Guard all know of His Majesty's passing. As he passed on before your guests arrived, I very much doubt he said anything on the subject."
Selice pulled a small scroll from the folds in her dress. "This proves my word."
The guard took the scroll, carefully lifted the seal--which he noted to be the late king's personal seal, though burnt into the wax strangely--and read aloud.
"In the name of His Majesty, King Dusan, in Servitude to Sekhor, of the country of Ashkern and the Far Isles, Head of the State, Defender of the Borderlands, We do declare that Her Highness, Crown Princess Selice de Brique of Ashkern, Heart of Briqueward is to join the party of Inlé Zapfino, the Worldwanderer, in the service of the Goddesses, and to aid in their quest, for whatever duration is required. She is to be held in the charge of Sir Zapfino, and any harm dealt her will be returned him on their return up to and including death.
"Because the party requires speed, the party must remain small. As such, We command that no more than one of His Majesty's Royal Guard, to be chosen by the princess or the party, will accompany them and safeguard the princess, sacrificing his life for her own. This guard must have attained the title of Knight, be sworn to chivalry, and have been in Our service for a minimum of seven years.
"Lastly, due to the dangerous nature of this quest, no knight is eligible for this mission whether he is betrothed for a marriage within or has been married less than three years. Any knight whose bride is with child, or who leaves no son older than eight years of age is ineligible as well. Though We wish for the safety of Our precious daughter, We would not bring more sorrow than absolutely necessary.
"Good Knight who guards the Heart of Briqueward, We pray you protect her, she is the heart of the old king as well."
The man read again silently, as a hush fell over the collected guard, each in quiet contemplation.
"The king was kind," the guard spoke after some short time. "But his kindness has made this quite a specific task. Only a fourth of our number are of His Royal Guard, reducing the number toward the center of the two hundreds, but of them, most are Knights having served seven or more years, and some few have further position than that. We still look at nearly two hundred men. Those not sworn to chivalry reduce the number by a third, leaving a rough hundred fifty of us. But most are settled or settling, the three years' about marriage reduces us by eighty, and those with young children number fifty of ours." The guard rolled the scroll tightly and returned it to the princess with a quick bow.
"Only twenty of our men are eligible for this task. Of them, half are as old as the king and close to retirement, and five are out on other quests. That leaves five of whom it would be best to take: myself and four others. As we are pressed for time ..." The guard removed his helmet and bowed low. Arrats was impressed by the grace of the move. This guard, she saw, was skilled. "Would it please Her Highness that I be the guard that accompanies you?" He rose with the same grace, and Arrats, at least, was pleased to see it was the same guard who had resisted abandoning his princess without assurance of her safety. She smiled, but ...
"No," Selice said. "I refuse. I need no guard, and if a small party will move faster, four will be swifter than five."
"Your Highness ..." the guard began, but was cut off with a wave of her hand.
"I refuse. The scroll said I could choose a maximum of one. That means there can be none, which is as I choose."
"Well as ye say, girly," Fernweh said, chuckling to see the guards bristle at his disregard for title. "But it also said that th' party may choose one, an' th' Archcardinal here looks fit t' burstin' t' take this one."
"What?" Arrats said. "No, I merely find this soldier to be a fine example of what a soldier should be." The guard bowed in thanks. Arrats was somewhat surprised to see nods of agreement from the men behind him. She could see neither jealousy nor even any ill will toward him.
"And," she added, "if the princess does not want protection, I certainly do. The curse of the mage, you know: I'm useless in melee. So, good knight, what may we call you?" She winked at Selice, who no longer tried to hide the anger in her eyes. Good, Arrats thought. Let her get some of that out.
"I am Spinel Gahn," the guard said with another bow. "I am here to serve."
"Then let us be on our trek," Inlé said. "The Mountain of Dreams nears sunset faster than we, and that will not do."
"Aye," Fernweh said. "Who's t' say it won't wander off if we leave it a bit?" He laughed as he walked lightly through the guards before they could move from blocking the party's way. He chuckled at their consternation, knowing they had been so easily outclassed. They may be able to restrain him one day, he mused. If, in two hundred years he had grown no more wily, and they had advanced faster than he had. Impossible, true. But that didn't mean it couldn't happen.

Horses had been taken from the stables, the Princess was garbed in less dainty dress, and the party rode until nightfall. Camp was set, and Spinel volunteered for first watch. Fernweh chuckled and was asleep beside the fire before Arrats and Selice had gotten their bedrolls laid out. The dirt was his bed, and the sky his blanket. Selice was appalled, at which Arrats laughed, but the two were quickly asleep despite. Inlé had walked off immediately after camp had been set, and when he returned, everyone but the guard was asleep. He sat his vigil dutifully; back to the fire, eyes glowing gently in the moonlight.
"So what's your secret?" Spinel asked Inlé. "You don't look like any angel I've seen, but you've got the Archcardinal all but swearing that's what you are."
Inlé stopped in the darkness and stared at the seated knight. Unfazed, Spinel returned the stare. Not in aggression, but not in submission either. He stared back, casually refusing to be intimidated.
"You've seen many angels with those unique eyes, then." A statement, not a question, and it sounded as though the speaker cared little either way. Curious.
"Well, no. Of course not, Sir Zapfino ..."
"I am no sir, good knight. I have no title, no landing, no following, no authority that you need follow. I am only myself, sir, and that is enough."
"Well enough then, ... Inlé. I have not seen any angels but those in paintings and such. But by all accounts, they are surpassing human beauty. You may be handsome to some tastes, perhaps, but it is all too human."
"Thank you."
There was a lull as the knight was unsure how to continue, and the young man standing before him was disinclined to speak. Spinel finally said, "They aren't too unusual are they? My eyes, I mean. I've had comments on them before, but none could give explanation."
"You know their coloration, of course," Inlé said.
"Of course. In the day, they are a deep sapphire, but moonlight makes them practically glow a pale amethyst. Those few who've seen have been unable to explain the change."
"Do you wish to buy that knowledge, then?"
Spinel was a bit surprised. "You would put a price on such a thing?"
"There is always a price," Inlé answered calmly. "And knowledge often has the steepest price, though my own prices tend low."
Curious. But Spinel was interested, if the price was not too steep. "What price would you charge for that information?"
"Not much," Inlé said. "Two hours."
"I don't understand." How can one pay time?
"You give your word that I can trust your protection for two hours, and I will give you a reason for your eyes. Though it may be incomplete at the moment."
"It is my duty to protect the camp for the next few hours anyway," Spinel answered. "That would include you."
"I am neither a part of your camp nor a part of your charge," Inlé said. "Though I travel with your party, I wander alone."
"Fair enough," Spinel said. "I will keep you under my protection for two hours if you give me information on my eyes. I am curious enough for two hours' protection." He would have stood watch for that time anyway. Humoring the pride in this youth would be fine.
"Then here is what I know. There is an extremely rare gemstone which is called in my native tongue spinel. Here, you call it magnaligen. It is similar to your eyes, in that a rare few of these stones appear as sapphire colored in sunlight, but certain types of light turn them an amethyst. Spinel are durable and brilliant.
"They are considered imposter stones, as they can appear as more prized stones without close scrutiny, but are in fact more rare than the originals. Mages have used spinel to summon demons and to ward against fire, and in times of witch-hunts--where I come from, magic is forbidden--the spinel has been used to hunt for mages.
"Spinel clarifies thought and attracts appropriate aid in times of need. Blue spinel increases discrimination, that is to say discernment, and violet can be a protection against attack. Violet also aids generational communication. The stone increases self-healing capacity, especially in the sense of the active body, increasing physical strength when under duress, and is associated with fire.
"Your surname grants a small reassurance of my connection with the stone, as there is a type of spinel called gahnospinel. Although, it is green.
"That is the extent of my memory at the moment, though if I remember more, the knowledge is yours." Then Inlé walked past Spinel to sit beside the fire and, presumably, sleep.
The knight resumed his quiet vigil, pondering the strange information he had just been given, wondering if any of it was of use to him.

Three days' time passed quietly, though the first two of those had included some few complaints and sores on the princess's part. Light healing at night recovered her enough that she could continue, and by the third day she'd grown more sure in the saddle. She still had sores at the end of the third, but she was too tired to complain, and the sores were not so bad as they had been.
The next morning, the party was surrounded by a thick fog. Beyond the horses tethered beside the party, nothing could be seen. The night's fire had been extinguished by the dampness that soaked the heavy air.
"When you are all prepared, we move on." Inlé stood unphased, facing out from the camp.
"How can you say that?" Selice said. "There's no way you can see through this."
"True, I cannot."
"So we stay here, then," Arrats said. "We can wait until the fog lifts, then continue on when we can see again."
"That would be unwise," Inlé replied.
"And why is that?" Selice asked acidly.
A howl rose as if in reply, and the party found themselves surrounded by a dozen werewolves. Each wolf stood hunched over, yet was a head taller than any of the party would be when mounted and as broad at the shoulder as a horse is long. Their fur was silver and matted in some areas with what looked to be fresh blood.
To Arrats's dismay, they looked hungry.
The first wolf charged straight for the princess, and would have plowed right over her, had it not been intercepted by the steel of her knight. The beast rolled backward, somehow having dodged most of the blow, and stood. The gash across its chest closed like a zipper being pulled shut as Selice watched in horror.
"Come here, princess," Arrats called. "You're no use to us in a fight at the moment, but I'll not have your death on my head nonetheless."
The knight and the vacilando took up positions making a triangle around the women, using the unmoving Inlé as the third point. Fernweh cackled as the wolves erupted in a single howl consisting of twelve distinct voices. Then they attacked.
Spinel fought four off, but his sword was only steel. Every wound, though each was greivous, healed in moments as the wolves attacked in sequential pairs. They planned to tire him out. He snarled and spat in vehement defiance. His hair had been tied back lightly for rest. Now, strands of the rust-red hair clung to his face or dripped a bit of similarly colored fluid provided by the wolves he faced.
Another four attacked the mad old man whose laughter could be heard over the fight. Arrats saw that he seemed content with frustrating them. Every time one would swing at him, he dodged deftly out of their way, then mocked them somehow. A plucked whisker here, a slapped wrist there. Ear pulling and eye poking seemed more entertaining to him than surviving, it seemed. But they attacked with a fury that made those attacking Spinel seem tame by comparison.
Those who faced Inlé stood unmoving, watching him. How he held their attention, Arrats could not understand, but they stared apprehensively at the unmoving, cowled creature before them. Arrats herself stared at the tension displayed in their stillness.
A voice cried out behind her, and Arrats turned to see Spinel slash the throat of the first werewolf to draw the party's blood. The knight bled from a huge bite on his shoulder. He, obviously, was the one in need of her aid.
Arrats began chanting a quick spell, and a silver bolt sprung from her outstretched finger, striking the knight's sword. The blade paled to a silver sheen as the knight swung another blow at one of the charging wolves. It howled as its outstretched hand was severed.
This time, the wound did not close.
"What did you do to my blade?" Spinel asked.
"Silvered it, for a bit," Arrats answered. "Eyes front, boy!"
He turned back just in time to thrust at one of the charging wolves. But the beast had seen what the blade had just done. It spun out of the way and raked lightly against Spinel's bare chest. He had been preparing to don his armor when he dove to the princess's aid. The beast began to retreat, thinking itself successful in that round until its back erupted in flame.
"Ha ha!" Arrats laughed. "How long it's been since I used combat magic! Oh, the thrill!" A second spark flew from her upturned palm toward the face of one of the charging wolves. It dodged, to Arrats' delight, because that meant it had moved its eyes to the mage at a distance from the knight at hand.
Who opened the beast's ribcage for its mistake.
Scanning to see if her other allies required aid, she saw Fernweh still bouncing around among his group. He laughed and complimented the combined attack as he landed deftly on the wrist of one wolf and ducked a kick from another. Arrats saw the kick strike a blow to the head of the wolf on whom the old man stood.
Smiling, she turned to see Inlé. Strangeness never ceased around him it seemed, because he was walking toward one of the wolves in the center. Calm and proud, he approached without fear. Which seemed to unnerve the werewolves almost as much as what he did next.
Inlé grabbed the wolf before him by the shag on its chest and pulled it down to his eye level. He said something to it then, too quietly for Arrats to hear, but the beast shook its head vigorously, all wildness replaced by terror.
And then another cry of pain turned Arrats back to Spinel. His sword had been torn from his hand by one of the wolves as it caught the blade in its forearm. Its slash at his chest was deeper that the first. The knight fell sideways from the blow.
Assuming the man dead, the wolf approached the women, flanked by the two wolves fit to fight, one whose back had been extinguished by the fog. Three steps would bring it to Arrats and Selice, and it planned to do that slowly.
But its second step was its last, as a knife sank into its neck, followed by the two hundred pounds of taut muscle that was the knight Spinel. Wounded as he was, he fought to protect, and protect he would.
The two combatants rolled twice, and the knight found himself straddling the wolf. Rapid slashes to the shoulder muscles and the throat stopped the beast from attacking as it thrashed in an attempt to remove its would-be prey from its chest.
The other wolves moved to aid their fallen comrade, but a lance of ice impaled one's lung, and they returned their gaze to Arrats. She had no spells both fast and deadly that could be slung in quick enough succession to truly finish the beasts off, and their healing would allow them to recover from most of them. But they didn't know that nine of the ten spells she slung at them were merely harmless figments of illusion that they dodged despite. Looking back at the knight, the mage saw him repeating his cuts in order to keep the beast at bay, and she knew these two were hers.
In her younger days this would have been simple. But in her younger days she had not had forty years to grow rusty giving lectures and sermons. Teaching the fundamentals to young mages. Politicking with the rest of the Council. All time wasted, if they would lead to this anyway. She swore she would practice combat magic regularly when she returned home. If.
There were no ifs, she thought to herself, silvering a magical blade as it flew from her hand and struck home, digging deep into the thigh of the handless wolf. Another flurry of illusions clouded the next complex spell Arrats cast. The singed wolf was engulfed in an immolation of silver flame, and its howl cried a thousand pains as it collapsed. The second wolf saw this and moved away from its burning brother.
Arrats took advantage of the momentary distraction to cast a spell she was not sure would work. She tried it anyway, and when the spell was cast, the second beast cried out in surprise, beat at itself, and tore handfuls of fur off before collapsing.
She silvered Spinel's dagger, and he slashed the beast's shoulders again. But this time, instead of the throat, he spun and slashed through the beast's thighs, rendering it immobile. He rose calmly as it snarled and snapped at him.
He turned to give thanks to Arrats, but his jaw dropped as he stared at what was behind her. Half knowing what he saw, Arrats turned to see Fernweh standing outside of a tangle of werewolves tearing at one another in rage, having forgotten him completely. He chuckled at the display and looked wholly satisfied with himself. Then she turned to see Inlé.
There were now four men around Inlé. Three bowed low, cowering as if to a harsh master, while the fourth floundered in Inlé's grip still. They looked utterly pathetic to Arrats, but she could not understand what had happened.
She patted Selice's head, signalling that the terrified girl could look now that the fight was ended. At least on their part, she smirked, watching again the brangle that the old wanderer had formed. Spinel helped his princess to her feet, offering his good arm. The pain must have been intense, but he hid it well.
In response, Arrats followed the tracks of the beasts' claws, chanting lightly as they closed with the speed of her fingers. At the first touch, the knight had pulled away, but when he recognized the spell's effects, he relaxed. Not even scars would appear from Arrats' healing.
"Good job, lad," Fernweh laughed, grabbing Spinel's still injured shoulder. The wounds closed under Fernweh's hands, leaving a ring of dark, tooth-shaped scars. Spinel winced under the old man's grip.
"Thank you, sir. Though, had I your skill, I would have dispatched them faster."
The old man laughed. "Would ye now? I've other thoughts on th' matter, but we'll leave it there f'r now. Th' show's shifted t' th' third stage."
The group approached Inlé, but the three cowering men sprang to their feet and burst into their more feral forms to make a wall between him and the party. Spinel readied his sword for combat, and Arrats began preparing a killing spell. But none of them had time to move beyond preparation.
"Hold," Inlé's voice said with quiet command cold enough to freeze everyone in place, including the four quarreling werewolves behind the party. "Pack of the Hidden Moon stand down."
The werewolves--those who could--reverted to their human forms and collected before Inlé. Inlé released the man in his hands, and he joined his comrades shamefaced. The eight wolf-men stared in fear at Inlé as he walked straight at them. They parted before him, and he approached the dumbfounded party.
"I apologize for their hostility. They were driven here on the wind of a fear dream. It seems nastier beasts pervaded the dreams of the princess last night. Lest those manifest in the fog, they attacked."
He walked calmly toward the injured werewolves then. He pushed the first wolf's chest together, then sealed it closed with a few words. He recovered the second's hand and replaced it, slapping the beast to waking. It woke hard, but on seeing the cowled face of Inlé, it's snarl was reduced to a whimper, and it returned to its human form and joined its brothers.
Inlé sealed the muscles in the crippled wolf's shoulders and thighs, and it rose and returned to its brothers, shouldering roughly past Spinel though it could have easily gone around. Not all wounds are physical, Arrats thought.
On extinguishing the silver flames with a wave of his hand, a wet wave of burnt fur's odor rolled over everyone. Selice vomited, and Arrats was glad that breakfast had not yet been eaten. Less wasted food that way.
Inlé was long in healing the burnt wolf, but everyone watched in silence, none moving. Burnt flesh was cracked and pulled off roughly, removing plates of charred skin. The pink meat underneath spasmed in pain. When finished peeling the beast, Inlé placed his palms onto tender places over the wolf's heart and his stomach. The beast flailed in reflex, but Inlé's unflinching body held the beast down as he began to chant.
Magic rippled around him so strongly that it manifested visibly. His robe crackled, then changed into silver robes brilliantly glistening in the fog. The magic coalesced around his back, forming into three distinct wings. They each flapped once, then straightened out and sped through Inlé's back, their combined energy surging down his arms. New skin formed in spreading circles centered around his hands as the magic flowed into the werewolf's body.
When the magic went quiet moments later, Inlé grunted and collapsed. Fernweh sprang to catch Inlé as he fell, but a thirteenth wolf had sprung from the mist and beat him to it. Arrats felt slightly satisfied that the old man had finally been beaten, even if not by her.

A few minutes later, all the werewolves had returned to their human forms and Inlé had recovered. The fog had also lifted. The entire group sat in a circle as the werewolf who'd caught Inlé spoke.
"You see, the Pack of the Hidden Moon protects the Mountain of Dreams. As you were almost upon it, the Fogs of Unrest rose around you this morning. These fogs can manifest those things from your dreams. If the dream is sublime, then nothing ill will come of its manifestation. If it is a nightmare ...
"Well, let it suffice that we arrived before the nightmare that was manifesting did not have time to do so with our arrival."
"So what you're saying is you wouldn't have killed us?" Arrats asked.
The wolf hesitated before saying, "At first, no. We were merely distractions and likely would have tried to scare you off. Had you survived until the fog had risen, we would have faded away with it, leaving you unhindered.
"But you were strong enough to hold your own." The man-wolf shook his head. "Our beast forms are less rational than these man forms, but the man form is hard to keep in the mists. And you provoked us to attack in earnest. Though it helped us not at all." His lupine grin surprised Arrats. "And with the Wolfborne with you ..."
"Swiftfang," Inlé interrupted.
The man-wolf, Swiftfang, Arrats concluded, shrugged. "Apologies, Lord, but we have not seen you in centuries."
Fernweh crowed. "Ye say he's th' same too, eh? He's changed though, hasn't he?"
Swiftfang looked confused. "I do not know how he would change, but I would not be surprised. Moon is fickle. Why, then, would her lover be different?"
Fernweh drooped. "Ye've never seen him before today. Just th' stories o' yer granpappy, eh?"
"Just so, sir. But the scent is the same as that on his remnants."
"Remnants?" Inlé asked.
"Yes, remnants." Swiftfang paused. "Or perhaps raiments, if you prefer. When the Wolfborne last left this world to rejoin Moon, his clothing was left behind in a pile.
"The Protector Clans made a statue of the Wolfborne, and clothed it in the Wolfborne's Remnants. It sits enshrined, and the Wolfborne's scent has lingered even after almost three centuries.
"Many of the Clans travel to the World Tree annually, in order to pray under its boughs, and the Shrine of Moon's Beasts is near enough that many go in reverence to Moon's lovers. The Wolfborne Statue is there, though legend says he was not truly one of Moon's Beasts. They say he was another god.
"The only god Moon ever loved."
There was a pause then, the werewolves in quiet reverence, the travelers in a mixture of confusion, curiosity, and apprehension.
"I am no god," Inlé said. "Nor am I one's lover. Perhaps your nose is mistaken."
The ring of wolves became nervous, and their eyes jumped quickly to Swiftfang, who looked even more tense than the others. The travelers saw something wrong had been said and looked uneasily toward Inlé, who appeared, as always, unflappable.
"You realize that is a steep insult ... Inlé?" Swiftfang said. In man form, the Pack of the Hidden Moon wore light leather clothing--a jerkin and pants. Swiftfang declined to wear the jerkin, and every muscle thus revealed was taut as steel cable. "Were you a werewolf, I would have killed you where you sit. I lead the Pack of the Hidden Moon because of my nose. I could track you behind a storm of snow by the scent you left before it had begun. I smelled the moment your allies realized you had said something wrong. I smell Aurora city on the woman so strongly, she must have steeped in it for decades, and I can smell the virgin blood of the girl." Selice made an indignant noise and flushed to a bright, angrily embarrassed pink. "I can smell the world on the aged one, and the barracks on the knight. On you alone do I find scents alien to me. But yours is not a scent I do not recognize, for it is the same found on the Wolfborne's Remnants.
"Of this I would not only stake my own life, but the life of my entire Pack, and the honor of my line extending from now until the end and the beginning. You alone carry that scent. You are the Wolfborne, even if it has been so long that you yourself no longer remember."
Inlé, saying nothing, gazed impassively at Swiftfang.